Below the Beltway

This is not the column you were supposed to read today. The column I originally wrote was a playful, caustic look at Middle American values. It was very Mark Twainian -- you would have loved it. But my editors decided that it contained an item so "gross" that had you read it, your eyes would have melted like cheese balls in a microwave.

The editors suggested that I simply remove this item, which they said would do no harm to the column; I argued that removing it would do to the column what removing one's lower jaw would do to one's ability to recite Plutarch in the original Greek. My editors, in turn, accused me of being a baby. I, in turn, accused them of being giant, smelly doodyheads.

An impasse developed. If my company works the way your company works, you can probably guess what happened next. My company is a large, liberal-minded institution that thrives on convivial collegial consensus among persons who -- as human people professionally partnered in common goal-oriented pursuits -- are complete coequals right up to the time an actual disagreement occurs. At this point, the rules of the game change slightly. We go from Candy Land to rock-paper-scissors. Editors are rock. Writers are those gaily colored wussy plastic paper clips.

In short, I was given a choice: I could see the lucent wisdom of my editors' point of view and alter the column as directed, or I could elect to write a different column altogether, or (in an organization this large and diverse, there are always a multitude of options) I could be escorted to the front door by Security.

Now, you might think: Well, look who has the last laugh -- you're getting to write about being censored!

Wrong.

First off, in fairness, I should make it clear that what was done to me is not, technically, censorship. Censorship is editing imposed on the media by an evil, beady-eyed tyrant such as Saddam Hussein. It is not considered censorship when a newspaper chooses to edit itself. That's entirely an internal matter, like when Saddam chose to gas the Kurds.

But the main reason you are wrong when you think I am getting the last laugh is that I can't say what I want to say. The reason they call these people editors is that they edit the stories. They have their hands on it last. If I were to simply and forthrightly explain my outrage at how these [big black mark] could have the nerve to [big black mark], then [big black mark] by these [big black mark]ckers.

Editors may be infuriating, but as a former editor I have to acknowledge that their work is essential. And I say that with all the pride and reverence of a horsefly discussing his former career as a dung maggot.

Because editors have the last word, the only strategy left to me here is satire, a technique employed by famous persons such as Jonathan Swift to skewer his witless targets. Satire requires indirection: For example, when Jonathan Swift wished to decry Britain's inhumane treatment of the Irish (a people, by the way, known for producing great, tragically unappreciated writers), Swift did not say this outright. Instead he proposed, as a national economic policy, that the British eat Irish babies. Oppressors eating the oppressed!

Similarly, I could propose that my editors eat me. But I think that would be uncharitable; they might find my flesh a tad bitter. Instead, I have a modest proposal of my own.

My view is based upon the certainty that my editors, like all editors everywhere owing to their divine right, are correct in their judgment. Specifically, they are right that you, the reading public, are like infant children -- lovely, adorable, emotionally fragile, innocent, uncorrupted, incontinent, etc. -- and therefore must be protected from intellectual ruffians such as myself.

But, I contend that mere editorial vigilance does not go far enough. We must eliminate any possibility whatsoever of giving the slightest offense to anyone, however inadvertently. To this end, I propose that the Washington Post Magazine be published entirely in Portuguese.

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking there is a flaw in this plan, and you are right: What about Brazilian and Portuguese Americans? Are their feelings not important, too?

It's a thorny problem, but I have a solution. It's a little complicated, so bear with me: Though we write the stories in Portuguese, we do it entirely using letters from the Hebrew alphabet!

Sure, there will be complications. The Magazine would have to fire its editors and get new ones with different language skills. It's too bad, but sometimes sacrifices must be made in the interests of good taste.

Gene Weingarten's e-mail address is weingarten@washpost.com.