What We Have Here Is A Failure to Communicate

The Mothership approached a desolate area of the desert, about fifty miles north of Phoenix, Arizona in the direction of the Grand Canyon, and just hovered there. Even though for some odd reason radar did not pick up the vehicle, visual sightings were rather hard not to make and cell phones, internet chat rooms, and the blogosphere were screaming the news around the world. An alien ship had finally arrived on Earth! No more speculation on whether or not UFOs were real. This sucker was as real as Ellen Degeneres being a judge on American Idol.

Besides crowds of onlookers and gawkers, the first officials on the scene were the Arizona State Police, who were both concerned about public safety and the overawing appearance of the strange craft. Did the aliens come in peace or was it a potential hostile presence? About ten state police cruisers had circled the area below where the space craft seemed to have parked about two hundred feet up in the air. After a few minutes though, a metallic cylinder about fifty feet across telescoped out of the bottom of the ship and gently landed on the ground below, making the whole thing look like a giant mushroom recently dug out of the ground. Though it was impossible to determine what propulsion system kept the ship aloft in the air, the massive vehicle was perfectly still on its thin stalk and impervious to the winds.

The state police cruisers approached the cylinder at ground level from the western side, taking advantage of the shade in the hot Arizona sun, and the troopers nervously eyed the activity, of which there was none after the dust settled. But presently, a doorway opened at the bottom of the cylinder, and out stepped two creatures that looked exactly like something out of the sci-fi movie, District 9. Wow, thought the State Police captain as he nervously eyed the creatures who stood about eight feet tall, those Hollywood guys had done a good job of guessing what aliens really were going to look like when they finally arrived.

They looked like giant humanoid bugs, thick scaly skin and a few small tentacles. The captain kept thinking they reminded him of a fat preying mantis. Were they dangerous? Would they attack? He just wasn't sure.

But as the creatures approached the vanguard of state police, suddenly a Sheriff's patrol car screeched into view and spun on the loose dirt stopping in-between the aliens and the State troopers. Out stepped a burly sheriff with a pot belly that kept the buttons taut as potential lethal weapons should they pop.

"So," said the sheriff, eyeing all parties, "what all have we got here?"

"Sheriff," the State Police captain cut in, "I'm in charge here. We appreciate you providing backup, but please don't interfere. Until federal authorities arrive, I have been appointed as the official representative to greet these alien creatures."

"Like hell! This is my county and I trump your jurisdiction. You got Highway 10, but that's ten miles south. You're in my area here, and uninvited I should say. Don't remember making any call for backup myself if I remember correctly and indeed I do. So back off, I'll take care of this."

"Greetings earthlings," the alien creatures addressed them as they came within earshot, using some kind of device that looked like a cellphone to translate their own clicking noises into English.

"Say, what have we got here?" the sheriff asked.

"Greetings earthling. We are from the planet Arcturus Epsilon in the star system your scientists have labeled M681. Our planet is very similar to yours, and supports life forms such as your own. We are the dominant species and have traveled over 30 light years to meet with another intelligent life form."

"So, you're not from around here?" the sheriff cut in before the State Police Captain could say anything.

"No, we're from the star system M681, it's a cluster of-"

"Can I see your driver's license or some other form of identification?"

The alien seemed startled. "Pardon us?"

"You got any ID on ya big fella?"

"ID? What is-" and the the two aliens conferred in whispers, looking at their device. "Oh, credentials. Yes, this is a letter of introduction from our leader to your leader. If you could take us to your leader-"

"Hold on just one sec. Lemme see them there credentials."

The alien handed the sheriff a small metallic tablet that looked like a cigarette case.

"What is this?" the sheriff asked, turning it over, looking puzzled as there was no writing or anything else discernible.

"That is a holographic communication device. An authorized earth leader will instantly see the pre-recorded message from our leader. You must not be-"

"I'm not what? I don't think so. I am very much the person in charge here, regardless of what this bozo next to me says. And unless you can produce a driver's license or a passport, or some other officially approved State identification card, I am taking you in under Arizona's new anti-immigration law, cause I'm declaring you an illegal alien."

"Illegal alien? How so are we illegal?" asked the alien.

"Unless you got a visa, a green card, or sumptin' else, you don't belong here and I got the right to take you to the border and expel y'all asses."

"Take us to what border?"

"Why... oh, you're not from Mexico are ya? Damn. Well then I'm taking y'all to the ICE detention center, I'll let the feds figure out what to do with y'all. Now come along."

The sheriff pointed to the patrol car and walked over and opened the back door. The creatures followed him and peered into the back seat.

"Go ahead, get in."

The creatures looked at each other, clicked a few noises that the translation device did not translate and then addressed the sheriff.

"We apologize but we cannot use your transportation device, as it is too confining. We could easily break a tentacle. If you use your vehicle, we will follow in ours."

The sheriff looked up in the sky at the Mothership. "Um, yeah, I guess there's more of y'all on there, so yeah, just follow me down to the state road and then we'll get on the highway and head toward Phoenix. But don't try any funny stuff."

The two aliens returned to their cylinder, entered the doorway and watched as the door snapped shut behind them. They began to rise upward toward the ship.

"Are we really going to follow him?"

"Negative, we have completed our mission here. We delivered the 200 Mexican humanoids as their leader requested, and we have the 50 bales of hemp plant as payment. We can head back to Arcturus Epsilon and have a very pleasant trip home."

"Agreed. That was funny how the dark skinned humanoids snuck out the back entrance while those earthling military types were pre-occupied with us. It was a good thing we first arrived south of the border of this political sub-division. These northern light skinned humanoids are not in the least friendly like the southern darker skinned ones are."

"Agreed. I offered to vaporize all of those, what do they call them, Gringos? for the dark skinned humanoids, but they declined. They said the light skinned ones had jobs they needed. But I think our translator is broken. It says a 'job' is work. How silly if that were true."

"Agreed. Let's initiate our return trajectory. I can't wait to light up."

"Agreed. But one nano second please. Hold on... hold on... there. I vaporised that rotund one. He was very unpleasant."

"Agreed."

***

Inspired by:

PHOENIX -- The U.S. government may challenge Arizona's new immigration law, Attorney General Eric Holder said Tuesday as Arizona officials blamed the Feds for forcing the state into passing its own immigration enforcement mechanisms.

Oh My God

Inspired by:

"Barry Komisaruk studies the female orgasm. But not in the way most men do, between the sheets. His research is done in a laboratory.

The Rutgers neuroscientist analyzes brains in their most enthusiastic state, hoping to strengthen women’s orgasms and aid the climax-challenged.

“We want to find ways to increase pleasure in people’s lives,” he says.""

My Story

Lisa Steinem arrived at the Rutgers University clinic run by Dr. Bernard Komission, annoyed by the fact that she had to participate in this medical study of organisms, but they were offering $50 to participants, and right now she was so broke until her next paycheck she could definitely use the $50. Being on a scholarship was nice, but you had no spending money except that which your parents gave you, and her father had her on a rather strict budget after blowing her first semester allowance in the first month of school.

She did get a work/study job to augment her income, but it was a pittance. She had seen ads in the student newspaper for models and even exotic dancers. The wages offered certainly looked enticing, but if her pics got on the Internet, her father would kill her like one of those Middle Eastern honor killings. It was bad enough telling her mother and father she couldn't accept them as her friends on her Facebook page because of some fibbed technical glitch. The photos there were pretty bad. But imagine nude shots. She really needed the money, so one could imagine her desperation.

This was just fifty bucks, barely enough to support a one week Starbucks habit, but, it was something. She entered the office and walked up to the receptionist's desk.

"Hi, I'm here for the study."

"Oh, hi, great! You're the first person for the Phase 3 part of the program. Wow, this is exciting. Follow me." The receptionist led her down a corridor of oyster white sterile walls.

Lisa had no idea what a phase three organism was. She hoped that she wouldn't have to eat any gross squiggly worms like on Survivor or something. She followed reluctantly and hoped this would go quickly.

"Ok, now we need you to take off your clothes and put them in this plastic bag here and we'll lock them in this closet. Then you need to put on this green hospital gown and then you can lay down on the hospital bed there.

Lisa was reluctant, but she really needed the fifty dollars. God, she hoped they didn't put strange organisms all over her. The curtain was pulled around her and she began to disrobe. In these tight jeans she had gone sans underwear, but she figured no one would notice.

