A Bold Fresh Piece of Humanity by Bill O'Reilly
That’s because most villains are cowards, they do their bad deeds feeling they are immune from retaliation. Nowhere is this more evident than in the corrupt American media.
We Bring Good Things to Light
Let me back up that statement with a vivid example of what I consider to be villainy in the media. I am doing this because I feel very strongly that some in the media are abusing their constitutionally guaranteed privileges. It is flat-out wrong to hide behind the First Amendment while doing dishonest, destructive things. That wasn’t the intent of the Founding Fathers. I think most everyone would agree with that.
Thus, I feel that the powerful villains who allow media corruption should be exposed. By the way, I could harpoon a number of media personalities in these pages, but I am not going to do that. People like Al Franken and Rosie O’Donnell are soft targets; you already know what they are. No, the real villainy lies in the corporate boardrooms.
And so, let me introduce you to Jeffrey Immelt, the chief executive officer of the General Electric Corporation, the parent company of NBC. Before we examine Mr. Immelt’s situation, I should tell you that some people think he’s fine, a good manager. My opinion, however, is exactly the opposite.
A few years ago, some commentators on the MSNBC cable network began launching personal attacks on Fox News personnel, the Bush administration, and other Americans they deemed to be on the conservative side. The attacks were vicious and unprecedented. Never before had a network used such slander and defamation on a regular basis.
The reason behind this foray into the gutter was business, pure and simple: MSNBC was losing big in the ratings to Fox News and CNN. Simply put, the network’s performance was embarrassing to NBC News and big daddy General Electric. For years MSNBC had tried to develop successful programming and had failed every single time. Eventually, their partner, Microsoft (the MS part), walked away from the disaster. That’s when MSNBC decided to go into the hate business. You’ve heard a million times that “sex sells” well, so does rank hatred. Maybe even more so.
Presiding over the sewer was Jeff Zucker, the head of programming at NBC. Throughout the television business, Zucker is well known as a corporate hatchet man, but in reality, he has little power. His boss can shut him down in a heartbeat. His boss is Jeffrey Immelt.
Because of the startling situation at MSNBC, I decided to take a hard look at Immelt, the big man on campus. And what I found out is extremely interesting, to say the least.
In 2001, Jeffrey Immelt took over as boss of General Electric from the legendary Jack Welch, who retired. A good soldier, with all that term implies, Immelt had been with the company since 1982 in a variety of jobs, including overseeing the “plastics” operation. I note this because of the great scene in the film The Graduate, when some pompous businessman urges Dustin Hoffman to seek a career in “plastics.” Hoffman’s dazed response is classic. Evidently, Immelt took the advice a bit more seriously.
Anyway, our man Jeff worked his way up the ladder to the top job at GE, one of America’s premier companies. In April of 2002, Immelt stood before GE stockholders cheerfully promising a great future for the company. On his watch, he opined, things were going to be swell indeed. Up, up, and away, as the Fifth Dimension once sang. On the day Immelt gave his speech, the stock price for General Electric stood at about thirty-three dollars.
As I write these words, on May 26, 2008, the GE stock price is just above thirty dollars a share.
Stunningly, GE’s stock price has actually declined about ten percent during Immelt’s tenure, a ghastly performance by any measure. The millions of Americans who have held GE stock have not made a dime on their investment under Immelt’s regime. And that’s at a time when the overall stock market is up about thirty percent. (Remember, I can’t see into the future. So anything could have happened by the time you are reading this.)
So how can something like this happen? How can Immelt, who receives about $20 million in annual compensation, still be in charge in the face of that debacle? The truth is, I don’t know. And for a know-it-all like me, that is a tough admission.
But far, far worse than his awful economic performance is the fact that Jeffrey Immelt has allowed General Electric to continue doing business with Iran, one of America’s most dangerous and violent enemies. For years, Immelt had to have known, since it was a matter of public record, that the Iranian government was involved in activities that directly led to thousands of American military people being killed or wounded in Iraq. Iran’s bomb makers and Quds Force openly provided lethal weaponry and instruction to Iraqi terrorists. And while Americans died and suffered, Jeffrey Immelt wheeled and dealt.
In addition, Iran has publicly called for the destruction of Israel, and arms and trains terrorists to achieve that goal. An article in the Washington Post estimated that GE still does tens of millions of dollars’ worth of business a year with the Iranian mullahs. What a disgrace.
So I sent Factor producer Jesse Watters to Calgary, Canada, where Immelt was speaking. Dodging security guards, Jesse asked the CEO about doing business with Iran. Incredibly, Immelt denied it on-camera. A brazen and blatant falsehood.
In fact, through subsidiaries in Italy, Canada, and France, GE has provided Iran assistance on projects including hydroelectric power, oil, and medical diagnostics. And even though Iran is currently on a list of countries that sponsor terrorism, GE doesn’t seem much concerned. In a TV interview with former Disney CEO Michael Eisner after the Factor confronted him, Immelt did finally admit to doing business with Iran. Looking very concerned, ol’ Jeff said that although he wanted to stop, he couldn’t do it “cold turkey.”
