Every year at this time, we prepare to celebrate Aug. 26, the anniversary of women’s suffrage, in our own quirky way. We cheerfully distribute the Equal Rites Awards to those who have done their best over the last 12 months to set back the cause of women.

So what do we make of this year? On the one hand, a wise Latina ascended to the Supreme Court. On the other hand, a pit bull with lipstick descended from the Alaskan governorship.

As for new male escorts, this was the year of Mark “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” Sanford, babydaddy-turned-celeb Levi Johnston, and — let us not forget — a host of vampire hunks pursuing women across the mediascape.

But enough of that. The envelopes, please.

We begin by delivering the Raging Hormonal Imbalance Award to the Masters of the Universe who nearly brought down the economy. The cause? Testosterone poisoning! Neuroscientist John Coates’ research shows that the higher the testosterone level among financial wizards, the greater the risk-taking urge until “at some point they start doing stupid things.” We prescribe an antidote and a lot more women on Wall Street.

Speaking of imbalance. The Taliban Look-Alike Prize goes, with deep regret, to the Afghan Cabinet.

Remember the uproar over a proposed rule that Shiite women be required to “fulfill the sexual desires” of their husbands? When that died down, the Cabinet secretly approved a law saying that a man didn’t have to support his wife unless he “has access to her.” We would send them a backlash, but they already own one.

Meanwhile in France, President Nicolas Sarkozy said Muslim face coverings were unwelcome because they were “a problem of freedom and of the dignity of women.” Uncovering is, apparently, not a problem of dignity since Sarkozy’s own trophy wife, Carla Bruni, posed in the nude. For this cultural myopathy we award him the Double Standard Bearer badge decorated with a first lady glossy.

Speaking of fashion statements. Are there designer clothes you wouldn’t be caught dead in? Barneys wins the Fashion Victimizers’ Citation for the store’s display of battered and bloody mannequins posing as upscale assault victims. Ah yes, blood is the new black, and violence is soooo chic . . .

Just ask Eminem. Misogyny in Music? Eminem, has come back to win the prize for his new album, “Relapse.” He and his alter egos are off and rampaging: “See whore, you’re the kinda girl that I’d assault and rape.” That’s just a sample. We send this relapsed rapper to mandatory rehab.

Which brings us to G. Gordon Liddy, talkmeister and winner of the Media MsCommunication Award for dissing Sonia Sotomayor. “Let’s hope that the key conferences aren’t when she’s menstruating or something, or just before she’s going to menstruate.” Here’s a hot flash, Liddy, Sotomayor is 55. We award him the male chauvinist swine flu.

Now from high court to center court — maybe. The Superstar of Sexism trophy goes to the Wimbledon tennis officials who put top-rated beauties in the coveted center court instead of the top-seeded players. “Good looks are a factor,” one admitted, and we reward him with an overhead smash delivered by winner Serena Williams. Babe, set, match.

What would an awards dinner be without Rush? Limbaugh wins the New Sensitive Man award, an embroidered hanky, for whining about his low ratings among feminazis, excuse me, women. “Start telling me what it is I must do to close the gender gap,” he whimpered. We have the answer: Retire.

The Backlash or perhaps Backscalpel Award goes to those Hungarians who have introduced a beauty pageant with only one requirement. All the contestants for Miss Plastic Hungary must have face-lifts, breast implants or other body work. Our requirement for the pageant founders? Root canal.

Speaking of body work, we go to Germany for the Post-Feminist Booby Prize. Vera Lengsfeld is not running for the Bundestag on Angela Merkel’s coattails; she’s running on the chancellor’s cleavage. Lengsfeld’s campaign poster of both women in low-cut dresses boasts: “We have more to offer.”

We offer Vera a counter slogan: It’s the economy, you boob.

Many political wives vied for the Tammy Wynette Prize for standing by their wandering man. But the hands-down winner is the common-law wife of convicted child sex abuser and evangelist Tony Alamo. Sharon Alamo swore in court that she didn’t notice how young his girl-brides were, thought their wedding bands were gifts to the ministry, and let Alamo call her a “weasel, a rotten bastard and a liar” to help him get his anger out. His anger may be out but his body is in . . . jail. That’s our gift to Sharon.

