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 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 coziness with Putin and Russia. Some of us studied, have degrees in, and read voraciously still today about Russian & Soviet Politics – past and present – and likewise generally stay apprised of world events on the whole.
I was gobsmacked and disgusted over the Iran deal that was done under the Obama administration; just yesterday morning, our Navy ships in the Straits of Hormuz were forced to fire warning shots on Iranian boats. I will not go into the chapter and verse detailed criticism to which my entire family and close circle of friends have been repeatedly subjected, but suffice it to say that it has more gaps than the London Tube system. But converse to the daily scrutiny, which borders on hysteria, by most of the U.S. press regarding Trump/Putin, the mainstream media’s critical or objective commentary on the Iran deal is remarkable only in the absence of it. Yet that government is batcrap on a cracker crazy. And – most importantly of all – hugely influenced by Russia.
So this begs the question – again, to me at least – of why it’s so wrong to have a cordial, if not cooperative, relationship with Russia, as they are the head of this proverbial snake; a snake which also is comprised largely of the clusterfuck that is Syria.
In the case of many of the kerfuffles which exist in the most problematic parts of this world in which we live, Russia is at the seat at the top of the table of dysfunction. So why not pull up a chair. How much worse can it get.
Fundamentalist Barbie – 2008
Several weeks ago I was watching CNN and the crawl across the bottom of the screen said “Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran says that Barbie is a severe threat to national security.”
Well, duh. Does he think this is some sort of revelation (not a biblical reference, Mr. Mockmoodymadjihad)? Seriously. I want to know one little girl who was ever made to feel SECURE by Barbie. Her make-up is always perfect, even after sleeping 12 hours or 12 weeks, being thrown in the dirt, flushed down the toilet or carried off in the mouth of a dog. Her hair always shines without any apparent use of conditioner or treatment. Her stomach is so flat it is concave. Her boobs so spherical and upright that even surface-to-air missiles are envious of them. And, of course, she has the Dream House, pink Corvette, and (sexually questionable) Ken. She is clearly the plastic embodiment of every unachievable goal that women my age now set for themselves. Indeed, it may even be the very reason that so many women my age now inject and look like plastic – they are only trying to emulate their heroine. But somehow Mr. Mockmoodymadjihad thinks that it’s only his country whose security is threatened by her increasing omnipresence, and members of his cabinet have even gone so far as to suggest that this is some sort of covert effort by the Western World to smuggle our ideals into their otherwise Ziploc tight Islamic regime.
Indeed at full rant it seems as though they are setting the stage to argue that there is a serious underground movement that operates in and profits from…..doll trafficking.
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.