The Peace Moonbeam Chronicles

Leftist Love

February 24, 2006

Caracas, Venezuela

I haven't had much luck in the romance department lately, so I was thrilled to receive an invitation to visit probably the sexiest and smartest politician in the world, Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez! Evidently, when things didn't work out with Peace Mother Sheehan, she told him about me and the rest is history. Imagine my surprise when I learned President Chavez's best friend and the all-time greatest freedom fighter ever, Fidel Castro, would also be visiting! I was so excited, I just about peed myself! I was off the next day.

After arriving in Caracas, I was chauffeured to Miraflores, the presidential palace. Wow, that place is really nice! Except for the old appliances, rusted cars on blocks, and chickens out front, it looked just like I imagined a palace should look. I was shown to the "Belafonte Suite," and informed that dinner with the president and his royal guest would be at seven p.m.

I entered the grandiose dining room and there before me were the two most enlightened leaders of our time, politely standing as I was seated across from them. Both men were extremely handsome in their military outfits, each festooned with colorful ribbons and lots of gleaming medals. I happened to notice the word "Typing" on one of President Chavez's medals, and "Backstroke" on another. Wow. Both men insisted I call them by their first names and dinner went from formal to friendly very quickly.

Although I don't speak Spanish, Fidel's interpreter did a great job communicating our thoughts and the three of us had a lively discussion. After several glasses of champagne, we were having the best time! Hugo was hilarious as he put a slice of black olive on his front teeth and did a killer impersonation of Condi Rice. Later, he and Fidel recounted the wonderful moments they had enjoyed with many of Hollywood's most famous people. I was starstruck! I also couldn't help but notice the way Hugo was devouring me with his smoldering dark eyes.

Finally, with dinner over, I got up to leave and noticed a folded piece of paper on the floor under the table. Once back in my room, I opened it and read, "My darling, how I long for your touch. I'll see you in my room later." It was signed "Huggy." My head was spinning as I had a vision of myself waving to admiring crowds from the palace balcony just like Madonna in "Evita."  "Presidential wife Peace Chavez" - I liked the sound of that!

Around eleven, I left in search for Huggy's room with my heart beating like a jackhammer. As I approached a door at the end of the hallway I heard soft music and knew I was at the right place. I quietly slipped inside the bedroom. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw something that burned itself into my memory like a laser beam from hell. There was Hugo dressed in a thong and high heels, being ridden around the room by Fidel, who was clad only in his underwear, combat boots, and a little pink cowboy hat! I think that may have been a cigar in his hand but I'm not absolutely sure, and sure as heck wasn't going to hang around to find out. I ran back to my room and took three hot showers before I felt clean.

Look, I'm as liberal as anyone and really enjoyed "Brokeback Mountain,"  but there was something about that scene that was just so very, very wrong. How could I be so naive to believe Hugo would be attracted to me, when he could embrace (and caress, etc.) larger leftist things with that Commie stud, El Presidente?

I hate men. I'm going home.

The Texas NeoCon Massacre

February 17, 2006

Corpus Christi, Texas

How could I stay at home after one of the most powerful and evil men in the world goes on a murderous rampage, indiscriminately shooting innocent civilians and quail? My assistant, Scooter, and I headed to Texas to protest bloodthirsty Dick Cheney, hunting, and guns - three things that make me crazy. We planned to do some "guerrilla theater" with Scooter playing a quail and the guy who gets shot, and me playing the VP, wearing a Cheney mask I had leftover from another protest. Scooter modified a chicken costume into a pretty good quail outfit and made a sign that said "Quit Killing Me." He also had some catsup in a baggie to splatter all over himself after I "shot" him with my cardboard gun. This was going to be front page stuff, for sure!

