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May 29, 2011

Osama and Me





Don't they get Spartacus in Pakistan?

Here’s a thought experiment: If a crack team of Navy Seals breaches your home and fatally shoots you in the face, what embarrassing artifacts are they apt to discover?

The demise of Osama bin Laden earlier this month did not sadden me. Yes, yes, each man’s death diminishes me and all that jibber-jabber, but still, it’s Osama for heaven’s sake. While I felt no sympathy for him, I must confess that a species of empathy did begin to creep over me, much against my will, as the insights into the lifestyle of that pathetic, aging, porn-perusing, beard-dyeing puke trickled out. Let’s break those revelations down.


The Boner Juice (a/k/a Avena syrup found in Osama’s medicine cabinet)

Consider two gentlemen in their mid-fifties. One could field a WNBA team consisting entirely of his own wives; the other spends a good deal of his average workday in close proximity to nineteen- and twenty-year-old Japanese chicks in their light, sheer summer clothing but is never allowed to touch any of them. Which one should be less embarrassed to be found in possession of a potency-boosting substance? Wait, don’t answer that…


The Porn Stash

Here, too, Osama wins—I mean, except for his being dead and at the bottom of the ocean and all. His household included younger men on whom the existence of the porn stash could be conveniently pinned. But as for poor, minion-less me, who am I going to blame for that vast assortment of Lacey Tom masterpieces and excerpts from The Blowjob Adventures of Dr. Fellatio tucked away on the D Drive? The dog, I suppose. Oh, right—don’t have me no dog, neither.

What frosts me is that my porn tastes are a matter of public record, while all we know about the bin Laden household is that they had a “porn stash.” One doesn’t just throw out a tidbit like that without providing any hints as to favored genres, etc. It simply isn’t done. It’s like your doctor texting you that “one of” your tests came back positive, or a visitor from the future telling you that your next president is going to be “a Republican.”


The Beard Dye

Look, here’s the thing: Whether you spend your workdays playing English word games with Japanese teenagers or exhorting your scattered minions to drive the Jews into the sea, a man just wants to look his best. In either case, your audience is going to respond to you better if you have a darker, more youthful looking beard. And you, yourself, are apt to have more confidence in your presentation. That’s just the way it is.

All the snarky jokes about Osama dyeing his beard for his video appearances really cut me to the quick, I tell you. Osama and I having the boner juice and the porn stash in common doesn’t exactly pigeonhole us; there are millions more like us all around the world, including a likely majority of the Supreme Court. The beard-dyeing, on the other hand, lumps Osama and me into a much smaller and seedier club. A club not unlike one of those roadhouse strip-joints where you can never quite get far enough away from the naked Schwarzenegger. I don’t cotton to sharing that space with the likes of Osama.


The Watching Oneself on TV

Even here, I can’t distance myself from the lunatic! Yes, I, too, possess videos of myself that I like to watch from time to time. What I don’t have is a video of myself watching myself on TV. Got to admit that Osama took that to a new, meta level. Did Osama then watch the video of himself watching himself? And if so, is there a video of that?

Also, I can’t help taking issue with the many descriptions of Osama’s living quarters as “squalid.” So he sits on the floor all bundled up while watching himself on TV. So do I. What’s wrong with that? Nor do I see any evidence that his home—pre-Seal visit, anyway—was any less hygienic than mine. Got me a better TV, though.


The Rolling Fella Bomber

Okay, admittedly there has been no fella-bomber-related revelation from Abbottabad. Yet. But consider: If you were a Navy Seal in Osama’s compound, wouldn’t you squirrel away a souvenir for yourself? And what better totem to pass down to the grandkids one day than Osama bin Laden’s very own Rolling Fella Bomber!

The dilemma, then, would be whether or not to try the thing out. The minuses: Besides the obvious grossness factor, you could queer the residual DNA inside needed for authentication.

The plusses: Well, can you think of a more fitting final insult?