P.O. Box 74147, Dubai, UAE
You’re probably surprised to get a postcard from Me, huh? Yeah, I’m not going to pretend that we’ve always been pals. The truth is, when You first showed up at Deity School with Your chauffeur and Your string of polo ponies, the rest of Us could tell We weren’t going to like You. The fact that You built up Your following by piggybacking off of My schtick just cemented My polite loathing of You. For the most part, I’ve let it go. I mean, with My busy vacation schedule, I don’t really have time for grudges. ‘Let bygones be bygones’ is My motto.
Until today, that is.
It’s like this… Some years back I got hold of a bad sacrifice that gave Me God-Croup, which, as You know, is a nasty cross between emphysema and P.f. malaria. So every once in a millenium I find that I have to put My travel plans on hold and sweat it out in whatever hotel room I happen to be in. Just My luck, it hit Me while passing through New York City. Which put Me bundled up in bed in a Waldorf Towers Suite, 42 floors above the street. With nothing to do but piously Perspire, make beatified Deposits in The Holy Handkerchief and hawk up consecrated Loogies, I switched on the TV.
At first, it was just annoying. I switched the channel. I switched again… and again. And again. But every major channel available in the uppermost suite of the Waldorf-MeDamned-Astoria was running some kind of schmaltzy 9/11 memorial show.
I had actually forgotten all about that Bin Laden guy. Hadn’t heard his name in years. I was vividly reminded not only of his name, but that You can shtupp up My day from halfway around the world. Worst of all, My PTSD from that day, seven years ago, kicked in. Repressed memories rushed to the fore. Suddenly, I was back where it happened. The Torta-Foro cafe’ in Genoa, Italy. I was just finishing a late lunch and I ordered an espresso from the waiter, but before he could bring it, the TV over the bar started spouting about how You had masterminded a plan to do something involving planes and buildings. I don’t recall exactly what, because I was waiting for an espresso… that never came! The waiter was so concerned about a bunch of people he’d never met, that he never came back!
That’s right, You son of a bitch! Seven years ago today, You ruined a perfectly nice late lunch at a delightful little outdoor cafe in Genoa! Of course, I left an insultingly small tip, but it didn’t completely make up for My lost espresso. And ultimately, of course, You were to blame.
So, Mr. Allah, (or as We called You in school, “Aubergine-Head”), as You sit in Your air-conditioned suite in the nicest hotel in the world, flip this postcard over and imagine that’s Me flipping You off!
Wish You Were Here,