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May
20, 2003
Linda
Heard
The Cage of Occupation
Edward
Said
The Arab Condition
May
19, 2003
CounterPunch
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"Terror" Slut Steve Emerson
Eats Crow
Veteran
Intelligence Professionals for Sanity
A Letter to Kofi Annan on Powell's Missing
Evidence
Ross
Vachon
Dennis Miller's New Gig: the Last
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John
Chuckman
Blair's Awkward Lies
Matt
Vidal
Corporate Media and the Myth of the Free Market
Michael
S. Ladah
The Fine Print to Bush's Road Map
Robert
Fisk
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Cassel
Clarence Thomas, Still Whining After All These Years
Jonathan
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Steve Perry
Play It Again, O-Sam-a
May
17 / 18, 2003
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May
14, 2003
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May
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May
19, 2003
He Looks Like OJ...or
Maybe Keanu
Dialysis with
Osama
by BEN TRIPP
Dear Sindy,
So as you know I get my dialysis treatments
in Pakistan because it's like so much cheaper and Daddy says
there's no way he's paying MSRP not even for his little angel,
plus Mummy can come with me and go shopping for uncut emeralds
and handicrafts and whatnot, but the whole thing is such a drag
because this place is so third world, I mean not even second
place, but anyway I'm at this clinic which is like such a rest
room I can't even believe it with these old wire fans in the
windows and no AC and actual typewriters that go clack clack
clack I mean not even Mac Classic, these people are stone age,
how did they get dialysis machines, right? And I'm in the waiting
room and there's a man with a diaper on his head, but he's got
shoulders and dreamy brown eyes so I'm like looking at him over
the corner of this old copy of Golf Magazine from back when white
people still won the game, and he sees me, and he smiles this
little shy smile, but Mummy is right there, so nothing happens,
right? And then like after the treatment I'm waiting on this
totally scabby porch while Mummy has a cigarette in the car because
it's air conditioned and this same guy comes out, and all of
a sudden I'm like, "Oh, my God, you're Osama Bin Laden!!!!"
And he's like "Yeah," and he smiles again like he
was some little kid. I totally perked out. He's like so famous
and the last famous person I met was Ben Affleck, and he's into
miss bubble butt so forget it!!!!
I don't even know what to say because
he's like totally evil and I'm not even a sophomore yet, and
I could ask for his autograph or something but I mean that is
so Ebay. I never thought about what to say to somebody who's
like "dead or alive", am I supposed to grab a pen out
of my purse and stab him in the neck, or find out if he has an
Email address? I thought about following him back to his hotel
or cave or whatever, but that's way too Pierce Brosnan for me,
and Mummy is TNC with vehicular pursuits. She didn't even let
me watch the OJ chase. "Honey, nobody chases anybody if
they're serious. They just wait for them at home." Osama
looks a little bit like OJ, how creepy is that? Or Keanu. But
he's really tall. It's been like ten seconds and I'm like oh
my God I have to do something, this is so weird, and I can tell
he's thinking the same thing, maybe because I'm wearing a halter
top and I know he's used to burlap bags from head to toe, right?
So I "accidentally" drop the minibar bill from the
hotel and go to the car. I'm like how lame is that, but I have
no idea what to do around a serious outlaw, like Axel Rose level,
hard core?!?!? He rides away, I'm totally serious, on a horse!!!
I saw it out the back of the car. Mummy's like "who was
that?" And I said it was the towel guy from the hotel pool.
Like I'm going to tell her.
This is the totally amazing part. I
am serious fingers crossed true about this, no lie!!!!!! Mummy's
out shopping at some rug place and I'm at the hotel with cramps,
which is grody beyond compare (the hotel I mean) they have these
weird drinks in the vending machines in bottles that have been
like used fifty times so you can't even read the label any more,
I hope they wash them. I'm between the pool and the bar getting
a serious brown on in one of the chaises and I forgot all about
Osama. And then there he is. He's at the bar ordering a club
soda, and then he comes over and sits on the chaise next to mine
and starts talking right to me, and I'm like oh my God is he
going to crash a plane into the hotel? Because if so, I'm changing
rooms. "Hi," he says, and he's got a total Omar accent.
But he talks English. "We met at the clinic." No
duh. I act like I'm trying to remember, and then I'm like, "oh,
right!" He smiled that little smile again. He would be
cute if he shaved off that totally lumberjack beard, IMHO. He
looks out over the pool like it was the ocean, which I notice
is something he does. He has this look like he can see really
far, even if really he can only see to the end of the patio where
they have the dressing rooms. Maybe he's stoned on that quality
hash they grow. And then he's like, "I shouldn't even be
drinking this, my kidneys are shot," which is funny and
so I like laugh and he smiles and says "American, right?"
