Your elders probably once told you: “Cheaters never prosper and winners never cheat.”
Your elders never met the fake Indian, Elizabeth Warren.
Fauxcahontas’ entire career is constructed on a breathtaking lie, that she is a “woman of color.” And now this shameless greed-crazed one-percenter pads her pockets even more with her latest grift as a politician-author.
Notice I don’t call you an author, Granny, because I’m pretty sure that, to coin a phrase, you didn’t write this book. But according to your latest financial-disclosure forms, you have just grabbed a $625,000 advance from Henry Holt & Co.
The way it works in the book racket is, when you sign the contract, the publisher gives you one-third of the advance. You get another third when you deliver the manuscript, and the final payment when the “book” is published.
I hate to spoil your Sunday morning, readers, but according to those numbers, it looks like the take from Lieawatha’s latest scam is going to amount to just under $2 million. This is on top of $1.15 million from Harper Collins in 2014 and $525,000 in 2013.
The question is, who the hell wants to read “Bury My Heart at Wounded Cheese Shop” or whatever the title of this new “book” is? And the answer is, no one.
But her brain-dead followers will want to display it prominently on their coffee tables so that it appears that they’re reading it. But nobody ever really cracks open one of these dreary tomes.
Take Obama’s first book, “Dreams of My Father.” Please. That’s the one he peddled with a sell sheet claiming that he’d been born in Kenya. Then years later when Donald Trump and Sheriff Joe Arpaio asked whether he was a natural-born American citizen, they were denounced as “birthers.”
Hey, they were just taking him at his own word.
Anyway, Barry sells his “memoir” and somebody, who knows who, Bill Ayres maybe, cobbles some PC pap together. By the time Obama got to the White House it had sold several million copies, yet nobody had actually read it cover to cover.
How do I know this? Because in 2012, a Washington Post reporter named David Maraniss published a biography, “Barack Obama: The Story.” Maraniss’ biggest scoop was that as a youth in Indonesia, Barry Soetoro ate dogs. Reaction was swift — how dare he? Maraniss, I mean, not Obama. He was denounced as, what else, a racist.
But Maraniss stood his ground. Because he had learned about the dog eating from … “Dreams from My Father.”
“With Lolo (his stepfather)… I was introduced to dog meat (tough)…”
Of all the millions of people who had paid good money for the book, including no doubt thousands of Kool Aid-swilling journalists, until Maraniss not one had ever noticed the passage about Man’s Best (and Tastiest) Friend. And it’s not like it was buried in a tiny footnote — it’s on page 37 of a 431-page book.
How many people do you suppose even tried to wade through Deval Patrick’s “An Improbable Life”? He pocketed a $1.3 million advance — probably his third biggest stick-up ever, after the Coke and Texaco heists, although who knows how much he’s grabbing out of Bain Capital now.
Mitt Romney’s another one. His 2010 doorstop was number one on the New York Times best-seller list for a week, thanks to “bulk buys” by friends of his. “No Apology” was supposed to be the launch pad for his 2012 campaign, during which he crisscrossed the country apologizing for just about everything.
So Warren is just following in a long tradition here. My own favorite in the genre is “Reflections of a Public Man” by the late House Speaker Jim Wright, a man so crooked he needed a corkscrew to get into his pants in the morning.
In 1988, with a posse already in hot pursuit, Wright had a jailbird friend of his from Fort Worth print up thousands of copies of Mr. Speaker’s speeches and “remarks,” which were then bulk sold at gunpoint to anyone who had pending business in front of Congress.
Even by Jim Wright standards, it was pretty raw, especially the 55 percent royalty rate. (Warren, if she ever earns back her advance, which she won’t, would likely be settling for an 8 percent rate.)
The victims of this shakedown included John Silber, the president of BU, one of Wright’s fellow Texans. (“This is a nice Pell Grant yooze have here, Dr. Silber. It would be a shame … .”) Eventually so many cases of “Reflections of a Public Man” arrived on Bay State Road that they were blocking the fire exits.
So Herr Doktor shipped over several cases to us at the old Herald building in the South End. Not one was ever opened. But one case did come in handy. For years it served as the doorstop on the back door out of the city room.
Every time I headed down the stairs to the composing room or parking lot, I glanced down and reflected on a public man, a very corrupt public man at that.
Do Warren and her publisher have the Herald’s new address in the Seaport District?
Every building can always use another doorstop or two.
Listen to Howie’s show every weekday from 3-7 p.m. on WRKO AM 680.
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