Americans Kind of Disappointed Al-Qaeda Hasn't Struck Again

n the two-year anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York City, many Americans marvel that in spite of the unanimously dire predictions of future attacks from the nation’s experts, the group thought to be responsible, Al-Qaeda, has been so quiet since. Too quiet.

“Weren’t we supposed to be writhing in the streets like the imperialist dogs we are by now?� questioned Doug Breiner of Minneapolis. “I thought for sure they would have nuked a bridge or drove an Amtrak train into the Sears Tower or something by now. What gives?�

“Don’t get me wrong, I mean, I’m glad nobody’s died or anything,� explained Breiner. “I’m not a sicko. But I’m kinda pissed we’ve been all worried for so long with no kind of payoff. It’s like hiding in your basement from a tornado all night and then finding out the guy on the news was talking about a Oldsmobile Toronado or something. Just kind of a pisser, sort of.�

The same sentiment has been echoed all across the country, as Americans come to grips with their lives not coming to a flaming, catastrophic end at any time during the last two years.

“Yeah, what the hell have those guys been up to?� asked an indignant Maury Jackson of Inkster, Michigan. “I guess maybe we overestimated them, I didn’t think they were the kind of terrorist organization that would just rest on their laurels after making a big splash. But I guess fame changes people. You know, that inner fire kinda fades out or whatever. It’s too bad, really. Hey, is it true Quentin Tarantino’s got a new movie coming out?�

Countless Americans remember with an air of awed nostalgia the many colorful ways security experts and politicians told them they would die only two short years ago. From jet-fuel infernos to anthrax-laced crop dusters, poisoned water reservoirs, truck bombs at day-care centers, botulism-infected milk hosed on toddlers, kamikaze suicide bombers at the GAP and nuclear power plants infiltrated by really smart Al-Qaeda moles, American security experts took an almost perverse glee in detailing the many varieties of heart-exploding terror that would inevitably follow in the wake of 9/11.

“I guess they’re probably pretty distracted now that we blew up their country and stuff,� mused NYU junior Patsy Washington about Al-Qaeda. “Which is good I guess. But it would’ve been kinda cool to see what crazy shit they dreamt up next, you know? Somebody told me they were gonna hide razor blades in all our toilet paper, that would’ve been nuts.�

“I guess it was inevitable that after a while all those constant terror alerts that never put out would lose their impact,� said retiree Sharon Henline, stroking her Yorkshire terrier. “Tell you the truth, at this point I’m more worried about that black guy who hangs out by the pay phone down on the corner. He looks kinda shady.�

That black guy who hangs out by the pay phone down on the corner, Tyrell Hughes, expressed similar sentiments. “Al-Qaeda? Nah man, fuck Al-Qaeda. How’ve I got time to worry about that when I’ve got some crazy bitch siccing her little dog on me every morning when I’m waiting for my ride to work? Damn.�

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No one wanted it to come to this. Sure, if you checked with Arvelyn, or my other ex-wife, several of my children, or anybody on the commune staff, a number of them may have wanted it to come to this. But no one I like wanted it to come to this: A duel to the death.

I have besmirched the name of Boguslaw Sadowski, and it's no small feat to besmirch his name, given he's a dirty red con-man, heartless thug, and general bad cookie. But the time for words has passed, at least until we resume the slander trial. I for one won't wait that long. The duel is ten days from now. One of us will be dead by the time that trial rolls around, making it a lot easier case for the other guy. Though the survivor will get stuck with court costs, that's no free lunch.

The besmirching in question began two days ago, when I came home to find Boguslaw Sadowski in my home, talking to my wife in that unintelligible Russian blather they both know. Mob boss and Sting-lookalike Yogi explained to me Boguslaw would be moving in for the next few forevers, or until he could find his own place. Well, something snapped in me, good people, probably a couple of lower vertebrae, and I lost another inch in height. That I'm used to, but being made a fool of in my own home, and being completely aware of it, that's something I'm not. As if to make things worse, I noticed Boguslaw, talking to Felchyana still, make the international hand symbol for asshole, which I won't share with you decent folk here.

That was it, I was incensed. I grabbed the nearest thing I could and threw it at the mad Russian, a bucket of confetti I keep on hand for emergency purposes. At first Boguslaw was delighted, then he realized the intended insult and was driven into a mad rage. He threatened to cut off the fingers of all my living children in response, which I laughed off—if he's got that sort of time, good luck to him, right? Then he decided it was more effective to pick me up by the ankles and hang me out my own window.

