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| December 20, 2001
By Geraldo Malaria - Reporting for the NARCh Radio Network
Winternationals Are Upon Us
God Save Us All Is All I Got To Say
| Much like a semi truck running over a delicate flower, Winternationals were coming to town and even Santa was on the run. All these children were naughty and none were nice.
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December 20, 2001
Some Dirt Patch, Afghanistan
Hark the Herald Angel’s sing, glory to the OC Blades…
Ohhh little town of Anaheim…
God rest ye merry Hyper boys…
Silent Dillos, Silent Dillos…you get the picture.
But I was NOT in Las Vegas. There I was, Geraldo Malaria, in Afghanistan, ready to report on the war. But it was over. Darn. No more maiming and killing. Nothing left to do. I had quit all my other jobs. I had to make a living.
Bored, I have been asked to write this column because Irish was allegedly on the lamb from the mob after playing the Red Wings on margin last year. But it was all a ruse. A cover up.
I found Irish in the Tora Bora Region of Afghanistan.
There he was, leading a charge into a cave from his Harley. SAW blasting. He was dressed in green bell-bottoms, a leather jacket with “Up Yours” on the back, and a beanie with a propeller on the top. He was screaming, “This is for misleading that poor lad, John Walker!” A red in the other hand. I wasn’t too late to witness this last bit of heroics. It was too bad that the alliance had already taken the caves, and Irish was charging a surprised group of Eastern Alliance members.
"Irish made news. Heck, most of the time he made it up."
He noticed me and stopped. “Hey Geraldo! What are you doing here? A lot of fun, eh?” Irish asked as he wiped his face off from the accumulated dust and grime.
“Irish, you are killing our friends.” I sputtered, unbelieving.
“No kidding, really? Darn. These people all talk alike to me.” He popped the top to another Red. He looked around at the carnage.
“Looks like a football stadium in Cleveland.” I agreed.
“Where have you been?” I asked him.
“Dunno really. I think I took a wrong turn. Started a fight in someplace called Kashmir or something. Forgot to turn left at the Taj Majal so they say. Came across Q-tip and Total Hotty, who sent me this way. Got a really soft sweater before I left…”
I wondered what Q-tip was doing in India with Total Hotty.
I couldn’t resist. Irish made news. Heck, most of the time he made it up. There was no more news here. I shouldn’t have went on all those talk shows before heading out. But my ego was hungry. I hadn’t even killed anyone like I promised. I had missed it all. But the absence of real news has never stopped me before.
I thought, there has to be something left here for me to write about. “Irish. Do you know how to get around in these caves?”
“I don’t, but here comes my newest best friend, and he may be able to help.”
"No kidding? Osama Latte? No, he told me his name was Jones or Smith, or something."
Up came a guy dressed in ill fitting Dockers, an overly large pink Polo t shirt, and some brand spanking new Florsheims. Clean shaven with a crew cut. He was wearing a bright red flowered Barbie Helmet.
“Hey Osama, over here.” Irish turned to me and said quietly. “I found him earlier crying uncontrollably and saying weird things like ‘That Atta dude couldn’t even drive my moped straight, how was I to know’ and ‘these insect infested caves will never be as much fun…’ Binging, I figured. Been there. Done that. He gave me a hundred. Took him in.”
“Irish, isn’t that guy Osama Bin Laden?”
“Who? Who is that?”
“The guys were over here to kill.”
No kidding? Osama Latte? No, he told me his name was Jones or Smith, or something. Oh, I don’t know.” Irish was checking the pockets of the dead for money and cigarettes.
“Osama!” Irish beckoned him over. I kept a careful eye out.
“Yes, infidel pig?” The moped man said.
Irish laughed. “This guy kills me! Infidel pig! Hey ‘O,’ take off those Guess sunglasses and say hi.”
I shook hands. “Your name is…?”
“Osama Smith. I am from China, I mean… Yugoslavia, from Pakistan. Yeah, that’s it, you mother of a insect.”
“Ahhhh right.” I said. I was hot on the trail…
Irish smiled. “You should hear him tell dirty stories around the camp fire. Major cut up, but don’t give him beans. They guy can really let them go. Hey ‘O’ ! Tell Geraldo here about the nomad, the Buddhist Monk, and the dancing girl…”
It was getting out of hand. It always gets out of hand when Irish is around.
“The caves, Irish...”
“Oh yeah. Hey O-Man, give me that map.” Irish got handed, and then handed me a folded up piece of dirty brown paper.
I took it from Irish. It was a detailed drawing of the caves of Tora Bora.
“Where did you get this?” I asked, unbelieving.
O-man just shrugged. “The CIA.”
“Of course.” I nodded. “Thanks.”
"It was time to write about hockey."
Irish hiked a leg, and rested back on the motorcycle. He gunned his hog. “Look Geraldo, I would like to stay and play, but there is nobody is left to kill. I have got to run. The O-man says that there are a lot of good times to be had in Somalia, so we are headed north.”
“Southwest.”
“Whatever. Hey, b-t-w, this Chapey guy keeps hounding me to write about Winternationals. Can you fill in? It doesn’t have to be good. Fourth-fifths of the readership can’t read. The rest can’t comprehend it. Parents of the OC Blades gave me a list of who would win it all, so it should be easier still. Just toss some stuff on paper for me, will you?”
“No problem,” I said. “… and Good luck.”
Irish down a Red in a guzzle. He smiled and waived. I watched him leave. He shot down some Red Cross aid worker at the bottom of the hill with the SAW. The tall gangly guy – the O-man -- on a moped was following him, muttering “goat lover” or something.
I heard Irish faintly say: “Stupid people…”
The deadline for the NARCh article was still a ways off.
I alone… well, with two cameramen, a make up artist and a publicist, went into the bowels of hell. We ventured into the infamous caves of Tora Bora. I followed the map. This was live. We kept rolling. There, in a hidden part was a small, hidden room. On the CIA Map it said, “Al Capone’s Gold.” And then, scratched in the corner, in Al Haig’s handwriting, there was the notation: “Don’t give this to Geraldo, it will ruin all our fun.”
“Bastards!” Was all I could scream.
It was time to write about hockey.
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