Whatever happened to the Axis of Evil? It was dramatic. It was Manichean, and catchy like “Al-Qaida folk”: I suppose, technically, even scum are folk.
The Axis powers should have included a fourth member, Libya, run by Colonel Cattledung, a former biology student, and – don't you know – fan of Juliet Andrews. She sang, “Hey Dictator Where's Your Pooper?” in the musical Crime and Punishment.
I read in the paper years ago that the colonel had asked the British booksellers Waterstones to provide him with a comprehensive library, with all the great works of English literature, including, he stressed, the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. This bit is true.
The colonel recently handed in his weapons of mass destruction. This, clearly, has nothing to do with the decisive interventions of Anglo-American armies in Afghanistan and Iraq, pulverizing two fascist regimes. (“Hello, Is Mr. Mullah-Omar there?” – “Khalo, waddaya want I'm busy've gaddanaxe in my khand” – “It's Thelma.. Thelma Blitzkrieg.. I'm visiting.”)
No, this did not send out the message that democracies mean business, they have a tolerance threshold, you push them so far, they'll push you right out. No, the simple truth is: Bush is bad and worse than that is his utter disrespect (Oooh.. and that Rita Rumsfeld?) for the United Stations and international regulations (choo-choo).
What likely happened is that Colonel Grothole recently cracked under the pressure of United Nations hand wringing and “critical dialogue” (“I can't take all dis kiriticise and kiriticise.. shaddap Koftiannan you bitch”, a secret recording has him saying to his wife, Safiya. “Pass me da irradiated salt, big boy”, she answers, tossing some “Brezhnev meatballs”, a recipe from Brezhnev's mother, Irina Katyusha.) (Just to say — in another, hilarious, aside – that the comrade-servants at the Kremlin, the mean ones, would secretly laugh at her and call her “Brezhnev in a skirt”. Well she was his mother, I say to them now, what should she have looked like, Betty Garbage?)
The colonel may look and act tough, what with the desert stallions and folk-dress, but like you and I, he's just a big baby who wants to be good and to be loved (“I want the madness to stop, Safi. I want us to be like Norway, with songs, laughter and tax.”)
Before he toppled Prince Idris (now a rap star), the Libyas were a happy couple. They would cook together and sing, according to CIA reports. (“One Dissident, two dissidents, three dissidents, four — BANG — five dissidents, etc..” was a favourite). Now Colonel Cackface is always busy (“I made them meatballs you like, big boy”, she says — “I'm trying to build a prison here, limialone”, he says.)
This much is clear: the Americans never did anyone any good, unlike the French, hence French, not liberty fries.
A few months ago, I asked a headwaiter in London for “liberty fries”. “There's no need to be so polemical, sir,” he replied, momentarily forgetting his inferior station. (You're right, I thought, KISS MY ASS, howzat for polemical?).
I have nothing against the French of course, aside a couple of outstanding issues, like doing dirty business with dirty regimes, but treating individuals — like Iranians, for example — appallingly at embassies, consulates, police stations, petrol stations, giving the worst waiter service on earth, conjuring up the Vichy regime, the Dreyfus affair, regicide, “revolutionary” trials, and they've only recently fitted showers and bidets, the dirty little mongrels.
But why pick on them, not the Russians or Germans, or the Swiss (who seem, like Canada, to be to be an insipid version of their neighbours)? Simply because the French think they represent something elevated (and I'm not referring to the rising stench of institutional corruption), but ideals of freedom, equality, and, don't laugh, fraternity.
At least the Germans or the Russians claim nothing (edde'aa nadaaran, miduni?), how could they, especially Russia: a big shit-hole run by a secret policeman and overrun by the mafia. Russia ceased to be of interest to civilised society in 1917.
But should France, home of Lafayette and Voltaire not choose democracy over “international legality” and its cash tills? Oh, who cares, they're in freefall anyway (right?). Frankly I wouldn't piss on Bonaparte's grave if the French parliament begged me.
I shall devote my life to the Third World: I'm preparing a batch of my articles to be sent to the Libyan presidential library (“Khey Safi, rid dis.. iss funny”), and another batch to Haiti; Haitians can enjoy them once they've stopped starving and rioting against President Aristide Brilliant, who does an awfully good impression of a monkey.
It takes great effort to write such frivolity, but I do it with the help of my backstage team: my resident philosopher, Heinrich (“Ach..we write ze jokes unt all ze children, zey vil be heppy unt laff und laff”), local tough guy Vinny (“Say.. you're five months behind on the rent, funny man”), and Myrna, the secretary (“Professor, my cartridge is blocked; can you bang it open?”).