But let us not fail to appreciate those Fairfax County, Va., school officials who protect our daughters . . . from protection. The Zero Tolerance Award goes to the officials who suspended an honor student for two weeks for bringing drugs to school: her birth control pills. She would have gotten a lesser punishment of five days for heroin. Or maybe pregnancy?

Finally, we admire the Swedish passion for gender equity. But the Dubious Equality Award must go this year to the young Swedish couple who refuses to tell the world — or their 2-year-old — whether he/she is a girl/boy. “It’s cruel to bring a child into the world with a blue or pink stamp on their forehead,” said the mom. We send them a snuggly and a pronoun to get them through the next year. Onward!

Who’s calling who an evangelist?

So what do you think of when you hear or read the word “evangelist”? Perhaps it would be better to frame the question this way: “Who do you think of when hear or read the word ‘evangelist’?”

I would predict that the average consumer of the news would give a simple response to the second question — “Billy Graham.” Truth is, Graham does fit the most common Protestant definition of that term. Here is a typical dictionary reference:

evan-ge-list …
Date: 13th century

(1) often capitalized: a writer of any of the four Gospels
(2) a person who evangelizes; specifically: a Protestant minister or layman who preaches at special services

Now, with this in mind, consider the following attempts by the Associated Press to report on the conviction of the bizarre preacher and, many would argue, cult leader Tony Alamo of Arkansas. Here is the headline and the top of an early version of the story:

Jurors convict evangelist in sex-crimes trial

TEXARKANA, Ark. — A federal jury has convicted evangelist Tony Alamo on charges he took underage girls across state lines for sex. …

The jury found the 74-year-old Alamo guilty of all 10 counts he faced. The indictment accused him of taking girls as young as 9 across state lines as early as 1994.

Now, I have no way of knowing what happened next at the main Associated Press copy desk or at the regional bureau. But something happened that, only an hour later, radically improved the top of the story.

It’s possible (I am an idealistic guy, at heart) that someone said, “Wait a minute. Who is this Tony Alamo and what does he do? What is he actually famous for? Is this guy actually a Christian ‘evangelist,’ in any meaningful sense of that word?” It’s possible that someone who has been around for a few years even said, “Wait a minute. Isn’t this the guy who kept his wife’s corpse in the living room all those years because he was sure she was going to rise from the dead?”

Whatever happened, this is what the top of the basic Associated Press report looked like one hour later. The headline is still messed up, but check out the lede:

Jurors convict evangelist on 10 sex-abuse counts

“I’m just another one of the prophets that went to jail for the Gospel,” Alamo called to reporters afterward as he was escorted to a waiting U.S. marshal’s vehicle.

Now folks, that’s much, much better. Instead of a mere label — “evangelist,” leaning toward “evangelical” — we have some carefully chosen words that described what this man was known for doing. Accuracy is important.

Show us, don’t tell us. Give us information, not vague labels. And it helps if you know what the word mean when you use them. The second report is greatly improved. Bravo.

On a personal note, let me confess that this story caught my eye for a simple reason. I actually met this strange fellow years ago while I was at the Charlotte Observer.

Alamo was in town to distribute anti-Catholic screeds and raise money and, somehow, he made it past security and got into the newsroom to put some of his disgusting tracts in the open mailboxes of all of the reporters and editors. Yes, he was dressed as Elvis at the time.

As you would imagine, this rather freaked everybody out. Also showed up next to my desk, on his way out, and said that he thought that I needed to write a column about him. I passed.

It’s funny.

I hadn’t thought of the name in ages, yet inexplicably the last few months the name and all the madness connected had been wafting about the edges of my consciousness. Then not long ago, savoring the morning’s first cup of coffee, I opened the L.A. Times and there it was, “Tony Alamo.”

Like an old warrior at his battalion’s reunion, memories came flooding back.

It was a quiet war. As wars go.

Ignored by the media of the day for lacking the potential of global repercussions such as the recent Russian invasion of Afghanistan. But at the time, I believed measured against the Alamo War, international adventurism withered into the mundane. Of course I would as it was my war. I declared it and I fought it.

“In war from trivial events momentous ones arise.”
Julius Caesar

The Alamo War began as most wars do, ludicrously.
Jenkins’ ear, rumors of animal fats on the Sepoy’s bullets, an upset on the soccer field, Double Bubble chewing gum stuck to the bottom of my sole.

The summer of 1981 often found me strutting Hollywood Boulevard, which in those days I considered personal turf.