When she was finished and laying on the bed, the doctor arrived with a team of staffers. He had a clipboard in his hand that reminded Lisa of a mad scientist.

"Hello Lisa. So happy you could join us for this study. Now you filled out all of the paperwork online and signed the releases and everything, so we can get this to go quickly. So here's the thing Lisa, we've been working on a study on how to-"

"I'm just curious Doc, why did you ask all those questions about my sexual history? I mean I know I'm still a virgin and all and it's really only because my Father is a strict Calvinist and would kill me if I did anything. But I'm really not like that, or I-"

"Oh, that was just standard questions we ask of everyone. The answers don't affect this study any, we are going to measure your reactions and simply state that someone with your characteristics responds so and so to the electrically induced orgasm."

"Orgasm?"

"Yes. Orgasm. You seem surprised. Was something not clear?"

Lisa pursed her lips. Oh, this was embarrassing. "No, no, I knew it was an orgasm. How, um, how are you going to induce an orgasm?"

"Well Lisa, that's what this study and experiment is about. In the first phase of our study, we wanted to measure the electrical brain activity of an orgasm that our female volunteers produced manually on their own. In the second phase, we gave them low doses of Viagara, which increases blood flow to the genital regions, and again measured their brain activity during a self induced orgasm. In this study, Phase 3, we are going to use a low voltage electrical discharge device that will allow you to induce an electric impulse orgasm, and we'll wire you up with heart and EKG monitors to see how your body reacts. You read all this in the release forms, didn't you?"

"Of course," Lisa lied. She really needed more sleep too. And needed to read what the fuck she was signing.

"Ok, so my associates will attach the monitors to you, and then Nurse Lear will give you the device. It looks like a metallic cyllinder, which you can place under the robe and press against your genitals. We will increase the voltage and measure your body's reaction. Ok?"

"Um, sure. Can't wait. And I get fifty dollars for this?"

"Yes, I believe that is the compensation. We'll have an envelope for you at the end of the study."

"How long?"

"Oh, no more than 30 minutes tops. We go through several voltage levels, then you fill out a survey at the end, and we're done, and you can go. Nurse Lear?" he called.

"Ok, let's do it," Lisa shrugged. Orgasm, huh?

The woman she assumed was Nurse Lear came up to her with a small box. She was a pretty blonde wearing a white lab coat. After the monitor wires had been attached, she presented Lisa with what looked like a silver dildo from the box. Lisa looked at it apprehensively. She much preferred her own plastic pink one. But, what the hell.

Nurse Lear explained what to do with it, simply place it up again her clitoris, and hold it there lightly. They would send the voltage surges wirelessly and record her physiological reactions.

When everyone was ready, Nurse Lear placed a light blanket over Lisa to give her some privacy, and told her she could start.

Lisa couldn't remember, was she supposed to put it in? This was so awkward. Luckily she was a little moist, so it slid in easily partway.

"Okay team, let's start. Okay Lisa, we're going to try five different voltage levels. You just lay there and enjoy and we'll do all the work. Okay, proceed to Level 1."

"Um, Professor," one of the young technicians spoke up. "This dial is stuck. It's not moving."

Professor Komission stood up and walked over to the console. He twisted the knob as well but it didn't budge. "That's odd. It seems to be jamed." He and several of the technicians struggled to free it. "Hold on Lisa, some technical difficulties here."

Nurse Lear walked over to watch as well. "Here Professor, I think I can get it unstuck. My hairdryer has a temperature dial that gets stuck all the time. I'm an old pro at this." She put her fingers on it and gave it a sharp twist. The dial made a cracking noise and spun all the way around.

"JESUSCHRISTOHMYFUCKINGGODWHATTHEHELL-" Lisa screamed out at the top of her lungs jerking upright from her prone position. "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY YES YES YES YES!" she continued.

Everyone at the console struggled to turn the dial back but it was stuck tight. Finally, realization dawned on Professor Komission, and he screamed to Lisa, "Pull the probe away from yourself."

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" she screamed. "NO WAY THIS IS SO... OH MY GOD OHHHHHHHH!"

Everyone continued to struggle with the dial and likewise were perplexed by Lisa. Dr. Komission noticed the measurements were off the charts.

"YES YES DO IT TO ME BABY YES I LOVE YOU OH MY GOD YES OH OH OH AWWWWWWW YES!" she screamed and finally dropped the silver cylinder.

Dr. Komission ran up to her with Nurse Lear. "Lisa, are you alright?"

"Oh my God, that was fantastic! That was unreal! Can we do it again?" Lisa beamed.

"Um, let's take a break. Larry, could you help me take Lisa to the break room and just have her sit down for a few minutes, get her a cup of coffee or something."

"Oh God, that was fantastic. I'll pay you fifty dollars if you let me do it again."

"Well, we'll talk about that."

Everyone was very concerned and accompanied Lisa to the break room as she waddled on shaky knees.

"So are you alright?" Dr. Komission asked.

Lisa just smiled. "Oh, I've never been better. I didn't know it could be so good. You should patent that device Doc, you could make millions."

"Well, we'll see. I think a little serendipity may have been at work here."

They sat Lisa down and she let her head fall back with the biggest dreamy smile on her face.

Suddenly, from the other room came screams, "JESUSCHRISTOHMYFUCKINGGODWHATTHEHELL-OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY YES YES YES YES!"

Dr. Komission looked around. "Where's Nurse Lear?"

***

Whatever You Do, Don't Drink the Water

Ruth Gluten walked up to the podium and began to read from a prepared statement to open the Press Conference.

"We would like to announce that the Washington Metropolitan Area Lesbian, Gay, Bi-Sexual and Transgender or LGBT community has sent a letter to Mayor Adrian Fenty strongly condemning the recent announcement that the water quality issues at the Washington Sanitary Commission may have to do with the recent discovery of fish in the Potomac river that exhibit both male and female reproductive organs.

Members of the LGBT community have for far too long dealt with stereotyping and homophobic attitudes and now on the threshold of the second decade of the twenty-first century, such misconceptions that there is something "wrong" with transgender fish must be halted and condemned in the strongest language.

As victims of hate crimes for centuries, we in the LGBT community find that the new found tolerant attitudes to our gay, lesbian, and transgender members, hard fought for in the last several decades, must not be lost or compromised by suddenly allowing typecasting that our brethren species are in some way defective or not normal.

For many years fish have secretly hidden their feelings and desires for cross gender values, and now as they come out of the water closet is not the time to say there is something wrong with these fish. Blaming it on "something in the water" is disingenuous and does not lead to tolerance or acceptance in the greater community of this fair city, rivers and streams of our scaly little brothers and sisters.

We ask the mayor in the future to address these unique uni-sexual fish in a positive light, and not as freaks of nature or abnormal organisms that can be "fixed." Many people forget that along with the Jews, many LGBT members were exterminated during the Holocaust, and we must not allow a return to the hysterical hatred as being espoused by the Westboro Baptist Church and other hate groups.

Fish that are bisexual, unisexual, or transgender are natural creatures, with feelings and desires just as any heterosexual fish, and should be allowed to live normal lives to work, live, marry, and have families. They should be accepted by the entire community to procreate, or unicreate as may be the case, and viewed positively as all being creatures of God. God does not make junk.

We hope the mayor will publicly apologize for his offensive description of these unisex fish, and help stop the hate creep that such dialogue could engender. Today, uni-sexual fish. Tomorrow, dogs and cats that lick their own genitals. What next? The human LGBT community?

President Obama recently declared that LGBT couples have visitation rights for their partners in hospitals. A step forward. Now this. A step backwards. We demand equality and justice for all LGBT members, both human, animal, and fish, so they can achieve their full potential in life, whether it be to raise a family or be a nice sushi dish. Thank-you for attending this press conference. We will now take questions.

Any questions?

No?

We were that clear that you have no questions?

You look stunned. Yes, we were stunned too at the mayor's comments. Well then, great! Thank-you and good afternoon."

***

The Inspiration

"WASHINGTON - More and more male fish in the Potomac River are exhibiting female traits, but the reasons for the growing number of intersex fish are not known.

The Potomac Conservancy says more than 80 percent of the river's male fish are producing eggs or exhibiting other female characteristics.

