Uncle Wiggly

Greetings all! I must say I do feel invigorated of late, what with it being at least a fortnight since I have been stabbed, shot, or contracted a venereal disease. When I feel so uplifted I long to take flight, literally, and so I hop aboard my zeppelin, Der Albatross, and sail through the skies destined for wherever wind and whimsy see fit to put me down! I dare say it is a most congenial mode of travelling, and I highly recommend it to all those wealthy enough to indulge.

Of course that rules out about 6 billion of my planet's fellow inhabitants, but of course I have never given those putrid masses much thought in any event, save for the young and nubile. I will admit however a smidgen of admiration for a pilot who lowered himself, figuratively and literally, to the level of the pauper, and deigned to give them sweets. He flew a plane during the Berlin Airlift, that massive undertaking that brought food and fuel to those German bastards trapped behind the mighty iron curtain of those communist rogues, the Soviets. When this fine fellow, who went by the name of Gail, which I dare say is a rather feminine name for a pilot, but I digress, saw the little German urchins barefoot, starving and wearing only tattered rags, he was moved to give them gum and chocolate.

Soon people the world over were willing to overlook his flagrant disregard for their dental health, and applauded his humanity, and the cuteness of the little parachutes he fashioned, which he would throw out of his plane, and the children would jump about and watch the candy laden chutes fall to the bombed out earth. What a jolly good show!

Did you know those little German imps dubbed him the Schokoladen Flieger, (chocolate flyer), or Onkel Wackelflugel, (Uncle Wiggly Wings)? They did! What? Do you think I would lie to you dear reader? Do you think I would concoct falsehoods? You should be ashamed to even entertain such nefarious thoughts!

In fact, I was so inspired by his generous works, that I decided to undertake a similar...undertaking, for lack of a better word, through the use of my zeppelin. Of course, as a Somerset is never unoriginal, I couldn't sail my blimp over impoverished or war torn lands and toss candy, and so I needed to conjure up some other way in which to deliver joy and happiness to the downtrodden and hopeless.

Inspiration was not far, for I recalled that I had named my zeppelin after the albatross, a bird which can fly and glide thousands of miles across the globe without landing! Sometimes, after spanning oceans and continents it will only touch ground in order to copulate. I was thus doubly inspired. Could I bring joy to the world with my zeppelin and the example of the albatross?

Indonesia would find out! As I brought my vessel low over the jungles the natives jumped and danced about, just as those German brats undoubtedly did when they got a whiff of chocolate and other sweets. Could these natives girls smell the Somerset musk coming at them from the heavens?

Many fled into the trees, no doubt frightened witless by this strange floating monstrosity, but the curious stayed, or at least the one young lady who was tied to a post in the center of the village apparently as some sort of sacrifice to the floating god descending from the sky.

Thankfully these unwashed heathen had left a rather tasty young morsel for me, and had I spoken their language I would have thanked them profusely. Here I thought I would be the one dispensing the treat of my manhood, and these kindly savages were returning my kindness with...zounds! I have scalded myself with my tea! I shall relay the rest of my tale at another time. Know now that Priva was only too happy to learn that I did not land to murder and devour her, but merely to copulate and whisk her aboard my zeppelin, where I must admit she became a most energetic first mate.

Where have all the assassins gone?

These are mad times, when heroic leaders like George Bush are forced to forgo golf as a sop to the masses who don't appreciate being given the opportunity to send their sons and daughters off to far flung lands in order to be blown to bits for the greater glory of the empire. Why, do you think my Queenie Poo, Victoria, would ever deign to give up her afternoon tea, or her morning tea, or any of her hourly respites and leisure beverages out of solidarity with some wench from Wentworth whose child had the honor of getting speared to death for the good of England? Of course not.

To think that George gave up golf because he didn't want mothers who had lost sons in Iraq to see him, the Commander-in-Chief, playing a game, while the country was at war. Is that not what commander's do? Why, when I led my regiment of fusiliers against the backward tribesmen of Burma, I made sure to set a shining example of leadership by commanding them from hundreds of miles away, engaging my favorite Calcutta prostitute in a private game of cricket, while they sallied forth into the jungle to face their frenzied foe. That is supreme leadership mind you! What a display of confidence! One can only imagine the fright running through the little heads of the enemy as they pondered the forces coming at them. Surely the British must be mighty, for if, on the morning of battle, their commander can comfortably idle away the hours as the fight rages, gently paddling the brown bottom of his favorite Indian harlot with a cricket bat, what hope could we have?

