Ismail Haniya (pictured above) has got to be the dumbest white man on the planet. Or maybe the second dumbest. One or the other. Who is Ismail Haniya? The Head Honcho of Hamas, that's who. Mister Numero Uno in Gazaland, that's who. How dumb is he? Here's a message from him to the teeming Palestinian masses:
“We are approaching victory. The blood which has flowed
will not have flowed in vain. I tell you that after 17 days
of this war, Gaza has not been broken and Gaza will
not fall.”
That said as ten thousand Jews With Guns hit the ground running in Gaza City like it was junior high school recess.
Your first impulse is to admire the little fuck. You see the bombs raining down and the Israeli tanks and artillery punching holes in walls and you want to cheer him on. It's human nature to root for the underdog, to pull for the scrappy little dude who says "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore."
At the same time, you know it's gonna be one of those lost-cause deals. You know the odds are long, the chances for success, slim. It's like what Seinfeld said:
Jerry: Like a spider in the toilet struggling for survival. And even though
you know it's not going to make it, you kind of root for it.
Elaine: And then you flush.
Jerry: Well, it's a spider.
"You kind of root for it." Yeah, you do. But it's getting harder and harder. The rooting starts to stop when Mister Stubborn puts on his stupid hat.
Face it, some people lack common sense. Some people wouldn't know common sense if it walked up behind them and bit them on the ass. Common sense says sometimes you gotta back away, gotta load up and leave, gotta cut your losses and live to fight again. Ismail must have missed class the day they played the Kenny Rogers song:
You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done
The Developed World has sent aid to the Palestinians for a long time. How long? Don't even ask. However long it's been, it hasn't helped them. They've done little more than turn their corner of the world into a first-class shit hole.
Add to that the fact they've had an unbroken string of exceptionally fucked-up leaders. In case you don't know what "exceptionally fucked-up" means, it's like this: when things are going really bad and it looks like surrender might be one of the few viable options left, an exceptionally fucked-up leader would be one who would seriously consider blowing himself and everyone else in a fifty mile radius to smithereens. Who was the last leader to consider going that route? I won't tell you, but his last name is spelled H-I-T-L-E-R.
So maybe it's time for someone to change. Don't expect it to be them. Ain't no Obamas riding the range in Gazaland.
If they can't change, we sure can. We Americans know change. We invented change.
But. first and foremost, some guiding principles are required. We need a philosophy. We need some wisdom. We need a guru. Where to turn? Where to turn?
Hmmmm. Aha! I know.
How about that great seer and visionary, Sam Kinison? RIP. Here he is articulating his views on world hunger...
Of course, it ain't gonna happen. Even if they passed the most draconian laws, with penalties like flogging, branding and beheading, the cellphone nazis would figure out a way to get their way.
The women are the worst. Don't you just hate those mindless bitches yammering away about NOTHING and forcing you to LISTEN to them?
They should all be sent to Iraq as sex slaves. Except they would bore everyone to death. Hey! That's it! Send them to the war zones. Let them kill Al-Qaeda with their lame phone talk.
Face it. You can't fight these people. The best modus vivendi is to satirize them and move on, knowing in your heart that, no matter what, you are better than they in every way.
I wrote a play about life with cellphones. It got some productions. More importantly, it got laughs. Which was my intention. By laughs, I mean laugh at, not laugh with...
(She enters vacation cabin. Sets overnight bag on table. Sits at table. Gets comfortable by stages. Begins writing letter. Suddenly stops. Thinks better of writing and instead takes out her cell phone)
Nobody breathes on my phone. What if she has a virus?
SHE:
Ringing. Ringing. Please hold. Your call is very important. Yadda yadda yadda.
HE:
I don't care how you handle it. Just handle it. What? You have another call? Hold? Yeah okay sure, I'll hold.
(He continues to hold the phone to his ear as he remains on hold)
SHE:
Hello? Hello? Is this Brett? Mister Brett Yammer?
HE:
One table. One chair. Un-fucking-believable.
SHE:
Mister Yammer? Brett? This is Alison. Alison Cribbs. Yeah! The girl at the beach house? Yeah, that's me.
HE:
Not even a bed. Just a mattress on the floor. Un-fucking-believable.
SHE:
Oh yes. That's so so right. Oh yes. Yes. Yes. You're right. You're so very very right. It's been one really really big big big snafu out here.
HE:
(Looks out window) And the beach. Trash from the summer still out there. One big shithole. Un-fucking-believable.
SHE:
Right. Really really really for sure. Sheryl should have told you. I really totally totally agree.
HE:
Please hold. Your call is very important to us. Yadda yadda fucking yadda.
SHE:
Oh, so really actually honestly true, Brett. You are so so right on the mark. Communication between a couple is a sacred cross your heart hope to die obligation. I mean, it is so really really key to a nurturing caring loving hugs and kisses relationship. Hold? Sure. Of course I will.
(She continues to hold the phone to her ear as she remains on hold)
HE:
Yeah? So is she leaving? Whaddaya mean, hold your horses? You want to know what she looks like?! Well, let's see. Wait a minute! Whaddaya wanna know that for? Ok. Ok. Shit. Just hang on. She's ummm hmmmm not bad looking. Ummm. Kind of blonde. A little on the heavy side maybe.
SHE:
Geez. It's really starting to sound like a meat market in here.
HE:
But I guess I wouldn't kick her out of bed.
SHE:
Thank God for small blessings.
HE:
Hold? Yeah go ahead. What the hell.
SHE:
Please continue to hold. Your call. Hello? Hello? Brett? There you are again! Yeah, it's me, Alison. Thank you. Well, it's like my name. Like it or not, I'm stuck with it. Oh, that's so really really kind of you. You know? I think Brett is a really really masculine name. Yes, I do. Its so so ummmm hands on take charge sounding. Yes. For sure. I do think you sound that way. I really really do. Say, do you like chili dogs? You do? Well, I know this really really neat little place. Do you live close by by any chance? Really? Well, that is actually so very convenient.
HE:
Please continue to hold. Your call is very important to us. Yadda yadda fucking yadda.
SHE:
(Packs her gear at a panic pace) Brett. Do you know where the Trader Joes on Moulton Parkway is? You do? OK. I'll meet you there. Well, I'm going to tell you. I'll be the girl with the dirty blonde hair and the big smile and, oh yeah, Ill be driving a blue 1999 VW Beetle. What? You have a blue Beetle too? So much in common already. May I ask you a really really intimate question, Brett? Whats your long distance company? Verizon? Oh my God, mine too! This is so really really deep. It's like fate, like kismet. Really really looking forward to meeting you, Brett. (Hangs up. Starts to leave. Stops. Turns to HE) Nice talking to you.
