(Click on image to enlarge)

Report in the Perth Sunday Times on page 32. Date of publication unknown to me. Hat tip: Gudrun.

Don’t worry…

Source: The People’s Cube

That would come as no real surprise…

During the recent month-long war between Hezbollah and Israel, U.N. “peacekeeping” forces made a startling contribution: They openly published daily real-time intelligence, of obvious usefulness to Hezbollah, on the location, equipment, and force structure of Israeli troops in Lebanon.

UNIFIL–the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon, a nearly 2,000-man blue-helmet contingent that has been present on the Lebanon-Israel border since 1978–is officially neutral. Yet, throughout the recent war, it posted on its website for all to see precise information about the movements of Israeli Defense Forces soldiers and the nature of their weaponry and materiel, even specifying the placement of IDF safety structures within hours of their construction. New information was sometimes only 30 minutes old when it was posted, and never more than 24 hours old.

Meanwhile, UNIFIL posted not a single item of specific intelligence regarding Hezbollah forces. Statements on the order of Hezbollah “fired rockets in large numbers from various locations” and Hezbollah’s rockets “were fired in significantly larger numbers from various locations” are as precise as its coverage of the other side ever got. […]

…it’s just the way the MSM are frequently dealing with the truth:

Paris, Paris…

A young man was walking the streets of Paris. Suddenly he saw a rottweiler attacking a young girl. He jumped on the dog, struggled with him and strangled it. Both he and the girl escaped with minor scratches.

Immediately excited journalists surrounded him and said: “What is your name? All Paris will hear of you, and the headlines will be: “A Parisian hero saved a little girl from a savage dog.”

The man replied: “I am not Parisian.”

The journalists: “O.K, so all France will hear of you and the headlines will be: “A French hero saved a little girl from a savage dog.”

The man: “But I am not French.”

Journalists: “OK, so all Europe will hear of you and the headlines will read: “A European hero saved a little girl from a savage dog.”

The man: “But I am not from Europe.”

Journalists: “So where are you from?”

The man: “I am from Israel.”

Journalists: “Ok, so all the world will hear of you and the headline in all tomorrow’s papers will read:

“ISRAELI KILLS A LITTLE GIRL’S DOG!”

Stolen from progulshik’s Journal

(via LGF)

For the background story, click here.

30 minutes later

Playing bingo when drunk is not a pleasant experience. One has a hard time paying attention, the numbers on the cards seem rather foreign and there’s the constant feeling of having to vomit.

I’m not talking about me right now. I can drink a lot. But my Little Rib wasn’t doing too well. Three and a half vodka and orange juice and a total of ten unsuccessful bingo games had pretty much destroyed her biorhythm:

“Oh, I’m so sick!”

“Pull yourself together, Schnuckie. We have to win!”

“Ok, Roger. I mean Schatz, I am Roger. Ready! Am I.”

The bingo-voice announced the next round. The goal was to get the letter ‘X’, two diagonal rows of numbers on the card. That was too complicated for my Little Rib:

“What, they are drawing letters now?”

In moments like these I don’t say anything and simply stare at her without blinking. Words would just confuse her even more. And me, too.

“Ah, I get it. We are making a letter with numbers. Very interesting!”

Mrs. Baseball-Cap nodded: “My favorite round.”

“Oh, you speak German?”

Skeptically I scanned my cards after about twenty drawn numbers. I couldn’t even find a hint of an ‘X’ anywhere. I saw an ‘I’ and a ‘P’ which, should the numbers 54 and 70 come up, could have been upgraded to an ‘R’. Nevertheless the payout of 300 dollars would only be given to the lucky person with an ‘X’. My Little Rib complained that all she could come up with was a ‘Y’ and I had to explain to her that she only needed two more numbers to transform it into an ‘X’.

“Wooohooo! Gimme 50 and gimme 69. Gimme, gimme, gimme!”

“Not so loud, Schnuckie.”

“Sorry, Schatz.”

“Next number: Sixty … nnnnnnnnnine.”

Now she was on pins and needles. “Just one more number, Schatz. Oh my God, let us pray!”

“Bingo!” The drag queen again. And a second later: “Just kidding!” Very funny. We lowered our heads for an emergency prayer. Dear God, please let the next number be 50.

“Next number: Fffffffffffffifty.”

