Ripped from today’s headlines, I had something planned about Moammar Gadhafi. I know whe have done the Moammar one before, but it is topical. Lewis had a joke one time that the reason that Gadhafi was so grumpy was becuase there was sand in Moammar’s underdrawers. I’d like to share it, but it was on my old computer that has long “bit” the dust.
Then saw this columnabout earthquakes and thought it was appropriate also. So, it’s the last Wednesday before game week, why not indulge a little? I won’t tell if you won’t. The news is filled with war and earthquakes, and Lewis shared his thoughts on both of those subjects.
Colonel Khadafy — The No. 1 El Freako
Throughout history there always has been at least one nut case loose who is trying to play havoc with the rest of the world.
There was Attila the Hun, of course. Great guy when you got to know him, said his best friend, Leroy the Hun, but he was bad to sack cities and rape and pillage.
(The term “rape” I am familiar with, but I’ve never quite known what you do when you sack a city or pillage whatever it is you pillage. I slept through most of the ancient history courses I had in high school.)
In more modern times we have had Hitler, Idi Amin and the Duvalier boys from Haiti.
But the No. 1 el freako in the world today has to be Col. Moammar Khadafy of Libya, who is so nutty he spells his last name six or seven different ways.
I’m not certain what it is Col. Khadafy wants. Attila the Hun wanted to rape, sack and pillage. Hitler wanted to rule the world.
Col. Khadafy apparently wants to be a large pain in the world’s behind. (I’m not certain where the world’s behind is, but Libya certainly would be one of my first guesses. New Jersey wouldn’t come until much later.)
If that is what Col. Nutso wants, he is doing a very good job of getting it. He’s in the papers most days, he’s on the tube most every night, and he has gotten so much attention as the world’s bad boy, he has become a household word. Like “toilet.”
I have observations about how we should handle the Colonel and the Libyan situation.
First, I think we should launch an investigation into the fact that Col. Khadafy looks very much like the baseball pitcher, Joaquin Andujar. We all know after watching the World Series last year in which Andujar, then with the St. Louis Cardinals, set a World Series record for throwing temper tantrums a la Khadafy, not to mention beanballs.
Could it be that Joaquin Andujar and Col. Khadafy are the same person? Have you ever seen them photographed together? If they are the same person, then all we have to do is get a few Marines to hide in the opposing team’s dugout one night and when Andujar-Khadafy walks in, the Marines could beat him with fungo bats until he promises to go back to Libya and hush.
Also, we could send him a year’s supply of Tylenol, or spread a rumor he has AIDS. We could send Frank Borman to run his personal finances, or we could get Dr. Jan Kemp to sue him.
I heard former Sen. Howard Baker of Tennessee, who might even become our next president, make a speech recently. He told a joke that isn’t a bad idea of how to handle Khadafy, either.
“One morning,” Baker began, “President Reagan called his aides and wanted them to bring John Hinckley Jr., who tried to assassinate him, to the Oval Office.
“When Hinckley arrived, the president said he had forgiven him and would order his release.
“Hinckley was overwhelmed. He said, `Thank you, Mr. President. Is there anything I could do to repay you for your kindness?’
“The president said, `Well, there is this one little thing.’ He took a folder out of his desk and pulled out a picture of Col. Khadafy.
“He said to Hinckley, `See this guy? He’s dating Jodie Foster . . .’ “
Earthquakes Frighten Me
LOS ANGELES – As soon as I stepped off the plane here in Los Angeles, I bought myself a newspaper. A word jumped off the front page at me. That word was “earthquake.”
There are lots of words that frighten me. “War” is one. “Snake” is another. And I’ve never been overly fond of “alimony,” either.
But earthquake: as in the ground opens and swallows you up.
The paper said that only one day before I arrived here, a quake registering 5.9 on the Richter scale had tossed Southern California hither and thither. There was a lot of damage, a few injuries, but nobody had been killed.
What really caught my attention, however, was the suggestion that continuing shock waves from the original earthquake might set off a few more in the next couple of days, the exact length of my visit.
I went directly back to the Delta counter to book myself the next available r eturn flight to Atlanta, where there never has been a recorded earthquake.
My traveling companion tackled me, however, and took away my wallet and credit cards. Quite reluctantly I ventured on to my hotel. Locals don’t fear quakes
I was assigned a room on the 11th floor.
“Do you have anything lower?” I asked.
“What did you have in mind?” said the clerk.
“A very secure metal vault in the basement,” I said.
The clerk laughed. “You’re afraid of another earthquake,” he said. “All our out-of-town guests are the same. But don’t worry. A 5.9 on the Richter scale is nothing.”
For years, scientists have been warning that there definitely is going to be a major earthquake in Southern California, a catastrophic earthquake that could cause the entire area to fall off into the Pacific Ocean. Scientists further say it could come at any time.
What is amazing, however, is the locals seem unconcerned.
“The last quake came at 2 in the morning,” a native was telling me. “I slept right through it.”
“I worry more about the smog or getting killed on the freeway than I do an earthquake,” said another. Taking a few precautions
Me, I’ve been the proverbial cat in a room full of rocking chairs for nearly 48 hours.
Everywhere I walked, I walked very slowly, making sure each step was on terra firma that wasn’t doing the boogaloo before I took another.
I’ve been very careful to notify waiters not to fill my coffee cup completely full. In case of a quake, I don’t want to spill hot coffee on myself.
Whenever I’ve waited on the street for a cab, I have tied myself to the nearest light post with my belt in case a tremor suddenly came and the flat horizon was suddenly downhill.
So far, so good. Southern California is still basically intact and so am I, and in just a few more hours, I will be out of here.
If I make it, thanks, Lord. If I don’t, tell my mother I remembered to brush every day and I never wore dirty underwear unless it was absolutely necessary.
“Don’t worry,” the hotel clerk had said. “A 5.9 on the Richter scale is nothing.”
It’s not the Richter scale that bothers me. It’s richter mortis.