I’m sure the families who have lost soldiers and marines in Iraq understand your dilemma, right, Mr. Immelt?
I mean, how bad is this? Iran wants to murder Americans and Jews, is violating UN mandates on nuclear activity, is actively threatening the Gulf region, and Immelt can’t stop doing business with them “cold turkey”?
It doesn’t get much worse than that.
Despite our numerous requests to get his side of the story, Jeffrey Immelt will not speak with me. Publicly, he has stated that GE has not done anything illegal, that the U.S. government has approved his business with Iran. He also says other American companies are doing the same thing. These are excuses responsible parents wouldn’t tolerate from their own kids. “It’s not wrong,” “someone said I could do it,” and besides, “I’m stopping soon, Daddy.” Even on Immelt’s own terms, these are shameful excuses for helping a country that sanctions murder.
Furthermore, in a private conversation with Immelt, a high-ranking American executive, whom I can’t name because I promised him I wouldn’t, asked him about the corruption at NBC News and about GE’s faltering image. “He laughed,” the executive said.
Okay.
So it is my job to make sure you know all about Jeffrey Immelt and others like him. These venal executives earn millions, are amoral in my opinion, and act in ways that defy reason, as I understand the term. Profit is everything to these people—even more important than human life. The next time you use a GE lightbulb, think about that. Think about the Iranian roadside bombs that have killed and maimed our brave military people. Think about the thousands of Israelis and Lebanese murdered by Hezbollah cutthroats who draw pay from the Iranian government.
Then think about Jeffrey Immelt living in his Connecticut mansion, riding to work in his limo, flying in his private jet. If not me, who’s gonna call this guy out? You tell me, who is going to do it? Brian Williams?
Sure.
Again, that kind of exposition drives me; it’s what makes my media career go. It is all about keeping accounts…about holding people who harm you accountable for their actions. For sure, I’m aware of my responsibility here. We carefully researched Jeffrey Immelt for months before we confronted him in Canada in the fall of 2007. Since then, Factor producers have called his office dozens of times asking for explanations for his actions. But Immelt, thou
There is, however, acute danger in my going after bad guys. It is twofold: First, there will be blowback; these people will come after me. I think we’ve seen that repeatedly in my case. Second, there is the potential problem of self-righteousness.
As history amply demonstrates, some crusaders for justice lose it. They become fanatics, zealots, crazed with purpose. Ralph Nader might be a good example of this. Once a great researcher and exposer of corporate corruption, Nader now sounds like Fidel Castro when he gives a speech. Corporations are evil; all politicians are in the tank! Only Ralph can save us. When he says Senators Obama and Clinton are not liberal enough, you know Ralph has left the building.
Believe me, I do think about the Nader factor when evaluating my own attitudes. I don’t want to skip down the Yellow Brick Road with Ralph on the way to see the Wizard of Oz. I already have a brain, a heart, and a dose of courage. It is vital that I stay grounded in reality, fighting the fights that truly matter. I fully understand the danger of losing perspective, of seeing evildoers hiding in my closet. Luckily, I believe I’ve developed a fail-safe way of keeping a realistic outlook and not becoming a dragon-slaying loon.
My magic potion in this regard is free and readily available. On the label are two words: old friends.
MEN OF ADVENTURE
You’ll be lucky if you make five good friends in your whole life.
—WILLIAM O’REILLY SR.
My father said that to me around the time I was entering high school. Of course, I thought he was crazy. (That was my job, at the time.) After all, I had dozens of friends; just look out the window! But I never forgot my dad’s statement.
Friends have always been important to me. Early on, for some reason I can’t really explain, I realized the value of loyalty, shared experiences, and camaraderie. In the old neighborhood, it was the bold, fresh guy who organized the dopey games and the ridiculous nighttime raids. Over the years, it’s been your humble correspondent who’s kept the gang together.
Beginning in 1978, I’ve been organizing trips every couple of years for the “guys.” My guys. My friends. The first one was to the Club Med in Playa Blanca, Mexico, and involved four of us: Joe Spencer, Jeff Cohen (of painting fame), Lou Spoto, and me.
The purpose of these trips was to cut loose and spend time.
Over time, these biannual trips have grown huge. Now as many as twenty-five guys show up to float through the Grand Canyon, explore Hawaii’s Na Pali coast, or dive the waters in the British Virgin Islands. Over the past thirty years, we’ve had fifteen grand adventures. And every one of them contained laughs that would make Robin Williams envious.
In my younger, single days, Club Med was a prime destination for these “Men of Adventure” trips, because, at those resorts, there were plenty of women of adventure, if you know what I mean. Our needs back then were fairly basic.
If you haven’t been to a Club Med, let me set the scene. It’s a French-run operation that caters to young Americans looking for action. The clubs are pretty straightforward: small rooms, a nice beach or skiing mountain, and all the food you can eat. Every evening the employees put on some kind of show, but it’s nothing compared to the show some of the guests participate in every day.