My Little Rib jumped up. “X! I got it!” By the way, she did it in German: icks. She threw her arms in the air and started shaking her hips. “I got an icks! I got an icks!” Then she pointed rudely at Mrs. Baseball-Cap. “And you ain’t got nothin’. You ain’t got nothin’!”

The voice coming from the speakers was unimpressed. “Next number: Twenty … threeeeeeeee.” It made scores of people shout “Bingo!” My Little Rip stood there, perplexed.

“Hey, bingo-bitch, what are you doing? I got an icks! Stop calling out numbers!”

“Might wanna yell ‘bingo’ next time, stupid tourist!” This suggestion spawned from an unknown location in the hall. It’s possible it actually came from the speakers. The woman who I got married to in a weak moment of naive optimism sat down and pouted. “This stinks! What are we going to do now?” I gently caressed her hand. “Now I’m going to sit at a different table and you will wait for your winnings.”

“You stay right here! What do you think, how much did we win?”

“Well, we have to share with a lot of people now.”

The bingo-courier darted by and dropped 76 cents on our table. “Congratulations!”

The last round started. This was the big one. It was the round everybody had been waiting for. The person who got the cover-all first (all numbers on one card) would get rewarded 1000 dollars.

“Wow, we sure could use that, right, Schatz?”

“Good luck.” Mrs. Baseball-Cap smiled patronizingly.

“Hi. How are you?”

To get the cover-all it is important to catch a good start. If you don’t have at least eight or nine out of the first ten numbers you might as well go home. My start was excellent. I was able to mark almost every number on my card. I looked over to my Little Rib. The alcohol had affected her eyes. With her dauber she marked all the spots that seemed significant to her … on the table. I gave up expecting anything productive from her that night.

The tension became almost unbearable as I was only five numbers away from 1000 dollars. For about two minutes I allowed myself to fantasize about buying a laptop, until Mrs. Baseball-Cap, in perfect English (but to Randy Jackson probably a little pitchy here and there), yodeled “Bingo!” right in my face. The world is unfair. And I hate the word ‘bingo’!

Soon the bingo-courier showed up and put a nice amount of dollar bills in a hand that was shaking in anticipation. Then she waited patiently for her tip.

“Forget it, she’s German,” my Little Rib remarked scornfully. I was in a bad mood as well. “I wanna go home!”

Mrs. Baseball-Cap completely ignored our negative vibes and asked: “May I ask you a favor? Would you mind escorting me to the parking garage? I hate to go all by myself with all this cash on me.”

Now, that I didn’t feel like doing at all. I already shook my head in reluctance but my Little Rib pulled me back by the ear and said: “Let’s go with her. Maybe she will give us a ride home. We would save the money for a cab.”

“We don’t have money for a cab.”

“Correct.”

We reached the parking garage and Mrs. Baseball-Cap was yapping without end. She told us stories from the eighties when all this (the garage) had still been desert and was crawling with snakes and scorpions. We were hoping to be offered a ride any moment now.

“Well, anyway, you two have a wonderful night. And thanks again for taking me to my car. That made me feel so much safer. Las Vegas isn’t what it used to be anymore. Too much crime. People kill for a few dollars. And the police are powerl-”

A swift and well-aimed strike by my Little Rib broke her neck. She panted as she dragged the lifeless body behind a fancy SUV. Waving with a wad of money she returned and staggered past me.

“C’mon, Schatz. Let’s go find a cab.”

If you live in Las Vegas it is not a good idea to be into gambling. Countless people have lost everything here, which is why many of them have jumped off some of the higher buildings in the City of Lights.

As Christians my Little Rib and I do not approve of gambling at all. In particular when we lose higher amounts we get annoyed very quickly. We’re no rich people, you know. That’s why we try to reduce our gambling addiction to an occasional bingo evening. It’s affordable because you can determine the damage in your wallet before the game starts and it’s fun, too. Chances of winning aren’t that bad, either, since at least one player will win per round. You don’t have that guarantee playing slots. To broaden our chances we prefer to go in the middle of the night. Most bingo halls aren’t too crowded during that time.