The Potomac River supplies much of the region's drinking water, and that has the group calling on Congress to solve the fish mystery."

Defending the Homeland

They had blackface on, and as the evening sun crept below the roofs of the gas stations and hotels along the main strip outside the fence, any reflections by the low lying sun would hopefully be soaked up by the black grease. The sharpshooters needed no distractions as they prepared to execute their mission.

The plan was simple. The targets were arrayed just past a small hangar, occupying strategic positions from where it was assumed they would launch their attack. The counter plan was to get them before they could execute. This was do and make them die. As Lieutenant Phillips liked to joke, do or do do. There was no fail. Failure was not an option or there could be heavy loss of life.

He had three men situated on top of the hangar. He was afraid the targets would strike against an aircraft early, so if they engaged before all of his men were in position, these sharpshooters would do their best to take out the lead elements and then he would lead a charge to place withering fire on the rear elements and hopefully mow down every single one.

It wouldn't be easy if he couldn't get everyone in place in time. They had to use stealth to take their positions. The targets were uncanny. They had no regard for life or limb. They could care less if they took out an engine of a 737 and it plummeted to the earth right after takeoff and hundreds of passengers died. What's worse the fatalities on the ground from the plane crash, debris, and jet fuel fires could be disastrous as well. What if the plane crashed into a school or a hospital? He didn't even want to think about it.

He motioned to Strike Force Blue to circle around behind an abandoned luggage cart. He gave the sign to stay low and crawl into position. They were good men, and he was trusting them to secure the left flank. Now he looked over to Strike Force Green. They were taking the right flank near a fuel truck. One of the targets had been lingering near the tanker, but luckily decided to return to the core group. He saw him waddle away and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He could have blown the entire operation. He wiped some sweat off his brow and gave them the sign to proceed. They too hit the deck and got their suits dirty. It was tough crawling in flak jackets and Kevlar vests.

He even feared that the two flanking positions once they started the crossfire could cause some friendly fire casualties. He had told his men, make each shot count. Shoot for the head. One and done guys. But shoot fast. The motherfuckers were fast despite looking like a bunch of light weights. This was what the Department of Homeland Security had feared most, direct engagement on US Aircraft on American soil, and now their worst nightmare had come true. But not on his watch. Not in his backyard. Not in his hometown. No one would die at his airport, well, none of his people.

Now his own Strike Force Red entered a service door at the back of the hangar. The huge hangar doors were open and they had to be very careful, moving along the walls on each side hiding in the nooks and crannies. They had to have perfect timing to execute the element of surprise. They certainly had enough firepower. These SIG 551 short assault rifles could lay down 700 rounds per minute. All hell was about to be let loose.

He looked left, Blue gave the thumbs up sign. He looked right, Green was go. He looked up, snipers ready. His Red team had moved up on both sides and had crept up as far as they could go without revealing their positions. Hell, he had even taken the wind into consideration. He didn't want them smelling the sweat and stress of his men. But he could smell them, and it wasn't pretty. He could see their beady little scheming eyes. Well, prepare to die chickenshits.

He checked his watch. 7:05:00 he had said. It was fifteen seconds to go. Fourteen, thirteen, shit! One of them was making a break for it! "Open up!" he screamed. Everyone surged forward, guns blazing. The enemy never knew what hit them. Heads exploded, throats were sliced open by withering fire. Their bodies writhed in slow motion as his SWAT teams superior fire power never gave them a chance. Bullet after bullet screamed through the air taking out the targets with no mercy. And the two that had made a break for it were silenced by the accurate shots of his rooftop snipers.

"Hell yes!" he screamed giving a war whoop as they approached all the downed targets. Blood and guts and feathers were everywhere! "Damn, that was some fine shooting fellas! We smoked 'em! Yeah! Boo-ya! Teach you little muthafuckers, don't mess with my homeland!"

***

Inspired by:

"Citing the need to prevent a "Miracle on the Hudson" emergency landing in Madison, the city's Board of Park Commissioners signed off Wednesday night on a plan to kill geese at Warner Park.

The reduction proposal would involve the first lethal measures taken against geese in a Madison park despite years of discussion about how these geese -- and their droppings -- are overwhelming city parks, particularly Vilas Park on the near west side.

The hazard the large birds pose to airport traffic, however, has sped up the process at Warner Park, located off Northport Drive on the north side, with introduction and approval of the plan all at the same meeting."

My Pad or Your Pad?

The Flight Attendant approached Lizzie and wiggled her fingers to get her attention.

"Yes?" Lizzie asked, removing her earbuds.

"The Captain has made the 'stow away all electronic equipment' announcement. We'll be landing soon."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was so into my new iPad, I must have missed it. I've never had a device that lasted the entire flight on one charge. I'll put it right away."

The Flight Attendant just smiled and continued on.

Lizzie couldn't help but feel a little pride at her brand new iPad. She just got it last week after standing in line for four hours at the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue. And she was one of the lucky ones. She heard that after her only ten more people were able to score one.

Lizzie was a huge Apple fan. She had an iMac, an iPhone, and now an iPad. Some people felt the iPad was nothing but a larger sized iTouch or iPhone without the phone service, but she fell in love with it the moment she got it into her hands. Of course she had already decided to buy one before she stood in line, but seeing the demo in the store as she approached the sales register was love at first sight.

And perfect timing too. She was flying back to Israel to spend one more semester at Ben-Gurion University. And she knew iPads were not yet available in Israel or Europe, so she would be the envy of many of her fellow students. Some of the girls had called her a spoiled rich Jewish American Princess. But in her mind, if you have it, flaunt it baby. She put her things away under her seat and relaxed as the flight began it's descent into Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv.

As typical the flight took a long time to deplane. When she finally entered the terminal she picked up fer bags and proceeded to Immigration. She showed her paperwork to an attendant who shepherded her into the express line. Ah, this was the life. Not like US Immigration where you could stand for an hour at JFK.

The person in front of her was waived through, and she moved up to the desk. Two Immigration officials smiled and took her visa and passport and began to ask her all the usual question.

And then it got to...

"Are you carrying any portable electronic devices?"

"Yes."

"Have you filled out the-"

"Yes," and she stuck the white inventory sheet into his nose.

He took it and carefully read over it.

"Hmm, your iPad, can we see it?"

She smiled. Of course, they wanted to see what it looked like. "No problem." She bent down to her pink carryon backpack and unzipped the back panel, slipping out her shiny little baby. "It's a dream, isn't it?"

"Can you power it on for us?"

"Sure." She tapped the screen. It instantly came on. "Cool, huh? Have you seen these yet? She started to demonstrate several of the applications and the cool way they slid, flipped, or zoomed in and out on the screen."

"I'm sorry Miss, but we'll have to confiscate this."

"What!? What do you mean confiscate?" Her heart stopped beating, she was sure of it.

"The Israeli Ministry of Technology and Information has determined that Apple iPads manufactured in the United States interfere with the Israeli WiFi signal broadcasting standards. Your iPad is a non-compliant device and could cause interference with approved electronics and possibly even military and defense force mobile devices."

Lizzie's jaw dropped down to her chest.

"What are you talking about? It's not a broadcasting device. It works the same way as my Mac. That's not illegal. I had my Mac here last semester. Practically everyone on campus has one."

"I'm sorry," he said, taking the device and handing it to the other officer who slipped it out of site on a shelf behind the dais where they were standing. "For the duration of your stay in Israel, we'll hold it here in Customs. On your way out of the country, you can apply to have it returned to you. Here," he said, reaching for several yellow and white forms, "you'll need to fill these out so when you leave, you can request to have it returned to you."

"What are you talking about? What do you mean I can't have my iPad? This is ridiculous!"

"Young lady, please calm down, or we'll have to detain you for causing a disturbance and creating a security situation."

"But- but-" Lizzie stammered as the other officer steered her away to a desk where several other people were filling out similar paperwork.

A young Arab student who had been through a much more grueling search and seizure was standing there filling out several of the forms. He smiled at Lizzie as she was brought to the table to fill out her form.

"What did you lose?" he asked her.

She looked at him, still stunned. "My iPad."

"Ooh, that smarts. But they let you keep you Mac, huh?"

"Yes, they said my iPad violated wiFi broadcasting standards."

He chuckled. "Yeah, they said the same thing about my Mac. That's why I actually use my iTouch for everything. I just carry the Mac as a decoy."

