Arafat Est Décédé

It doesn’t matter who you are. You could have been a revolutionary leader your entire life, complete with camouflage headdress and a pistol on your belt. You could have led a life completely devoid of levity; you could have spent every waking moment committed to your cause. You may have sent men to do battle and ordered the death of innocent women and children. Who cares if you were the one that put your struggle at the front of the world’s stage because in death we are all stripped of any dignity we may have still been preserving and rendered into feed for the world’s humor mill.

History will be the judge of Yassir Arafat but that won’t stop all of us from putting in our opinions. I loved the part where after a few days of speculation concerning the PLO leader’s health, a French military official gave this brief statement to the world press, “Monsieur Arafat n’est pas décédé.” The news of his demise wasn’t greatly exaggerated but no matter what you think of the leader of the Palestine Liberation Organization, I think that if before I die someone announces publicly that I am not dead then I would have to say that my life was a success.

Perhaps it is Arafat who laughs last. After all, even if I, as a humor essayist, reach Arafat’s stature, I doubt that upon hearing of my demise readers of Leftbanker will shoot AK47’s into the air or burn tires. My greatest hope is to live long enough so that when I enter into the void people will simply ask, “I thought he died years ago.” Most people will probably just say, “Left who banker?” Life is hard, death is cruel and, according to my sources, this is all we got.

People cling to religion with the hope that faith will allow them to side-step the absurdity of dying. Sorry folks, religion isn’t going to shield you from the indignities of death. One of the most religious men the world has ever known, the Ayatollah Khomeini, spiritual leader of the Iranian revolution, had tens of thousands of mourners at his funeral. As Khomeini was carried to his final resting spot men fighting to be near the deceased cleric knocked over the pall bearers and the body landed on the ground. For this I should lead a life of piety? The Pope has been dead for years, yet the Cardinals in Rome keep doing this horrible Weekend at Bernie’s thing with him, so if you think religion will give you some dignity at the hour of death you’d better think again.

I’m always afraid that I will die unexpectedly, without time to sanitize my life. I’m afraid I will be struck down and someone will find the music for Titanic prominently displayed on my piano. I want people to see that I was working on a Bach prelude or a Chopin mazurka right before I checked out. I want time to take out my garbage which is filled with empty vodka bottles. And yes mother, I always wear clean underwear. I hope Arafat had time to delete all of the naked pictures of Britney Spears off his computer before he left this earth.

Perhaps someone could start a business called Death With Dignity. Subscribers to this service would have a chip implanted in their bodies and at the moment of death the people from Death With Dignity would launch into action. They would locate your corpse and make sure that you don’t look ridiculous while another member of their team is dispatched to your living quarters to sanitize your apartment, removing any embarrassing objects and cleaning the place up so others don’t see that you were living like an animal. It is one thing to live like a slob but when company comes over you have to straighten up a little.

The New and Improved Me

I’m nothing like I used to be. Do you remember how I used to be? Wasn’t I just awful? The things I used to do! The way I treated people! I can’t believe how mean I was back then. Sorry about your cat. That was the old me, now I’m a completely changed person. The difference in me is like night and day. I’m a much better person and I think everyone would agree. I should get some sort of award for most improved person. Nice kitty.

Not to obfuscate my problem in abstruse medical jargon but before I was what psychologists would call a “shit heel.” I was only looking out for number one and guess who was number one? I was #1 and according to the doctors looking out for number one—me—was not making me happy. Sure, I was making a ton of money. It goes without saying that my sex life was completely off the charts and probably completely illegal anywhere but in the Red Light district of Amsterdam. So what if I could snap my fingers and have my enemies brought to their knees. The doctors told me that I wasn’t happy. I didn’t believe the first few doctors who told me this; I had them killed.

But deep down inside I think that I always knew that something was missing. My excesses made Michael Jackson look like a Buddhist monk. I should have known that I had gone too far when Michael Jackson brought charges against me, alleging that I groped him when I had him over for a sleep-over at my palace. When MJ says you are a pervert you should probably stop and listen. Instead I paid him off and accelerated my decadent lifestyle. I tried to convince myself that at least I was boosting the economy.

As I led my armies across the steppes of Asia, playing polo with the heads of my vanquished enemies, I tried to block out the lamentations of their widows and the cries of their orphaned children--my new 40 gig I-Pod® made this easier. Slowly I was becoming dissatisfied with my way of living and I didn’t exactly know why. I once derived so much pleasure from watching a village burn while a Kenny G song played through my headphones. Now I look at the flames rising above the rooftops and I think, “What is the point?” and, “What the hell happened to Kenny G? Is he dead or what? I hope I didn’t do it by accident.”