In the late seventies and early eighties, Club Med was at its peak. Those were the “disco years,” when social mores were, well, relaxed. And Club Med sold that. The structure went like this: Club Med employees called GOs (Gentle Organizers) supervised activities, and the guests, called GMs (Gentle Members), could take them or leave them. The head of the resort, who oversaw the proceedings, was known as the Chief of the Village. Most of the employees were underpaid young Frenchmen who were allowed to romp around in the sun and pick up as many girls as they could. In fact, the employees competed with the male guests in this department, which sometimes led to some interesting situations.
One year ten Men of Adventure chaps arrived at the Club Med in Cancún, on the east coast of Mexico. Beautiful place: white sand beach, great pool, open-air hospitality. But to say the club was a zoo is to underestimate wildlife to a large degree. This resort was smoking.
The Men of Adventure, however, had a strict code, and that was to play it cool under the hot Mexican sun. Many Club Med guests go wild in the first twenty-four hours of their liberation from social convention, making complete fools of themselves in the process. We would have none of that.
The Men of Adventure with one of Club Med’s group organizers.
No, our rule was to stick together and not hit on any females for at least thirty-six hours into the vacation. In that way, we would present a stark contrast to all the other guys, many of whom were acting like Steve Martin and Dan Aykroyd, the wild and crazy guys of Saturday Night Live.
The strategy was brilliant; trust me. By day two, some of the ladies were so turned off by the zoo crew that they became curious about the “group” of men who were actually behaving like human beings (kind of ).
Of course, that was a complete ruse.
Thus, on day three, when a Man of Adventure made a polite overture to a guest of the female persuasion, often said overtures were well received. It didn’t take long for our social circle to rapidly expand.
Above all on these vacations, laughs were required. Very few of us got drunk; instead, we made fun of those who did. You won’t be surprised to learn that much of our collective wit was directed at the rather arrogant French GOs, each of whom was given a nickname. At Cancún, for example, there was Donny Osmond, along with Lenny and Squiggy, as well as Jacques Plante (hockey goalie). Immature? You bet.
Also, we quickly discovered that many of the GOs didn’t like to get wet, even though they were laboring (such as it was) at a beach resort. What they did like to do was preen in front of the ladies wearing tiny Band-Aid bathing trunks. To quote the late singer Warren Zevon singing “Werewolves of London,” his “hair was perfect.”
But not for long.
Acting entirely inappropriately, the Men of Adventure made it a point to actually push some of the GOs into the pool. Again, amazingly immature, simply no excuse for behaving that way. Whenever we saw a Frenchman standing at the pool’s edge, we’d walk over and gently shove him into the water. Of course, everyone would laugh, including the GO, who had to play along because of guest protocol. But by midweek, they hated us, and who could blame them?
That’s when I made my move.
The Games People Play
The Chief of the Village, standing about five feet five inches tall with close-cropped jet-black hair, kept a ready smile plastered on his face in public. After all, his job was to be all things to all people, all the while making sure no homicides occurred on the grounds. The guy was slick and professional, perfect for the task. I admired that.
At our initial informational resort gathering that week, the Chief told his new guests that the Cancún club had the best water polo team in all of Club Med–dom; his guys were extraordinary players, just in case we wanted to find out.
Okay.
So, my competitive appetite whetted, I planned my course of action. At lunch on day four, I approached the Chief of the Village and boldly challenged him to a water polo match: my guys against his, mano a mano. A case of champagne was riding on the outcome.
Now, El Jefe was no fool and realized he was staring at ten ruffians who were not buying into his program. It’s not that we were disruptive; we weren’t. We just couldn’t help mocking the whole deal. While some other guests went “native,” even trying to look like the pseudo-suave Club Med people, we remained true to our obnoxious selves. Believe me, a New York or New England edge does not easily smooth out—even in the soft breezes of the Yucatán.
But the Chief had no choice; he had to play ball (or water polo), because the challenge was made in public and the whole club was jazzed. S
The resort pool was large but shallow, so the polo match was not a test of swimming prowess; rather, it was a test of raw strength. Cleverly, the Chief insisted that both teams have at least three women to go along with seven men. There were a few amazons working at the Cancún club, and the Chief knew I couldn’t match them with female guests, many of whom had never touched chlorine.
But he didn’t know about the Hanson brothers.
You may remember that in 1977, Paul Newman starred in a zany film called Slap Shot, which chronicled the chaotic season of a minor-league ice hockey team. Playing for Newman’s squad were two brothers who were completely insane: the Hanson boys. They looked like geeks, but when the puck hit the ice, they annihilated the opposition using a variety of illegal techniques that would have frightened off the Viet Cong. Predictably, I loved those guys.
Fast-forward to the bar at Club Med Cancún. Two guys are standing at the bar. They look like brothers. They are giants, maybe six-foot-eight. They are not friendly.
Now, I had ignored these guys up until water polo challenge time. I mean, why would I intrude on their brooding time when there were twenty smiling, great-looking ladies also standing at the bar? Come on.
But after the Chief and I hammered out the water polo rules, I approached the behemoths.
“Where you guys from?” I asked matter-of-factly.
“Sacramento,” one of them answered.
“Like this place?” I asked.
“Why not?” the other said.
At this point, I realized the interview was going to be short. I’m a trained professional, you know.