Lizzie was steaming mad and didn't know what to say.

"Hope you got your serial number, or you'll never get it back."

Lizzie suddenly realized the Customs Official still had the paperwork with the Serial Number.

Meanwhile the Customs Official who had led Lizzie away had returned to his post.

"Good catch, huh?"

"Yep, I have Nehemiah's Bar Mitzvah covered. Now all I need is one more for Elisheva's wedding present and I'm set! How many more do you need?"

"Just for my wife. You know Rafela, if I want to get a little something she has to get a little something."

"I hear you. Women. Feh."

***

Inspired by:

"JERUSALEM—Israel this week has been blocking travelers from bringing Apple Inc.'s new iPad into the country saying the device's wireless technology threatens to create interference with other products, a move that has puzzled people both in Israel and Silicon Valley.

The decision has left many scratching their heads. Travelers have been bringing laptops and cellphones configured to U.S. standards, including other Apple devices with the same wireless configuration, into Israel for years without incident. Some Israeli lawmakers alleged on Friday the decision undermines Israel's status as a global leader in the high-tech industry."

Did the Earth Move for You Too?

You’re sitting at your desk when the earthquake hits. It's an eerie feeling. Everything is moving. You want to brace yourself against something, but whatever you choose is moving as well. It's as if you're on an oversized water bed and the universe is jiggling. There is no central anchor point, no place to go but to stay on the rollercoaster and enjoy the ride.

The next thing you notice are all the things falling over, off of the shelves, off of the edges of table tops and bookcases. Items that you would never imagine to be movable are suddenly dancing and sliding off, finding a new common bottom to fall to.

Next you start seeing cracks in the walls, and larger things begin to tumble - curtain rods along with their curtains, wall clocks, fluorescent light bulbs, then entire light fixtures. Next parts of the ceiling start cracking and coming down, and if it's particularly bad, the entire ceiling just drops in seconds. That whole bit about get under a desk is fantasy. There isn't time. You hear the crack, you look up, and it's in your face that quick already. You can't drop faster to the ground than the floor above you is dropping down on you, some stupid law of gravity insists.

As things crash on your head you still do the natural thing, you fall to the floor parallel with all the debris. As it's falling and you have some presence of mind and are still able to, you crawl under that heavy metal desk that you hated so much. Those nice cherry wood desks the boss had, or that minimalist modern office furniture in the cubicles with the faux wood laminated with fake wood patterns that looked so cool - they didn't survive the ten tons of concrete and accompanying employees in the five floors above you that came tumbling down. That metal desk you loathed, to which you felt you were chained to for the past year actually held its own, and spared you from being crushed to death instantly.

Finally, the rumbling stops. But now you can only hear your own coughing. There is so much dust even in this tiny confined space that you are gagging. And though you crawled under the desk to get out of the plaster of paris waterfall, you realize there is crushing pressure on your feet and you can't wiggle them free. They didn't make it to safety and are being pinned down by something heavy and the pain is unbearable. But you can't think straight, you are coughing so hard after inhaling so much concrete and drywall dust.

Finally the coughs subside to a tolerable frequency. You finally voluntarily open your eyes and think you are blind. No, you're not blind. There just is no light. Absolutely pitch black darkness. Something is in your eyes, they are watering. You rub them with dirty fingers but you still can't see. There is no light.

You now realize you must do something about your feet. They are being squeezed unmercifully. You try to pull them out from whatever is crushing them but you can't. You begin to panic. You twist and squirm and try everything possible. Finally, you get you left foot to scrape out of shoe and sock and tear flesh against rock hard concrete, tearing skin as you freak out trying to get free. You cry out loud at the self-inflicted pain for freedom, but you finally get one foot free.

Now you work on the other foot, but it is securely pinned. It’s not moving an inch. You can't even reach it comfortably due to the odd angle you are laying at. You struggle, but finally succumb to exhaustion, and you lay your head down to rest.

Now with eyesight gone your hearing becomes a little more acute. Though there is an eerie silence, like nothing you have ever heard before in a busy office. Then you realize you now hear some feint noises. Human sounds, you think. There's the unmistakable coughing just as you had. The memory is like seeing someone yawn and now you go into coughing fits again. Once it subsides, you now hear crying, moaning, distant but distinct.

You call out, but your voice is scratchy. The dust you inhaled is making you hoarse. You cough again. You call out but only hear your own voice. You think you may have heard someone call, but you're not sure. Maybe it's just your own imagination.

Your eyesight starts playing games with you. Little sparkles appear before your eyes. You're not sure if your eyes are open or closed. You blink. They were closed.

You go back to the pain in your trapped foot. You try to reach for it, to explore what's holding it down. But you can't get to it. You try to sit up but bump your head on the bottom of the pencil drawer. You reach around with your arms to explore you confined space. It's maybe three feet by three feet, not very much. The floor below you did not give way, but the five floors above you are sitting on your metal desk that you used to hate so much. Now you're feeling a little more forgiving.

You call out again when you hear someone else's anguished cry. But it was distant, and they don't reply back. You keep calling out asking if anyone is alive? You think you hear a human voice, but it's muffled, hard to distinguish.

You give up for awhile. You lay down and just think about what you can do. Not much. You're trapped. All you can do is wait for rescue. You feel your first foot that you freed. It's scabbed over now. The scratches were nasty, but the bleeding seems to have stopped. You go back to your other foot, but it's held down tight. You realize you can't feel the toes in that foot. This is not good.

You lay back down and assess your situation. You have no food, no water - damn, why did you have to think about water? You now realize you are thirsty. You're becoming uncomfortable. You want to stretch out but cannot.

This is becoming both ridiculous and insane. You then realize, if your building was this bad, probably many others are the same. You probably have little chance of making it.

Time goes by. You don't know how long. You become morose and sleepy. You are tired of being in one uncomfortable position. You are hungry and thirsty, and you have to pee. You hold it in. You lay there for what seems hours. Occasionally you call out to see if anyone will respond. But there's not much going on. Even the few groans you thought you heard before are gone. You are alone, utterly alone.

You start giving up hope. Hours have gone by, and not a sound. You search around for something to make a noise with. You actually find your stapler. You start knocking this against the side of the metal desk making a clanging noise. Then you stop and listen. Nothing.

You keep waking up every few hours and call and shout and clang some more. You have no idea what time it is. Your cell phone was in your coat pocket, but that was across the room. No hope of getting to it. You wished you had kept some snacks in your desk, but your managers had strictly prohibited that due to the pest problem. You're so hungry now, you would eat those pests if they dared crawl over you.

You lay there, having no idea how much time has passed. You also realize your pants are wet. You went at some point in your sleep. Luckily it doesn't smell. Too much. You sit up and with your stapler try to dig your numb foot out, but it's useless. You can't even make a scratch. You give up and lay your head back down. Odd as it may sound, you find a contortioned position that is actually comfortable, or the least discomforting.

You now start thinking. Thinking about your life, your loves, your friends, your family. Memories come rushing back rather vividly. It's not your life flashing before your eyes, but a lot of thoughts go through your head. You have some regrets. You wish you had never said that to... You actually start to cry. The tears that roll down to your lips you hungrily lap up. Salty, but still at least something. You cry more.

It's got to have been days. You just don't know. You don't care. How long can a human body go without water? Wasn't it three days? Has it been one day? Two? Three? You don't know. You don't care. You are tired, so tired. You're just laying here but it's tiring. Like vacation trips are tiring. You never understood that paradox. You thoughts start drifting in all sorts of odd directions. You finally close your eyes and go to sleep.

You wake up to a sound. A loud pinging noise. You try to sit up but find yourself extremely weak. You hear the sound some more. It actually has a pattern. You take you trusty stapler and bang the desk. The stapler jumps out of your hand. You have no grip. You curse, find the stapler and bang some more. The sound hurts your ear.

But the pinging sound makes a pattern now. Three rapid pings, three slow, three rapid. You repeat that same sound. Several times. Wasn't that the pattern for SOS you read about in some teenage detective book back in middle school? You bang out the same pattern, loudly, it rings in your ears painfully but you don’t care. The distant sound repeats it as well. Now the sound has a different pattern. You match it. The sound stops. So now you bang some more. But suddenly you hear loud sounds. Motor sounds. Construction crane types of sounds. You bang wildly with energy you didn't think you had.