I tried to ignore the warning signs of my behavior: high blood pressure, trouble sleeping, lack of communication with loved ones, and war crimes tribunals. I started to take notice of my problems when I narrowly side-stepped a Mossad assassination attempt and later I was forced to flee to Brazil to avoid a firing squad in The Hague. Safe from extradition I carried on with my decadent ways, but a sense of emptiness continued to gnaw at the heart of my being. I thought I could counter my existential dread by clear cutting a Pennsylvania-sized swath of the Amazon rain forest just for fun. It was fun but I still didn’t feel right. I had a problem, a problem a new squadron of F-20 fighter aircraft couldn’t cure.

My new doctors, who had witnessed the fate of the last group of my personal physicians, assured me that I was completely normal, so I had them imprisoned. Under torture they told me that my problem was that I was a selfish prick. I thanked the doctors for their honesty and they said “you’re welcome” and that I could pay their receptionist by check or credit card. It was time to let the healing begin so I began by ordering an extra ration of gruel for my grandfather who I had thrown in prison some years before. I was told he had passed away but I still felt good about my gesture. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Now I’m all about Toys For Tots, Make A Wish, Big Brother, Guardian Angels, Boy Scouts, Little League, Sunday school, mentoring, volunteering, donating, sharing, giving, caring, and loving (but not in any sort of inappropriate, nonconsensual manner, like before). Now I am the benevolent type of dictator. Although I still pillage and plunder, there is no longer pleasure for me in these anti-social acts; I just don’t like paying sales tax.

How Do I Love Thee: Rating Your Stalker

First let me begin with a brief history of love. Forgive me if the dates aren’t exact but have you ever tried working with fact checkers who have been outsourced to a customer service center in Huancayo, Peru? The company is saving a bundle so they tell me not to sweat the small stuff like accuracy. Has anyone in the office seen the Quechua/English dictionary?

1200 A.D. Troubadours in the south of France disseminate the idea of love through popular songs. Men other than troubadours plagiarize their songs and hook-up right and left.

1600’s Shakespeare raises the bar on romance and mushy-ness with his sonnets and plays. Because copyright laws are invented men are forced to actually express themselves to women in their own words. Most men don’t even bother and hence there is born a huge market for a 24 hour sports channel for guys with no charm. Until technology advances to meet this need guys who don’t have dates stay out of trouble by waging world wars and doing yard work.

1945 The greeting card is invented and men are off the hook again. Cards are sold in the same aisle of the store where you find beer and snack products. This is even easier than ripping off lines from the troubadours. A lot of women seem to think it’s cute and heart-felt even if the cards often come with slurred signatures and covered with Cheeto stains.

1980 Men’s notion of love founders on the barrier reef of modern society. In response to this alienation the rock group Air Supply releases its love anthem, I’m All Out of Love. Are men truly “all out of love?” Many people feel this song to be the height of kitsch but it proves to be a turning point in the way in which men would express their romantic ideals. The intense outpouring of feeling resulting from the Air Supply tune leads directly to the birth of stalking—the new romance.

But this isn’t a history lesson. This column is directed to the female readers.

Women, do you ever feel that your stalker isn’t really trying very hard? I mean, how committed do you have to be to call someone on the phone a few times a day and hang up? Maybe loser-boy shows up at your work and screams out “If I can’t have you then no one can,” as he is escorted out of the building by security. Yawn. If only you had a nickel for every time you’ve seen that one before.

Christo covers the Reichstag in a paroxysm of creative energy and all your stalker jerk can muster is a poorly-written note left under your car’s windshield wiper? Maybe it’s time the two of you had a talk about where this relationship is going. Let him know that you felt a tinge of jealousy when you heard that the blond tramp in the temp pool has a stalker who sends her a bouquet of flowers every day. Admit to him that you actually pulled a bunch of orchids out of the dumpster and took them home. One girl’s stalker garbage is another girl’s center piece. It’s stalker envy, it’s pathetic, and you’re sick and tired of it.

Other women show off their restraining orders like jewelry. The lame antics your stalker has been pulling aren’t even worth the effort, unless he’s willing to go down to the courthouse and wait in line for you. His brand of obtrusiveness is about as threatening as a shy Girl Scout selling cookies. If he really wants to get your attention he should try 24 hour surveillance, seven days a week, rain or shine. He should send disturbing letters written, if not in blood--which is just totally gross--then at least in red ink. If he’s old school perhaps a self-inflicted tattoo. Or how about a tasteful gift once in a while; something practical like a nice sauté pan with a lid? Is that asking too much?

Where is the commitment? Where is the obsession? He doesn’t even call in the middle of the night like any other self-respecting creep but phones between 6 and 8 in the evening like some love-sick telemarketer. It’s time to lay down the law with this sicko. Either he needs to bring his stalking to a new level or you're going to fix him up with one of your desperate single friends. Let’s see how much energy he has for bothering you when he has to help his new girlfriend paint her kitchen or take her cat to the vet.

