Media

My exposure to Print Journalism has been confined to my private bathroom. In the 1970's and 1980's the market was evenly split between Lebanese and Egyptian (Arabic) magazines. Whether the subject matter was political, social or celebrity gossip no one did it better than the venerated publishing houses of Beirut. Until one day, petro-money was channeled into something else besides soliciting the coveted services of prostitutes. The Lebanese print media degenerated into sectarian partiality, lost their credibility and died of absurdity while the Egyptians continue to publish verbose magazines that look and feel as if they've been printed on toilet paper.Khaliji tycoons dumped their cash in Dubai and flooded the Arabic speaking world with glossy, colorful and extremely well produced gibberish and, along with the onslaught of hundreds of television satellite channels, became the trend setters of the Middle East, North Africa and, alas, the Levant.

Like their audiovisual counterparts, Khaliji magazines walk a tight rope. The vast majority of them, on the surface, targets women. However, they are also "watched" by men. They seek to convey an image of self-righteousness and abashed modernity to their female readership while simultaneously providing mild masturbatory material for the libidinous males. It's in Al-Sada magazine that my bodily constipation was cured with a dose of a diarrheal critique of a TV show called "Hadith Al-Balad" hosted by Mona Abu Hamze. First I need to point out an obvious fact of life. Mona is one of the most gorgeous creatures to ever walk the face of the earth. I've only seen glimpses of her show while jumping sports channels. The woman is arrestingly beautiful. My finger stops clicking the remote control button when I see her. I have no idea what her entertainment program is about as I'm really not into talk shows. It takes will and determination to escape her spell and return to the saga of the 22 men fighting over a ball.

The critic wrote and I quote: "Mona's latest blunder toward her "Arab" audience, she who is being watched in every single home of our "Arab" society including the conservative ones, was a public invitation to her Italian guest Savina to drink Arak in some Lebanese town. The worst is yet to come. Her invitation was echoed by the Lebanese Minister of Culture who was her other guest. Within seconds the conversation turned from art to wine making, which the minister confirmed that he is very good at."

How hard is it to understand that Arak, among other wonderful delights of life is part of our cultural heritage in the Levant. Lebanon, in its splendor and glory cannot be better appreciated than with a dainty table of Mezza and a dewy Kass of Arak. So it is in our dazzling Syrian coast, where a mouthful of Baladi Burghul topped with a piece of country chicken melts in the mouth and mingles with the homemade moonshine made of golden grapes and aniseed. Once they leave their scorched desert, the bastards drink Scotch from the red pumps of whores yet they deem it inappropriate for Mona's sweet lips to sip the lucky Arak and to make it more divine for the rest of us.

From the thirsty sands of the Persian Gulf to a conference hall in CNN headquarters in Atlanta where the decision to fire Octavia Nasr, Senior Editor of Middle East Affairs, was reached. Octavia tweeted: "Sad to hear of the passing of Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah.. One of Hezbollah's giants I respect a lot.." CNN, being a mere toy in the hands of AIPAC, American Israel Public Affairs Committee, succumbed to a phone call. In the USA one can get away with almost anything politically as long as he doesn't piss off the pro-Israeli lobby. But who is this Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah and why has the British Ambassador to Lebanon, Frances Guy's blog posting about his death been deleted by the British Foreign Service? I'll answer the easy second part first, Israel was angered and when Israel is angry, as it often is, the UK government wets its pants. Ms. Guy wrote: “The world needs more men like him willing to reach out across faiths, acknowledging the reality of the modern world and daring to confront old constraints. May he rest in peace.”

Two prominent Western women, a world-renowned journalist lost her job and a diplomat in the service of her Majesty the Queen was shut up because they wrote the truth about one of the most tolerant, open-minded and intellectual clerics in the world. Claiming that the Sayyed was not a most admirable human being because he considered Israel as his mortal enemy is as bigoted as insisting that Einstein could not be a genius because he was a Jew. In a time when most religious figures are ignorant idiots, child molesters and hate mongrels, Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah was an enlightening man, a champion of women's rights and a fierce defender of his country against Israeli aggression and occupation. I wonder what scares the "free" democratic western governments more, a tolerant and moderate Islam that appeals to the mind and conscience or hordes of shapeless women in Burkas? Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah was the better face of Islam and this is exactly what Israel cannot allow the rest of the world to see.

