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Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Me n' Qaddafi

I have some very warm memories of summertimes past.

One of them is vacationing with my family in 1985 in Beach Haven, NJ. I was too young to be that disturbed by the amputated limbs, soiled hospital gowns, and hypodermic needles that were regularly washing up on the shore at that time. I can remember playing miniature golf with my family, wearing red shorts, and blue, red, and white striped shirt, and a captain's hat-- the type favored by Alan Hale, Jr. on "Gilligan's Island".

Another of my favorite summer memories is plowing, teeth first, into a fresh, delicious lobster roll, photographed by the bemused and probably slightly horrified Mrs. Apron on a vacation several summers ago.

I also fondly remember hunkering down in the computer lab of the creative arts day camp of my youth, avoiding the swim counselors who were searching for me, playing "Oregon Trail" and "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?"

Those were the heady days of 1991, and those are the days that come back to me most clearly in light of the recent events in Libya. Doesn't make sense to you? Well, unzip my noggin and come take a swim in there for an hour or two. You'll get the picture quick enough.

The hunt is on for Muammar el-Qaddafi. A couple months ago, the seemingly interminable search for Osama bin Laden culminated when he got Swiss cheesed by a bunch of Navy SEALs in Pakistan. Swim counselors hunting me down for cutting instructional swim as I mercilessly sought the location of the notorious Carmen Sandiego and her V.I.L.E henchmen.

That bitch stole the Khyber Pass,

The controls for the Panama Canal,

The Ngorongoro Crater,

(and, my personal, sentimental favorite...)

The salt from the Dead Sea.

As the revolutionaries or rebels or whatever you want to call them are beating the brush looking for Qaddafi, I just feel compelled, for my own personal safety, to point out the following:

* I never had sexual relations with that man.

Now it is true that Qaddafi and I went out for Starbucks together a couple of times, and that he visited me in Pennsylvania on what he referred to as "matters of state" but at no time did we ever enter into acts of intercourse at the Conshohocken Marriott on April 13-17, 2001 or in a rented Hyundai Sonata at the Philadelphia International Airport long-term parking garage by Terminal B on the sweltering afternoon of July 9th, 2002.

* I am not currently in contact with Qaddafi.

In fact, the cheating bastard un-friended me only two weeks ago AND he rescinded my Google + invitation, just to really make me mad, I guess. That's okay, I didn't want to go on that shit anyway.

* I have no knowledge of his current whereabouts.

While it is true that Qaddafi once told me that, if he was forced to go into hiding that he would most likely choose to seek employment and shelter at The World of Beatrix Potter Attraction, located in Bowness-on-Windemere, in the heart of the English Lake District, I have no firm knowledge that this is where Qaddafi is currently-- though, were I a Libyan rebel, I would be sure to carefully scrutinize every nook and cranny in Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle's kitchen.

* He's not in my house.

I swear to God. That swarthy, dark skinned, boisterous man you see hanging around my property sometimes is just my father.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the snow from atop Mt. Fuji has gone missing...

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