The End of Politics

Not only has Bush won a decisive victory but the Republicans have an even greater majority in the Senate. Congratulations. I don’t expect Bush to care what almost half of this nation feels about our political situation since he didn’t have much regard for it during his first term in office. That’s the way democracy works in this era. Fantastic, I’m OK with that.

I expect our troops to enter Fallujah any time now and I imagine that it will be bitterly contested and there will be a lot of civilian casualties. That hasn’t seemed to bother many people before. One aspect of war we definitely are good at is the heavy-handed approach. Let the bombs fly. I only ask one thing. I ask that the people who voted for Bush, especially the wealthy who have benefited most from the fruits of this rich country, I ask you to send your children into the armed forces so that they can do the work of your president in defending this country.

Recruitment is way down and our military can certainly use the skills of your well-educated, ambitious children. Many of them will die but what we stand to gain is worth it--that’s why you voted for Bush. It is a time when we all must make sacrifices. Maybe you will be one of the lucky parents whose child returns with only severe injuries.

Not only am I not a Christian but I am an atheist, yet in the aftermath of September 11th I thought the best policy would have been to secretly hunt down the perpetrators and overtly inundate the Middle East with American goodwill. Turn the other cheek is the way one person put it. I was wrong, you were right. I have already performed my service in the military and I am too old to go in again. It is time for you to do your part.

This is the last thing I’ll write about politics. What station carries Rush Limbaugh here in Seattle?

Identity Theft: I Should Be so Lucky

Identity Thief Wanted:

Ideal candidate should be an inch, perhaps two over six feet tall, handsome but not a pretty boy, intelligent, urbane, witty, charming, a good dancer would be a plus—in other words, all of the things I’m not.

To all the prospective identity thieves out there beware: mine is hardly worth stealing. You're better off fixing up the one God gave you than moving into my condemned space. Just think of this essay as the moral equivalent of those “No Radio Inside” signs people put on their car windows to prevent break-ins.

Do people who steal other people’s identities then have to take on the responsibilities of two people? Yikes! I can barely keep up with the one I have. I can’t imagine any reward big enough to get me to renew my driver’s license twice. Can you keep two identities without having a cleaning lady come in at least once a week? Do you have to get her two Christmas gifts even if one of your identities is Jewish? Do you have to pay double car insurance or does one policy cover both people? I have been driving without insurance for a while so don’t say I didn’t warn you.

If in spite of this warning you are determined to steal my identity, at least make an attempt to do a better job using it than I did. Stay in school (graduate, law, or clown), cut down on red meat, say no to drugs, and try to be a rock star so you can get more girls than I did (although becoming a rock star will be difficult, at best, if you say no to drugs). I will be happy to show you around my life for a couple days to get you up to speed. Can you start tomorrow? If you start tomorrow you can go to court for me and take care of that trumped-up shoplifting charge.

While you are at it you can repair everything in my life that I’ve messed up. My doctor says my cholesterol levels are “epic.” Sometimes “epic” is a good thing. The movie Titanic was epic but I think my doctor meant it as a bad thing and not staring Leonardo DiCaprio. I think he meant that my cardio-vascular system is due to hit a vast arterial iceberg any time now.

I’m sure you are better at stuff than I was. Maybe you were the star of the high school football team. Even if you were a loser like me, when you start being me can you tell people you were a sports hero in high school? Pretty much everything I do leaves a lot of room for improvement although I think I’m a pretty good parallel parker. Do you think there is any chance I could make a living parallel parking in my new life? Maybe after you’ve fixed up my life you’ll move on and I can come back to a new and improved identity. Be sure to write down somewhere how many touchdowns you made in high school so we can keep our stories straight.

Under new FCC regulations I am allowed to keep my old phone number if someone steals my identity so if you have any questions you can reach me on my cell. I’m overdrawn on my bank account but I’ll leave my checkbook on the table by the front door just in case you want to make a deposit. I was going to ask you for your identity but then I got to thinking that anyone who would rather have my identity must have had a really lousy one. I think I’ll just make up a new identity out of thin air and run with that one for a while.

Make yourself at home and have fun. Sorry there isn’t anything to eat around the house and don’t forget that rent paid after the third of the month is late and must be accompanied by a $70 late fee.

P.S. The rent is late and must be accompanied by a $70 late fee. Can you return the DVD’s? I think they are overdue. If a guy with a funny accent named Igor Something-Something-inski shows up at the door you should be polite to him and work out a payment plan for the $2,000 I lost betting on college sports last weekend. Have a wonderful life!