And then after awhile, you hear crumbling sounds, then the sound of a distant human voice. You call out, they reply! Hang on, they say. Help is coming! You begin to cry again, but there are no tears. You bang wildly a few more times. You know, this old metal desk wasn't so bad after all.

***

Inspired by:

“Emergency teams have been pouring into western China's Qinghai province, a day after a deadly earthquake devastated the mountainous region.

Thousands of homeless people and casualties are waiting for help.

Officials say 617 people died and 9,980 were injured when the tremor hit Yushu county early on Wednesday, while a further 313 remain missing.”

This Win-Win is so Foxy

"Gentleman. We are really in a bind here," the chief editor of the Fox News editorial team admonished his reporters, correspondents, and news anchors. "We had a great time back in February trashing the Global Warming tree huggers. That shot of Gore's An Inconvenient Truth sitting in a snow drift after those two back to back snow storms was precious. We got tons of positive vibes from the tea bagging community on that."

"But these last few ninety degree days in April - friggin April! - we're being hounded by climatologists and some of our regular watchers as well. They want to know how we conservatives can explain this without capitulating and admitting to global warming. What have you got for me?"

The pall of cigarette and cigar smoke hung heavy in the air. Even though it was illegal to smoke inside a building in the District of Columbia, the Fox News team believed they were exempt from such meddlesome unwanted government interference. Plus they were behind locked doors.

"So, what do we tell our viewers?"

"I think we should go with the hot air coming out of Washington. Blame it on the Democratic Congress. That's always a good one."

The editor shook his head. "No, we've beaten that one to death. Need a fresh angle. We need to show that Global Warming is bunk but explain why is it suddenly so hot in spring. C'mon people, use your thinking caps."

"I don't know," one junior correspondent spoke up. "Maybe they're right. Maybe it is global warming!"

"What!" the room erupted in shouts of bunk and bullshit and garbage.

The editor had to calm them down. Turning to the reporter, "What the hell are you, a sheep in Fox clothing? Get outta here. Tell me your beliefs at your next performance review!"

"I- I'm sorry," he sheepishly replied. "Hey, let's blame it on that volcano in Iceland! Let's say all that hot lava is heating up the air."

"What volcano in Iceland?" the editor asked. "I didn't hear anything about any volcano."

"Oh, I saw it on CNN," the reporter said.

"Why are you watching CNN?"

"Uh, just to keep an eye on the liberals. You know, so they don't pull any sneak attacks on us."

"So when did this volcano go off?"

"Uh, about the same time that Lindsey Lohan filed that suit against the E*Trade baby claiming they were making fun of her."

"Oh, so the volcano story got preempted by important stuff. I dunno, if no one's heard about the volcano, not sure it'll fly," the editor said, rubbing his chin.

"Well you know Obama's got all those heads of state in town for that nuclear summit?" another reporter added. "We could say the town is heating up more than normal!"

"What nuclear summit?" the editor asked.

"Uh, he invited the heads of state of like a hundred countries to talk about getting rid of nuclear materials and stuff to stop terrorists from getting it and making bombs. It's complicated."

"Wish someone would drop a bomb on him."

"Hey, I read this old book about the cold war," the reporter continued, "you know the commies versus Ronald Reagan? And it said if there was a huge nuclear war, the earth would get stuck in a Nuclear Winter. All those mushroom clouds wouldn't let in any sunlight, and the earth would cool down."

"Really?" the editor perked up, rubbing his chin even more vigorously. "You might have something there. I like that, Nuclear Winter."

"Yeah," a junior editor chimed in. "If we rattled the North Koreans chains a little and they fired off some nukes, their stuff can only reach Japan and South Korea. America would of course come to the defense of our ex-allies, and obliterate North Korea and Ill Jung Ill or whatever his name is."

The editor was smiling. "I'm liking this. And who needs the Koreans and Japanese anyway. I'm still pissed about 12/7."

More blank stares.

"12/7, that was the old 9/11, Pearl Harbor folks?"

A flurry of understanding nods and ahs replied.

"With them out of the picture all those manufacturing jobs return to the U.S., no more Toyotas or Hyundais."

"I like my Toyota Lexus."

"So buy a god-damn Cadillac Escallade. Has a bigger engine."

"Ah, yes sir"

"And if we can get the Israelis to nuke Iran preemptively, so they can't destroy the home of the Bible and Jesus, damn, yes! And we tell all the folk that this nuclear winter will even out with global warming. A total win-win situation! And minus two pain-in-the-ass prick terrorist loving countires. Now that sounds like a plan!"

"But that means we have to admit there really is global warming."

"Whatever, we'll blame it on the volcano. Get me Beck and O'Reilly on the phone. We got some sabers we need to start rattling!"

***

Inspired by

"The risk of a nuclear attack has been on the rise, Obama said yesterday at the 2010 Nuclear Security Summit. The risk of a nuclear war may be on the decline, but there are still many nations that have nuclear materials.

Obama said, “Just the smallest amount of plutonium, about the size of an apple, could kill and injure hundreds of thousands of innocent people.” And this is why leaders from 47 different nations are gathering to address this problem. President Obama claimed these nuclear materials, and the fact that they can get into the hands of terrorists, are the greatest threat to the world today."

Everything Will Be Alright

My Story

The commuter train flew down the tracks along the river. The beautiful scenic Alps rose majestically to his left, letting his window play peek-a-boo with the sun with every valley and peak they passed. The business class seats on high speed European trains were wonderful, spacious, and roomy. A much better way to travel than those airlines in the US where you were cramped, had to turn off all your electronic devices for long periods, no cell phones, and even Internet connectivity was not available on all flights. But this wasn't one of them. This was a connecting commuter train, cramped seats like those American airlines, but at least it would get him to one of those high speed trains so he could complete his trip in better luxury.

As the train took a long curve Mario sipped his coffee which he had to cradle between his thighs, and typed away an email on his laptop. The Swiss Banking Consortium UBS was demanding his fourth quarter figures before releasing the loan he had applied for. Somewhere back at his office in Milan some useless CFO couldn't do his job, and Mario had to massage some bent egos and reassure them that as soon as he got to his destination in about two hours, he would have those figures for them pronto. Seconds after he hit the Send button a reply came back thanking them. Wow, they were sitting on the edge of their keyboards weren't they? But, he chided himself, it's the Economy stupid. Everyone is kind of jumpy lately. Loans were no longer made on good faith, but solid economic indicators.

His cell phone chimed and looking at the screen it was Lucia back from the office. "Ciao Lucia," he answered. "What's up my love?"

"The auditors are here. They demand to meet with you. They say unless they get to see the central ledger for 2009, they are going to file a negative report, as early as tomorrow."

"Oh, they're in the big safe behind my desk Lucia. The combination is 69-69-69-96. The last one I did just to try something a little different just for you my love."

"Mario," a distraught voice replied, "what are you ranting about? There's no safe behind your desk."

"Ah, the good old days," he chuckled, "when the books were in a safe. No, the central financial reports are in the Oracle Financials database. Tell them I'll be there in two hours. No, say one hour. Then I'll call them and tell them I'm stuck in traffic. They know how bad traffic is in Milan. I'm not telling you the password to the database because you'll go and make yourself another five billion dollar loan like last time."

"Ha ha, Mario. Very funny. This is serious. Just get your silly little passworded tush in here. They release a negative report and our stock prices will fall faster than your pants did on our last date."

"Lucia, Lucia, the 96 was just for you. I wanted to give you a chance to be on top for once. Doesn't that prove my love for you?"

"Mario, this is not a secure line, and if my husband heard you, he would kill you."

"Oh sure, he's listening in right now. I think he's investigating his own secretary right now, and not the secret combination we use."

"Bye Mario, and get your 6 in here pronto."

"Bye my little 9, smoochie smoochie, kissie, kissie, Lucia. Hold off the Vandals."

Sigh, those damn auditors never had any patience. While he had been talking, his cell phone had beeped a text message. He was now able to bring it down from his ear and read it. He hated those bluetooth devices. They made one look like a robot. This message wasn't particularly pleasant either.

General Electric wants to talk to you. Want reassurance we're in on the new engine design protocols. Need you to give thumbs up or going to Northrup Grumman.

