There’s a joke that an Englishman, an Irishman and a Frenchman are all marooned on a desert island together. One day they discover a magic lamp, and when they rub it a genie pops out. “Oh my GOD I was in the lamp a long time!” the genie exclaims, cricking his neck. “Thank you for freeing me! Normally I give out three wishes, and since there are three of you, you can each have one wish. Go!” he says, pointing at the Frenchman. “Sacre-bleu!” the Frenchman says. “I so long for my ‘omeland! I mees ze bread and ze cheese and ze legs of ze frogs.. I mees drinking champagne in the evenings wis my dearest Francoise while our poodle plays on ze floor at our feet. Please, my weesh ees to go ‘ome!” A moment later he was gone. “Oh how I yearn for the dear rolling hills of Albion!” cried the Englishman when the genie turned to him, “the gentle streams, the woodland dells and the vales full of violets in the spring. How I yearn for spotted dick, and pubs that close at 10 in the evening! Please, my wish is to go home!”And just like that, he was gone. “And now for you,” the genie said to the Irishman. “What is your wish?” “Well now,” the Irishman said, scratching the back of his head. “I miss Ireland fro’ time to time, but it’s not railly so great there when you get to think of it. Just a bunch of rotten potatoes and grinding poverty and class warfare. There’s a reason for the diaspora, you know. I actually kind of like it here. There’s coconuts and, um, sand. And it’s nice to lie on the beach and do nothing all day instead of breakin me back for the English dogs. Only problem is, it’s a bit lonely wi’ those other two gone, now, isn’t it? I wish those guys could come back and be here with me again.” (I may have taken some liberties with it.) For some reason that joke popped into my head when I read about how there’s a moon rock worth millions of dollars lying somewhere in a dump outside of Dublin.
Have you ever wondered what happens when you search “shepherds on stilts” in Google images? Magic.
This is bad.
But I’d sure rather be imprisoned in Turkey than held by Syrian Intelligence. Everyone say a little prayer for these guys.
I find this “competition” absolutely endearing on two levels: 1. It’s a Sandwich tournament!!! 2. They have stripped almost all the fun sportsy competetiveness out of it. Where’s the smack talk? Notice it’s not “Which sandwich kicks the other sandwich’s butt?” or “Which sandwich rules harder?” or even “Which sandwich is better?” It’s “Which sandwich do you prefer?” That’s just so… adorably …. earnestly… milquetoasty.
I like how hair-trigger viral op-ed pieces, reactions, counter reactions, counter-counter reactions are these days. So Goldman Sachs is the Kony of this week, I guess. And of all the anti-Greg Smith articles/blogposts/tweets/status updates I’ve read, (full disclosure, not many. I yawned, filed this under “privileged white people problems,” and went back to fretting about how I couldn’t figure out which shade of red nail polish I liked so much last spring. It’s definitely NOT Flormar 385, 341, or 325. The search continues.)this list by Slate is my favorite, not only because it says what I sort or thought in the back of my head while I was reading Smith’s piece (but didn’t bother to articulate. Dang it, that red was, like, the perfect shade of dark cherry!) but Slate did McSweeny’s better than McSweeny’s has been doing lately.
Speaking of McSweeny’s, this list is obsolete by modern standards but still funny. And it mentions Turkey, so it’s topical? (Gimme a break, it’s been a slow news week.)