She was always handy with a song

by anna at 06:38 PM on June 29, 2004

You awaken nestled in fresh, comfy linens. On the beach below your villa a string quartet plays. You can also hear the sound of church bells tolling, beckoning the faithful. It all melds with the sound of wind chimes to form an impromptu symphony. A French maid slinks by with feather duster in hand. With a flip of her auburn mane she flashes you a knowing smile. The duster is a prop. She'd no sooner dust than overhaul your engine.

Downstairs is your Brad Pitt lookalike chef. He's brewing a fine Turkish blend of coffee. He's got hash browns sizzling on the griddle. He's made biscuits from scratch. These aromas waft through the doorway and mingle with the lusty fragrance of lilacs in full bloom.

You know Andy Roddick and Anna Kournikova are waiting to give you your tennis lesson. But you hit the snooze and roll over nonetheless.

The whole thing has a drowsy, dream-like quality to it. It's a boulder suspended from a single gossamer thread. It can't be real. It isn't.

Gradually you become aware of foul breath on your neck and long, sinewy fingers groping at your hips. It's Osama, sporting a raging hard-on. He's poised to bone you in the ass again. It will be a violent affair as always, as romantic as a visit to a glory hole. That's Sept 11 in a nutshell. In an instant all those excessive good times of the 90s came to an abrupt and demoralizing halt.

Everything since must be viewed through that prism. Take torture. Government types quibble about what levels o' torment are acceptable. Which is all well and good when it comes to Taliban foot soldiers, would-be dirty bombers and even low level Al-K-Da. It gets murkier when it comes to the higher-ups. Sept 11 mastermind Abu Zubaidi got shot in the balls during his arrest. CIA interrogators refused him pain meds until he ratted out several other Al-K-Da honchos who have now been apprehended and disappeared forever. That is a good thing for all persons except them. The ends justify the means.

So imagine if we laid hands on the big tuna o' terror, the ayotollah of assholery---- Osama himself---a preacher as pious as a puddle of pus. Here's a politically motivated evildoer up there with Hitler, Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan and Pol Pot. He'd snatch an infidel baby from its crib and stomp it to death while cackling with glee. Pharaohs had a lower opinion of themselves.

Would you: 1) Use gentle persuasion to encourage him to discuss whatever he's comfortable with. 2) Play good cop-bad cop. 3) Withhold tea. 4) Bitch-slap him around a little. 5) Sodder live wires to his nuts and crank up the voltage until he's contorted like Jim Carrey in The Mask. 6) Execute his family members one by one in front of him. 7) Force him to listen to every song ever recorded by the Dave Matthews Band.

Muhammed said, "I am the prophet who laughs while killing the enemy." We shall see who enjoys the last laugh.