Of course my fusiliers soundly routed the Burmese brigands, with casualties of only 90%, and victory was achieved. Sadly today it appears as if my wonderful precedent goes ignored! George should be leading the men he sent to war with a 3 wood in hand, patrolling the greens with stern gaze and wielding his putter like a strong sword. Would that not send shudders through the bones of the Mohammedan? I am quite certain that when the ignorant masses who make up the bulk of the dispensable armed forces drive through the streets of Baghdad hoping not to get blown apart, maimed and killed, they think of their fearless leader scooting around the manicured greens of the golf course, and it comforts them. And when an infidel bomb crashes through their Humvee and sends them flying to their deaths, no doubt they spend their last moments with breath smiling in the knowledge that their commander is safe, and himself blasting his ball out of the rough, sending it flying skyward on his way to a birdie!

Ho ho! It is no wonder the American armed forces are so adept at conquest. My only fear is that the leadership of this great land one day succumbs to the unwashed wishes of the idiot populace and makes further sacrifices. I dare say I have even heard rumblings that the President should not have time for golf at all, or hunting, or fishing, or clearing brush from his ranch, or attending parties, and so on, ...their list of complaints is truly endless and goes on for an interminable length. In short these fools think Mr Bush should be working! Imagine! What a crock of poppycock! One does not become Commander-in-Chief in order to sully his delicate hands with labor. Let some drone figure out a way to provide the troops with armor, the great leaders must set an example of leisure for the world to admire and aspire to. I say let George golf, and when a trooper has the glory of having his body torn apart by shrapnel, let his mother find consolation in seeing the intact torso of the tanned and rested leader, unaffected by the turmoil in that far away place, putting his stamp on history with his putter.

Where the devil are you going?

What with these modern times being so chock full of stupidity, I thought it wise to venture back into the ancient world to see if I could glean a measure of cleverness or two, and what better man to ask then Moses, the old Jew. As you have undoubtedly surmised already, he was not at all shocked at the sight of my time machine landing at his weary feet, what with him being used to Jehovah himself delivering tablets and bushes afire at all hours of the day.

"What say you Moses!" I bellowed as I slapped him on his back in the spirit of good fellowship. "I see I have found you in the midst of leading your "chosen" people out of Egypt and to the "Promised Land"!"

He stared at me in silence and munched on a date. No doubt his harrowing journey had left him famished, and so I pardoned his rudeness.

"Tell me Moses", I drew him close with a wink and whispered, "taking the scenic route are we?" I punched his elbow. "I have an atlas in my coat, and I think we both know it doesn't take one 40 years to go from Egypt to Israel. Why there is not much to see along the way in any event!"

He did not return my laugh but merely stroked his beard, which I am sad to say seemed to be teeming with lice or other such vermin.

"What's your angle old boy? This meandering journey of yours has had me flummoxed for centuries...and I dare say I don't know why you've settled on Israel. Rather horrid place don't you think? Full of sand and other nastiness. Are you not aware of Tahiti?"

Moses tried to push past me, but I have a stout bearing, as you are undoubtedly aware from reading of my travels past.

"How dare you! There shall be no shoving of Somerset, friend of Yahweh or not! Now be polite and answer me. I'm merely trying to deduce why the great Jehovah, your champion, the man who loves you and what not, would give you Israel as a chosen land, and leave a veritable paradise like Hawaii up for grabs?"

He nudged me with his staff.

"You're a bold one Moses! But you will find I am not so easy to part as that Red Sea! Are you not man enough to answer a query or two? It simply does not seem sensible that God, when dispensing land to his chosen people, would give them a tiny strip of dirt in the middle of a war torn section of sand, when there exists isles abundant with verdure and brown girls who love to lay with men and feed them coconuts and other such sweetness."

He stared into my eyes with a look of profound fatigue. I glanced to his right..."I say Mo, is that a golden calf?"

