Thelma
Big Apple Blues and a UN Report Card
My darling Ma-hinder,
Dear old fruit. How spiffing to renew our correspondence. There you are, I mean to say, bunging some correspondents in the slammer, booting the rest out of ole Paradise, and squeezing the lifeblood out of others, and now here we both are, corresponding away like two texting teenagers whose phone tabs are picked up by Daddy dearest.
And here I was, hanging over my balcony contemplating the skyline while sucking on a flute of Dom Perignon when I happened, as you may well imagine often happens with those who suck on expensive dew at ungodly hours hanging over 18th floor balconies, to be reminded of a surprising news item which seemed to insinuate as news items sometimes do, that Wee Wee had been frolicking in front of the UN building in the Big Apple surrounded by a dozen of his most ardent fans. No specific mention was made but it was alluded to that there was hopping on the street and skipping on the sidewalk.
The word at the jumping jitterbug – the local pub down the avenue was that Wee Wee seemed to be a little rattled – but what else can one expect from a rattle snake. Given that this third rate cabinet minister of yours – no doubt considered in your circles as a dangerous intellectual – had spent about 4 million of the tax payers moolah to wing it on first class together with his son to participate in a ceremony at the UN marking 2600 years of Buddhism, there seemed nothing for it but to get rattled.
It is hard to pin point the exact reason for Wee Wee’s discombobulation except to speculate that perchance his little party to mark the second anniversary of the end of the war – hadn’t yielded the desired results. There he was in a red T shirt looking like the before photograph of an advertisement for indigestion, microphone at the ready and no one to listen.
I have no knowledge of the turn out at Wee Wee’s revels at home in Paradise when the little woman decides to don the old apron, cook a pittu, pol sambal and fish curry, and throw open the doors to the masses, but I can well imagine Wee Wee eagerly looking forward to a turn out of at least a few thousand and being faced with a massive number of fourteen. He probably felt like the King who gave a lavish wedding feast for his son, prepared the fatted calf, served the oxtail soup only to find that the invited guests preferred to weed the garden and tend the family business.
Whether Wee Wee, like the biblical monarch, sent out if not his servants then at least the Paradisian UN Permanent Representative and his Deputy to gather up one and all from the streets to attend the feast as an afterthought I have no information on, but let me tell you it had only been two weeks since the people of the Big Apple had had a party of their own – celebrating the end of some bally bearded poop of the nincom variety holed up in an abbatoir or was it ……abbottabad.
Be that as it may, they were tired. Ergo, Wee Wee’s little party held no real charm. Thellie herself may have been persuaded to put on her credit crunch chic stilletoes and clippetty clop down to meet Wee Wee and lend support but it was not my day of the week to meet and greet with the lower orders.
Ah well rank is but a credit card…or was it guinea stamp? Anyway the reason I’m told that Wee Wee had lost his pep to pop was because you were not there darling to feed him Maliban Marie biscuits. Nor were you present to gently cradle his oily head in your ham like palm and place a glass of water to his parched lips. Which as you recall is exactly the type of domestic ministering you did when his claque surrounded the UN building in Colombo last year and the Wee wee himself went on a hunger strike. It doesn’t seem to have done him much good darling. His tummy looks positively engorged. That’s the only word for it.
The glitch my old former amateur dictator, is that you are burning the UN candle at both ends. On the one hand you are calling upon it to protect you as a member state, you eat the cookies it provides and welcomes the aid it offers, on the other hand – and there is always another hand darn it, you will not recognize its reports and findings.
I mean to say darling if on an occasion, your bitter half Shiranthi while puttering around in the jam cabinet of a Saturday morning were to find that her best mulberry jam had been reduced to a smear around the bottle top and consequently found the general factotum Sumana, sitting at the kitchen table holding a spoon full to the bally brim with the red stuff and wiping her snout with your damask table cloth, wouldn’t you come to a reasonable conclusion about who had been attacking the jam cabinet?
Now if ole Shiro were to confront said General F and say with a stern lilt to her otherwise musical voice, ‘GF did you or did you not attack the Jam cupboard last night’ and the GF totally denying this also refused to open her mouth for Shiro to take a decko, what would Shiro think? That’s all I ask. What could she think?
If as you have said at numerous election meetings, your chaps fought the war with a gun in one hand and a copy of the UN declaration of Human Rights in the other, what’s the bally problem? I may have only a toehold on the principles of criminal law darling but generally if the police is chasing you and you keep running away it is reasonable to conclude that the coppers have got their man.
While I’m at it, recall that blot on your escutcheon, Lasantha Wickrematunge? Bright as a button he was. Wrote this and that and went hither and yon about corruption and Human Rights violations. Remember that unfortunate little accident on his way to work? In a moment of grim jocularity, you even referred to him as your particular friend. Whatever could have happened to that investigation darling? And there you are telling us journos to go along with all the piffle you serve up for public consumption. Really m’dear! You are probably someone who would have said go along with it while goose-stepping in Poland in 1939.
Here’s the thing old sock. Take Herod for instance. Lovely fellow. Gave stellar parties, danced a mean fox trot, adored music, appreciated the arts. And then one day he massacres just the merest tiny batch of Jewish babies and suddenly that’s all people can remember. Dashed unfair I know. But there you have it.
My significant other now deceased would often tell me that if I tortured that metaphor anymore I’ll be in a tribunal in the Hague.
Hmm! Guess who else might be?
Tara ra for now
Thellie Bellie
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4 Comments to “Big Apple Blues and a UN Report Card”
September 26, 2011 at 10:32 am
Super! Super!! Super!!!
August 12, 2011 at 4:14 am
You pretty much said what i could not effectively communicate. +1
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August 15, 2011 at 5:24 am
I entered UR site but the language used is not English.Have u got a site that is in English?
August 11, 2011 at 5:18 am
A dangerous business, hanging over a balcony and sucking on a flute of Don Perignon ONE TOO MANY AND U MIGHT TOPPLE OVER THE BALCONY RAILINGS..Ur writings are hilarious but at the same time very entertaining and contain hidden messages.I ALWAYS ENJOY READING UR WRTINGS.THANK U.