The life of a Private Tom isn't the orgy of glamor people imagine.  The pay is low and the hours are long.  That is, the hours are long when someone actually hires you.  Usually the hours are pretty much nonexistent.  Nevertheless, it had to be better than the harrowingly unsuccessful experiences I had with a series of criminally stupid masters.  So there I was, twiddling my claws, waiting for the big case, the one that would make it all worthwhile.
    And then it walked in.
    It was Michael Powell of the Federal Communications Commission.
    "I've got a job for you, cat!" he declared.
    I almost purred in gratitude.  "Whiskers the Cat, Private Tom, at your service," I asked. "What will it be?  Find out where the mice are getting in?  Catch some low-life who's dealing catnip to the kittens?"
    "No, no, no!" he fumed. "Did you see the Super Bowl halftime show?"
    "Uh, sure," I lied. "Who didn't?"
    "That was a classless, crass, and deplorable stunt," he fumed some more, "and I intend to get to the bottom of it!"  He was great at fuming.
    "Sure thing," I agreed. "Of course, I saw the whole thing, but I want your perspective on it.  What exactly did you have in mind?"
    "Why, it's that whole Justin Timberlake - Janet Jackson - bare ... uh, thingy ... thing," he spluttered. "It was obscene!"
    "Thingy?" I asked.
    "Boob!" he barked. "Boob!  There!  I said it.  Disgusting!  Can't tell me it was an accident!  They were all in on it!  CBS, MTV!  All of them!  I want you to prove they're all guilty!"
    "I'll get right on it," I said.  I didn't really know what he was talking about, but I figured I'd be better off just looking it up on the internet.

    So Mr. Timberlake had exposed one of Ms. Jackson's breasts during a musical performance witnessed by 80 gazillion people.  Hmm.  Didn't seem like a big deal to me.  Our females walk around buck naked, and they have a half dozen of those ... thingies.  But humans.  Who can figure them out?  Anyway, I had a paying job at last, so I decided to give Mr. Timberlake a visit.
    "I was completely shocked and appalled!" he said before I even opened my mouth. "It was a wardrobe malfunction!  It attacked me!"
    "What attacked you?" I asked.
    "The bustier!" he screamed. "It was alive!  I swear!"
    I could see I wasn't going to get much out of him.  Maybe after he had a long rest.
    Ms. Jackson was next.  She scratched me behind the ears and gave me a kitty treat.  Now there's a lady who knows how to treat a cat.  Why couldn't she have been my mistress?

    In any case, I was getting nowhere fast, so I called on National Football League representative Marvin Dookus.
    "Appalling, shocking, and obscene! We blame CBS!" said Dookus.
    "So, you're the guys with the 350-pound guys on steroids who run into each other at full tilt and try to squash the little 200-pound guy with the ball?" I asked.
    "No! No! No steroids! There are no steroids in the NFL!"
    "Ok, so all those 350-pound guys who aren't on steroids ..."
    "Yes, that's us," he admitted.
    "And how would you describe that?"
    "Good clean, wholesome fun for the whole family."
    "They pat each other's butts," I said. "What's that all about?"
    "Manly bonding."
    "Ok, who're all the half-naked bimbos who writhe around on the sidelines?
    "Cheerleaders."
    "They're appalling, shocking, and obscene, too," I observed. "Note to myself to check that out."
    "Oh, no," said Dookus. "That's more wholesome family fun."
    "How so?" I asked.
    "The crucial bits are covered," he explained.
    "If barely. Say, I notice a lot of the guys in the stands go around shirtless."
    "That's different," he said. "Half naked men aren't obscene."
    "I don't see the difference," I said, confused.
    "You're a cat."
    "Ok. Good point. But let me ask you something. If one of the players gets his neck broken out there, what would you call that?"
    "Regrettable."
    "A lifetime of quadriplegia is regrettable, but a one-second flash of skin is obscene."
    "Oh, good!" said Dookus. "You understand!"

    After that, it was on to CBS.  There I spoke to Quentin Benton, Vice President for Extreme Silliness.
    "Isn't there someone ... more important I can talk to?" I asked.
    Diplomacy is not one of my great skills, but he didn't seem to notice.
    "You'd be surprised how much of CBS's operations fall within my purview," he said.
    "So what about the Super Bowl affair?" I asked.
    "Appalling, shocking, and obscene! We blame MTV!"
    "I see."
    "And we're always so careful to promote truth, virtue, patriotism, and not pissing anyone off," said Benton. "Take our policy on advertising, for instance."
    I asked what he meant by that.
    "We never carry 'issue' commercials," he said.
    I didn't know what he meant.  "For instance?" I asked.
    "For instance," he said, "MoveOn, that pinko bunch, wanted us to air a commercial critical of our President."
    "No kidding?  What did the commercial say?"
    "It implied that President Bush was responsible for creating a huge deficit that our children would have to pay off," said Benton.
    "And what part of that isn't true?" I asked.
    "Never mind about that!" he snapped. "It's beside the point! That was an 'issue' ad!  We don't run them."
    "I see," I mused. "Wait a minute.  'Same Medicare.  More Benefits.'  I heard that somewhere.  Wasn't it on CBS?"
    "Well, yes," admitted the VP for Extreme Silliness. "So what?"
    "But wasn't that an 'issue' ad promoting Bush's prescription drug law?  Isn't that against your policy?"
    "Of course not!" he retorted. "That commercial was paid for by tax money!"
    "You said the boob incident was obscene.  How about managing information to pander to the powerful and keep people ignorant?  What would you call that?"
    "Smart politics," he said.
    "How about showing violent games such as football?"
    "Extremely profitable."
    "You guys have really raised a ruckus about this breast," I remarked. "I bet you're way more upset about the preemptive war in Iraq, with all the death and destruction it has caused.  I, uh, can't seem to remember the furor you raised."
    "Well, we didn't, of course," replied Benton. "No sexual innuendo in it."

    I thought I was ready to report back to the FCC.  I found Mr. Powell poring over his deregulation blueprints.
    "Ah, Whiskers!" he said. "What have you got?"
    "The NFL thinks a bare breast is obscene, but thinks violence is family entertainment," I said.
    "Agreed.  And?"
    "CBS thinks a bare breast is obscene, but mass slaughter is not," I continued.
    "Right.  So?"
    "Uh, by the way," I stuttered, "what's that you're working on?"
    "Oh, deregulating the communications industry," he said.
    "Meaning?"
    "Lower cost and higher profits for all the good people who bought Mr. Bush the presidency.  Like Clear Channel, for example."
    "Uh, aren't they the ones who were running the robot stations in North Dakota when that train filled with ammonia crashed?"
    "So?" asked Mr. Powell.
    "So there was no one to answer the phones at the radio stations and warn people?"
    "So?"
    "And you want to let the bozos who gave us sanitized, unexamined coverage of the war in Iraq have a monopoly of the communications industry?" I yelped.
    "So?"
    "And one second of bare breast is obscene?" I yowled. "Mr. Powell, it is my duty to inform you that the wrong boob was exposed."
    Then he fired me.  Oh, well.  Hard come, easy go.  I'm back at the office now.  Waiting for that big case, you know.