We Can All Use A Good Laugh Once In A While, Especially When The Joke's On Them, Not Us...

It's kind of been a very miserable situation out there in Israel the past few days, the Gaza Strip in particular, with all the settlers having to relocate, just so the Palestinian people can get what is rightfully theirs and rather than try to comment on a situation that i have mixed feelings about, I've decided to run a piece of prose that I originally ran on March 31 of this year in a blog entitled, "Art Is None Of My Business." We can all use a good laugh once in a while, especially when the joke's on them, not us...

History Makes Strange Bedfellows AKA The True Ballad Of How Dr Jack Kevorkian Tried To Revive The Comatose Life Of Yasser Arafat & Failed Miserably

“No prison can hold me in time of need. Gotta go help my friend dying in a Paris bed. Gotta go fix him good, so he don’t wind up dead,” Dr. Jack Kevorkian to reporters in Paris, on why he escaped a Michigan state penitentiary in early morning hours of November 10, 2004.

This here’s the story of how Dr. Jack Kevorkian tried to alter history, but instead made it miserable for his late dear friend Yasser Arafat. It’s a true story, I swear to Allah…

Late one night in prison cell two, Dr. Jack was kickin’ back with nothin’ better to do, when suddenly he received a telekinetic message from his old friend Yasser, calling out, “Come to Paris right away! I need you!”

Well, Dr. Jack didn’t have time to pack. He slipped through the bars and made his escape.

Meanwhile, back at the penitentiary, the floodlights went up, the dogs were a-sniffin’ about as badly as watching old Scottie Pippin limping off a basketball court. They wrote the report & then came that old familiar sound: Calling all cars! Calling all cars! The greatest manhunt ever assembled & manifested on prison grounds, because most people assumed what old Dr. Jack
was really up to…

He crawled & he swam. He walked & he ran. He thumbed & he crammed himself a ride to Detroit International. There was no stopping Dr. Jack, as he ran down the airport gangway & toward the entrance of a Paris-bound plane. “Take me to Yasser!” he screamed. “Are you insane?” the pilots countered. Dr. Jack produced a needle & a set of rubber tubes. Well, sir, those pilots didn’t need any more convincing, so off they flew, over the clouds and past the oceans. Turned right at Greenland & flew by England, when at last they arrived in Paris at 1 a.m., only to be confronted by a crowd of French coppers, waiting to click him in cuffs & take him back to Detroit.

But that Jack! Was he clever or what! The sly euthanasia pioneer eluded the cops, needling them one-by-one as he sailed passed, watching each man point, click & fall holding their guns, for the very last time.

As 1 a.m., fell into 1:30, he caught a cab & told the driver to step on it fast. The cab drove on until it reached the infirmary, got out and saw the place was crawling with soldiers & coppers & mourners & press corps & gawkers & vendors hawking Arafat trinkets galore.

Tee shirts & flags and posters & CDs & books, describing his life as a secret CIA agent martyr Nobel Peace prize-winning guerilla terrorist, with still surprisingly good looks. Quick-thinking made him open up a sewer cover & dove into an underground sewage canal. He did the front-stroke, the backstroke & the butterfly too, ‘til he found a dry landing. Then, he walked up a few flights of stairs, snuck around the sick wards, ‘til he saw a mob of clerics on their knees, with Arafat laying there, all covered in fleas. It was all that muslin, ya know?

Dr. Jack leaped up and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Yasser! I’m here for you,” but Yasser didn’t answer & over the mob Jack rose, stood at his bedside & grabbed Yasser’s left hand and tried to revive him. Without skipping a beat, Yasser’s eyes flitted, while the mob of clerics gritted their teeth and prayed even harder, to breathe new life into their sleeping giant golem martyr. Jack reached over and rubbed his belly, then his legs, followed by his nose, as one cleric looked up and exclaimed, “Great Allah’s Ghost! We never thought of touching those!”

Well, Dr. Jack, he was doing alright, attempting to revive the great Palestinian leader was his goal & anyway, it was far better than rotting in that Michigan penitentiary hole. So, he moved and danced his way around the room, as feelings of joy & happiness replaced the despair and gloom. Jack worked his magic, as the clerics became flirty, when suddenly Jack tripped over a long white cord & looked at the clock on the wall.

It read exactly 3:30.