I read with fascination and disgust the Western hate literature against Islam. I'm also puzzled and offended by the Islamists' literal interpretation of the Quran and the way they've degraded it by insisting that it is a rigid book, immune to discussion and human questioning. I live in an age where true temperance is not tolerated because the pervasiveness of moderation could shake the foundations of the remaining apartheid countries in the world after the demise of racist South Africa.  The Saudis pump oil and money to remain while the Israelis threaten to sneak in a Monica Lewinski anywhere, anytime and bring anyone down to their knees.

Welcome 3

I'd only known this beautiful woman a short time, but the pain I'd seen in her eyes affected me so strongly. She had tried to conceal it from me, but it was impossible for her to hide any of her feelings. She wore happiness as perfectly, as regally, as a queen wore her crown and when that happiness disappeared, if only for a moment, it was plainly visible. The melancholy that replaced it was so out of place in her. Luckily it seemed that my appearance dissolved some of the sadness and my only desire now was to keep it that way.

"I've been waiting too." I smiled, "I thought my work day would never end."

"There are times, aren't there, when one needs time to stand still and yet other times when we wish it would rush on? Today I have been torn between the two." When she looked at me, her dark eyes reflected the complexity of the emotions she was experiencing when I had entered the store."But come, let me make some coffee and we'll sit and talk in comfort."

I had a sudden urge to take her into my arms as if that would protect her from whatever she feared."Fatina," I nearly pleaded, "Don't go to any trouble. Sit with me now and talk."

"Bassem, trouble is paying the taxes or scrubbing the kitchen floor. Making coffee for a nice gentleman is no trouble at all." This time her luminous smile returned and all at once I felt my entire body relax again. "Please, as you had wished to earlier, have a look around the store. Once the coffee is ready, we'll talk."

I looked at her, feeling uncertain about leaving her but she nodded encouragingly. A great desire to please her, mixed with my curiosity about the place, brought me to the bookshelves in the back.The entire back wall of the store, from floor to ceiling, was filled with books. I squinted to see what sort of subject matter the books at the top held but the small print of the titles eluded me. I passed my fingers along the spines of those at my height. Some of the books were very, very old. Many were leather-bound. I took one from the shelf and handled it carefully. The leather was embossed with gold script and inside the delicate and time-worn pages made a delightful, crisp sound as I turned them. The scent of ink and old paper filled my airways leaving me with a giddy feeling. It was a collection of ancient poetry, and was, by far, the most beautiful copy of the Mu'allaqat I had ever seen. The words were written in superb calligraphy and nearly leaped off of the page. It was a true work of art in many forms of the word.

Fascinated, I sat down in one of the chairs and began reading with a certain crazed lust for such rare beauty. I hadn't read the poems since highschool and back then they held little interest for me. But in this format where such attention to detail had been applied page after page, I couldn't help but be drawn into them.

"Ah, the Mu'allaqat." Fatina's smooth voice startled me. "That is one of several prized possessions of my father's collection. This particular copy is nearly 500 years old."

I gasped and suddenly felt sheepish. "Oh! I shouldn't have my fingers all over the pages then!"

"Bassem." She handed me my coffee and sat in the chair next to me. "If the book were always on the shelf, deemed too delicate to read, what would be the purpose of having it? I was thrilled to see you enjoying what I have also found immeasurably beautiful. Your appreciation of the collection is rare among those who have seen it."

"Oh. Well, I really haven't any knowledge about rare books or great works of literature."

"But you appreciate it and that is the first step to true knowledge. Now you will read the poems again, which I'll bet you haven't since highschool. With some age and wisdom under your belt, you'll have a better understanding of them. This will lead to deeper appreciation and knowledge."

I leaned toward her, captivated by her sincerity. Her eyes danced with conviction and excitement. "Do you really think I'm that wise?" I smiled mischievously.

"Well, you're here aren't you?" She smiled back with equal playfulness.

"Indeed I am. Pure brilliance on my part." I was suddenly lost in her eyes and unable to look away. Everything else around us seemed very remote. I reached my hand to her face and held it, stroking her cheek with my thumb. Her skin was so soft I could have lingered there forever. My thumb moved slowly across her lips. They were fleshy and velvet - so inviting.

"Bassem..." She started.

I pulled my hand away suddenly afraid that my actions were inappropriate. "I'm sorry..."

