I don’t know what to make of this, but I was out picking up lunch from a small middle eastern restaurant near the university when three men, their faces partially obscured by green and yellow bandanas, launched an orchestrated strike on me using heavy falafel balls and what I think must have been shanklish.
I wasn’t seriously injured—one of the falafel balls grazed my shoulder, while the shanklish overshot me and landed on a table to my flank, causing a bit of shawarma to lodge in a toddler’s ear and some tabbouleh juice to blind his mother momentarily—but unfortunately, in the ensuing chaos the three attackers were able to flee the scene on a pair of old, dirt-crusted Vespas.
But the really strange part of all this was that I hadn’t even begun to wipe the fried chick pea detritus off my Fubu madras before a nattily dressed gentleman claiming to be from the State Department slipped me his card and told me that, should I wish to respond to the attack, I’d have roughly ten days to do so.
After that, he said, I would either have to go back to being a Zionist oppressor hated by the vast majority of the world, or else “come up with some of that really funny Jew stuff like Larry David does.”
My first thought on reading about his adventurous lunch was, “Gosh, I wish we had a place that sold falafel nearby.” All you can get around here is Billy Bob’s Pulled Pork Bar-Bee-Que. And they’re not open on Mondays anyway. Or during hunting season. Or sometimes for no reason I can ascertain. Billy Bob is an artiste when it comes to pulled pork; mere humans don’t question the vagaries of operating hours.
My second thought was, “Gosh, I wonder what a proportionate response to this attack would be…?”
My third thought was, “Proportionate? Are you nuts? This was an unprovoked attack with a cannon ball-like missile. It demands the DISPROPORTIONATE RESPONSE from hell.”
Having revved myself up with this train of thought, I decided to add my comment to his growing list of responses. However, as is often the case with my comments, I went on a bit long. When you do that, it means you need your own blog… which is how this one started: from taking up too much bandwidth at The Belmont Club [I’d link to the Club, but Wretchard needs my link like he needs… like he needs a smaller house. Besides, anyone who is reading this has already been to see him at least once today].
So instead of leaving a response at Mr. Goldstein’s place, I came home to drop it here. I think you’ll agree it is too long to be within the limits of courtesy, comment-wise. However, scenarios of revenge do get me going. So here’s my original comment, deleted there and dragged home for your perusal.
Just keep in mind that the weapon of choice was falafel balls, and some commenters were already going into phallic mode with that:
A proportionate response would be a galvanized tub full of Billy Bob’s pulled pork bar-b-q airlifted and dumped on the Vespa riders. Preferably the Texas pulled pork since it tends to be stickier than North Carolina’s more gentlemanly version.
Yeah, I know pork isn’t kosher. Wear rubber gloves or something. At the very least, don’t lick your fingers.
And, there is something equally phallic about “pulled pork”, is there not? It’s at least as manly as great balls of falafel. So you have the perfect storm: haram food, ridicule of their manhood — if pulling pork doesn’t do it what will? — and an air strike.
Maybe line up some peacekeepers ahead of time to help the masked terrorists clean their Vespas. Given the nature of Texas sauce, be sure to procure (so to speak) at least one blue hat that knows something about carburetors.
I now invite our readers to describe their own scenarios of revenge. Just keep it PG-13, please. We have a ladies’ agreement with The Headmistress on that. You see, we have children from her homeschool coming over to learn politics and history and current events and such. Be a good example to them.
It’s okay to be brilliant, though. I mean, Mr. Goldstein is pretty brilliant here, and you’ll have to admit the phallic imagery is subtle.
By all means, make your response as disproportionate as possible.
UPDATE: A reminder for all of y'all nit-pickin' Texas commenters and emailers out there:
Satire doesn't have to be accurate, just amusing. Yes, I know Texas "don't pull pork"; y'all tend to be beef people, anyways. However, my dilemma was that pulled pork usually has thin North Carolina sauce, which, while very good, is not viscous enough to really gum up the works of the fleeing Vespas.
When faced with a choice of humor over reality, I always choose the former. Fortunately, there are enough non-Texans out there who wouldn't notice my sleight of hand...or wouldn't have if you guys hadn't had to tromp onstage in your boots and stop the story in the name of accuracy...
A pox on reality. Do you *really* think Mr. Goldstein was attacked with great balls of falafel? Of course not. For my purposes, this particular batch of pulled pork with its viscous Texas-style sauce continues to slop around in its tin tub aboard the helicopter -- which is chasing the Vespas.
Oh, wait a minute! it's not a helicopter carrying the tub, it's flying pigs. Yes, that's what it is: Texas pulled pork barbeque in a galvanized tin tub being lifted aloft by Mighty Flying Pigs. I can see it even now, as they inexorably catch up with the Vespas, the latter desperately putt-putting down the dirt road while bits of rust fly off, making the Vespas lighter with each mile. Suddenly...SPLOPPP!!![followed by sounds of muffled Arabic cursing in the background]...blue-helmeted guys with large towels -- *Turkish* terrycloth towels, mind you -- and Vespa repair manuals saunter in, stage left...