Why is it always easier to fix the blame rather than the problem? Like with the Doctor, the Nurse and the pending doom of December 21st… Sometimes stuff just happens… Is there anything you can do about the weather?…

I guess I have to blame my long dead bourbon sippin’ pappy for that great sex life I can only remember. Between those omnipotent puffs on his omniscient corn cob pipe he both excoriated and exhorted me.

He growled that they threw away the wrong end at my Bris. (For you mentally malnourished vegans that’s the Jewish circumcision.) And, if I wasn’t going to waste the remaining end of my life, he barked that I should find something I love, and do it every day as if I was going to die tomorrow.

Hmm….

And as my cabal of future-exes plaintively wailed: Is that all you ever want to do?

But of course!

I just don’t understand that cackle of perverse hens. I was always ready and willing to do other things – in bed, the backseat of the Buick, on the Persian living room rug, in the hot tub, a mile high in an airliner…

Hey, don’t blame moi – it’s in my DNA! I can resist anything except temptation.

Which brings me to the doctor, the nurse and the doom of December 21st.

And when you wonder: Could it get any worse?

But, of curse!  That is, if you bother to notice another big, black hearse.

Again I ask: Why is it always easier to fix the blame than fix the problem?

Let me see if I’ve got this somewhat fixed straight: A couple of Sydney radio shock jocks on the other side of the planet, across the international date line and over 10,600 miles away are being blamed for a nurse’s suicide in London.

Australia and England – two countries separated by a common language having more cock in its mouth than its pants.

It was a stupid prank that we stupid swine like to stupidly exalt in as we stupidly damn up our brainy blood flow with too many non kosher pork sausages.

I mean, admittedly, I did it. That was when I had a radio show back in the day when sit-com couples still slept in twin beds — but somehow still managed to get pregnant. How did they do dat? At the same time: How did Duke Will and Duchess Kate – ever find the 11 seconds to sneak one in?

Isn’t it just delicious to wonder if they did it English sheepdog style, humping at the annual British breeding show. Or Jewish doggy style on the posturepedic mattress. You know: The Jewish prince sits up and begs… while the JAP rolls over and plays dead. (Nu? This comes as big surprise?!)

Anyway, blaming a death in the still of the night on the Dumb Jocks’ prank telephone call is like blaming Iraq on Bush for calling us to arms over phony Weapons of Mass Destruction.

Hmm…

Maybe I meant: Like blaming Bush for declaring a “holy war!”

Hmm…

Or, is it, like blaming Bush for ‘Mission Accomplished!’

Hmm…

Okay, okay… You see how easy it is to fix the blame than to praise the SOB for getting us into Afghanistan. Where would our Fiscal Cliff, trillions in deficits and mostly Christian doggerel be if Bush and Dick and their ignominious rat pack didn’t misappropriate both the Bible AND the Constitution… Not to mention more of our money than all the stupid Power-less Ball lotteries.

Hmm…

And you wonder why I don’t own a gun.

Folks, that’s why there is a vast, infinite majority of stupid people on this planet. We all love to be entertained by stupid, dumb barstool tricks we catch our dawgs doing at the corner saloon.

But hey: To err may be human. But to blame it on someone else is what we butt-sniffing curs do even better than over-polluting our sewer pipes. When people are lame, we love to blame.

And don’t you just love those sanctimonious, pernicious, holy-holy-holy wanna-be Lords who come charging — like the cavalry with its shiny cutlasses — down the hill to assault the wounded. Snorting and swearing, while downright declaring, that the Aussie radio duo – commoners they be! — ought to be drawn and quartered by their ersatz kangaroo jewels.

There is always more to a suicide than a gun or a knife or a bottle of pills. But then, who is most to blame?

It certainly can’t be declared death by natural causes.  But of course it’s only natural that when you leak six quarts of the red sauce you’re going to depart more than the Red Sea.

Jacintha Saldanha — mother, wife and nurse — killed herself in a despairing long night’s journey into hopelessness. That happens all too often when the atavistic pangs of dishonor and disgrace combust into a sea of overwhelming misery.

And with all respect from my wretched worthless soul, I can only wish that our own Congress was so haunted – or at least had a vague awareness – by a similar sense of dignity, duty and dishonor.

A stateman ain’t nuttin’ but a dead politician. We need more statesmen.

This 46-year old nurse, 4-years out from India, working too many hours and living in a hospital dorm 100-miles away from her husband, home and teenage son and daughter, unfortunately answered the prank phone because she also had to be the receptionist.

The King Edward VII hospital administration stupidly failed to have one on hand. That is, even with a patient with the most celebrated tits and ass in an erstwhile empire where the sunless Schadenfreude never sets on the insatiable lust for its celebrated monarchy.

And now Kate has a uterus that every mother on the planet wants to greet and meet while it gleefully punches her with morning, noon, and all-night sickness as her lucky roll in the hay comes into play.

Needless to say: What transpired when a transplanted, former subject’s conscience misperceived the gravity of royal privilege versus servant duty obviously was a shocking collision of conscience, culture, custom and compassion.

Something seriously short circuited Nurse Saldanha’s fuse box.

Yet should we ever forget that life cannot have ‘the wonderful’ without its horrific contradictions. And indeed, and for whatever the reason – and sometimes too elapsed or cryptic to fathom — terrible things do, simply, happen: In our world, our countries, our towns and our homes.

Just like you can’t blame gravity for falling in love, you can’t always blame somebody when something awful has transpired.

Except when you can.

While the theater of this tragedy was playing out on the world’s stage did anybody notice that 28-year-old Petty Officer 1st Class Nicolas D. Checque, a member of the elite and celebrated SEAL Team Six, was killed rescuing a doctor in Afghanistan?

Allegedly the doc was captured by the Taliban who hate US, as well as their own country folks and probably even their badly bearded wives. Here we kill you badly with bad credit. There, with sticks and stones and bad foot-in-mouth breath.

Sadly, Checque, of Monroeville, Pennsylvania, was another death in another war – indeed, our longest ever. The question begs: Have we become so inured that we barely notice? After 2,000 what‘s one more? Is it because it’s not unusual anymore – but then again, neither is the growing number of suicides.

The question is no longer why Bush ever hoaxed us there to kill and die in the first place; but why are we still dying there? And, I implore: For what? So Karzai can steal even more?

And where is the outrage? Like what we have bellowed and roared over a suicide from a single prank Australian telephone call – no less, no more than the hoax of a call-to-war for Weapons of Mass Destruction.

In less than 10 days, perhaps, all this won’t matter anyway. According to the Mayan Calendar it’s all going to end. Our world will cease to be — no more.

And yet with a we-know-better-laugh of dismissal we toss it off — but not completely out of mind. We laugh as if we are right and those fools are stupid. As we should! For what can we do about the weather and forces beyond our control?

If it comes, so be it. One day, no doubt, it truly will.

So bring it on!

Indeed a single death is a tragedy. Six billion deaths would merely be a statistic. But to whom?

Hmm…

A nurse took her own life as a side note to our adoring, modern-day, Cinderella story. The Taliban took another American’s life — another footnote to our longest-ever, greedy war story. And soon the end may take all our lives.

What the hell, what duh hell, what duh heck. It over-stretches the neck. And, after all, who will be left to tell the story? Of the final hoax. And the last great theft.  For who’s glory?

It has been said that it is criminal to steal a purse, yet daring to steal a fortune, and a mark of greatness to steal a crown. The blame does seem to diminish as the gilt increases.

Yet once more: Who will be left to blame?

And that’s yDrewIS on DIS penal colony…

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