Here in Peep Town
My circus adventures in the midst of San Francisco's criminal mob of homosexual Peeping Toms
Writing letters to the authorities had elicited zero productive results. Telephoning the president had turned into a joke on me. I decided to try a different approach. One of my college classmates had gone on to become a U.S. senator. We’d known each other slightly; we'd been the two worst students in our French class, and we’d studied together occasionally. Why not give him a call?
I got his phone number in the Senate Office Building from Washington D.C. information. I called him up and introduced myself. He didn't remember me but he was able to identify me by looking me up in our class yearbook. I verified it was he by asking him a question about his college life that only he could have answered correctly.
I told him I needed his help. I explained that the city of San Francisco was in the grip of a gang of homosexual Peeping Toms, that this gang was underpinned by corrupt FBI agents, and that no one seemed interested in doing anything about it. He replied that he’d do what he could.
I called him back several times. Each time the operator asked me if I recognized his voice before completing the connection. Sometimes the voice on the other end wasn't his. In those cases I said so, and kept saying so, until his voice came on. Unfortunately, our conversations led nowhere. He kept telling me he was doing everything he could.
I was getting exasperated. At one point, in a context I’ve forgotten, I referred to the Peloponnesian War.
"What’s that?" he asked.
"Oh, you know, Senator," I answered in a withering tone, "Athens and Sparta."
How can a senator call himself a statesman without ever having heard of the Peloponnesian War?
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