"Bassem..." She took my hand in hers.

I was flustered now. "It was wrong of me..."

"Bassem, just kiss me." She blurted, immediately putting a stop to my babbling.

I moved in so close, I could feel her breath on my skin. "Yes?"

"Yes." She breathed.

When our lips met, time was finally on our side.

By Mariyah

Creme Al-Tayeh

I delve in a well of memories, back to a time when a die-hard and venerable gentleman never stepped outside his home without a tarboosh on his head. The clear image of one distinguished octogenarian coalesces in my mind. He originally came from Lattakia and settled in El-Khrab, beyond the southern "Bab-el-Hara" of old Tartous. I've never seen him except in a three-piece suit (mostly white) and a polished smile on his face. He opened shop in the 1940's in the narrow Souk and became a fixed feature among the array of butcher shops, Msabbha and Fool joints, rope sellers, tailors, vegetable merchants, pickle peddlers, hardware stores and  blacksmiths. His shop was unique though, a refined bookstore in an agrestic neighborhood. His name was Mustafa Al-Tayeh (1897-1984)  مصطفى الطايع and he didn't only sell books but was also an Attar, the only perfume maker in Tartous.

Mr. Al-Tayeh was fascinated with roses and dedicated his life to extracting their essence and capturing their fragrance. In 1950 he created what eventually immortalized him, a certain balm made from garnered rose butter and aptly called it Creme Al-Tayeh كريم الطايع. Within a few years, it became a genuine Tartoussi household name. Its inventor held that his secret formula possessed extraordinary medicinal properties and that it was a cure for virtually any dermatological ailment. Sixty years later, we still don't dispute his claim in Tartous, Creme Al-Tayeh is a magical balm and anyone lucky enough to have tried it would attest to that.

As a teenager, my first line of defense against pimples was a dab of the buttery balm. That's all it took, a dab or two, once or twice and my skin was clear again. From lip sores to hemorrhoids, burns, bruises, lacerations, eczema, black spots, hair loss, hair growth, bumps, ulcers, irritation and skin rash, Creme Al-Tayeh cured them all. It came in two forms, pink and white, prepared from either red or white rose petals. It was only a matter of preference to choose one color or another but most often everyone ended up buying both. Now as far as I'm concerned the most bewildering quality of the small jar was that it never seemed to run out of balm. During the extensive research in preparing this post (you can tell, can't you?) I asked a random sample of family and friends if they ever bought a jar and used it completely. They all confirmed my initial doubt, it's more likely to have it misplaced, to move out of the house and lose it during the packing and unpacking or to immigrate to another country than to actually consume it all.

 Heyam Younis

Then as luck would have it I ran into a retired ambulance driver who transported patients to larger hospitals in Damascus. I remembered a previous conversation we've had in which he told me that he always ferried cartons full of Creme Al-Tayeh to one store in the Kassaa area of Damascus in his ambulance. There was a huge demand on the Creme and he ran a lucrative business on the side. Then he conspiratorially confided that among the Kassaa store very special clients and regular users of Creme Al-Tayeh were the Lebanese Younis Sisters, Heyam and Nezha. Now I really wonder how many readers actually know who Heyam and Nezha Younis are. Is there a statistically significant correlation between those readers who've heard of both Creme Al-Tayeh and of the Younis Sisters? I suppose this fascinating possibility deserves further investigation. Yet I can't let you (Ignorant Readers) get away with your callowness. To recognize Haifa Wehbe as a Lebanese superstar and not embrace Heyam's beautiful voice (and eyes) is sacrilegious. And what about you, Arabic movies' buffs who've never heard, or daydreamed of Nezha Younis? You should all be ashamed of yourselves.

Nezha Younis

The eldest of Mustafa Al-Tayeh's four daughters inherited the formula and continued in the footsteps of her father. She too had passed away but was able to transfer the secret to her sisters. They still prepare the balm, fill the jars and sell them at home in Tartous. Creme Al-Tayeh is also available in a few selected stores in the city and outside. I have 2 jars in my bathroom and I use them mostly for shaving cuts since, alas, I'm way past getting pimples on my face. If you tried it all but still can't get that perfect Tartoussi skin now you know our little secret. Nature and savvy conspired into making us the beautiful people we really are. Well these and a kindly gentleman from Lattakia...
who once upon a time made the clever choice and moved to the right place.

