Papa’s Basement 5-2-11-Thanks For Destroying My Web Traffic, Bin Laden
This weekend, I recorded a show about the royal wedding and how annoying all the hubbub surrounding it was. “What a brilliant idea,” thought John. “Not only do I get […]
Terrorist. Murderer. Fiend. Yet there’s one crime we don’t like to admit Osama bin Laden’s guilty of: Possession of one Hell of a pair of these.
I have a confession to make: I’m not the most patriotic of men. Yes, I’m very thankful to be born an American, but I’m not exactly tearing down the highway in an F-350, blaring Toby Keith with a “These Colors Don’t Run” sticker on the bumper, either. So when the news of Osama bin Laden’s death had me fist pumping like I’d just met a girl who was DTF, frantically searching my closet for proper attire as a full-grown bald eagle flew forth from my ejaculatory duct, frankly, I was surprised as anyone else. It was an amazing feeling (aside from those steely talons), a sense of triumph and vindication that, and I’m not saying this to at all equate the two in terms of importance, I hadn’t felt since the Redskins last won the Super Bowl.
A day or so later, I’m still piecing together why exactly I sprang such a rager at the news of bin Laden’s death. Part of it has to be just how unequivocally bad a dude he was. Like I said before, I’m not a cheerleader for this country and all of its policies. I know we’ve done some evil shit, and we’ll continue to do some evil shit. It’s just, on the evil shit spectrum, the USA is a deadbeat dad, whereas Osama bin Laden is a child molester who kills puppies in his free time. Even the most leftist of Birkenstock wearers probably found themselves humming “America, Fuck Yeah” in between bites of their soysage and beansprout sandwich yesterday.
Another reason, which is probably a reach (though I’m not ruling it out), is that I associate Osama bin Laden and the September 11th attacks with some exceptionally bad times in my life. Sure, no one in this country has happy thoughts from those days, but, if you didn’t actually lose anyone in the attacks, shut the fuck up about it. For me, my dad croaked a few days after they took place, which necessitated me dropping out of school to support my family by taking over his locksmith business, based in DC. As if working a job I had little knowledge of and trying to cope with his death while not being old enough to legally drink wasn’t hard enough, the city of DC, in the weeks since September 11th, had converted itself from a happy land of mumbo sauce and go-go music to the nightmarish, fortified mansion from 28 Days Later.
Security was absurd. I practically underwent a colorectal exam every time I showed up to service a hotel or bank, and, to this day, multiple streets surrounding the White House that I used to navigate have been closed and turned into checkpoints. Every time I was caught in traffic due to a bomb scare, every time I had to cancel a job because the hotel I was servicing found a “suspicious package,” I’d think to myself, “Thanks, you bearded fuck, for all you’ve done to this city.” (And by “bearded fuck,” I meant Osama bin Laden. Just in case your mind instantly wandered to Rutherford B. Hayes. Hey, I have a very strong 19th century readership.)
America, enjoy this one. In terms of our greatest national victories, this ranks up there with V-J Day and the Miracle on Ice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go put ice on the most patriotic erection I’ve had since the end of Rocky IV. Priapism be damned. I’m gonna hang a flag off this one.
Brian on May 4, 2011
Why, oh why, did you not include a link to said locksmith business?
MB on May 12, 2011
This was great to read.
I’m a pretty “worldly” person but hearing that piece of shit was no longer existing felt like some sort of long-awaited closure I didn’t know was weighing on me. It reminded me, that all wars end eventually, that bad times stretch on and on sometimes but they do end.