It’s 10 years since I went out of my mind – I’ll never go back. And you wonder why? Well…consider this stuff in the category of: You can never be too crazy, but you can be too sane.
The other day the Israeli’s started the process of trading 1,037 Palestinian prisoners — who have sworn over the years to an oath, that most of them can’t even read, for Israel’s eradication. This was 1,037 for one captured Israeli soldier.
Look, if Egypt, Lebanon, Syria and Jordan all kicked the Palestinians out of their countries at one recent time or another, how is this problem supposed to be eradicated by a country like Israel that is so small its jets can’t even take off without being over a foreign territory?
I say we, and the rest of the world that have missiles, aim at strategic points in those nether desert-world places – like Afghanistan, Iraq, Mideast, and anywhere’s trouble is destined.
And we simply state: Anymore turmoil and we will nuke you, your children, your relatives, your mistress, and even hang your damn dog until he looks as puzzled as Lakia, that mutt the Soviets could never get down from one of their space Sputniks.
Furthermore, there won’t be no 72 virgins awaiting you in heaven. But if per chance there are, it won’t matter – you’ll be so over-circumcised by the time you get to Allah you’ll be transgendered.
Hmmm… so much for that problem.
Meanwhile, insanity never sleeps.
In America, where we can’t entangle the Republicans and Democrats in a common plot to save our country and its economy, our FBI and millions of others in the 15 federal law enforcement and security agencies, have unraveled a plot by the Iranians to shoot the Saudi ambassador to the United States.
This covert cloak and dagger operation was, of course, placed in the very capable hands of a used Iranian car salesman in Detroit. He thought he was hiring someone from a Mexican drug cartel to perform the assassination. It turned out to be one of our guys duly awakened from his siesta.
Hmmm… no shit.
You know, you can’t make this stuff up. In fact, allow me let you in on something: You know the difference between truth and fiction? Fiction has to be believable. Truth is what it us. So, if it ain’t believable, it must be true.
Meanwhile, all our law enforcement officials who weren’t pretending to be dozing as a drug cartel hit man, have been busy policing the ‘dastardly’ Occupy Wall Street franchises that have sprouted in numerous cities across America and several foreign countries. (Refer to Oct.11 column)
Of the couple of hundred protesters at each site, at a time, there are scores of police earning ludicrous amounts of overtime protecting us.
From people who can’t find jobs or healthcare, or housing or money to pay off their college loans… But mostly from typically gaunt, tattooed, body pierced, well intentioned, determined young men and women who are so threatening they probably couldn’t withstand the force of a leaf blower.
And speaking of ‘blowers,’ of all the concerns of a major city like Philadelphia — and most major cities plagued with serious crime, robbing, raping, pillaging and the usual list of suspects like venal lawyers and vapid bankers — the police always seem to find time to find sex.
Those Philadelphia officers who weren’t at the ‘Occupy’ rally or pretending to be a member of the Mexican drug cartels, were apparently undercover down at one of Philadelphia’s Mummer’s clubhouses where they rehearse for the celebrated New Year’s day parade.
The police uncovered an ongoing sexual foray – in need of no rehearsal — in the Downtowner clubhouse by a group of men and woman who looked like they belong in the side show of a bad carnival.
Of course, non attending social members told the Press they were ‘shocked’ and ‘dismayed.’
Hmmm…aren’t we all? I mean, this is terribly serious. Look what sex produces – me, for instance. And I’m nuts.
Now, like many of the major cities, Philly has little commerce or business base, public schools are failing miserably, fat folk and obesity abound and houses aren’t selling. So it’s wonderful that consensual sex is a priority of the understaffed police department.
Look, this stuff and so much more is driving me batty. I’d say it’s enough to make me lose my mind, But how can you lose something you long ago gave away.
I used to laugh about it all the time when I was a journalist. Then again I used to drink heavily back then, too, when everything seemed insanely amusing. I wasn’t an alcoholic. Hell no. Alcoholics go to rehab. Rehab is for quitters. I ain’t doing no Betty Ford.
But just to demonstrate what can happen to a man, let me give you one final episode in this continuing saga in the asylum.
The other night, after listening to some karaoke in Grumpy’s neighborhood bar in South Philly, I returned home and sat on my front stoop to make West Coast phone calls.
It was 12:30 AM or so. In the midst of one call, I looked up and what greeted me in the formerly deserted street, were two young men on bicycles. They were taller, somewhat bigger than I am. I have no idea of age. Anywheres from 18 to 60.
We immediately got off on the wrong foot.
The one young man practically inveighed that he had lost his phone, and absolutely needed to use mine.
I hate banalities and platitudes.
I said: “You’re going to have to come up with some better tripe than that, son.”
Actually, I found myself aggravated, as much at their petulant intrusion as their lack of viable creativity. It’s a thing with me: If you’re going to rob, rape or pillage, there’s no reason not to be courteous and entertaining.
He didn’t know what to respond. So I told him no. That I was busy. And go away or step in front of the U.S. Postal tractor trailer that was due in a few moments.
Perhaps I was tad abstruse for the lad. For he repeated that he lost his phone and he wanted my phone. At that his accomplice closed ranks with him. But these guys had no strategy or any plan of action. They just expected me to hand over my overpriced phone on which I had just paid my monthly service bill.
“Guys,” I said. “You’re starting to tick me off. I got calls to make on a battery that’s dying. So I’ll tell you what: if you’re not out of here by the time I get up, I’m going to grab my weapon and send you to a kinder gentler place.”
Their eyes shifted.
“What weapon?” the spokesman demanded, a little suspiciously.
At that, I leaped up, which startled them back into their saddles. I faked reaching into my computer bag and shouted: “I got a bloody, damn erection!”
Hmmm….you know, those fellows turned a paler shade of ineptitude.
I don’t think they heard me. They were just so surprised by my abrupt actions they bolted down the street. Then they 180ed their bicycle steeds and sped by me, griping in brittle tones: “You’re crazy. Mister. “You’re f-ing crazy.”
“Certifiably,” I shouted after them. And added: “Hey, I don’t want this weapon to go to waste; you don’t have a seester, do you?”
And dats yDrewIS on DIS penal colony.