I wrote this originally in 2088 while still living abroad, and am doing so now for a number of reasons which range from serious to facetious.
First, I’ve always been more than just mildly annoyed at the difficulties I’ve had entering the UK over the years, despite having lived there for eight. I’ve lived in China and Russia, and never faced the same sort of scrutiny that I have there, strawberry blonde, green-eyed, American passport toting Southern girl that I am. To be sure, it is nowhere nearly as bad as it used to be, and hasn’t happened in a very long time – mostly because now when they ask why I’m there, I simply say “because I can,” list my address as The Dorchester and stare – but it used to border on absurd. Once, when my son was still a very small toddler, I was stopped at customs at Gatwick and challenged on whether or not I had the right to bring my child abroad with me. It was about 2 a.m. in our home in the U.S., but the customs officials pulled me aside and insisted on calling my ex-husband, despite the fact that I had a notarized letter from my lawyer ex-husband stating that my son was in my sole custody, as well as a copy of our custody agreement which clearly stated the same, in addition to my by then well worn UK work visa.
Or “The Regime Has Changed, but The Crazy Remains The Same” Something else I wrote a number of years ago before Mahmoud Ahmadinejad – or MockMoodyMadJihad, as I called him – fell from power. Yet it seems relevant still today – to me at least – because of the ongoing media obsession with PEOTUS Trump’s perceived […]Read more
Have you ever heard of Common Sense? It was written by one of the American founding fathers named Thomas Paine and first published anonymously during the American Revolution in 1776. Not because he was afraid of the USE of Common Sense – as we seem to be today – but because of the political sensitivity of the article’s contents. And what the inside of that man’s grave must look like today. Imagine a turbo-charged weenie roaster trapped inside a bunny hutch – the man is spinning in disgust and disbelief at what has become of his nation and of society at large.
Now for those of you expecting me to launch into a tirade about the recent elections, or who are expecting me to wax poetic about matters of philosophy and intellect, I am sorry to disappoint.
Invariably there are at least 100 different paths down which I could travel in my attempt to prove the complete demise of common sense in our society. But as I have already had a couple of cocktails, I am thusly inclined to take the path of least resistance; to go for the low-hanging fruit. Yes, I’m talking about airports.
For whatever reason, I am considered by the TSA and by extension the wonderfully omnipotent government of the USA to be an SSSS. A quadruple small? Clearly these people no not from whence they speak as I am a 36-D with a booty Beyonce couldn’t touch. Human intelligence my fanny. If they can’t see that then it’s no wonder that the world is in such a state. But I’m told that in fact this is not a reference to my non-existent impossibly petite stature, but to the fact that I am a perpetual “selectee.” Despite the fact that I have flown more than two million miles with one airline alliance without a single incident (unless, of course, you count the way I lob peanuts of people who snore after too many martinis halfway through a 13 hour flight), I am still somehow deemed one of the single greatest threats to national security since Bill and Hillary Clinton consummated their marriage and he thus decided he preferred women instead.
Wrote this years ago, but I never learn, so it remains apropos.
Every year we sing about the 12 days of Christmas
But no one ever praises the next days of listlessness.
When you’ve gained five pounds and can’t fit in your jeans,
And you have more zits than you did in your teens.
Why don’t we ever remember the squeeze,
That was brought on by that last bite of cheese?
Or the arrival of bills for presents galore,
And things we “Just couldn’t leave in the store!”
It’s because of the hormones contained in the turkey,
It shrinks the brain and makes you feel quirky!
And ensures you forget the suffering that results,
Or the drunken family dinners with hurled insults.
Instead you remember the kids with their gifts,
Uncle Fred’s toupee and his shoes with the lifts.
So this is my tribute to the 30 days thereafter.
The turkey may be dead, but we’re the butt of his laughter.