Just to be safe I say I'm Canadian, but he shakes his head.
"What are you worried about, I got what I wanted. I'm
focusing on regional issues now. At least for the time being."
That loosened me up a lot. You could tell he was telling the
truth. Just as long as he's not getting nukes from the Pakistani
rebels!!!!!!!!! JK, LOL. Why would they give him those, right?
Duh.
Anyhoo, we hang by the pool for a while
and then these total Indiana Jones rejects come up and he's like
"Gotta go" and he makes like a fetus and heads out?
So I'm like stuck with nothing to do but wonder if Cosmopolitan
would pay me cash for the story of my brush with this terrorist
mastermind with the melted chocolate eyes. I should tell DeeDee's
dad about it at least because he works at the CIA and he's such
a Mulder he would probably pop a fly to hear about it, but then
they might stick me in Guano bay with all those other unlawful
awfuls. So I decide not to say anything.
Then I'm at the disco with Kevin and
this complete Gunga Din whose mom runs the hospital, we're talking
gold chains from here to there, WAL!!! And I'm totally pounding
sea breezes even though my kidneys could totally fail on me,
but you only live once if you're even that lucky, right? The
place is about 500 degrees, it smells like somebody spilled a
quart of Drakar on a rhinoceros, and the music is so Dollywood
it's insane. And we're like partying in a heavy manner and then
across the room I see this tall white turban bopping along.
So I scoot over there and it's Osama b. L himself, looking fine
even though his beard is so way vile. We dance for a while
but he's focused on his mysterious beyond the whole time and
I'm like "Okay, later" and he says "Don't go"
and we end up on this upstairs patio where they store the empty
Coke bottles. In the moonlight it almost looks like Redondo
Beach out there.
So he takes me by the arm really gently,
partly because he can barely move his hand which is all wrapped
in bandages, and he says "I like you. I like you a lot."
I'm kind of like not sure where I stand because he did kill
way many people, but he's cute, and then all of a sudden he's
going for me like some kind of animal. Note to self: white guys
only. I mean I am all about the brotherhood of man and human
rights and that, but not for just everybody. You have to earn
it. Earth to Osama? He's saying all this stuff about how lonely
it is being in the mountains and the eternal war for God's people,
how the flower of his enemy is still the fragrant bloom, like
I'm going to buy that line? And I grab one of these ten-pound
Coke bottles and I hit him with it but the towel on his head
stops it from doing much damage. He calls me a spirited she-cat
and comes in for more and this time I take off my Prado and jab
the heel right where it counts, because I spend half my time
dealing with my own kidneys, so I know what's going to work on
him? He starts yelling in Ali Baba language and falls right
off the patio into the recycling dumpster and just lies there
with his head at a weird angle and his towel all tangled up around
his ears.
You can imagine how fast I got out of
there.
So now we're at the hotel waiting for
the plane to get un-cancelled as usual, this place is so not
Club Med it's not even funny, and I thought I should write down
what happened because number one I'm dying to tell somebody and
number two I need to know if I should like go public with this
because I think we are talking movie of the week minimum but
more like solid Memorial Day Weekend blockbuster material, you
know? HCWTB? We'll be back in three days, according to Mummy,
who doesn't know what she's talking about, but anyway within
a week, and my kidneys will be good for at least three months
if this new treatment worked at all, like I don't think so but
oh well. As for Osama, he seemed nice at first, but these terrorists
are SO unreliable. I think I'm better off without him. Maybe
you could tell DeeDee to tell her dad for me.
XOXOXO
Ashleigh
Ben Tripp
is a screenwriter and cartoonist. Ben also has a
lot of outrageously priced crap for sale here. If his
writing starts to grate on your nerves, buy some and maybe he'll
flee to Mexico. If all else fails, he can be reached at: credel@earthlink.net
Yesterday's
Features
CounterPunch
Wire
"Terror" Slut Steve Emerson
Eats Crow
Veteran
Intelligence Professionals for Sanity
A Letter to Kofi Annan on Powell's Missing
Evidence
Ross
Vachon
Dennis Miller's New Gig: the Last
Refuge of Goofy?
John
Chuckman
Blair's Awkward Lies
Matt
Vidal
Corporate Media and the Myth of the Free Market
Michael
S. Ladah
The Fine Print to Bush's Road Map
Robert
Fisk
Bush's Eternal War Backfires
Elaine
Cassel
Clarence Thomas, Still Whining After All These Years
Jonathan
Freedland
Ann Coulter's Appalling Magic
Steve Perry
Play It Again, O-Sam-a
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