We flew into Corpus Christi, rented a car, and headed for the Armstrong Ranch where Cheney's psycho shoot-fest had taken place, and where a huge contingent of news people was covering the story. During the drive we rehearsed our lines and smoked a couple of joints to help us get into character. We figured we would park a distance away, sneak into the compound, find out where CNN was set up, and stage our dramatic "protest theater" in front of them. Hopefully, if everything went well, the various news groups would want to interview us, giving us an opportunity to also speak out against the war, Mohammed cartoons, marijuana laws, and other important stuff. We left the car in a secluded area about a half-mile from the ranch parking lot where all the news vehicles were gathered. After helping Scooter get into his costume, then donning my hunting outfit and Cheney mask, we headed for our target area, a clearing in front of the media camp.

When we were ready, I jumped into the clearing and yelled, "I'm Dick Cheney, I'm drunk, and I'm lookin' to shoot some defenseless quail!!" At this point, Scooter the quail would run out and I would blow him to smithereens, he'd fall back into the brush, rip off the costume, and douse himself with catsup-blood. Scooter would then stagger back into the scene as the innocent civilian screaming, " That drunken bastard Dick Cheney carelessly shot me!" The only problem was, in my excitement I forgot to pick up my gun! Fortunately, Scooter was paying attention, and brought it with him when he ran out to do his bit. This is the point where someone shouted, "OH MY GOD, THAT GIANT QUAIL IS TRYING TO KILL THE VICE PRESIDENT!!!" Oh, crap! I turned to run but the next thing I knew, security guys came out of nowhere and threw me to the ground, then fell on top of me while gunshots rang out all over the place! I poked my head out from under the pile to see a screaming Scooter running through the brush in a hail of gunfire, his tattered quail costume exploding into a cloud of feathers every time a shot found its mark. They finally quit shooting at him when someone found his quail head in the forest amid a pool of catsup and feathers.

As it turned out, Scooter got away with his life and about a pound of bird shot. He had so much metal in him, we couldn't get him through airport security and had to take the bus back to California. It was almost 24 hours before our story and Scooter's condition were released to the press but it didn't matter, as they were concerned only with what happened to the giant quail. Oh well.

         

Sorry, My Islamabad!

February 10, 2006

Islamabad, Pakistan

With the understandable outrage over the blasphemous cartoons tearing apart the Middle East, I felt I had to lend my support to my Islamic brothers and sisters. I chose my friend Scooter to accompany me on a trip to Islamabad, Pakistan, where we were to join the locals in protesting western infidels who make a mockery of the religion of peace. Since Scooter has an art degree, I put him in charge of creating our signs while I contacted a friend with connections to the protest leaders. I also tried to get hold of Peace Mother Sheehan, but was told she was at the Cancun Club Med with Hugo Chavez - too bad, she loves this kind of thing. The next morning, we were on our way.

After arriving at Islamabad Airport, we were greeted by Mullah Abdul Haree Azcrak, one of the leading local religious leaders. I was shocked to see Scooter wearing a turban and what must be the fakiest beard ever. I can only assume Scooter was just trying to fit in, but he looked absolutely ridiculous. Anyway, Mullah Azcrak didn't seem to notice, and warmly thanked us for coming to show solidarity with them against the decadent Europeans. Up close, the old guy smelled like a sweat-soaked wheel of brie, aged in a porta-potty. After telling us where to meet them the next morning, he had a car take us to our hotel where we rested up for the big day.

We arrived in front of the Danish embassy early. I was wearing a burqa and Scooter had on one of those native nightshirt-type things called a salwar kameez, his turban, and that stupid beard. I had him assemble our signs while I went to pick up some of the assorted European flags they were handing out to burn. Scooter had also brought a U.S. flag from home, knowing it would be a real crowd favorite, once aflame.

Finally Al-Jazeera News showed up, and with cameras in place, the mullah started inciting the crowd using a bullhorn. I didn't know what he was saying, but it really got the locals worked up, as the whole crowd started jumping up and down while screaming and shooting guns into the air. Why can't our people learn to protest like this?

Scooter handed me my sign and it looked like something a two-year-old would make. It said "We (heart) Muhamed!" Not only did he misspell "Muhammad," the moron couldn't even make the heart right, it looked like a red trapezoid or something. I disposed if it and joined the noisy, sweaty mob. Taking my cue from others, I torched a Danish flag, then whacked it into little flaming bits with one of my sandals while yelling at the top of my lungs - it was great fun!