Sigh again. Those damn Americans were so impatient. Hell, his company's entire existence was based on this contract to develop the next generation of Predator engine designs. His technical staff had spent the entire year refining these designs to up the horse power and increase the fuel mileage. Both impossible tasks but no one had told him it was impossible until after his R&D team had accomplished the task.

But the Americans wouldn't believe it until he showed them the plans, and he wouldn't show them the plans until they signed a preliminary agreement to use his design, which means buy it, and they wouldn't buy it unless they were certain the concept would work, and there was no way to convince them the concept would certainly work unless he met them face to face and charmed their pants off as well. Sigh, salesmanship was such a fine art of walking the high wire.

He texted back that he would call them when he got to the office in two hours and arrange a technical walk-through. Tell them this was better than sliced bread. Why Americans loved sliced bread he couldn't understand, tearing off a piece of bread from a loaf was part of the joy of eating bread. But they loved that strange cotton candy bread they baked. Go figure.

Geez, he had so many things to do when he got to the office in two hours. There was no panic, but everything was riding on his shoulders. He hoped he could juggle it all.

Suddenly the train slammed on its emergency breaks. Mario just groaned. Now what, cows on the track? He looked out the window and didn't like what he saw.

***

The Real Story

"Italian prosecutors are investigating whether water from an irrigation system could have caused a landslide that derailed a train, killing nine people."

This Won't Hurt One Bit

The Real Story

"JOS, Nigeria — The religious massacres have stopped, but "secret" killings of Christians and Muslims continue on a smaller scale across central Nigeria, claiming more than 30 lives this year, police said Tuesday."

My Story

Richard Numbai was thrilled to see so many youth turn out at the Greater Lagos Bible Study and Youth Camp for the spring session. With unemployment so high, many of these youth tended to loiter on the streets and were ripe for recruitment by gangs and drug dealers. But here they were safe from such immoral activities and could benefit from good, clean religious studies, bible readings, and practical day to day survival skills living in the Nigerian bush.

Richard had the Army of God class assigned to him, and it was one of his favorites to teach. The students were all eager listeners and he loved filling their open minds with the tools necessary to succeed in life and to support their communities.

"So class," Richard asked as he raised a machete. "What is this?"

"A machete!" many shouted.

"A Muslim height adjustment tool," someone from the back added.

Richard laughed. "Ha ha, such a funny sense of humor. Well, you're both right. It is a machete, and it's one of the many tools we use in dealing with the Muslim problem. Now class, what is the best way to use a machete?"

Several arms shot up. Richard picked the closest one. "Yes?"

"On the neck!" an eager young girl with shiny ebony skin declared.

"Yes, that's good. What else?"

A group of blank stares looked back at him. There was mumbling, but the class was stumped. What else would you do but try and chop off the head?

"Why you can use it on any body part! Yes, you see a machete is a hacking tool. Many years ago your grandfathers and their ancestors before them used machetes to cut down the thick jungle brush. But today, we use a machete mostly for dealing with our troublesome Muslim infestation from the North. And when you encounter one of these vile vermin, of course you first instinct is to go for the head. Nothing like a good clean head chop. Remove the head and you remove the problem.

But sometimes they're not so cooperative, hmm? They run like roaches, they twist and dart like in a game of dodge ball. Yet the fact is, you can use this on any part of them. Just lift the blade and hack down, like so," and he made a hacking motion on an invisible Islamist to give them a good example of how it could be done.

"Once hit, it will slow them down. If you hack off their arms first, they can't cover their heads or necks, and then you have a clean shot to remove that pesky appendage from which spouts so many heathen blasphemies.

The class gave knowing nods.

"Okay, I need two volunteers. Okay, you and you. What are your names?"

Two young people rushed up like they had just been picked for the Price is Right.

"Thomas," said the big burly youth.

"Victoria," a bright eyed girl responded coming up behind the boy.

"Okay, Thomas, you play the part of a Muslim dog. Oh, c'mon, don't look so disappointed. You'll get your chance later to be a Christian hero. Virctoria, you take the machete. Now turn it around and use the blunt edge. We don't want you to really chop up Richard. His mom would be so mad at me if he came home with no arms."

Victoria was thrilled to hold the heavy blade. Richard knew to let the weak girl play the Christian avenger because girls generally did as they were told and rarely caused injury. A few years ago he had the boy be the Christian and before he could tell him to turn the blade around to the blunt side, he had already removed the girls left arm. The school had to pay a fifty dollar fine for that one.

"Ok, Thomas, pretend your name is Mohammed. Now try and look like a Muslim. C'mon, more of a crazed look. Let your tongue hang out. Good. Now class, Victoria here is the righteous one. She and her group of Christian Avengers is trying to rid her village of Muslim scum, and she comes across Thomas, or Mohammed, hiding behind the outhouse." The class laughed at that one. Kids always loved potty jokes.

"Now Thomas, you see Victoria and you cower. What would you do when cowering like the useless dirt bag of dung you are? Good, you put your hands over your head and crouch down, ha ha, as if Victoria could ever have mercy for you. Now Victoria, his arms are over his head, which part do you hit with your blade?"

"Umm," she looked perplexed. Thomas was moving his arms around and she didn't really have a good shot at anything. "Uh, his back?"

"Good, good, that part is uncovered. But the back has the spinal cord and bone is hard to cut. It will hurt him, but when the blade hits the bone it will jar your arms and hurt you as well. You might even drop the blade, and you don't want that to happen, right? Imagine a heathen picking up a weapon like that, right? He would surely chop off your arms and legs and then rape you, right? Do you want to know what's best to do? Just hack, right down the middle, right down the center of his flailing arms. You will take off more than enough to free up the neck."

Victoria turned around and faced Thomas. She looked at him warily and then lightning fast lifted the machete and swung down as hard as she could right down the middle as instructed.

"Oh!" She was a strong girl, this would smart- "Ooh, that's not good," he followed as the blade tip hit the dirt. You turned the blade back, sharp side down." Thomas was in two pieces.

"But he was a heathen Muslim. The Muslims killed my nanny and pappy and my uncles and my cousins. I hate Muslims!" Victoria cried out, dropping the blade to the ground. "Is his mother going to be mad at me?

"Yes, you're right, he was a Muslim, sort of. Actually, a very good Muslim. I liked how he did the tongue thing, almost had me convinced. And no, I'm sure his mother will understand. Class, let's all kneel and hold hands and say a prayer for Thomas. Dear Lord, forgive Thomas who became a heathen momentarily and incurred the right hand of wrath of your righteous avengers. Remember his soul when he gets to heaven that he was just pretending, and though for an instance he really looked like one and fooled Victoria, please remember he was a good boy. Amen."

Everyone gave Thomas a moment of silence. Richard then pointed to two other big boys and instructed them to drag and toss the pieces over by the swing set. Damn, this was going to be a hundred dollar fine easily. And the mother will demand a hundred dollars as well. Oh well.

"So Class, Victoria vanquished the devil, right? But what did she do wrong at the end?"

"She dropped the machete!" a small boy called from the back.

"Correct! What's more, notice all this blood? Blood is very slippery. You have to take care to not step in it or get any on you. You have no way of knowing where this heathen has been or what he's done. Heathen blood is especially dirty."

"You could wipe the machete off on the heathen's clothes. That's what I would do."

"Very good!" Richard admitted. "What's your name?"

"Thomas."

"Oh, another Thomas. Well Thomas, the Righteous, you're a very smart boy!" Richard was so proud of these kids. They were going to make wonderful Christian Avengers. The Muslims won't know what hit them.

***

Jessica Simpson Poses Without...

The Real Story

"Jessica Simpson Poses Without Makeup for Marie Claire Wednesday – April 07, 2010 – 9:54am

"For the May cover of Marie Claire, Jessica Simpson went without makeup or retouching.

The reason: To promote her new initiative, "A Beautiful Me," a program she is launching next month to encourage young women to love themselves and feel comfortable in their own skin.""

My Story

"Hi Jess, may I call you Jess?"

"I prefer Jessica," she answered the photographer.

"Right. Okay, now. We're here to make you look beautiful."

"I'd like to think I already am beautiful."

"Oh, of course," the photographer nervously laughed as he attached the lens to the large format camera. "We'll just make you even more beautiful."

She didn't say anything but did want to glare. She decided against it since frown lines were something she didn't want to introduce to her face. But laughing and smiling could sometimes be so hard when dealing with such shallow idiots.