People who like to make fun of bingo don’t know what they are talking about. It’s a tough and brutal sport! You need fast legs to secure a table with a good view and an ashtray; alien reflexes because the drinks are for free and the waitresses are so unbelievably fast, they are long gone by the time you raise your hand to order; tolerance for rarely seen minorities or a good way of handling them; and most of all: nerves of steel.

Last night we went out again. As soon as we entered the bingo hall I started yelling out orders: “See that table over there next to the woman doing stretching exercises? Run! I’ll get us bingo cards. Oh, and please order me two Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.”

“Roger!” My Little Rib got in motion.

Waiting in line I watched my Little Rib trying to get to one of the last smoking tables in the hall. It didn’t look good at first, but with her elbows she managed to plough through a group of senior citizens just in time. Having reached the target she grinned in my direction and held up one thumb. Totally in love I drew a heart in the air with both of my index fingers.

A little later I joined her with our cards. She had even gotten us drinks. I was so delighted I had to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“Great job, Schnuckie! What are you drinking? Orange juice?”

“Mh-hm … with vodka.”

“Vodka?!”

“I wanna drink, too!”

“And who’s gonna drive us home?”

“We are going to win tonight. Enough for a cab. I can feel it!”

She dropped off the chair for some push-ups. I, too, began my warm-up: Gulp! The first Jack was gone.

The fun commenced. Through numerous speakers on the walls a female voice announced the first round. At once the room went silent. Round one: regular bingo. One complete row of numbers, horizontal, vertical or diagonal. I was so nervous, I couldn’t keep my feet still. Gulp! The second Jack was gone. Where was the waitress?

A man shouted “Bingo!” after only five drawn numbers. The heads of everybody present turned irritated in his direction. He was wearing women’s clothing, but that could not be accepted as an excuse.

“How can somebody get a bingo this fast?” my Little Rib asked. “This totally takes all the fun out of the game.” She sipped her vodka in sheer disgust.

“You better win, Schnuckie. Otherwise we’ll have to walk home.”

Second round: double bingo. Two complete rows of numbers, horizontal, vertical or diagonal. The second round was played on the same card from the first round. Therefore the man in women’s clothing had a clear advantage. And still no waitress in sight.

Additional numbers were drawn and it didn’t take long until I was only three numbers away from bingo … only two … only one. I could hardly stay calm. My eyebrows connected while I was trying to hypnotize the voice coming from the speakers. Twenty-seven, Bingo-Voice, no matter what number you draw next, I want you to breath ‘twenty-seven’ into the microphone. God, where was the waitress?! Bingo-Voice breathed: “And the next number is: Twenty…..ssssssss…..ssssssssssix!”

Somebody screamed “Bingo!” so loudly, the ice in my empty plastic cup cracked and turned to slush. The scream came from a lady sitting straight across from us.

“Finally I won again!” She expressed her euphoric emotions in German. Underneath her goofy-looking baseball cap she winked at us. Our cover was blown.

My Little Rib whispered into my hairy ear: “Crap! Now we can’t even cuss in German anymore. She knows what we are saying!”

“I couldn’t care less. I’m very calm.”

A squeaky voice behind me hollered: “Cocktails!” I felt a cool breeze on the back of my neck. When I turned around the waitress was already at the other end of the bingo hall.

I was mad and yelled: “Malicious bitch waitress!”

Mrs. Goofy-Cap agreed: “Yes, the service here is really bad.” The bingo-courier appeared and gave her a 100 Dollar payout. She took it without saying thanks and continued her small talk. “May I ask where you are from?”

“Mülheim,” my Little Rib tried to say. I know, that word doesn’t make sense to an American. It’s the name of her hometown. But the alcohol made her tongue so heavy she could only utter: “Mölöm.” That didn’t even make sense to me despite two Jacks.

“Ah, I see. And you?”

“Las Vegas. I’m an American. Always been, always be.” Yes, I’ve always been a stubborn guy.

“BINGO!!!”

We had missed the third round. “Merde!” I yelled as loud as I could, hoping that no French people were near. Again, the man in drag had won. I was pleased to see that a furious guy next to the winner used his right hand to thoroughly smear “her” make-up all the way up to the forehead.

“Cocktails!”

This time I was able to grab the waitress by the pony-tail. “Five Jack Daniel’s, please. On the rocks.”

“And I’d like twooo mo’ vodka wis or’nge shoes,” my Little Rib slurred.

-to be continued-