Trash

To profess to be doing God's will is a form of megalomania. -Joseph Prescott, aphorist (1913-2001)

A dear friend of mine, an artist, a humanist and a self-professed atheist with an absolute and egalitarian renunciation of all religions wrote me a letter. She received information by email, too bad to be true, she thought, about Islam. "I cannot believe that all of what is written here is true, so I'm asking you to write something about this in your blog. I want you to respond to this trash."

Now considering that I've been recently called "Evil" for my secular views by one of the more assiduous Islamist bloggers, personally slandered by an obnoxious and vindictive shaver for my pro-Western disposition and an anti-Semitic conspiracy theorist by a Zionist/Crusader mummy I don't find myself well-suited for the task of defending Islam or any other religion for that matter. I am a secular humanist and I have taken a clear position on the matter. I value human thought above all and am ready to challenge any notion claiming to be of divine origin.

But I stop abruptly before I differentiate between the merits and the fallacies of each monotheist religion against the other(s) for the simple and only reason that they are basically similar. They share the same strengths and weaknesses. Where they vary is with their interpretation of divinity and their degree of obsession with rituals. To reply to the venomous anti-Islamic propaganda of Nonie Darwish, founder of Arabs for Israel, is self-defeating. To bring myself to her level of ignorance and idiocy is not an option. She seems to be focused on discrediting Islam, Arabism and Palestine in one sweeping attack. She irrevocably mixes fabrications from the worst nightmarish interpretations of the Koran, archaic pre-Islamic tribal traditions of the desert and the outright lies of Zionist evangelism into an in-cohesive body of thought. And, she fails terribly in convincing anyone who is not already more imbecilic than her.

Every human being reacts to the idea/truth of God within the wide spectrum of one of four different ways. The first is for a person to be a believer of one religion only. The second is to be an atheist. The third is to believe in "God(s)" outside the bounds of religion. The fourth and rarest of all is to ascertain that all religions hold some element of truth in them and could not be mutually exclusive. Unfortunately, the mass majority of men and women falls in the first group and it is from this immense array of humanity that extremists and bigots in all of their known forms, including Taliban, Crusaders and Zionists arise. This is the cradle of Islamist terrorism against the West, Christian genocide against Jews and Muslims and the Israeli holocaust against the Palestinians and humanity.

When a Christian converts to Islam and elaborates on her new-found bliss (according to her) without denigrating her old faith she is adhering to what is basically "good" and benevolent in both Christianity and Islam. However, when Nonie Darwish ascertains that she abandoned Islam because it is a terrible religion and deserted Egypt because it is a disgusting country; that she became a Christian and later founded Arabs for Israel she is only being herself, a fake humanitarian usurper and hate mongrel. A Christian, one who comprehends the message of Jesus, is incapable of writing something so despicably vile about another faith. An Arab for Israel, however, is the perfect hayena to do just that.

Nonie, I'm not calling you infidel. You're nothing more than a hate perpetuating bitch.

Welcome 2

Bassem left me gasping for a word to say as the soft petals quivered in my hands. I didn't know of a single young man or woman in town who lived alone. Yet I couldn't imagine him staying with his parents. He simply looked out of place and perhaps a little out of time. I haven't seen him before and judging by the way he looked at me he didn't know me at all. As friendly and cordial as I am I don't normally greet total strangers on the sidewalk and chat with them. It was the twinkle in his eyes, however, his spiffy and detached smile that made me notice him as he walked by. He was late for work, he said. I instinctively glanced at my wristwatch. Nine o'clock! His office must be very close indeed.

I have dodged all attempts to pin me to a prearranged marriage. My father left me alone and gave me the breathing space I needed. My mother and two aunts didn't hold their fire back for a single day though. I was thirty and unmarried and they have vowed to put an end to my solitary existence. I loved mother dearly but she suffocated me as much as she neglected my father. It hurt her how close we were, he and I. She couldn't understand that by letting me fly on my own, by setting me free, by watching from a distance daddy was in fact with me every single moment. As hard as I tried to understand her motives behind her insistence on getting me married I couldn't. It was as if my life and hers depended on it.

"But mom I don't love him. I don't care that he's a doctor or about his family. I don't wanna get married now, and certainly not to him."