His head whirled round and I guffawed. "Ho ho! Just a jest my good fellow. But do tell me, why would Jehovah have a chosen people at all? I'm not one to question the divine and infallible creator, but the idea of manufacturing a chosen people, and then creating millions more, lesser, not so loved people, seems positively daft. It is like going to the brothel, where your favorite whore awaits, but choosing instead to spend time with some lesser strumpet. Why not lay content with your one true harlot? Would you not agree?"

The venerable leader of the Hebrew sighed mightily, and it then dawned on me that there were no facilities nearby.

"I say! I completely understand your exasperation. It must be difficult to tend to your delicate business under these conditions."

He muttered something in Hebrew, and it was then I remembered that he spoke no English, and probably mistook me for an angel speaking some heavenly tongue, or some pagan god.

I rested my hand on his shoulder as if I sympathized with his plight. "I shall delay you no more old man. Continue on your way, I have no doubts all will turn out well with your people in their new home."

Of course I bit my lip when I said the last, and it took all of my will to stifle the chortle that emanated from deep within me, and longed to expel itself in his wizened face.

The sun was hot and I was weary of debating with such an obstinate fellow. I looked about me, holding my breath so as to avoid Moses' stench, and there, beneath the shade of a small cluster of trees, was a smoldering young Jewess, bathing herself in an oasis. I pushed past the old man and headed towards her, and by the golden glint in her eye I could tell that she was rather enchanted with my linen suit.

After some trivial exchange of pleasantries she soon lead me to her tent, and I assure you I wasted no time in reaching her promised land! Ho ho!

L'etat c'est stupide

Greetings all. The Congo was most exciting, but I must say I am glad to be back in a civilized country, where penises are safe and the shop shelves are stocked with a least 3 varieties of cashews, a true mark of advancement. If only those superstitious Congolese would embrace the realism and practicality of you Americans! Too imbued with the hocus pocus are they, and not clear eyed enough to look past the fanciful, and embrace the hard measures their country needs.

Why I dare say I am astonishingly pleased to see the way in which the oft derided average American can still support his leader, even after the country is grievously attacked on his watch, and his response is to sit idly before a room full of children with a look of stunned fear. Some romantics long for an Alexander, or a George Washington, but those reckless leaders of men have the annoying habit of charging into battles themselves, exposing their bodies and souls for the good of their countrymen, and risking death in the process.

And how did Alexander fare? Buggered and poisoned. And of that impetuous and rabble rousing Washington? He had wooden teeth and a penchant for chopping down delightful cherry trees. Is that what you want from a president?

How pleasant to see that in a nation of 300 million one man was chosen to lead, a man with the moral courage and foresight to continue his strenuous regimen of relaxation and golf, even while failing to capture the man responsible for the single greatest attack his country has ever suffered. Did he quaver and give in to pressure to work? Heavens no, why I dare say he did not alter his routine one bit! And that is the hallmark of a true gentleman of leisure. No matter what calamity life might throw your way, tea remains at 4, always find time for your favorite whore, and may your golf clubs remain ever by your side.

Let the common man waste his life riding around in a vehicle waiting to be blown up on some dusty foreign street! True leaders have greater things to do. Does the pursuit and accumulation of wealth cease during a time of war? Of course not! How admirable to see Bush and his coterie of confidants not let a wayward invasion and a sinking economy stand in the way of their reaping great fortunes. Truly they possess all the qualities of greatness, and I commend the slack jawed Cheetos eating yokels who voted for them, not once, but twice.

Although labeled dumb, which they very well may be, and in fact are, they enjoyed two momentary flashes of intelligence which allowed them to put their own insignificant self interests aside, and put into power the elite, who can then do as Jehovah intended, namely, read scripture, hunt, golf, and manipulate the world and the millions of hapless people who stand in the way of their agenda of amassing power and fortune. I hereby put forth the motion that all the millions of unwashed and pathetic little people who are not blown up or reduced to utter destitution, be given a parade, or a plaque of some sort, commemorating their heroic decision to vote into power the great assemblage of leisure loving wealthy men who prosper while they drown, who lounge while they perish.

Let the stupid toil tirelessly 40 hours a week! Let them look up to their betters in Washington, and hope that one day, in heaven perhaps, they too can spend their days idling, sending others off to die, and smirking in the glory of their awesomeness.