busker

Cree-ay O Loo

Crier au loup (fr), cry wolf.

I can't over-emphasise my contempt and impatience for this Homeland Security farce. Is there anyone in the land who doesn't guess the sequence of events and guesswork?

• Stolid unprepossessing Tom Ridge lashing his team on to pin the tail on the terrorizing donkey and come up with a random date and alert that - Allah permitting - somehow magically coincides with one of our enemies' actions.
• Equally desperate computing of which leg we're all meant to be teetering on and which convincing variation of weave and hue of wolly hood to have covering our peepers when Alfred Q actually strikes.
• The total shame and embarrassment as we lumber, wog-whipped, from one duff lupine spotting to another.

Commuting by ferry, I take a dry interest in reportage such as this of radiation-sniffin' K9s. Between mid-July and late Sept last year, I attended daily radiation of an aggressive bombardment, after which I'd stroll down to Colman Dock and ride the Bainbridge ferry home.

By early September, my treatment was said to be at its most debilitating and I wish to God I'd had the chance to pass by one of these dogs.

As a side note, I'd been told my treatment was "aggressive" but had no idea what that actually meant. I attenended at the same time as a fit and foul-mouthed young man whose sweet wife brought himin each day.

By Sept, he was being wheeled in a wheel-chair, cussing and fuming.

His wife confided that the hardest part was rousing him from his bed to make the journey. So what grade of treatment was I getting? I had no idea, but I asked when I went under the zapper.

"You don't have a coding. We're throwing everything at you. Your coding is 'full', if you want to know.