Right, now I'm tired of hearing about Bin Laden, of the number of times people have mistakenly transposed his name with Obama's on Fox TV,
"Hey, Obama/Osama, same diff, right?"
of the theological debate among conservative Jews post Hillary being photoshopped out of the Situation Room pic, of Sarah Palin and her obsession with pussy (yeah, I know the expression includes 'footing' but…), of Osama's sexy young wife with the luscious lips, his cows and rabbits and all the chickens that came home to roost but are now probably a part of some Pakistani soldier's murg makhani meal.
This a recipe blog then?
I'm sick of reading about Navy Seal training programs that feature shots that would be perfect for the Bombay Dost centrefold, and of deciphering Obama's Americanese. I mean couldn't he have said: "Screw you, I'm POTUS and I'm not gonna show you the pix". Why all the spiking the football gyan, man?
Sick of that hideous Abbotabad poem too, though the one interesting person who's emerged out of the whole damn creep-into-a-sovereign-nation-and-steal-its-bargaining chip operation is Mr Sohaib Athar-live tweeter who's twitter bio suggests he was hiding out in the hills because he's some sort of techno yogi but was, for a whole week, the one person every journalist on the planet wanted to shake hands with. Careful, you know what techies do with their fingers during coding breaks. Two words: nasal cavity.
So the Navy Seals jumped into Pakistan, jammed the radars and shot the guy who was terrorizing dialysis machines in his quiet bungalow in the hills. Ah, but he wasn't, see? His young wife Amal al-Sadeh says he was a big strong man who was being treated with watermelon. This is why men must always marry virgins a quarter their age. They'll think any sex is good sex and they'll keep feeding you cut fruit too.
al-Sadeh: "All you need are nice melons!"
A cursory inspection of Bin Laden's medicine cabinet revealed that it was stuffed with medicines to treat boring conditions like ulcers and high blood pressure… and it contained a herbal Viagra, something called Avena syrup too, apparently an extract of wild oats - can't you just see some copywriter getting a hard on thinking of the lines he's gonna write for its campaign: 'Sow your wild oats with Avena'. Pure genius. Heeh. Of course, the sales of that thing are gonna go through the roof with or without corny ad copy.
Everyone at mall checkout: "Yes! TWO of those."
"Seems he was a family man," said the husband, who, I suspect, has great reserves of sympathy for anyone with a beard, no doubt as a result of wearing one himself. Anyway, I was watching the TIME clip of Osama watching himself on TV and thought, hey, the guy looks like someone's granddad, who was once a movie star, watching reruns of his old hits. Please, the pun is entirely unintended.
"Ah, those were the days. I was SUCH a killer."
And now, after Chomsky got into the act, I'm beginning to be a bit doubtful about Osama. I mean, was he really the guy who masterminded the bombing of the Twin Towers? Like, how do we know he was? We don't have footage of him like we do of Kasab sauntering around blowing up folks with that Kalashnikov he couldn't grab when the Navy Seals burst into his bedroom. Couldn't it all have been some diabolical CIA plan so they can eventually invade India. I mean that would be like completing Columbus' original mission, right? The guy lost his way and the Indians, the red ones including, ah, Geronimo, got fucked. Imagine what'd have happened if he had found his way. He'd have hung around here and started a whole new caste. All we needed. Brrrr.
"Damn those heathens!"
In between the wretched Osamafeva, the disappearance of the poor CM of Arunachal Pradesh went unnoticed. Right, watch the north east begin to sulk again: "Nobody pays attention to us. We don't even look like other Indians. They don't care about us. Irom Sharmila's been fasting for a decade but Hazare gets all the attention. Now Khandu dies and Osama gets all the attention!"
What can I say? Perhaps Manmohan Singh should call his buddy in the White House and plead with him to do some of that stealth operation stuff in this part of the south Asian neighborhood:
"Yo, Obama, it's the only way we'll get some unity in this country. Come na… plis?"
After all this, the one person I feel a strange sort of pity for is, no, not Osama, but Donald Trump.
Ah Donald, that birth certificate obsession was the reality show death of you.
Note: Manjula Narayan has, as usual, taken all the pictures off the net. She's shameless. She hopes, though, that the CIA won't storm her bedroom in revenge. Intimacy is hard enough with two kids in the house.