Their professions varied but they were all the same. Big boys who plunged head on into marrying a girl they didn't even know because she was pretty, came from a good family and passed their mothers discerning taste in women. This place suffocated me and if it were not for dad I would've not returned from abroad. I knew he was ill and I knew how my mother felt about him, or perhaps did not. As I grew up and witnessed their parallel lives I thought that her desultory journey would prevent her from committing her parents' mistake with me. I was wrong. Father was twenty years her senior and a century or two ahead of her and the town's folks' arrested development. He was undemanding and unobtrusive but when it became increasingly more difficult for him to be in his beloved bookstore, as he did everyday since as far back as I can remember, he called me and conveyed his message shyly. He wanted me near him but more importantly he wanted the bookstore to remain open.

I sold seven books to four other customers by 1:30. One of them, an elderly lady bought two dozens of red and white carnations too. I called dad over the phone and excitedly informed him about my first day's bounty. Delight tiptoed in between the chords of his frail voice. He asked about the seven books as if they were his flesh and blood. It was never about the money for him since he inherited plenty to make him and his family live comfortably. It was only about the books, my little brothers and sisters as he used to tell me when I was in first grade. I hesitated then...

"Dad, I met someone this morning."

"Where?"

"Here in the bookstore."

"What did he buy?"

"A bouquet of beautiful flowers."

"uh huh."

"Then he gave them to me dad."

He swallowed his thoughts, rolled them around in his head. "You sound happy habibti."

"I am!"

"Don't let anyone take that away from you. Follow your heart my Fatina."

He hung up, tired but not weighed down. I could see him lying content in bed with an open book over his chest. Oh how I love him. Tears swelled in my eyes when I remembered how ill he was, how lonely his life had been and how I'm going to lose him soon. The chimes over the door trilled with a distant song. I rubbed my eyes quickly with the back of my hand, straightened my dress and looked up. Bassem stood there with his enchanting smile.

"Hello."

"Hi Bassem."

"How are you?" He eyed me with tender concern. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes it is. " His worry dispelled the tears and spilled a gentle wave of quiet in my heart. He saw that.

"Listen. I was wondering if..?"

"Yes!" I answered. "I've been waiting all along."

by Abufares

Welcome

“Sabah el kheir.” Her voice startled me. The shop had been here for centuries, or so it seemed. How it stayed in business no one ever really knew. We gossiped that the family was secretly wealthy, perhaps descendants of some powerful magistrate or rich merchant, or maybe they had some less than legitimate business on the side that allowed them to live comfortably while the store made no money for them at all. Until recently it had been an antiquated book store. Although I had never gone in, I'd heard rumours that it was dim and dusty and a generally unpleasant place to be. The old book dealer was rarely ever seen around town. No one really knew who he was. If it weren't for the sign over the store, Nader's Bookstore, no one would even have known his name.

“Sabah el nour.” The words barely escaped my lips. She was stunningly beautiful, bright...like a polished gemstone. Her smile radiated a love of life and of people. She could endear anyone within mere moments of meeting her...at least, she had me. She was placing baskets of cut flowers just outside the shop doors as I was passing by. At first, I was oblivious to the anomaly, but when she spoke to me, I suddenly became extremely conscious of the fact that everything had changed at this little corner of town.

“Would you like a flower for your wife? Or a girlfriend perhaps?” She handed me the most brilliant pink rose and nodded encouragingly for me to take it.

“Oh, I...uh...”

“Please. It's on the house.” She winked playfully.

Oh what a goddess! I needed to recover and quickly. “I've never seen this place looking so...attractive.”

“Thank you.” Her smile became even more luminous and I felt my knees weaken. “I've taken over the shop from my father - tried to give it a bit of a face lift, you know.” She glanced at the shop behind her. I, too, gave it a closer look. The windows were gleaming, not dingy as they had been previously. A bright new sign hung over the freshly painted door, “Nader's Flowers and Books”, accompanied by a warm “Welcome” placard just below.

“Indeed. You have succeeded quite nicely.” I found myself smiling back at her with an enthusiasm I hadn't felt in a long time. “So you are still selling the old books?”

“Well, Father's collection is exceptionally rare. I didn't have the heart to disperse them in an auction or something. I spent a lot of time categorizing them and reorganizing the store to display them nicely. I also wanted to make room for my flowers - have the books and flowers compliment one another or at least co-exist pleasantly.”

