So we finally got Osama Bin Rotten. I guess it's a good thing. At least we got him before we had to explain to an entire generation of Earthlings why the old skeez needed a good killing. It wouldn't have gone over nearly as well ten years from now. I can't help but picture viral footage of a crazed, gray-bearded freak, hunched over the handle bars, boney elbows boney poking up as he attempts to make good his escape by out-maneuvering half a dozen Apache helicopters in a his Jazzy scooter. I'd have to say that vengeance does have something of a shelf-life.
I thought Obama's big announcement was just a tad Twilight Zone. Here he comes walking down this long corridor. "My fellow Americans – I got him. That's right the "Big O" is O vvverrr. At approximately 10:41 Pakistan Time a highly skilled Navy Seals unit under my direction infiltrated his compound and uh, well - blew on his soup. It was pretty rad – the fellas are callin' me the Abaddabad-ass. Great soldiers. Swell kids. Anyway . . . later." Then he strolls away swinging his arms all cool. Did you notice how he kind of drifted to the left as he walked away. Guess it's a Democrat thing. Just like this campaign rhyme I'm ‘bout to bust –"My boy Obama, he got Osama, without no Drama, No Shock and Awe-ma. So tell yo Momma, to Vote Obama!
Y'gotta love the Pakistani officials – "Osama bin who?" "Again Mr. Ilasskum Hufahrttud, for the record sir, did you know that Bin Laden was hiding in your country?" "Well . . . Al Qinda. Still, we cannot condone the murder of anyone upon Pakistani soil. Especially when the rent he pay double our Gross National Product." They claimed they didn't know he was there. Come on, he was there for 5 years, in this Ramada bada Inn – not only the world's most wanted man, but the tallest Muslim dude, like, ever. Unless you count Kareem.
The passage of 10 years makes us forgetful as to the heinous nature of his crimes. Thousands of people lost their lives, in ways that make water-boarding look like Swedish massage. They were all heroes and if Bin Laden's death gives their loved-ones some satisfaction or closure then who are we to second guess it. A part of me wishes those Seals would've shot the Talibastard in the nuts and let him die of natural causes. Speaking of bitterness, worse than not having the Jazz take part in the playoffs at all, is to sit and helplessly witness the Bulls (the jack-Jazz) vie for the ring. In case you don't follow the hoopla, I speak of the loathsome Chicago Bulls. A team that will forever live in infamy in the hearts of Utah sports fans. How could our suffering be any more exquisite? Boozer, Korver, Brewer all sporting Satan's favorite color and effortlessly knocking down the shots that they struggled so desperately to convert here in Utah? At least Miami put them out of our misery. Proving that The Heat organization possessed the superior corporate strategy.
Da Bulls, whom few of us can forget, managed to snuff out Utah's dreams of hoop-world supremacy - two years in a row! Now we're being asked to abide the indignity of having 3 expatriate Jazzmen join their foul ranks. Talk about B.S. As the French would say, the whole damn thing stinks as bad as the leaky cesspool down at the bottom of Shit Street. It's been well over a decade, but those of us who listened closely as the dejected Jazz left the court amid the unholy celebration in Chicago, will never forget what we heard. Yea verily, just beneath the crowd's raucous revelry on that long ago Illinois night, there was another sound - a sound so chilling, so unGodly that it could only be the diabolical laughter of the ghost of Governor Lillian Boggs. "Go back to hell you fat evil bastard."
If we're being honest with ourselves (which is not always advisable) it's highly unlikely that such an opportunity will present itself again before the world goes to hell in a Hummer and Jesus comes back. What are the chances of acquiring another hall-of-fame duo who play brilliantly, never miss a game in 17 seasons, are acknowledged as the best to've ever played their respective positions and whose phenomenal teamwork was the first to be memorialized in the form of a car dealership.
Enough with the self pity, and prepare yourself for another of the Boneman's Laws or Human Behavior. I've recently discovered that all human beings except younger children and, of course, the French, can be divided into two basic types. A.) People, like me, who care very much about what other people think of them; and B.) People who really couldn't give half a squirt of rat-piss about what anybody thinks of them. I formulated this theory during Sacrament meeting this past week when a woman, whose remarks I very much enjoyed, failed in her attempt to upgrade the way she is perceived by others, by exceeding the boundaries of her vocabulary and misused a few fancy words. In her ill-fated attempt for increased acceptance she mistakenly substituted the word "magnanimous" for magnificent. Perhaps reasoning that magnanimous must mean really, really magnificent. Which is not the case at all. Thus by telling us about the absolutely magnanimous experience she'd enjoyed she exposed her A-ness in a way that was both embarrassing and, for me, very enlightening. As her minor faux pas gave birth to the theory of A-B Socio-Personal Aggrandizement Gradient. Or ABSPAG.
The woman's Type-A nature proved even more valid as the unfortunate pioneer of my theory would go on to misuse the word "myriad," (which is certainly forgivable as it is the most commonly misused "fancy word" in the English language). Thus I would advise pretty much everybody As and Bs alike - to leave myriad alone. It's a very tricky word. The gap between "pretty sure what it means" and "using it correctly in a sentence" is vast. Step not into it.
ABSPAG is the perfect companion for Facebook lovers. You can go right down your list of friends and label them A's or B's. It's as simple as looking at the photos they post of themselves. Case in point - my page: with rare exception do I post anything but flattering photos that make me appear young and sexy. (If indeed these adjectives can rightfully be applied in my case.) If I knew how to work Photoshop I'd probably even touch myself up a little. Touch myself up, it's not what you think Mom – I'm just using the bathroom. On the other side of the coin, my wife. She could give a flying fiddlers three. She posts photos of herself where she's asleep with food in her mouth, whatever. She could seriously be the poster-girl for B-ness. She just Does Not Care. I really cannot imagine how liberating that must be.
Facebook is cool but it can be a little creepy. Like some dark force that sucks up your spare time like a blackhole sucks up, y'know space, stuff. I'll hop on their in the evening to respond to a few friend requests and maybe make a clever post or two and the next thing I know it's like 2:27 a.m. and I'm starving. Plus the main reason I go on the Book is to check out how my old friends and classmates are aging. I'll marvel at the ones who seem to look the same as they did back in the day, and derive some sort of sick happiness at the ones whom time has really done a number on. That's why it's called Facebook. Come on, show us your face, man - no fair using old photos, don't you have a phone - Gs?
In that sense Facebook serves the same purpose as High School Class Reunions, at its core it's about "Revenge of the Unpopular." "Hey Prom queen, that's me at the lake in my house boat, you shouldn't have ignored me in Biology class, because I paid attention and now I'm a rich doctor. Plus I grew into that nose by working out at the gym that I own. Oh no, looks like Mr. popular jock-dude with the bitchin' truck lost all his hair – darn that. Well at least he made up for it by getting fat."