Archive for the ‘Pointless conversations’ Category

Georgie Boy and Stevie Boy

The White House. The 43rd president of the United States, George W. Bush, meets Steve Hadley, National Security Adviser.

SH: Mr President, I have some good news and some bad news.

GWB: Okay, give me the good news first.

SH: Sir, our analysts have looked at the situation in Iraq and concluded that if things continue as they are, the people will end up eating shit.

GWB: I asked for the good news first, Steve. Gee!

SH: That is the good news, sir; the bad news is that some experts have already pointed out that there won’t be enough shit to go around.

GWB: No problem. We’ll send them some of our own shit, American shit, the best shit in the world. Hell, we could even have a Shit for Oil Programme, kill two terrorists with one shot, as it were… Anything else?

SH: Well, I have also been consulting members of the senate and the news is that the Republicans are revolting.

GWB: You’re telling me… I myself only joined because of daddy.

SH: I mean on Iraq. They want troops withdrawn as soon as possible.

GWB: I don’t get these people. Since this conflict began probably as many innocent people have died as would have under Sadam anyway, give or take a few hundred thousand.

SH: Give or take… No, sir, the main concern they cite is the possible loss of votes for the party.

GWB (exasperated): If only we could find a strong leader for Iraq, Steve, someone able to keep Sunnis and Shias alike in check.

SH: Someone like Sadam, perhaps?

GWB: Yeah! Where’s Sadam when you need him?

SH: We executed him, sir.

GWB: Couldn’t one of our scientists bring him back to life? What sort of decomposition state would he be in now?

SH: Uh, I don’t think our science is that advanced yet, sir.

GWB: What about re-animation through some kind of electric shock therapy? Worked with Yeltsin.

SH: I think one of the requirements is that the ‘patient’ is at least breathing for it to work, sir. And anyhow, the public wouldn’t buy it. Witnesses filmed his execution with their cellular phones, remember?

GWB: Maybe we could say we executed one of his stooges by mistake. Things get confused in war, Steve.

SH (incredulous): Yes, Mr President.

GWB (wistful): I miss the good ol’ days when Daddy was president… Back then we could do anything we liked and no one cared. Hell, we even carpet-bombed Panama without too much hassle from the media. Now you can’t break wind without the New York Times sniffing the air.

SH: Technology has shrunk the planet, sir. Everyone agrees it’s a good thing.

GWB (not listening): Tell you the truth, Steve, I never was very fond of those Iraqis.

Steve gets up to leave.

GWB: You’re a smart man, Steve. You have all these degrees and you even know when to insert an apostrophe in ‘its’. Can you answer me this one question?

SH: Sir?

GWB: Just how did our oil end up under Iraqi soil?

SH: …


Uncle Edvard

We have of late in our household become rather self-conscious about the food we eat, more precisely about the faceless animals which after a miserable life, get slaughtered in some grotesque abattoir and end up on our plate. Well, we have been conscious of it for quite some time now: eating meat and feeling guilty about it.

It was with these guilty thoughts in mind that we agreed recently to cut out meat from our menu and try and replace it with soya protein meals. But I have to admit this arrangement hasn’t been going too well, and a couple of weeks into it, the prospect of eating another battered tofu escalope has weakened my resolve somewhat. I decided to say nothing on the subject, opting instead to suffer in silence.

I am thus lost in thought, quietly brooding on this matter when the phone rings.

‘Hello?’, I answer. A heavy pause follows, which suggests either a stalker or an assassin – possibly both. Then I hear the voice of a little girl.

‘Helloooo’, she coos sweetly, in a pitch nature has devised for melting the hearts of hard-boiled old grumps like me.

‘Helloooo’, I coo back. ‘Who’s this?’, I say, in an unusually pleasant tone to a caller who clearly didn’t intend to speak to me. She lets out a little delighted giggle, as if me claiming not to know who she is was a regular teasing game we play.

‘You know who it is… It’s me, Charlotte’, she says.

‘Oh hello, Charlotte, and who do you suspect me to be?’

Another giggle.

‘Stop it! You’re my uncle.’ 

A sudden life-flashing-before-my-eyes moment takes place in which I try to recall if any of my brothers have fathered a child named Charlotte. One of them does have an overactive gland, but it’s only a thyroid.

‘Charlotte, I think you’ve dialled th…’, but she interrupts me, ‘No, listen uncle, when you come for lunch later, if you come at eleven we’ll be taking the dog for a walk before lunch, and you can bring Amy too if you like. Mummy is cooking roast lamb.’

‘No, you see, I erm… Roast lamb, you say?’


‘Mint sauce too?’ 

‘Yeah, lots.’  

‘Charlotte, sweetie, uncle’s memory is terrible lately. What’s the address again?’