Wow, Islamic fundies were behind this? Who woulda thunk it?
Breaking News from ABCNEWS.com:
SEVERAL EXPLOSIONS WERE PLANNED USING MULTIPLE VEHICLES BY ISLAMIC EXTREMISTS IN LONDON BOMB PLOT, U.S. AND BRITISH OFFICIALS TELL ABC NEWS
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
A No Win Situation
I arrived back from the local pub last week to discover that I had been followed. My apartment was full of men of different shapes and sizes. There was a shortish, plump one with thinning hair who was talking agitatedly into a cell phone and a taller one with a pointy goatee just standing around quietly surveying the place.
A skinny guy with ill-fitting glasses sat quietly on the couch reading Inca Gold by Clive Cussler. There was a very tall, very good-looking blonde one with blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. That was my boyfriend, Win. This made it sort of difficult to break up with him but what else was new? I have been trying to break up with him for six months now.
The plump guy had come over to sell me some stocks. It turned out, however, that he had brought along the wrong briefcase. Instead of the one that contained his stock portfolios and calculator, he had brought one containing some French ticklers and K-Y jelly. He was jabbering on the phone to his mother, asking her to please, please look in his bedroom for the correct valise.
Mr. Goatee was just there to offer the stock salesman moral support although I failed to see how a guy with a mismatched socks and a “Same Shit, Different Day” T-shirt could offer support of any kind to anyone.
The guy on the couch claimed I had borrowed one of his Cussler books, but had failed to return it. I told him that he must be mistaken, I don’t like Clive Cussler, never read even one of his books, and he must have me mixed up with someone else. But no, he was very insistent that it was me who was pillaging his great literary collection and then proceeded to go into great detail about the plot of Iceberg, the book presumably in my possession.
At this point, I thought I would die but I figured trying to get my boyfriend’s attention so that we could have “the talk” would buy me a reprieve.
“Honey, I need to talk with you.”
“Uh, I’m kinda busy,” he said.
“With what?”
“This guy was telling me about some great stock portfolios.”
“But he doesn’t even have the right briefcase.”
“I know but we’re taking a ride over to his mom’s house. Wanna come with?”
“No, thanks, I’m set for French ticklers. You go. We’ll talk later.”
During the past six months, Win and I had grown further and further apart, the irony being that physically, he was always here. But whenever I wanted to talk with him about ending the relationship, he was always watching something important on TV, fiddling with his computer, on his way out the door or, worse yet, doing something incredibly nice like bringing me fresh sunflowers. And then, I would forget why I wanted to break up with him.
A delicious hot and spicy smell of onions, garlic and peppers was emanating from my kitchen. Upon investigating, I found still another man stirring what appeared to be a pot of chili. I was hungry and went to take a taste. Instead, I was harshly slapped.
“Don’t touch!”
“How dare you! This is MY kitchen!”
“That may be but your cooking sucks,” he said. “Ever notice how your boyfriend always seems to disappear around dinner time?”
I couldn’t argue there. Probably the only way we’d ever have dinner together was if we were held at gunpoint. I decided to take a hot bubble bath instead.
I lit a candle, lay back in the tub, the aroma of mangoes filling my nostrils, the steam cleansing the impurities and assaults of the day, my toes tracing the pink tiles on the wall. I fell asleep and dreamed that someone was caressing my shoulders and feeding me chocolate-covered caramels while I lay in a grassy field somewhere in Vermont. In the distance, a cow’s low, plaintive moan could be heard. It seemed to grow more melodic as time went by.
Awakening slowly, I realized that it was not a cow I was hearing at all, but a saxophone. Three men I had never seen before had decided to join me in the tub, one of them serenading me softly with Harlem Nocturne.
“What are you all doing here? Can’t I get any peace?”
“Sorry, but you asked us here,” said the one directly to my left, holding an empty box of Russell Stover. He had way too many piercings and tattoos for my liking.
“Why would I do that?”
“To avoid the unpleasant task of breaking up,” said the masseuse, who was not much to look at but had the most amazing hands.
“I’ve been meaning to get around to that…”
“But you haven’t,” said the chocolate bearer. “So now you must put up with some minor inconveniences. It could be worse, I might add.”
“I just want my life back!” I shouted.
Just then Win walked into the bathroom, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was sharing a tub with three naked men.
“Your candle went out,” he said. “Let me relight it for you.”
“Win, sit down a sec. I need to talk to you.”
“Hon, can it wait until later? My hard drive just crashed and I gotta get to the computer store before it closes. I promise, we’ll talk later.”
“There might not be a later,” I said, but he was already out the door.
I turned to the guy on the sax. “Do you know any blues tunes?”
