Here I am, so close to middle age. I so could have used this expression in school, at work, in relationships, when pulled over far too many times by the gendarmes. The nuclear-option/all-powerful response of: “Regrettably, I cannot share that information at this time for it is part of an ongoing investigation …”  Those 17 musical words, so lyrical and filled with faux regret, are the ultimate, bulletproof mantra used so often by our alleged public servants. They are the high-holy crucifix bureaucrats hold up to fend off accusations of ineptitude, criminality, sloth and that dangling commonality coursing through the DNA of our nation’s apparatchiks on why they screwed up.  “Ways you homework?” my daft mad scientist 11th-grade chemistry teacher, Mr. Roy “Woy” Dundon frequently asked me.  “A dog ate it?” I’d answer, guilt and perspiration pouring from my forehead. If I only could go back. When you form your response as a question, it’s not actually lying.  “I turned it in. You gave me an ‘A.’ Sir? Don’t you remember?” Alas, this was the bolder response. Sadly, it never kept my addled lecturer on the incomprehensible beauties of the Periodic Table from searching through stacks of crayon-scribbled assignments from my fellow acned-riddled sufferers of chemistry. Or, “chemistwee,” as Mr. Dundon pronounced the discipline. To the classroom’s ongoing and devilish delight, our professor suffered from E.F.D.   Elmer Fudd Syndrome. “HEHHH-whoa …”  Sometimes, I vaguely inferred my homework was in my locker, which was a fib. There was nothing in my high school locker. Impatiently, Roy would send me to retrieve the imaginary assignment. Instead, I’d wisely use the time to visit the campus vending machines and get a hot coffee and stale lard posing as a doughnut.  What I should have said is: “Regrettably, Mr. Dundon, I cannot share that information with you at this time for it is part of an ongoing investigation …” What I also needed in school from kindergarten to college was a little toy microphone clamped to my desk so I could cup my hand over it and pretend whisper to my pretend lawyer next desk over.  How do grown-ups, in high positions of government, get away with that? In a congressional hearing, they’re asked: 1) “Where do you get off giving $3 billion to The Yammering Pro-Rape Terrorist Club?” or, B) “Why did you personally expense $464,000 in massages and sushi last week?” or,  iii) “What’s the deal with the FBI donning masks and holding up, at gunpoint, the Christian Youth Lemonade Stand and wounding six second graders and their guitar-playing teacher?”  Foof. Can’t say. Part of an ongoing, well. Can’t even say that.  The blinding beauty of that answer is that our supposedly wise and allegedly bright elected officials actually accept this ruse as an answer. Not that I wish it even on a Democrat, but you don’t get that response in a dictatorship. Banana republic generalissimo asks, “Hey. Which one of you knuckleheads stole my boatload of Dijon mustard and prostitutes?” The despot gets that prissy “ongoing investigation” comeback and it’s Somebody’s Head Rotting On A Pike In Front Of The 16th Century Giant Cathedral Fountain Time.  Back in those dark and dank Marriage Period times, I was occasionally greeted at my return home with, “IT’S 3:30 IN THE MORNING LITTLE MISTER WHERE THE HELL YOU BEEN!?!?!” My first temptation would be to respond, “Well. First, honey. My name’s not, ‘Ben.’” I wouldn’t SAY that because it would invite a barrage of flying pots, pans, dishes, the entire collection of my first-edition, gripping and page-turning novels I’ve written and, of course, the cat, Spike. Back then? It wouldn’t occur to me to recite the answer that stumps Congress.  In my old horse-&-buggy Mighty Signal days, my editor was the fearsome Ruth Newhall. Ruth had the nickname of “The Godmother” not so much for her loving and saintly demeanor of someone you could turn to in times of emotional struggle, but, rather, as in if you crossed her, your festive Hawaiian shirt, rodeo cowboy belt buckle and Tony Lama boots would show up on the sidewalks of Downtown Newhall, wrapped in fish.  No. It’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon. My column’s not in. If I jocularly attempted to explain the impending and gaping empty hole on the sports page where my essay was supposed to be with a chuckle and dismissive, “ongoing government investigation” excuse, well. Let me put another color in your crayon box. The only other and Christian choice would be to stroll outside, bum a cigarette, inhale it down to the filter and then place a revolver to my temple.  What’s the deal? We regular, mortal souls can’t get away with telling someone — spouse, Highway Patrol officer with a funereal expression with one hand on his ticket book and other on his night stick, boss, priest, mistress, building inspector, Nurse Ratchet waiting for that urine cup sample — that we can’t share vital, really need-to-know information because it’s part of some ongoing secret crime probe.  But, nowhere else except government accountability does that implausible answer get you off the hook. And a raise. And a promotion. You looted the Treasury. You FedExed nuclear weapons to Mexico’s drug cartels. The Communist Party direct deposits cash and pays for free Chinese take-out for life. You’re caught, on film, goose-stepping and waving in Moscow’s May Day Parade. You dump boxes of ballots onto a bonfire.   No problemo. Why? You’re doing The Lord’s Work.  “Great darn question, Senator. Simply LOVE to answer, but, as I’m sure you’re well aware, it’s part of an ongoing criminal investigation, that, as far as your sorry butt’s concerned, is ongoing — say it with me — forever …”  Ditto with the identical twin cousin response of, “I don’t have those facts in front of me right now I’ll have to have someone from my office get back to you.”  In real life? “RRRRRRRrrrrroooowwwwwww!!!”  That’s the sound a thrown cat makes as it flies, end over end, past your head …  Earth history’s most prolific satirist is John Boston. Visit his website, johnlovesamerica.com. Launches 12:01 a.m. Halloween. You can buy books there right now, too … The post John Boston | I’m Part of an Ongoing Investigation appeared first on Santa Clarita Valley Signal.