"Ok, so as soon as wardrobe and makeup gets here, we'll start," the photographer said as he directed his assistants to move the light umbrellas to catch the sun at a more direct angle.

"You're not getting it, are you? The whole point of this project is to pose without using makeup. So we don't need to wait for makeup. And as for wardrobe, I came from there. This is what your fashion designers selected. And it's very pretty. I think it'll look fine."

"Oh, of course," the photographer answered, mockingly face palming himself. "It's just such habit to have to work around make-up. They're always jumping in to freshen my girls up. It's crazy working around them. But, well, I guess it's just force of habit. I'll have to learn to work without them getting in the way."

He lifted the camera as another assistant used a light meter to help get the right exposure settings. "This light is too bright. We're going to get every mole and zit."

"What!" Jessica screamed. "Excuse me, but I don't have any zits, thank-you. And moles are considered beauty marks. You're supposed to get them."

The lighting assistant caught his jaw before it hit the floor. He grumbled some settings to the photographer and just moved away without saying anything more.

"Ok, Jess, let me take some quick warm up shots just to get the exposure and angle down."

"Jessica!"

"Oh, right, Jessica. Ooh, now now, no frownies! Don't want any frown lines, do we?" he poo pooed her.

Shit, he was right. She was frowning. She was starting to doubt if this natural beauty photo shoot would even work. Everyone was so obsessed with caking women in layers and layers of make-up, they almost couldn't deal with natural beauty.

The camera got clicking, and the photographer danced around her. Jessica had to force herself to smile. And that was not her natural beauty.

"Okay, good, you're looking good. Yes, let's try a serious look. You're sick and tired of spending $2,000 a year on cosmetics. Let that fierce beauty out of you! Good, good!" The motorized drive of the camera was filling the flash memory card with five photos per second.

Hah, she thought. Maybe the typical woman was spending two thousand a year, and that was a crime in itself. But she was a superstar, and her cosmetic bill was in the tens of thousands, not counting all the cosmeticians who she hired to apply her makeup when she wasn't using the photographer's or studio's staff.

His prompting made sense, and she was getting into the mood. Serious, but happy to finally be free and be in her own skin.

"Yes, that's it. Let me see that birthday suit shine! Awesome, you're so pretty. What? Why the frown? Oh, okay, you're so beautiful! Yeah, baby! Now unbutton that top button of your shirt, yeah, working girl showing a little cleave."

Jessica hoped this photo shoot would show women did not need to paint their skin and eyes to be beautiful. These days, girls as young as eight years old were starting to experiment with make-up. And with some cosmetics, no one knew what chemicals or dyes were in there. What was the long term price of such beauty? Why did guys get away with just some gel in their hair?

The photographer was now on the floor doing low angle shots as she changed poses and displayed her god given gifts. She tried bold, impressionable women, she did pouty, sexy angel, she strutted some career woman and ended with good ol' soccer mom. She was beginning to really enjoy posing cosmetic-less.

"Wow!" the photographer said. "These shots are great! Okay, go back to wardrobe and get another outfit. We'll shoot another memory card full."

"Be right back," Jessica said, and strutted back to the trailer, giving her ass a nicely exaggerated wiggle of confidence for all those guys on the set watching as she walked away. This was going well after all.

As she left the scene, the lighting guy came up to the photographer. "What do you think?"

"Eh, it's alright. We'll just Photoshop the pics. Give her smoother skin, more glow, darker eyes. Whatever. We have the technology." The lighting guy gave an agreeing head nod.

***

News Flash Fiction Takes a Day Off

The Real Story

http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSTRE6344FW20100406

My Essay

A disturbing video hit the Internet on Monday, acquired and released by a group known as Wikileaks, an organization that likes to release transcripts and videos showing official misconduct by governments, politicians, corporations, police departments, the military, etc. Consider them to be a modern day Daniel Elsberg sneaking a copy of the Pentagon Papers to the NY Times, or Deep Throat feeding information to the Washington Post.

When Wikileaks first announced they had received such material and would be releasing it soon for public consumption, they found themselves with an unprecedented amount of harassment by the FBI and other organizations, claiming the material they had acquired was ill-gotten. But they finally got it out to social web-sites where copies were made to YouTube and other sites so the video couldn't be easily banner or buried.

The video is a 30 minute run of raw footage taken from an American Apache helicopter in Iraq as it supposedly responds to a report of small arms fire against a battalion of American troops in the New Baghdad area of Baghdad, Iraq in 2007. What follows is a black and white video but fairly sharp, like looking through the viewfinder of a camcorder, as they sight a group of about 10 men in an alleyway and square in the general area of where the reported small arms fire may have been coming from.

The video contains a lot of radio chatter between ground forces, the helicopter gun crew, and the command head quarters of the operations. Subtitles are provided but probably are unnecessary. Ninety per cent of the chatter is military jargon describing locations, positions, requesting permission to engage, etc. But the 10 per cent of the dialogue that pertains to the action is quite disturbing.

I say this because I had an odd symbiosis with the video on a personal level. Last November a new video game was released, called Call of Duty 2: Modern Warfare, which my son bought and invited me to play with him. Played on an Xbox 360 on an HDTV, there is a segment in the game where you are the gunner on a military airship and are receiving communications about possible hostile elements you need to engage, without accidentally killing your own troops.

The quality of the video game and the methodology of the tactics you use playing the game was strikingly similar to what was seen on the video. I would almost say the game developers must have had access to the same military videos as the ones shown as they developed the game. And so when I played the game and I got to this part of the campaign, as I watched the video my God I thought, was the similarity striking.

Now some people would argue, c'mon, no video game could compare to real military hardware. That's not the point. What I experienced in the game was almost identical to what I saw while watching the video. While my son was gleefully killing everything that moved, thrilled with the superiority of American firepower to the hapless insurgents that got in our way, I kept thinking back then, is this how it really is? And if so, how can you identify true targets from innocent civilians? And then as you listen to the chatter of the military personnel, you realize, that they too are treating the real life scenario as if they were playing a video game.

Comments like the gunner pleading for permission to engage; listening to them as they rationalize that the men had weapons and so were legitimate targets even though later it turned out the men were news reporters and had cameras and tripods, made me shake my head. Watching as a gravely wounded man is crawling toward a nearby building, and the gunners wishing out loud that he would reach for a weapon so they can finish him off; watching as a van arrives to help the wounded man and then getting permission to mow down the van and its occupants and the wounded man under the pretense that they may have been collecting weapons, gave you the feeling the U.S. personnel just wanted to kill something, anything, that day.

Later, as ground troops arrive, they announce that there are wounded children in the van. The gunship operators shake it off saying combatants shouldn't bring their kids to a war. Later as a Bradley tank drives over a bump, the gunship men laugh that it may have gone over a body, but it didn't matter as it was probably dead already, they comment.

As if all this slaughter wasn't enough, later the ground troops again report gunfire, and the gunship sites a building that they think might be the source. You listen as they rationalize to themselves that some people going in must have had weapons (no one is seen firing from the building). After again securing dubious permission, the gunship fires three hellfire missiles and destroys the building, later commending each other with the comment, "Good missile."

It's at this point that you suddenly realize, no wonder they hate us, the people of the Middle East, where we are warring. With the slightest provocation, American forces unleash massive firepower destroying buildings, vehicles, and people walking the streets. Wounded people are shot at. People holding cameras are "close enough" to looking like they're holding weapons and so become legitimate targets and can be killed on the spot, including everyone standing around them.

The video is the rage of the social networking sites currnetly. Commentary by pro and anti war opinions is raging. Sympathy for the soldiers is asked for because it's tough out there and the men are trained in a kill or be killed fashion. It's not their fault they kill so efficiently with such lethal firepower.

The major media outlets are kind of quiet. No mention on CNN or MSNBC. FoxNews actually has a short article describing a "disturbing" video. Of course foreign news outlets like BBC, Reuters and Al Jazeera make it front page news, but we know who control the news media outlets in the United States now.

The US Military responds that the events had been investigated and no wrongdoing found under the permissible rules of engagement. You get the feeling like someone was asking the head fox was the raid on the chicken coop conducted under the normal rules of engagement when a fox meets a chicken.