A skinny guy with ill-fitting glasses sat quietly on the couch reading Inca Gold by Clive Cussler. There was a very tall, very good-looking blonde one with blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. That was my boyfriend, Win. This made it sort of difficult to break up with him but what else was new? I have been trying to break up with him for six months now.
The plump guy had come over to sell me some stocks. It turned out, however, that he had brought along the wrong briefcase. Instead of the one that contained his stock portfolios and calculator, he had brought one containing some French ticklers and K-Y jelly. He was jabbering on the phone to his mother, asking her to please, please look in his bedroom for the correct valise.
Mr. Goatee was just there to offer the stock salesman moral support although I failed to see how a guy with a mismatched socks and a “Same Shit, Different Day” T-shirt could offer support of any kind to anyone.
The guy on the couch claimed I had borrowed one of his Cussler books, but had failed to return it. I told him that he must be mistaken, I don’t like Clive Cussler, never read even one of his books, and he must have me mixed up with someone else. But no, he was very insistent that it was me who was pillaging his great literary collection and then proceeded to go into great detail about the plot of Iceberg, the book presumably in my possession.
At this point, I thought I would die but I figured trying to get my boyfriend’s attention so that we could have “the talk” would buy me a reprieve.
“Honey, I need to talk with you.”
“Uh, I’m kinda busy,” he said.
“With what?”
“This guy was telling me about some great stock portfolios.”
“But he doesn’t even have the right briefcase.”
“I know but we’re taking a ride over to his mom’s house. Wanna come with?”
“No, thanks, I’m set for French ticklers. You go. We’ll talk later.”
During the past six months, Win and I had grown further and further apart, the irony being that physically, he was always here. But whenever I wanted to talk with him about ending the relationship, he was always watching something important on TV, fiddling with his computer, on his way out the door or, worse yet, doing something incredibly nice like bringing me fresh sunflowers. And then, I would forget why I wanted to break up with him.
A delicious hot and spicy smell of onions, garlic and peppers was emanating from my kitchen. Upon investigating, I found still another man stirring what appeared to be a pot of chili. I was hungry and went to take a taste. Instead, I was harshly slapped.
“Don’t touch!”
“How dare you! This is MY kitchen!”
“That may be but your cooking sucks,” he said. “Ever notice how your boyfriend always seems to disappear around dinner time?”
I couldn’t argue there. Probably the only way we’d ever have dinner together was if we were held at gunpoint. I decided to take a hot bubble bath instead.
I lit a candle, lay back in the tub, the aroma of mangoes filling my nostrils, the steam cleansing the impurities and assaults of the day, my toes tracing the pink tiles on the wall. I fell asleep and dreamed that someone was caressing my shoulders and feeding me chocolate-covered caramels while I lay in a grassy field somewhere in Vermont. In the distance, a cow’s low, plaintive moan could be heard. It seemed to grow more melodic as time went by.
Awakening slowly, I realized that it was not a cow I was hearing at all, but a saxophone. Three men I had never seen before had decided to join me in the tub, one of them serenading me softly with Harlem Nocturne.
“What are you all doing here? Can’t I get any peace?”
“Sorry, but you asked us here,” said the one directly to my left, holding an empty box of Russell Stover. He had way too many piercings and tattoos for my liking.
“Why would I do that?”
“To avoid the unpleasant task of breaking up,” said the masseuse, who was not much to look at but had the most amazing hands.
“I’ve been meaning to get around to that…”
“But you haven’t,” said the chocolate bearer. “So now you must put up with some minor inconveniences. It could be worse, I might add.”
“I just want my life back!” I shouted.
Just then Win walked into the bathroom, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was sharing a tub with three naked men.
“Your candle went out,” he said. “Let me relight it for you.”
“Win, sit down a sec. I need to talk to you.”
“Hon, can it wait until later? My hard drive just crashed and I gotta get to the computer store before it closes. I promise, we’ll talk later.”
“There might not be a later,” I said, but he was already out the door.
I turned to the guy on the sax. “Do you know any blues tunes?”
Monday, June 25, 2007
Helped Wanted
Mr. Cobb sat at the breakfast table drinking his coffee and smoking a Pall Mall Gold. Mrs. Cobb sat across from him reading the Help Wanted ads.
“Here’s one,” she said. “Own your own business. Owner forced to sell because of relocation. Turnkey operation.”
“What the hell do I know about raising turkeys?” Mr. Cobb answered.
“Not turkey, you idiot. Turnkey. It means it’s all set up for you, ready to go.”
“Smelly birds. You remember my friend, Ralph from Cortlandt, New York? Well, his brother-in-law owned a turkey farm upstate. Dirtiest, smelliest animals you ever want to see. I swear to Christ that you’ll never eat turkey again after seeing a turkey farm.”
