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Evil - for dummies

What you do is you start a bank, then by sleight of hand you convince everyone that while you only have 10 units of coin in your coffers y...

Friday, December 17, 2010

School for Authoritarian Morons

Before a hound was sent to sniff out the scent of explosives near my crotch, a qualified moron pawed my body for weapons. Then, a station further, a second moron flashed his badge and waxed authoritarian while he scrutinized my papers. He took his time this man, asked me a lot of questions, but he never looked at me directly. I suspect this was nothing personal, just basic training from the School for Authoritarian Morons. Finally, this same moronic gentleman brought down a fist-sized stamp on my papers and waved me through.

It did startle me a little – the stamp – I think it startled sniffer-dog too; I noticed his tongue began to water immediately when the stamp hit the table – thud – straight out of the Pavlov playbook.

So yes, a little startled, but overall I was pleased. I thought it most correct that the eight-year old with the water-gun in front of me should be pulled aside, his weapon confiscated, and his parents separated for interrogation. And I felt comforted by the panoramic eye looking down at all of us, safely corralled below; and by the knowledge that somewhere, at a monitoring station behind the scenes, we were being watched by yet more able graduates from the prestigious School for Authoritarian Morons.

In my socks, holding up my beltless pants, I felt – how shall I say – a sense of safety. I thought of the bombings Pavlov-the-hound must have foiled, and I thought of all the dastardly jackals that had been apprehended at this very gateway, by these very moronic gentlemen, and I was just so grateful for the School for Authoritarian Morons and its able alumni.

Was I inconvenienced? Perhaps a little. But I considered I had not been unduly detained, only long enough to explain that the "suspicious hard spots" Moron One had flagged were in fact merely bones from my skeleton – skinny as I am – and not deadly weapons concealed under my skin. But once all this was cleared up, I was permitted to put my shoes back on and walk straight through, no questions asked.

Think what peace of mind! My concern was no longer being blown to smithereens at thirty-five thousand feet, just the Athlete’s foot I was probably contracting walking in socks where millions of slobs had stood before me, awaiting Pavlov’s muzzle and the able hands of an elite graduate from the School for Authoritarian Morons.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Bee, it’s your birthday!

Little sister, you are probably in Milan skipping presto across a piazza, humming out of the Hank Williams songbook. Me, I’m in a goddamn snowstorm, so pick up your phone, will ye. My fingers are stalagmites as is, and if you don’t hurry up, these little tweety birds pecking crumbs at my feet’ll get me so soft hearted, I may go all Holden Caulfield on you again.


Ok then. Here goes: Joyeux Anniversaaaire ♪♫♫♫ hmm mm mm hmm hm mm ♪♫♫ joyeux AAAnIIIversairUUh ♪♪♪♫♫ ♪♪ joyeux AAAnIIversaaaaaaaire ♫♫

Happy birthday, little sister. Happy birthday.

I still remember with fondness your birthday party way back, how you sent that clod from Belgrade running with a projectile-to-crotch. I believe it was your clog that time, but you were just as precise with bottines, flip-flops or velcro sneaks. I also remember with fondness – when it was not turned on me – your evil eye, that laser-dart from your pupils, feared across Zagreb by all youths under ten. So be careful, Don Juans on the piazza, she’s a feisty little miss, my sister.

And I am most fond of her. Especially when her laser is turned off and she is humming tunes like now. Then she a spark of light in this great dust cloud we inhabit, and which – to your great annoyance , I know, little sis – we must share with just too many darned dullards, weasels and clods. Aren’t you lucky to have a brother like me then, huh? Ha!

Happy birthday.

Your brother,