It would have been just another smog smeared day in paradise for me – if I hadn’t felt that tug against my step betraying the trodden on unobserved wad of gum. I hop-hobbled with annoyance to sit on a convenient bus bench and sat to scan the gutter for a handy napkin or scrape to utilize in gum removal. Spotting a crumbled flyer I reached forth my hand to pluck up a thrice folded six “page” sheet with type small enough to give a Munchkin migraines. The pamphlet banner blared, “Tony and Susan Alamo Christian Foundation,” and the title, “Guilt By Association.”
As I crossed my one leg over the other preparing to remedy the unwanted wad I offhandedly skimmed the first few words of the first paragraph….

Double bubble chewing gum. Such is how wars begin.

Click here to go to the American NonFiction website to read the rest of this piece by Ernest Kearney, an internationally produced playwright with over thirty works to his name.

Click on the link below to listen to the broadcast. The first 15 minutes is all about Alamo and sound bites discussed…“I like it, I love it, I want a lot more of it!”, “Crummy Pig, You!” and much more!

KFI_AM_640 Talk Radio_Kennedy&Suites

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23

Okay, so not only does Tony Alamo run kooky Evangelical Compounds in both Arkansas and Santa Clarita. And not only does he think that girls are ready to marry as soon as they hit puberty. Did you know he was king of the ’80s Airbrushed Denim Jacket?? How DOES one go from denim jacket painter to Messiah? Here is one of his masterpieces:

Moan – direct

THE COURT: All right.

MR. PENDERGRAFT: For the Court Reporter, that’s Moan.

THE CLERK: Please raise your right hand.

ANA MARIE MOAN, having been first duly sworn, was called as a witness herein was examined and testified as follows:

THE CLERK: Please be seated and state your name and address for the record.

THE WITNESS: My name is Anna Marie Moan, and I live at 13136 Sierra Highway, in Saugus , California.

DIRECT EXAMINATION BY MR. PENDERGRAFT:
Q Mrs. Moan, are you familiar with the Tony and Susan Alamo Foundation?
A Yes, I am.
Q Can you tell me what year you became associated with that organization?
A Labor Day weekend, September 4th, 1972.
Q And are you still associated with the Foundation?
A Yes, I am.
Q Have any of your other family members ever been associated with the Foundation?
A Yes.
Q Could you please explain to us?
A When I came to the Church in 1972, in 1973 my father came to visit me and two weeks later, it was ray birthday; he came to visit me in March, and two weeks later he asked the Lord Jesus Christ into his heart as his saviour and dedicated his life to serving the Lord. My father was an alcoholic before that and it broke our family up. Shortly thereafter, around Easter time, my other brother came, my oldest brother and he dedicated his life to serving the Lord and I also have another brother that also did the same. And, then, later on, my father remarried in the Church, so I also had additional little brothers that were born in the Church. Quite a number.
Q So your father did live in the Church?
A Yes, he did.
Q Are you familiar with a Mr. Richard Hydell?
A Yes, I am.
Q During the years of 1977 to ‘80, Mr. Hydell — we talked to Mr. Hydell about the years of ‘77 to ‘80, and specifically in the year 1977, and he said that he resided at the Saugus, California property. Do you know that to be a correct statement?
A Excuse me?
Q Do you know that to be a correct statement?
A Yes, he did. He lived in the apartments at Number 3 apartment on — there’s two side to the apartment, he lived on that side of the apartment.
Q Mr. Hydell testified that when he ate his meals, that he ate the same food that all the rest of the Foundation ate, and that the quality of that food was poor, at best. Would you agree with that statement?
A No , I would not agree with that.
Q Would you please explain why?
A First off, he didn’t even eat the same food that everybody else ate. He ate — the meals were served, like breakfast was served in the morning at 7:00 o’clock, depending if somebody was going to work earlier, but there were — where they were going and it was a set time. He would get up maybe nine o’clock. Sometimes he would come down to the kitchen. The kitchen was down in one of the apartments there right on the property. He would put on his — he’d have his blue velveteen smoking jacket and his slippers and he’d come down and ask for what he wanted for breakfast. He didn’t eat what everybody else ate for breakfast. He ate what he wanted for breakfast and which was usually eggs and toast. That’s what liked and that’s what he ate.
Q Did you fix that food for him?
A Yes, I did.
Q Did you clean up after him?
A Yes, I did.