“Don’t you listen?”
“I don’t want to have to be getting up at 4 in the AM to feed the damn turkeys! Let me see that paper.”
Mrs. Cobb shook her head and handed him the paper.
“Here’s one,” Mr. Cobb said. “Marketing specialist. Now let me ask you something. When you send me to the market, don’t I always get what you ask for? Jeez, some guys forget to bring the damn list with them. Other ones buy stuff that ain’t even on the list. Take Phil Green. His wife is always yelling at him because he s’sposed to be on a diet and he’s always trying to sneak Mallomars or Haagen Daaz into the house when he thinks she ain’t looking. And he forgets to buy food for dinner. He’s no marketing specialist.”
“I don’t think that’s quite what they mean,” Mrs. Cobb said.
“What who means?”
“A marketing specialist is not someone who knows how to shop in a supermarket. I think it has something to do with sales.”
“Then why don’t they just say that? Jeez! This job hunting stuff is for the birds, the turkeys, whatever!” He took another puff of his cigarette and turned the page. “Here’s a good one. TV specialist. International beauty products company seeks highly motivated TV specialist for negotiating and booking models for photo shoots… Let me ask you, who’s a bigger lover of TV than me? And, don’t you always tell me what a great negotiator I am when we go to Englishtown Flea Market? Didn’t I make a bundle on those fishing poles I bought and then resold because the numnuts who sold them to me didn’t know how valuable the reels were? And booking the models? They pay somebody to do that? Just sign me up! But I don’t like them too skinny.”
Mrs. Cobb sighed, got up and shuffled into the living room. Mr. Cobb put out his cigarette, got up, went to the Frigidaire and got himself a Pabst Blue Ribbon. He sat back down, flipped open the can, leaned back in his chair and smiled.
“Well, I would say this day is already a success and it’s only 10 o’clock in the morning,” he said to no one in particular.
“Here’s one,” she said. “Own your own business. Owner forced to sell because of relocation. Turnkey operation.”
“What the hell do I know about raising turkeys?” Mr. Cobb answered.
“Not turkey, you idiot. Turnkey. It means it’s all set up for you, ready to go.”
“Smelly birds. You remember my friend, Ralph from Cortlandt, New York? Well, his brother-in-law owned a turkey farm upstate. Dirtiest, smelliest animals you ever want to see. I swear to Christ that you’ll never eat turkey again after seeing a turkey farm.”
“Don’t you listen?”
“I don’t want to have to be getting up at 4 in the AM to feed the damn turkeys! Let me see that paper.”
Mrs. Cobb shook her head and handed him the paper.
“Here’s one,” Mr. Cobb said. “Marketing specialist. Now let me ask you something. When you send me to the market, don’t I always get what you ask for? Jeez, some guys forget to bring the damn list with them. Other ones buy stuff that ain’t even on the list. Take Phil Green. His wife is always yelling at him because he s’sposed to be on a diet and he’s always trying to sneak Mallomars or Haagen Daaz into the house when he thinks she ain’t looking. And he forgets to buy food for dinner. He’s no marketing specialist.”
“I don’t think that’s quite what they mean,” Mrs. Cobb said.
“What who means?”
“A marketing specialist is not someone who knows how to shop in a supermarket. I think it has something to do with sales.”
“Then why don’t they just say that? Jeez! This job hunting stuff is for the birds, the turkeys, whatever!” He took another puff of his cigarette and turned the page. “Here’s a good one. TV specialist. International beauty products company seeks highly motivated TV specialist for negotiating and booking models for photo shoots… Let me ask you, who’s a bigger lover of TV than me? And, don’t you always tell me what a great negotiator I am when we go to Englishtown Flea Market? Didn’t I make a bundle on those fishing poles I bought and then resold because the numnuts who sold them to me didn’t know how valuable the reels were? And booking the models? They pay somebody to do that? Just sign me up! But I don’t like them too skinny.”
Mrs. Cobb sighed, got up and shuffled into the living room. Mr. Cobb put out his cigarette, got up, went to the Frigidaire and got himself a Pabst Blue Ribbon. He sat back down, flipped open the can, leaned back in his chair and smiled.
“Well, I would say this day is already a success and it’s only 10 o’clock in the morning,” he said to no one in particular.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Miss Independence
In honor of the upcoming Independence Day (July 4) and following Bloomberg's lead, I am officially changing my party affiliation to Independent. It think this best reflects my views these days as I have no great love for either the Democratic or Republican party. I will vote for the best man (or woman). For the record, my money is on Duncan Hunter unless he does something reprehensible in between now and November 2008.
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