Everything was going well until my attention was drawn to an even greater disturbance beside me, and what sounded like my partner squealing like a pig getting a prostate exam! I looked around and saw Scooter, beard hanging from one ear, trying to shield himself from a flurry of sandals and fists with his sign, the obvious source of his problem. Unbelievably, it featured a picture of Jesus wearing a crudely pasted-on turban! Oh good God! The "Your #1" slogan under the picture apparently did little to placate the lunging jihadists as they attempted to tenderize Scooter with about a million smelly sandals. Also, the fact he was waving an American flag and a book of matches in the other hand probably didn't help much, either. The last I saw of him, they had wrapped him in the flag, set him on fire, and were using him as a battering ram on the embassy door.

Fortunately, the army arrived and saved Scooter, although he did come away with some nasty burns on his legs and a concussion. In my opinion, he deserved to die for being stupid enough to think he could pass off Jesus in a turban as the exalted prophet. I was this close to killing him myself.

The good news is the embassy was wrecked, about 100 little flags were burned, and Muhammad's honor restored. We're outa here.

   

American Gulag

February 4, 2006

Guantanamo Bay, Cuba

Hello from Cuba, one of the few enlightened countries in this part of the world. This week I joined several women from Amnesty International on their investigative mission to the dastardly U.S. gulag at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.

To show respect to these imprisoned and oppressed freedom fighters, we decided to wear burqas and brought a few Holy Qurans and ornate prayer rugs to hand out. I have never worn a burqa, and have to say it was awfully confining and hot, as the only ventilation was through the little screen area where you look out.

Before seeing the prisoners, we went to the kitchen to inspect their meals being prepared and were disgusted by what we found. First of all, the appetizer was simply unacceptable as the shrimp were small and the presentation uninspired. The main course was "lis-san el qua-thi" (eggplant wrapped meat) and was clearly an attempt to torture these poor men as the portions were meager and served on flimsy paper plates. The final humiliation was the dessert "katayef " - there was hardly any syrup and the cook's attempt at garnishment with orange slices was clumsy and poorly executed. We sampled the meal and although it didn't taste that bad, we were shocked and disgusted by the fact it was served luke-warm.

This all went into our report. As we toured the facility, it became obvious these men were being mistreated. Cells were small and the furniture was mismatched. I personally saw a plaid bedspread paired with striped pillow shams in one cell and in another noticed the drapes were filthy. One prisoner described the cheap single-ply toilet paper and toothpaste without fluoride they are forced to use. Another claimed the only cologne provided is Old Spice and that he's forced to wear boxers even though he's a briefs man. Outrageous! Among other violations, we noticed some cockroaches, frayed carpeting, and poor reception on several televisions.

Midway through our inspection I suffered a distressing side effect of the ethnic food in the form of an unexpected and severe case of intestinal distress. My discomfort was elevated by the lack of ventilation in my burqa and I started getting light-headed due to the lack of "clean" air. After a prolonged restroom break, I felt a little better and was allowed into a cell to present Qurans to the senior holy man and his cell mates.

I was careful to wear gloves so as not to sully the holy book with my "infidel" hands. Unfortunately, my gesture of good will got a little sidetracked as I went to hand the book to the grizzled old holy man. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the biggest sewer roach I've ever laid eyes on, hanging off the side of his turban! I have an insane fear of bugs and before I could even think, I two-handed the Holy Quran upside his head. Needless to say, Abdul dropped faster than Saddam's net worth as his cell mates lunged at me! I screamed for the guard as one jihadist held me while another furiously tried to decapitate me! Thank God all he had was a toothbrush, although by the time the guards pulled him off me, I had severe bristle burns on the back of my neck, which almost required immediate attention. I survived, but was badly shaken.

I understand a fatwa has been issued against me and I've been forced into hiding. I guess it was to be expected in light of the fact that I am now as guilty as the U.S. military of torturing these innocent civilians, something I deeply regret.

     

Story idea by reader "Billy Bob" (watusijoe). Thank you!