-- Spanish Men Go Behind Trees

by Michael Jahn

For reasons best left unsaid, having been humiliated enough in my life, I found myself on a local bus rolling through the wilds of northern New Jersey at night.

Let me fix that sentence. The bus was rolling the way a slug rolls after you lay a kilo of kosher salt on it. It was struggling down the east bank of the lovely Hackensack River through Teaneck, current or former home to Placido Domingo; Pat Boone; the Isley Brothers (who were proud enough of the 'burb to name their T-Neck Records after it); Ozzie, Harriet and Ricky Nelson, who was born there; Paul A. Volker Jr., chairman of the Federal Reserve; and Notorious B.I.G.

At least I think it was the east bank of the lovely Hackensack River. I don't pay attention to where places are in Jersey. Because every place in Jersey makes me think of every place that isn't in Jersey.

The bus was packed with Chinese and Mexican women on their way home from jobs at malls. They were hot to get home, so when the driver pulled the bus to a halt alongside a park forged from the wetlands on the riverbank, they were appropriately pissed. Once the place in which George Washington parked the Continental Army while it was on the lam from the Brits, it had become by 2007 a good place to relieve yourself.

Which is what about nine million Canada Geese do often enough to make the hardiest of animal rights activists petition the gun-friendly administration of Bush the Lesser to lift the ban on hunting it. That it doubtless would do, perhaps even naming Vice President Cheney to head the beer-and-birdshot wetlands-remediation project.

The bus driver parked the bus and fled into the woods. He battled his way down a slight incline and through a bunch of scrub thick enough to block the view of 20 or 30 witnesses. Then he logically whipped it out and peed, although you never know, given the bus's destination of New York's legendary bus terminal.

"He has to pee," a Chinese woman said with a laugh.

"He went behind a tree," another added.

"Spanish men go behind trees," said a Hispanic woman.

That was the point at which any word-conscious soul would jump into the conversation, and I did.

"Is that to imply that non-Spanish men pee in front of trees?" I asked.

I was rewarded with a quizzical look.

"Huh?" someone asked.

I repeated myself. My reward that time was a look that suggested this man could be trouble. I bet he's against immigrants.

"I'm part Spanish and I pee in front of trees," I said quickly.

"You're part Spanish?" asked the woman who started the tree conversation.

I don't look it. At least I don't look like Antonio Banderas. My father didn't look like Antonio Banderas either.

"Yes," I said.

It's true that I'm part Spanish. My Spaniards moved from Spain to Brooklyn in the mid-1800s, where they became barbers, for the most part. But one was a career U.S. Navy man who sailed with Perry to Japan and was a gunner aboard the U.S.S. Brooklyn during the Civil War. It's long been my contention that great-great-Uncle John (presumably "Juan" at birth in Spain) couldn't hit the broad side of a barge, inspiring his commander, Admiral Farragut, to make his famous proclamation, "damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead." Which instead of referring to mines as commonly believed, meant "let's get outta here before Juan gets us killed."

The part about his being a gunner aboard the U.S.S. Brooklyn is true. Google the keywords "John Quevedo" and "Brooklyn" if you don't believe me.

"My great-grandmother was from Spain," I said.

"Where?"

"Her parents were from Barcelona and Port Mahon," I replied.

"Port Where?"

"On Menorca, in the Baleiric Islands." It's the poorer, less famous cousin of Majorca. It's famous for cheese, Queso de Mahon.

"Barcelona, oooh," a different Latina said, implying that the city is ritzy. I don't know if that's true or not. My amiga from Argentina maintains that residents of Barcelona are full of themselves. I don't know about that either. I've never been to Spain. But I kinda like the fact that their men go behind trees.

I added a bit of math, unwisely, since my last experience with math was a D in high school algebra. I said, "everyone has eight great-grandparents, so I go behind trees one-eighth of the time."

That was not true. That was made up. Sometimes I don't go behind trees at all. Sometimes I just want to cause trouble on buses.

This man could be trouble, another look suggested.

Fortunately by that time the bus driver had finished doing what he did behind that tree, doubtless acquiring in the process an embarassing case of poison ivy, a bit of flora that along the Hackensack River is even more prevalent than Canada geese.

Without a word, he started the bus again and as it hobbled off it occurred to me that I had not the faintest bit of independent evidence if he was Spanish or not.

-30-

-- Look Like ZZ Top and Still Cross-Dress in Bagdad

by Michael Jahn

There was a report on National Public Radio this morning about a soon-to-be suicide bomber in Iraq. The reporter made it clear that the young man wished to remain anonymous. Then she pointed out that he

*Has a degree in accounting

*Attended Iraq’s National Security College

*Was a member of Saddam’s Secret Police

*Was injured fighting American troops during the invasion and walks on crutches

*Has vowed not to shave or cut his hair until the Americans leave Iraq, as a result of which his beard goes down to the middle of his chest and his pony tail goes way down his back

*Plans to dress up like a woman so he can hide the bomb beneath the robes. (I suppose that looking like ZZ Top won’t stop a guy planning to cross-dress in Bagdad.)

*Left behind a string of witnesses to all of the above.

Hells bells, Harriet, Inspector Clouseau could find this guy! A blind boy scout with a hearing aid could find this guy. Even the CIA could track him down in five minutes, and that’s even if he doesn’t get caught on the security camera while going into the 7-11 to get matches for the fuse.

Why, finding this man is so simple even a caveman can do it.

Jeez, you can start by keeping an eye out for the bearded lady on crutches with a bulge under her burka.

You say, he can shave off the beard? No, because he vowed not to cut it until American troops leave Iraq. So if he cuts it now he’s breaking a solemn vow and THAT can’t sit too well with the heavenly host that hands out virgins.

Of course, he could wait to blow something up until we leave – but imagine what his beard will look like then.

-30-

-- It's Time to Create Trump Devil's Island

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