Now my curiosity was piqued. “Would you mind giving me a tour? I've never been in the shop.”

“Certainly. Come in!” She opened the door for me which I quickly took from her and insisted that she enter first. As she turned, her long hair swung with the movement of her body and threw a glorious scent in my direction. Her body was plump in the most exquisite way. Every curve was accentuated deliciously in her floral dress. I feasted on her with my eyes until she turned to speak to me again. “Well, what do you think?” She thrust her arm toward the new displays but I was unable to look at anything else but her with any attention.

“It is exquisite.”

She giggled at my response knowing full well that I wasn't talking about her shop. “Well, Mr...”

“Bassem.”

“Mr. Bassem,” she continued.

“No. Bassem, please, not mister.”

“Bassem.” She looked at me with direct delight, not bashfully as many women might. “Thank you. Perhaps you would like a coffee while you look around?”

“That's a nice touch.”

“I thought so.” She smiled again and then busied herself behind the counter with my coffee. I tore my attention away from her in order to look around with earnest. After all, if she had created the displays with her own hand, it would certainly reflect her mind. The books had mostly been moved to the back of the shop and surrounded a cozy reading nook. A comfortable set of chairs sat facing one another with a small table in between. On the table was a bowl with several vibrant, fuchsia flowers floating in water. It was a perfect centerpiece to unify the shop's merchandise - the flowers with the books. The front of the shop was dedicated to all kinds of cut flowers and an unusual assortment of handmade pottery vases and hand-blown glass ones. The walls and display furniture was very simple, but the way she had coordinated colour and texture brought an ethereal quality to her shop - a quality completely befitting of her.

I had a keen interest in the titles that might be on the book shelves but as I wandered toward them, I suddenly looked at my watch and discovered that I was already late for work. I quickly returned to the front and to her.

“Miss...”, I started.

“Fatina.” The sound of her name played like a song in my heart.

“Fatina.” I repeated softly. “I'm afraid I must be getting to work. Could I stop by again when time is more leisurely, maybe after lunch, for that coffee?”

“Oh certainly, Bassem. Of course.” She laughed happily. “I should have realized.”

“No, I am the one who lost track. Your...hospitality was very...distracting.” Now I smiled mischievously.

“Well, you're my very first visitor...”

“Customer.” I quickly corrected her and released a glorious bouquet of mixed flowers from their container. “Have you got a vase?”

She looked at me curiously. “Yes.” She took one that would be exactly the right size from underneath her counter and placed it on top.

“How much – including the vase?”

“Twenty dollars, please.” She smiled bashfully now. “Someone is a lucky woman.”

I paid her and placed the flowers in the vase. “You may need some water.” I smiled and exited the shop before she could respond. Out in the street my smile spread across my face from ear to ear. It would be a long day at work, but the reward at the end of it would make the waiting all worthwhile.

In my office the single pink rose adorned my desk and enchanted my soul.

By Mariyah

Humanoid Hemorrhoids

If you wanna soar with the eagles don't fuck with the chicken (a Wise Dude)

I had a week to forget and I will. Over its course I had suffered from mild and acute pains in the butt. I had to talk to, and even smile at, some people whom, under normal circumstances, I would totally ignore. I have also turned a blind eye toward  lost souls hiding behind bitter words, too Gallus gallus domesticus to be fucked by me.

My perception of freedom, my own, has changed drastically the day I became a father. I constantly remind myself that I have to accommodate, accept and tolerate donkeys with suits and ties for instance. Yet, I will never cross the line to hypocrisy and my patience has been tested to the limit.

Only yesterday a dear friend wrote to me: "This is a dirty, dirty business..." In real life and online it's becoming increasingly true. However, we have to accept that evolution is far from perfect and that imbeciles are an unavoidable but necessary fact of life. We have to thank them for if it were not for them we could've never shined in the first place.

I want my kids to grow up and spread their wings on their own even if it means that I'll lose some precious time. It's like being young again in that stage in life, without all the sex. I can practically do whatever I want to if I remember what it was. Most importantly there will be no stopping grumpy old me when I run into a humanoid hemorrhoid, again: "Rub some Preparation H on your ugly face and get out of here you chicken shit." Then to Mildred*, as tender and soft as my wrinkled skin looks and feels: "Bring me my goddamn dentures and the prunes... Then sit in my lap you sexy old hag!"

*Who's Mildred?