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Unfiled October 4, 2001
 
DITHHHHHPATCHES
By Mark Ames Browse author Email
 
 
Ames?

I am sitting in my apartment in Louisville, Kentucky, on the front lines in the battle against terrorism. I dare not venture out of doors -- it is simply too dangerous. The smell of fear is in the air, an odor so thick you can slice it with a box-cutter. Wait, sorry, that's not the smell of fear -- that's a fart. Heh-heh. I was at Taco Bell late last night and... aw forget it.

The main reason I'm not venturing outside has nothing to do with terrorism. A lesbian psychobitch named Linda is after me. I should have known not to believe her when she told me "I don't like dick." I guess she's never had Sephardic dick before. Now the hillbilly-dyke won't leave me alone. I get about ten voice mails a day from her, plus another twenty IDs on my Wal-Mart phone. She told me in one message, "I gotta piece of broken glass here from a Bud Light bottle, fuck'r, and I swear I'm gonna come over 'n cut yer fuckin neck with it." So folks, if I'm found face-first in a pool of my own blood, it wasn't Bin Laden's cells. It was just Bin-Linda, the hillbilly psychodyke who lives down the street. A final request: if I die, I hope Taibbi and McElwee lie for me, don't tell the world that I was killed by a lesbian armed with a Bud Light. Just say that I was done in by a hit team sent straight from Kabul, dressed in hillbilly drag, and that the Bud Light was cyanide-tipped, I didn't stand a chance...

The other thought that keeps me from heading outdoors is this: imagining a couple hundred mujahedin getting injected with Marburg (a highly contagious brain-hemorrhage virus related to Ebola) and smallpox, then sent across the Canadian border into Middle America to hang out in shopping mall food courts, browse through The Gap stores, lounge in Starbuck's sipping their Frappuccinos, riding the busses and subways, all the while, as Mohammed Atta's guidebook advised, "Smiling to everyone and behaving politely"... That would be the ultimate suicide mission, and would likely result in hundreds of thousands of the most gruesome deaths imaginable. It's that kind of scenario that has me veering closer towards Silvio Berlusconi's view of things, and I don't think I'm the only one.

I did venture outdoors on Sunday to witness the Formula One race in Indianapolis. We were in Granstand A, right in front of the pit stops. The speedway holds up to 300,000 people, or so I was told, making us the biggest target in America that day. Security barely checked our bags at the gates, even though I was unshaven and wearing a Serbian paramilitary T-shirt. A single hovering helicopter seemed to be our only air cover. Going to the Formula One reminded me of a simple truth about America: there are a lot of white people in this country. Lots and lots of them, more than I'd ever imagined. Hearty people, not like the whiny bitches on our coasts. The minute we got off the 465 loop, you saw all these soccer moms with permed brown hair in pressed white T-shirts, denims and white 'Bocks, holding out "Park Here" signs on the ends of broom handles. You'd pay twenty or thirty bucks to park on their lawns, which were already chewed from all the cheap SUVs and Mustangs parked there. Gotta wonder what they do with that 200 bucks at the end of the day: repair their lawns, I suppose. Most of the Indy crowd looked like Mr. Anderson, the old reactionary neighbor of Beavis and Butt-head, formless white faces and pear-shaped bodies, pulling up in their RVs with America flags poking out of their windows, walking around with tiny flags stuffed into the backs of their baseball caps. You couldn't see much once the race started -- those cars flew by our little patch of track in a blur once every minute and fifteen seconds, screaming like those giant mosquitoes from Starship Troopers. I fell asleep between laps 32 and 60, and woke up with a screaming headache when the announcer said, "It's getting exciting now!" I looked around: all the white people had these cheerless expressions on their faces. Most spectators held onto their Ferrari flags without bothering to wave them around. They stared off into space, grimly sipping their foam-covered cans of Foster's, clutching their Igloo mini-coolers... The same car that was in first place after lap 4 was still in first place at lap 64. But still, it was good to get outdoors, and to see all those white people.


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Ames
Browse author
Email Mark Ames at editor@exile.ru.
 
 
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