Middle East Peace Treaty: Everybody Out

treaty was signed Friday declaring peace between Israel and its surrounding Arab nations, something few thought they would see in their lifetime. And this time there is high expectations the treaty will hold, meaning peace for the 349 people still residing in the Middle East following a massive exodus of hardline and extremists Arabs and Israelites.

“I am glad we have finally settled this long, brutal time of unrest,� Saudi Crown Prince Abdullah told five men in a barren stadium as echoes filled all around him. “I look forward to a long time of peace and prosperity, and hopefully repopulating our lands.�

“We have much to be thankful for,� said Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, to a small group of friends he had invited over for Pictionary. “Our perseverance and tolerance have paid off, and finally we are at peace with our neighbors. We may still have disagreements, but they will be settled with smiles and handshakes rather than bullets and fire.�

It was Prince Abdullah who first proposed the necessary solution for peace: Ousting of hardliners, extremists, radicals, and others who would not help the peace process, or even hinder it. During week-long discussions with Prime Minister Sharon and representatives of other Arab nations, the decision was reached that someone had to go if there was to be peace. So they did.

With the help of U.S. and U.N. troops, in busload after busload, one plane after another, extremists on both sides were rounded up and deported from each country. Some voluntarily admitted their stance against the process of peace or making concessions to opposing countries, others were rooted out by previous statements or funny looks given when told of the plan for peace. Whether taken by force or collusion, any oppositions of peace were removed so as to allow a smooth and uncontested transition to the Middle East’s new peace.

All critics or challengers of the peace process have a new home in Antarctica, where they will found a new country, christened by President Bush as Boomtown. The president liked the name as he coined it, but admitted, “If the new residents of Boomtown can stop fighting for five seconds to agree on a new name, by all means, call it something else.�

The huge population shift has already been a boon to the residents of the Middle East, who find themselves among the richest nations in the non-Western world now with their remaining wealth divided up among the remaining 349 residents.

“Allah be praised,� said passive Saudi Koran teacher Aburah Kahim. “I knew my wisdom and goodness would be rewarded. Should my new Jewish neighbors wish to make the journey to my house, we will have a full pork-free dinner at my table.�

Things are not looking so well for the new residents of Boomtown, who find themselves the poorest nation on earth overnight. And though the country has been in existence for only 72 hours, their murder rate far surpasses their predicted Gross National Product already. Their first planned meeting of Parliament was postponed Saturday after six suicide bombers of various ethnic origin destroyed the ice cave where the meeting was to be held.

“I miss the West Bank,� one Palestinian youth was heard to say before a steady stream of rocks pounded him from behind.

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On a recent trip to the little man's room I came across a sign on the floor. It featured a stick man breakdancing on a yellow background above text which read as follows: "Cuidado: Piso Mojado". That's right, Spanish. And as every bi American knows, that's Spanish for "Look Out: I Pissed on the Floor". And that got me thinking, and I thought this: "Goddammit, how come everything's got to be in Spanish?" Quickly after that my thought changed to "Wait a minute, who's pissing on the floor?" but then after a moment of confusion it switched back to the Spanish thing. And I think I may be on to something here.

Since when do we as Ameyhicans have to bow to the whims of the Spanish-speaking minority? Personally I'm tired of it, and I think it's time I made a stand. The next time I pull up to the Taco Bell drive thru, you won't hear me ordering a "Burrito Supreme, Nachos and a Chalupacabra", I'm going to proudly demand a "Big-Assed Bean Sheath, Some Chips with Shit on Them, and One of Them Scary Fuckers From the X-Files". That's my right as an American. And they'd better not underfold it so the bottom blows out on my bean-sheath, either.

I was feeling rather proud of this resolution as I tried to decipher a pornographic limerick scratched into the bathroom stall (Anybody who knows the one about Swedes and weenies, email me at deeznuts@thecommune.com), when suddenly my thoughts began to change again. Once more, they drifted to the Cuidado sign, like closeted gays to a Ricky Martin concert. And as I pondered the sign's message, it occurred to me that this little sign says a lot about America today. How many times in a day does someone, in effect, tell you to Look Out, because they just pissed on your floor? Today I counted 87.