MR. PENDERGRAFT: I have no further questions Your Honor.

THE COURT: Cross-examine?

CROSS-EXAMINATION BY MR. BENTLEY:
Q Would you repeat again what type breakfast he had, that you served him?
A He wanted — he liked eggs and toast. That’s what he wanted and that’s what he ate when we served him.
Q And would eggs and toast be unusual for a Foundation member to eat?
A We would serve different things for breakfast. One day we might have french toast; one day we might have pancakes; another day we might have biscuits and gravy and we would rotate these different meals, but that’s what he wanted to eat and that’s what he ate. He didn’t —
Q Why would he get special — I’m sorry, go ahead. You weren’t finished, or were you?
A Well, you interrupted my statement so I lost track.
Q Okay. Go ahead. Come on.
A He didn’t want to eat what everybody else wanted to eat. He wanted to eat what he wanted to eat, so that’s what we fixed him.
Q Why did he get special treatment?
A Because he was very demanding, very overbearing and rather than have to put up with him throwing a fit, we made him what he wanted and he thought he was just it and he deserved it. We nicknamed him “Richie Rich”.

MR. BENTLEY: I have no further questions.

THE COURT: Redirect?

MR. PENDERGRAFT: None, Your Honor.

THE COURT: What was your role with regard to the Foundation at this time?

THE WITNESS: At the time?
THE COURT: In 1977, what was your responsibility or your role?
THE WITNESS: I cooked.
THE COURT: You were the cook?
THE WITNESS: Yes.
THE COURT: And you did have eggs in the kitchen or refrigerator?
THE WITNESS: Oh, yes.
THE COURT: So that was a normal thing to serve?
THE WITNESS: Well, it depended on what we served. We had a menu that we stuck by and we rotated it.
THE COURT: Well, I understand that part.
THE WITNESS: For all the —
THE COURT: I understand that, but eggs is one of the things you normally would serve in rotation?
THE WITNESS: Yes.
THE COURT: Okay. So, you had plenty of eggs and toast, or bread on hand?
THE WITNESS: Oh, yes, we had plenty but it was just that he wanted it when he wanted it,
THE COURT: oh, I understand that. I understand what you’re saying. Thank you.
THE WITNESS: Uh-huh.
THE COURT: You may step down, (witness excused)

MR. PENDERGRAFT: Your Honor, we call Syl Primous back to the stand.

THE COURT: Mr. Primous. Let me remind you that you are still under oath.
SYL PRIMOUS, having been previously duly sworn, was called as a witness herein, was examined and testified as follows:

DIRECT EXAMINATION BY MR. PENDERGRAFT:
Q Mr. Primous, you previously testified that you lived in the Dyer area during the years of ‘77 to ‘80? A Yes, I did.
Q Are you familiar with the town of Fort Smith? A Yes, I am.
Q Can you tell me about how far the town of Fort Smith is from the town of Dyer?
A About 30, 35 miles, something like that.

Program #102 dated February 5, 2006 – 2 minutes

Besides our work and normal social life with friends, Hillary and I had a few adventures in and around Fayetteville. One night we drove south down Highway 71 to Alma to hear Dolly Parton sing. I was a big Dolly Parton fan, and she was, you might say, in particularly good form that night. But the most enduring impact of the evening was that it was my first exposure to the people who brought her to Alma, Tony and Susan Alamo. At the time, the Alamos sold fancy performance outfits in Nashville to many of the biggest country music stars. That’s not all they did. Tony, who looked like Roy Orbison on speed, had been a promoter of rock-and-roll concerts back in California, when he met Susan, who had grown up near Alma but had moved out west and become a television evangelist. They teamed up, and he promoted her as he had his rock and rollers. Susan had white-blond hair and often wore floor-length white dresses to preach on TV. She was pretty good at it, and he was great at marketing her. They built a small empire, including a large farming operation manned by devoted young followers as transfixed by them as the young acolytes of the Reverend Sun Myung Moon were by their leader. When Susan got cancer, she wanted to come home to Arkansas. They bought a big house in Dyer, her hometown, opened the place in Alma, where Dolly Parton sang, as well as a smaller version of their Nashville country outfit store just across the road, and had a big truck-load of food from their California farm delivered each week to feed them and their Arkansas contingent of young laborers. Susan got on TV at home, and enjoyed some success until she finally succumbed to her illness. When she died, Tony announced that God had told him he was going to raise her from the dead someday, and he put her body in a glass box in their home to await the blessed day. He tried to keep their empire going with the promise of Susan’s return, but a promoter is lost without his product. Things went downhill. When I was governor, he got into a big fight with the government over taxes and staged a brief, nonviolent standoff of sorts around his house. A couple of years later, he got involved with a younger woman. Lo and behold, God spoke to him again and told him Susan wasn’t coming back after all, so he took her out of the glass box and buried her.