Well, I've been hung out windows by better than he and didn't bat an eye, but the insult of doing it to me in my own house, in front of my non-English-speaking wife, and revealing my unsightly ankles to the whole world. Boguslaw Sadowski made an enemy for life that day, good people, and the difference now is I told him to his face. I slapped him with a glove I keep for duel challenges, and it left quite a welt, being a rubber surgical glove. I then pulled it taut and snapped it in his face, and his eye has been bandaged ever since—hopefully that will effect his aim quite a bit. Since we are dueling in ten days, as I aforementioned.

You all know I am not afraid of death, when it is happening to someone else. In this case, though it comes for me, I will stand proud against it. Boguslaw Sadowski may fire an endless barrage of bullets in my direction, though technically that will be against all the rules of the duel, and I will not falter. If he tries to kill Felchyana and Camembert and Lee, I will not weaken. If he kills my ex-wife Arvelyn I may even send him a nice thank-you note and an FTD bouquet. But whatever happens, no matter how logic argues with me, I will not back down from this challenge.

For I have been insulted with an obscene hand gesture by a man who barely speaks the language, good people. And some things defy common sense. Rok Finger are one of those things.

º Last Column: The Return of Boguslaw Sadowski
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Well, I'm not quite sure how it happened, but another baseball season is upon us. It keeps coming back, like crabs, or that movie about the dog and cat that got lost and came back like crabs. But however it came about, we have to deal with it now, and the best way I know how is in detailing how much everyone is going to suck this year.

Let me get my first 2006 prediction out of the way early: Everybody is going to lose a lot of games this year. Take that to the bank. Even the best team in the league is going to have their pants handed to them at least sixty painful times this season. Sixty long, excruciating, face-first swan dives into mountains of Chihuahua shit, guaranteed. That's the dirty little secret about baseball that the league doesn't want you to know: Everybody stinks.

So the real debate is over who's going to be the least embarrassing team to follow this season, pretending like you've been a fan for years while your hometown nine brings new levels of meaning to the phrase "forcefully violated."

For starters, everyone's favorite dickweed, A.J. Pierzynski, hopes to lead his Chicago White Sox to a repeat of last season's improbable championship run, a feat made more difficult by the unlikelihood of the stars being lined up in asshole favor two years in a row. My prediction is the Bite Sox win six games all year. Some may find this unrealistically pessimistic, but they just don't play the Royals enough times for me to hope for better. Sorry, Sox fans, I'd fear your reaction if most of you weren't already safely behind bars.

Then of course there's the Yankees, but like I said, the assholes of the world used up all their good karma last year, which also bodes poorly for the White House in 2006. Once the Yankees' old-as-Moses rotation goes down in flames by mid-season, Yankee fans will be wishing for Small Wang, and that's never a good thing. Better to cut your losses and start rooting against the Mets now, Yankee fans.

Everybody loves the Cardinals, of course, and by that I mean everyone in St. Louis, by decree of the king. Didn't know St. Louis had a king? They're lousy with kings down there, so much so that they have to start handing out qualifiers, like "King of Beers" and "King of March-June." Slavish devotion to the Cards is required of everyone in St. Louis, as their city crumbles around them, but nobody in the rest of the country gives two shits on a bun. The rest of us settle in to watch the Cardinals stomp so much ass during the regular season that by the playoffs they're tired and roll over like Beethoven on recalled vertigo medication.

The Red Sox replaced a guy who looks like Jesus with a guy who sounds like cereal, which is only a good trade if the Jesus-looking guy is the dude from Blind Melon. Spoiler: It wasn't. While they were at it they tarred and feathered Edgar Renteria and smuggled him out of the city in a burlap sack, all for playing shortstop the whole of last season with a catcher's mitt. They brought in Josh Beckett to complete their impressive collection of "pitchers who once stomped the shit out of the Yankees but aren't that good any more." And as a final touch, they were able to trade the guy from Linkin Park to the Reds for Willy Mo Pena, all because some guy from the Twins doesn't like hitting.

As a side note, I'm sure the thought has crossed all of your minds that they should just fold the Twins and Reds together, either ending up with an unstoppable juggernaut or else a team that can't pitch or hit, depending on how the meld works out. Entertaining either way, I say: Either we get a team that will pants the Yankees big-time or somebody to fool the Marlins into thinking they have a chance, which would be funny in its own way.

So who wins this year? What's the name of that minor league team that started selling those bacon cheeseburgers on a donut? No, I'm not avoiding the question, I'm just hoping to convince my heart to put me out of my misery before I have to sit through another entire goddamned 12,078 game season. Seriously? You want a straight answer? All right: Barry Bonds wins, at least until a vain, insufferable steroid monster bursts out of his chest five years from now and starts talking about OBP and bitching about the media. Already happened? Well then, I guess we all lose.

º Last Column: Joy in Mudville (Thanks, A-Rod)
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