Henry Kissinger
I was walking with friends near my office in Washington, D.C. one day when I saw Henry Kissinger waiting to cross the street. I thought: Here’s the guy who engineered the last bloody years of the Vietnam War, the bloody right-wing coup in Chile, and the kidnapping, torture and murder of thousands in Latin America. I should say something to him.
But what can you call Henry Kissinger that he hasn’t heard a million times before? He’s been called a murderer, a fascist, and a baby killer so many times that I’m sure it means absolutely nothing to him.
Now I was just behind him. “Look, there’s Henry Kissinger,” I said to one of my friends, loud enough so that Kissinger could hear. “He’s so short. I knew he was short, but I didn’t realize he was that short! I mean, the guy’s a dwarf.”
I could see Kissinger’s face — he had heard me. He looked extremely pissed. I’d gotten to him after all.
Not by attacking his politics. But by threatening his vanity.
This post was submitted by Martin Eden.
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