Southwest Times Record
June 19, 1994
by Dan Borengasser

The lovely Mrs. Borengasser and I are at the mall.

As everyone knows, one of the primary differences between men and women is the male’s lack of a “shopping muscle,” that extra tendon in the female leg that allows her to shop indefinitely. As a result, after five minutes of intense wandering around, I tire and decide to wait in the car.

I discover that, while I was in the mall, someone has left a religious tract stuck under my windshield wiper.

Name anything — animal, vegetable or mineral — and some group, at one time or another, has worshiped it. There’s devil worship, sun worship, even hero worship. (I like a good sandwich myself, but I can’t imagine worshipping one.)

Ancient Egyptians believed cats were holy. (Dogs I could understand. But cats?)

I once saw a man in a religious fervor over Super Bowl tickets.

Many of the more unusual beliefs are associated with fringe religions and cults.

The subject of this particular parking lot pamphlet is polygamy, the holiness of having many wives, with Biblical passages cited for support.

I try skimming through the pamphlet, but it is so poorly written that I have trouble keeping my eyes open.

The next thing I know, I have become Big Cheese Borengasser, charismatic leader and self-ordained prophet of The Holy Order of Assault Rifle Stockpilers.

I’ve just come home from a hard day of handing out religious tracts in a parking lot. Stepping into the compound, I am greeted by my eight wives.

Eight wives! Wow! A harem of lovely Mrs. Borengassers.

“Gather me round, my wives,” I say, after I get my breath back. “I suppose you all want to pamper me for awhile.”

“Oh, yes, Big Cheese Borengasser,” they giggle.

Wife No. 4 brings my slippers.
Wife No. 7 brings me the newspaper.
Wife No. 2 serves me a refreshing drink.
“Guess who’s coming to visit?,” Asks Wife No.1.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “A Hindu holy man? Some head of state? A TV producer?” I take a long thirst-quenching sip of my drink.

“No,” the chorus. “Our mothers.”

“Arrrgh!” I choke, spewing gin and tonic over wives three through seven. “Eight mothers-in-law coming here? When?” “Tomorrow,” says Wife No. 6. “They’re staying for a month. Won’t that be wonderful?”

“Wonderful is not the word that springs to mind,” I say, sinking into a deep depression. “Any mail today?” I finally ask.

Wife No. 8 brings in three large boxes of letters.
“What is this?” I ask, excited. “Contributions? Fan mail?”

“I don’t think so.” says Wife No. 3.
Flipping through the envelopes, I am stunned. “Good grief. These are all credit card statements. I owe hundreds of thousands of dollars. How is this possible?”

“A terrific sale,” says Wife No. 5.
“Great mail order catalogs,” says Wife No. 7.
“After all,” explains Wife No. 2, “we can’t bring discredit on the Big Cheese by wearing old clothes.”

“Anything interesting happen today?” I summon the nerve to ask.

“Yes. We made this list of all the chores that you need to do this weekend,” says Wife No. 8, handing me a 300-page manuscript.

I feel tense. Perhaps a little ESPN will help.

“Where’s the remote control?” I ask.

“We threw it out,” says Wife No. 1. “We don’t like the way you constantly change channels.”

“That’s right,” agrees Wife No. 6. “All of us were discussing some of your more annoying habits. Did you know that over the past year you forgot three birthdays and four anniversaries? And about those nasty old sweatshirts …” A steady, insistent sound works its way into my consciousness.

It is the lovely Mrs. Borengasser tapping on the window. Noticing the brochure, she asks,

”What were you reading?” “A religious tract on polygamy.”

“Who would write something like that?”

“I don’t know, but he’s probably nuts. And probably worships sandwiches.”

Dan Borengasser is a freelance columnist who lives in Springdale.