Now keep in mind, gentle reader, that I'm not talking about literal pissing here. And that non-literal pissing wasn't necessarily done on your literal floor, either. I'm talking about the constant letdowns of everyday life, the times when those who we count on fail us miserably and just shrug it off because it's become expected. Every time the Concorde slams into a baby farm outside of Paris or that kid at Wendy's gives you Iced Tea when you specifically asked for Lowenbrau, it's Cuidado: Piso Mojado. Any time a cop pulls you over because he thought you were black and makes you late to the six o'clock showing of "Charlie's Angels", Cuidado: Piso Mojado. Whether it's an alligator getting loose at the zoo and eating a clown or the Democrats barfing up Dukakis as their candidate in '88, it's all Cuidado: Piso Mojado.

Well I'm here to tell you one thing: that Omar Bricks' floor was not made for pissing. You can piss your own floor all the live-long day, and you won't see me trying to stop you. I believe it's even covered under the religious practices protection laws in some Southwestern states. But my floor is a strict no-pissing zone, and anyone who forgets that is liable to get a mop-handle up his ass with very little warning. Figuratively speaking, of course.

I implore you to take a similar stand. The next time you're on hold waiting to talk to a customer service representative, and have just listened to 32 straight minutes of Christmas carols on the classical guitar, only to have the system disconnect you just as you reach the head of the phone queue, don't just shrug and head for the mop. Demand accountability. Maybe you should send that company a package of unstable C4 blanketed in roofing nails. Will that get you more prompt service on the customer support line? Probably not, since the service reps will most likely have been reduced to hamburger and strewn over a quarter-mile of real estate immediately following the explosion. But someone, somewhere will take notice. Maybe the next pizza you order won't come in the box upside-down. Maybe those daycare kids will stop chanting "Stinky Butt! Stinky Butt!" when you walk by. Or maybe the mailman will stop crumpling your mail into a ball before he stuffs it into your mailbox. You'll never know until you try.

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Please, George, watch that disgusting mouth of yours. Nobody cares if it's the truth, they don't want to hear it anyway. The truth is not always beautiful, George, and in this case, it's positively sickening.

Do you really think anybody wants to hear about your medical history, your sexual proclivities, or a combination of either? No, George. Giving you the simplest, quickest answer: No, they don't. That sound you hear isn't the whisper of a freshly-created buzz, or catty town gossip. It's dry-heaving, and you've caused it, George.

Let's assume for one second you even had a reasonable excuse to mention you've recently begun taking that Cialis drug—and that's a big enough if, George. Bypassing that, was the look of disgust some clear signal you should proceed with the story, adding even more detail and description when possible? I think not. Did the way my face flushed red and the gasp that came out of my mouth, did these things beg for elaboration on your fascinating story about the dick pills? Because I personally fail to see the encouragement.

I was watching the crowd reaction, perhaps better than you were, and I didn't see anyone asking to hear about your erectile dysfunction, either with words, facial expressions, or body language. It's possible, I suppose, given that my eyesight is not what it used to be, some schmuck far in the back of the crowded room wore a T-shirt asking for you to tell us more about your floppy phallus, but we've had discussions before about you following the advice of a T-shirt before, so that certainly can't be it.

Maybe you assumed, incorrectly, people would be fascinated with the articulate description of your medical exam. Nope, George, a resounding nope. The image forced upon our minds of a doctor with his hands squeezing your furry scrotum is only slightly more appetizing that the unwelcome imagined sight of you with your pants around your ankles, your withered drumstick cranking up for action.

And if it needs saying, thank you so much for dragging me into your embarrassing reality. The fact we showed up together to the soiree, even forgetting our marriage of seemingly endless years, automatically leads people to assume you would be using that deadly medicated erection on yours truly. Did I warrant your hate so much as to make people think we have sex together? Not even on our best day together, George, not with a belly full of booze and a borrowed dick. But I hardly had time to explain that, did I? Agnes was too busy asking us to leave for me to assure her you and I have never even been naked in the same room together. And if only I could have gone a few more years, I'm sure death would have claimed me and I would have avoided the ugly prospect of having to imagine you unclothed. I want to check with your mother, bless her piteous soul, and make sure you actually were born naked. Even God would not be so cruel as to do that to a woman—perhaps you emerged from the woman with a seersucker suit made of placenta. It's the one thought that gives me hope for a heaven.

Everyone at the party lived in a happier world before you arrived. The mere notion that something resembling a penis lives in your pants is more than anyone should have to live with. I can never go back to the childlike innocence I once held, and even saying the word "erection" should bring me post-traumatic flashbacks for the rest of my life. A life, by the by, which will be dedicated to making you one hundred percent miserable from now on, of course. The game starts here, you dangling dandy.

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