Thursday, August 26, 2010

Jerusalem. Doodie. I'm Still In Jerusalem.

Manly Man's Man George F. Will

I was still in Jerusalem (as noted in the title above but I thought perhaps I should hammer that home just to make sure the reader understands).  The ceiling fan in sped around in its endless, maddening cycle of futulity--I was still soacking in nad-sweat and growing ever more convinced that my testicles were going to evolve gills if I spent one more day in this hell hole.  My only companions were a bottle of gin, a revolver, and a Gideon's Torah.  Since I don't read Hebrew I made the pages into paper airplanes to while away the time.  The hotel maid didn't seem happy when she saw my miniature aerospace adventures but fortunately I don't speak Hebrew either.

Then he arrived.  First I heard footfalls on the stairs--strong, manly footfalls that said, "I've throttled hamsters with my bare hands." Not the faint, womanly footsteps of a Parisian existentialist with emphysema.

The odor was next--a reek of masculine man-stench stung my nostrils. My olfactory system went into overdrive and before I knew it my brain was a kaleidoscope of sensory overload. Memories made of colors, sounds, scents and tastes came to me in a whirling vortex, especially this one that took place in a church basement.  (Really wish I could forget that one.)  My heart was racing and every nerve, every fiber was at full alert.

Then the door opened and in he walked--Netanyahu.  His commanding aura took over the room--the blood pounded in my ears--my hands trembled--and a quiet voice in the distance sang.  I knew then that I was in love. Delirious, hopeless, forever-to-the-very-end love.

Then. He spoke.  "Hi.  Bagel?"

Yes.  There would be many bagels to come.

--to be continued--


We drove to the a hill near the border...from their we could see the settlements and past that, the Gaza Strip...or as I like to call it, Mexico East.  "Look--over 50,000 rockets ready to strike at us," he stated bluntly. His voice had the tone of weary despair like a punch-drunk fighter trying to order a French meal, or maybe a slow kid playing with a hammer and sheet metal.

"So what do we do about it?"

He opened a bottle of wine and knocked back a long drink, then handed me the bottle.  I hadn't drank since shot a guy for snoring too loud but I didn't want to look like a sissy-boy, so I drank too.  The booze rumbled around my gut like train going off the tracks.  It felt good.

"We move our capital closer to the rockets."

"What about diplomacy? Negotiations? Peace? Compromise?"

He waved his hand as thought swatting a jihadist.  "Those beasts? They don't understand such things. They only know one thing: Death."

"What about their children?"

"They only know death as well?"

"What about the women?"




"Rug merchants? Cooks? Cigarette importers? Barbers? Hookay cafe managers?"

"Death death death death death death death death."

It was so obvious now--peace negotiations, truces, ceasefires--nothing could work.

We exchanged the bottle over and over, and then his hand grazed mine...and suddenly I heard that choir of angels singing from a distant place in my besotted mind: True love at last I've found you!'

"Take me now, Nettie!"

And then he made violent passionate masculine love to me. And yes, rockets were launched. Oh yes, my friends, rockets were launched.  (Note to my wife: Things might not be the same when I come back.)

--George F. Will, Jerusalem--

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