Obama’s Strategy For Irish Vote Thwarted By Murder?


Barrack Hussein Obama’s great, great, great grandfather, Falmouth Kearney, came to the US from Ireland in 1850, and suddenly Obama has a new card in the hunt for the vote of Irish-blooded Americans.
Coincidentally, the four-yearly Cricket World Cup has been creating a frenzy amongst billions of people worldwide, and the action has been happening in the Caribbean.
Now concentrate, because this gets very fishy, very quickly. It’s St Patrick’s Day, 2007, and a cricket match is taking place. Ireland is playing Pakistan.
Pakistan might be a Muslim nation, but their real religion is cricket. Thousands of million Pakistanis obsess over their famous cricket team. They also have the best coach in the world, who happens to be English.
Ireland has about five million inhabitants, their national religion is drinking, and their cricket team is made up almost completely of amateurs.
But somehow, Ireland wins. Pakistan is out of the Cup, and every Pakistani on the planet is devastated. And then, that night someone murders the coach.
And Lush For Life hears a whisper. Valium in the Pakistani refreshments. Barack Obama, says the whisper, mentioned to someone (who mentioned to someone) that it would be very nice to please the Irish and also quell all that stuff about his being a radical Muslim.
But the plan is the trash bin now… no one bargained for someone murdering the coach!
Egbert Sousé’s beard bristled with excitement as he went to find Arthur Rocks, our roving correspondent. Lush For Life needed to find this whisper. This was not only the scoop of the year – this was a Pulitzer Prize if ever Egbert had smelt one!
That is when things started to go wrong. Arthur was working on a story about Spring Break and American vacations, and as Egbert entered his cubicle, Arthur had just found out that Italians have approximately 42 days off work each year, and the French get about 37 days. (Arthur has had only two and a half days off in the three years he has worked for L4L.)
As Egbert told Arthur to go to Barbados, to investigate the story, there was a horrible noise. It sounded like Seamus’ recording of his insomniac cats yowling at midnight. Arthur continued to make the noise until we cashed in some of his vast amount of frequent flier miles, and bundled him off to Hawaii.
Then Egbert me told go to the West Indies. Yeah right. Al-Qaeda won the War on Terror the day I gave up flying rather than deal with the rules of the clear plastic bag.
You know those rules. It’s all about three ounces of whatzit, but your best lipstick still gets tossed out by a sadistic security guard, because it was outside the clear plastic bag, when you know you put it in with the toothpaste. Also, neither God nor L’Oreal ever conceptualized facial cleanser in 3-ounce containers, so you decant it into a clear plastic bottle, which turns out to be 3.5-ounces, so it joins your lipstick in the trash…
Egbert, like most editors, has no heart, so he wasn’t buying this. I upped the ante by describing the last time I flew. I had to line up in an airport, shoeless, behind an elderly Japanese man whose clear plastic bag contained hemorrhoid suppositories and cream. The X-ray machine operators waved the bag around, shouting for someone who could read kanji for “3-ounces”. Bush can say we’re winning the War on Terror, but you should have seen the old guy’s face – like he’d just met Freddy Krueger on Elm Street.
Egbert gave up and went looking for another victim. Duncan. Duncan suddenly recalled a Muslim friend who had an even worse experience. He was flying Continental and they have upgraded security drastically to cope with the threat to our air travel.
Previously, they only asked passengers those crafty questions when they checked in: Are you carrying anything you did not pack yourself? Did you leave your bags unattended? Are you carrying any forbidden objects? Now they have become even cleverer. They ask you the questions again before you board, in case you lied the first time.
They grilled the Muslim guy hard as passengers were boarding, and his conscience got the better of him. He knew that any magazine, prepackaged with cardboard 3-D glasses, and entitled “Titties”, must be a forbidden article in the eyes of Islam.
Duncan wasn’t quite sure of the details, but, apparently, the Muslim guy was reaching into his large carry-on to surrender his copy of “Titties”, when a special team took him down. He’s out of the hospital now, and no one is pressing charges.
I told Egbert to go, himself. I added that I hoped he ended up in a long security line of highly assertive women with yeast infections, armed with 4-ounce tubes of essential medication, and the amount of cream written in Martian. I’m not a nice person.
Egbert glared at us. Barack Obama tranquilizing the Pakistani cricket team to win the Irish vote? A murdered coach? Fame, fortune, a Pulitzer Prize? Or the terrors of the airport and the clear plastic bag?
He made his decision. “Screw the Pulitzer, Obama, and the Pakistanis. We’re going out for Guinness. And Gale, you chicken-hearted bitch, you’re buying.”

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