"Shouldn't bring your kids to a war," becomes the rationalization for putting several 50mm rounds into a small girl. Later, instead of medivac'ing the girl to a hospital, the troops simply turn the wounded children over to the local Iraqi police and let it be their problem.

Abu Ghraib was supposed to be an anomaly. I've always been anti-war, but perhaps I haven't been anti-war enough. I always thought our military personnel after Viet Nam had the right to question authority when they thought orders to kill were wrong. Now I was witnessing soldiers begging for permission to kill, and the commanders were the reasonable ones asking the men were they sure before granting permission.

And in the display of firepower, whether massive, withering machine gun fire or building destroying Hellfire missiles, though the accuracy was fairly good, just like the video game I played, a lot of other things were hit that weren't part of the target. But in war, collateral damage has now become acceptable in the American psyche. It's your problem for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Yet to me, none of this was acceptable. You don't kill everyone and destroy everything in the local area just because your troops took some small arms fire. That's how the Nazi's the the Soviets operated, not the U.S. I still support our troops, the reasonable ones with a conscience, who don't really want to be over there but are doing it out of a sense of duty. But those that have a bloodthirsty zeal for killing, I'm not so sure about anymore.

***

Off With Their Heads!

The Real Story

"The lawyer for a Lebanese man sentenced to death in Saudi Arabia for witchcraft has appealed for international help to save him.

Ali Sabat was the host of a popular Lebanese TV show in which he predicted the future and gave advice.

He was arrested by religious police on sorcery charges while on a pilgrimage to Saudi Arabia in 2008."



My Story


Achmed, the Clerk to the Sharia Law District Court in South Riyadh, brought the morning's list of cases on the docket to the Mullah who sat at his judge's bench feet up reading the funnies in the morning paper.

"Achmed," the Mullah guffawed at a particularly outrageous cartoon. "Did you read Zippy and the Orthodox Jew this morning?"

"No Mullah," he responded, making proper obeisance by bowing down to his knees. As he straightened back up, he tried to avoid eye contact with his superior as was proper. "I barely got through the Sports pages when morning prayers were called and then I had to go wash the men's room. The Trans-Jordan camel races were yesterday, and the Saudi camel did very well."

"Yes, as he should have. Otherwise, the glue factory for him. Well anyway, Zippy is in the Holy City of Jerusalem and he pins a note on the wailing wall where the crazy bearded jews are knocking their heads against the stones in their silly rituals, and one of the crazy rabbis goes up to read the note, and it, get this, it says-"

A scream erupts from the back of the courtroom as a man is dragged in in chains while three policemen beat him brutally with canes.

"What?" the Mullah screams out. "Court doesn't begin until..." and he looks at the clock on the wall. "Oh, damn, court is in session. Satan must have nudged the minute hand forward. I'll tell you later, it's really funny. Bring him up to the bench. What do we have here?"

"Your exalted holy one," one of the policemen responds, "this man was caught with a bottle of alcohol."

"What! Alcohol is strictly prohibited under Islamic law!"

"But your Excellency," the prisoner pleaded through a bloodied face, "the drinking of alcohol made from grains is illegal. This was just rubbing alcohol which my doctor prescribed for my chafing skin. One cannot drink it. It is poisonous."

"Of course it is poisonous. All alcohol is poisonous to the soul, that's why the Koran prohibits it. Fifty lashes, and make him drink the bottle as a lesson. Take him away. So Achmed, what do we have today," he asked as the other people slowly filed into the courtroom and took their places.

The clerk handed him a sheath of papers.

The mullah looked them over and pulled one out of the pile. "God vs. Brigitte Bauer. Sounds like a heathen name" Is this Brigette here?

A woman with handcuffs was brought forward. Attending her were a man in a blue suit and another man in traditional habib.

"Your excellency," the man in the suit began in Arabic with a British accent. "Ms. Bauer is a British subject and I am here from the consulate to represent her as a subject of the British commonwealth."

"Ah, a foreign infidel. And what is this Ms. you refer to? She is either a married woman, a Mrs. or a whore, a Miss. What is this Ms. you speak of? Just another word for slut?"

"Your excellency," the man in the habib cut in.

"Who the hell are you? So which is it?" he addressed the consulate agent. "Wife or whore?"

"Careful, "the man in the white garb cut in. "It's a trick question. If she is a wife, she will be condemned for not covering her face. The correct answer is whore."

The consulate general was astonished, but a look of understanding crossed his face.

"Aw, who the hell are you? You just spoiled my fun with these damn foreigners. So, what did she do?" He looked at the papers. "Sat in the front seat of the taxi! She's a whore and a slut! Fifty lashes with a cane."

"But-" the consulate general exclaimed.

"Your excellency, if I may. The whore's father hired me to be her attorney and has advised me he wishes to uphold his family's honor, and has a note for you explaining so." The man in the white robe handed the Mullah an envelope. The mullah opened it and peeked inside.

"Oooh, nice. Very honorable, very honorable indeed. Sentence suspended for time already served in custody. Release the prisoner into this blue suited infidel's care, but put a scarf over her face. Move along. Next case."

The men left the courtroom quickly with the woman still in handcuffs. They knew better than to wait for him to change his mind. The mullah discretely placed the envelope in his robes.

"Which one should I do next Achmed?"

Achmed reached into the pile and pulled out another case.

"Well, we have this witchcraft case."

"Witchcraft? Ooh, that's a beheading. Bring her forward."

"A middle eastern man clearly not Saudi but in a blue pinstripe suite was brought forward, also in handcuffs.

"Who are you?" asked the mullah. "A male witch?"

"I am-"

"Eww, I can recognize from your accent your Syrian."

"No, I am Lebanese."

"Yes, whatever. At least you're Muslim I assume. Why so many foreigners today? So, what do you have to say for yourself before I turn you over to the executioner?"

"But- but your excellency, do I not get a trial?"

"This is a Sharia court. We don't need no steenkin trials. Ha ha, I saw a Humphrey Bogart movie where someone said something like that. Funny, no?"

"Yes, but I should be able to defend myself against these charges. How exactly is witchcraft defined in the law and how is it claimed that I practiced it?"

"I don't know, you're the one who was charged, you tell us what you did wrong."

"But, but-"

"Achmed, you can read better than me. What do the charging papers say?"

Achmed took a look and then finally read a passage, "Charged with witchcraft for making predictions. Only Allah the all mighty, the all powerful, blessed be his name, can see into the future. And they are all recorded in the Koran. Any man or woman who deigns to make predictions shall be considered a witch and shall be beheaded."

"Sounds pretty clear to me."

"But your Excellency, my predictions were just common sense. I am a TV news anchorman, and I simply saw what was going on in the news, and based on lessons we've learned from history, simply predicted what would happen if things didn't change."

"Sounds complicated to me. Like the incantation for a spell. Off with his head!"

"But please, I must protest! It's no different than me predicting that at the end of the day you will go home. If I've seen in the past that you've done it, and so I make the prediction that you will probably go home tonight as well. Is that sorcery?"

"How did you know I had planned to go home tonight? I could have gone to the hookah bar, or gone to see one of my other wives. You are a witch. Off with his head!"

Despite his protests, the man was dragged away.

"What's next."

"Ok, we have Akeem Mohammed."

"Now that's a nice Saudi name. What did he do?" he asked as another man in chains was brought up to the bench.

Another man ran up to the bench. "Your Excellency, he raped and molested my 11-year old daughter."

"And?"

"That's all. We were in negotiations for an arranged marriage, but while checking her out, he took her to another room and performed the deed."

"So, what's wrong with that? Even the prophet had a wife who was only nine years old. Let this man go. And don't let anyone tell me that this court is not just."

"But he had no intention of marrying my daughter. He just took advantage of her while we were doing our noon time prayers."

"What? He skipped noon time prayers? Five hundred lashes!"

"Five hundred!" the father exclaimed. "Your Excellency, I wanted justice, perhaps the amount of the dowry. But even I have to admit five hundred lashes is rather extreme. No man can survive five hundred lashes. That means death."

"My you're picky. One moment you're crying foul, the next too much of a good thing. Some people are never happy." And he waved the man away.

"So Achmed, the note said, 'But that's what she said!' Ha ha, get it? She said? The Orthodox Jews despise woman even more than we do. Wasn't that funny? Oh Achmed, you have no sense of humor."

***