[img]1|left|Ari Noonan||no_popup[/img]Meet Israel’s putative partner in the peace process, which hopefully will cure you of wondering why those darned Jews in the Middle East cannot stitch together a quilt for quietude with those hardy, peace-shlepping Arabs.
Every day of the week somewhere in the prominent media of America, this scenario plays out:
A well-known personality — 50-50 he is a Jew — slugs Israel on the back of the neck with a baseball bat for “occupying” “Palestinian land” in East Jerusalem and the West Bank and refusing to make peace with the virginal victims who now call themselves Palestinians.
When the subject, friends, is leaders of Arab nations in the Middle East, a vast imagination is required to label one chap a “good guy” and the next a “bad guy.” (This space is reserved for men only. Women are subhumans in the wonderfully fearless universe of Muslims and Arabs.)
The distinction between “good” and “bad” commonly is miniscule.
The good guy only slaughtered 1.2 million of his own people. The obviously untameable bad guy went mad and murdered 1.3 million of his submissive subjects.
What a Madcap
Which brings us to the effervescent and chucklingly charming Mahmoud Abbas, whose home address is somewhere in the West Bank. Wary of assassins, only three people know, including his newspaper delivery boy.
Mahmoud, the Holocaust-denying barrel of giddy laughter, has been designated as the Palestinians’ go-to guy, as they say in the jargon, ever since St. Yassir (That’s My Baby) Arafat went to his heavenly reward a few winters ago.
As for the West Bank…
You may have noticed that when a teleprompter tells our Dear Leader, President Swish, that his next line is about “banks too big to fail,” Swish never mentions the most corrupt bank of all, the West Bank.
The only unjailed American criminal I can think of corrupt enough to lead the West Bank is Andy (‘n Amos) Stern, whom I trust will be punished for his serially corrupt labor union misdeeds before sinking much deeper into sudden and mysterious “retirement.”
I digress.
Devilishly clever observers of Palestinian-life-in-the-sticks, such as Steve Colbert or Bill Maher, probably would describe Mr. Abbas as the ruler of the West Bank whose authority extends for as far as the eye can see.
That is true insofar as he is posted in a modest closet with the lights extinguished.
Were his hands as unclean as his mind, he never could afford to leave a running faucet during his waking hours.
Mr. Abbas possesses only a smidgen more authority than you or I have.
He is more effeminate than JLo.
He has less courage than a dead man.
Golly, Do I Crave Peace
If you have picked up a newspaper since 1948, at least a hundred times you have read that dose mean ‘ol Jews refuse to make peace with the lovable terrorists we call Palestinians.
We Jews, we are told, are mercilessly subjugating a pathetically helpless people who bloodily yearn for the freedom that you and I take for granted in West Los Angeles.
Set us free, Palestinians beg and cry into their gruel, we are told by young people from the amorphous “international community.”
These marvelously narrow-minded, Jew-hating crusaders regularly flood the West Bank and East Jerusalem — the way we used to tip-toe into the old Soviet Union — to give hope to pathetically put-upon Palestinians.
Sixty-two years and counting, pal.
Sixty-two straight years of peace overtures that Palestinian peaceniks have rejected. And they can’t be bothered to attend peace talks with Israelis this spring. Harrumph, you say. Praytell, why not? For a sterling reason, pal.
The tender tendrils of their delicate Palestinian nostrils have been offended by those darned Jews who insist on building condos and apartments for Jews in Jewish neighborhoods.
Meanwhile, word has been telegraphed across the civilized universe that Merry Mahmoud, that freedom-loving scholar of Jewish history, might be ready to engage in “indirect” talks with the dreaded Israelis — which I guess means they would shmooze from separate towns. Merry, as both friends call him, would guarantee the dreaded Israelis that if they will just give the Pals a state of their own, the whole world can live in peace for the rest of the year or the rest of their lives, whichever comes first.
But it seems that one more problem is nagging Merry Mahmoud, the king of independent Arab statesmen in the Middle East.
He cannot agree even to “indirect” talks — who ever heard of that crazy formulation? — today. He has to wait until Saturday when the foreign ministers of the Arab League are scheduled to meet and vote on whether Merry and the dreaded Israelis should chat up each other.
Last seen this afternoon, Merry had sunk to his knees and, inspirationally, lifted his dirty hands toward the sky, bellowing, “Halleluia, Allah, for making a a free man. I truly am free at last, free at last, thank heaven Almighty am free at last — although I may not be the first person to think that up.”
