Odd thing when you are in Timbuktu, that you can be minding your own business trading camels..........no mind you that trading camels is a nice past time while gambling, but for some reason some camels have guns, bombs, diamonds, women and other things on them which some authorities not getting their cut get really excited about and start throwing lead about, at least that is what happens in Kipling tales I've been told.
So you're sitting there drinking whiskey with some Muslims, as this is kosher whiskey in they put the haleel or on it with a knife before it breathed it's last..........the African Muhammedan kind of is like the black Christian in sort of sorting through the dogma and making dogma of their own........so you're sitting there behaving yourself and all of a sudden these very hungry looking men, who have not washed since water was invented, but they have these AK 47's, rpg's and grenades about them, and for some reason they really are interested in you, being you are a westerner.
Of course, if you are Catholic you don't finger your rosary as that would be deemed an act of aggression akin to pulling out your Browning pistol it is attached to, so you just sort of sit there with the other sundry types in this Mexican standoff.
Finally you get a gun pointed at you, as fingers are impolite, and in some sort of Spanish, French and English tribal mixed dialect you find out you are really popular in these parts.
Knowing what a popular girl I can be, I'm quite flattered and as the moments pass I conclude if this was a suicide bombing I would be already meeting the Lord, so as time moves on I start contemplating again which ones to shoot first and hope my camel is fast as that Muhammedan promised me last year.
It turns out after a grenade launcher is waved at me, that this is my invitation to accompany the crew to a new location as the honored guests of one of the local smugglers named Hasan Hasan. See in the 3rd world you just are not Cher or Madonna, you get your name up in lights twice when you are a big shot.
Is why Obama never gets top billing as he needs to be Hussein Hussein Obama to get any attention.
As this looks interesting in another adventure, I decide to trot along with the mysterious crew as a direct response to the invitation is necessary and no RSVP's via the local runner will be accepted.
We get to the.........it is sort of a concrete thing built by some Europeans, but now patched with mud and manure..........lots of flies so Obama would like it, and a big fire pit by the door with a big goat roasting black......or the Yanks on cooking shows call that caramelized.......is smoking up the doorway pretty good.
Inside I can hear allot of excited chatter, screaming, lamenting and crying. I can tell this is going to be a fun party already.
Things progress fast as Hasan tells me..........no not Hasan Hasan, as this is Hasan the lesser who has a very big knife poking at me while Hasan Hasan is looking all stern and in some dirge about the travails of wickedness visited upon the moral man he is.
I think that is a string of ears, human ears, hanging on his trophy wall.
So any way, Hasan is telling me in this mixture of languages how the woman over there.......oh yes that would be the woman with flies crawling on her, and her guts all bungled up as they have spilled out, but are wrapped up in a dirty French flag, how a bit of an excitement happened recently in Hasan Hasan's favorite fighting goat...........no I did not know of such goats, but apparently HH had this bad ass goat which he loved as it ran around attacking dogs and people he didn't like, but could bet on the games................so he has this killer goat and the damn thing got loose, and who should it attack but his favorite whore. The whore has no name, except favorite whore, and now is named, "She is my favorite whore and you will fix her or I will fix you".
I can tell HH means business as that is his favorite goat roasting out front. In most places in Africa, a man would just get a new whore, but with HH he is a man of morals it seems as he is going to eat his favorite pet and keep the gutted whore around providing this westerner can save her and my own life.
HH mumbles something at me about being a doctor and calls me Francoisee. Of course, we westerners are all French and we are all doctors bashing about the bush, and I have always walked on the moon and offer to show him my moon rocks in my pocket.
Not having enough time for this as those girls guts are drying out, I ascertain that it was now a mistake in not wasting 7 years in becoming a heart surgeon as I intended long ago, and only read the medical journals sort of quick.........odd in that how no one will let you take medical exams for just reading their books, and they all want diplomas for you to be licensed to practice medicine.
That though was America long ago and we are now in the 3rd world where such things like diplomas are not necessary, as when there is trouble, get the Yank to fix the nuclear bomb as they know how to do such things and us French doctors all are born with diplomas in our natal blood.
I tell one of the other less favored whores to get me some clean water as the water they are giving her has things swimming about in it, along with gravel in it.
I inform Hasan Hasan that I need my magic powders I keep, but he decides I might escape in retrieving them, so a little black boy HH trusts is sent to rifle through my goods along with a very big Arab with a gun to kill anyone who does not like this.
Things happen quite fast and I get some semi clean water and start pouring it on these dry guts to keep them hydrated and not dried up like noodles as that would be very unhealthy for me.
Soon enough the boy comes back with my bag and Hasan rifles through them, finds my other Browning gun and waves it at me, but HH is not interested in intrigue and grabs the magic bag and I go to work.
It really is not that big of deal this time, as the horns never ripped open her guts, which is something that would really be septic, as me without something to knock her out with in only a club and all that human waste floating about, she would probably bloat up and die about the same time I would be bloating up and dying from a bullet to my brain for malpractice.
So counting my fortune, I start shoving the critter and sand washed guts back into this woman who is now making noises like she is having child birth in reverse.........
Did I mention what started this story was a few hours ago some wicked chickens about picked the had off another chicken in my pen, and I had to sew up that poor chickens head and he is now doing quite well with a load of bag balm salve shoved into his neck?
Ok now you know what Inspired this most entertaining story.
Meanwhile back in the Obama homeland..........
My surgical kit looks a great deal like my sewing kit, which it is really, as fancy is not a prerequisite to medicine or being a vet in life.
The guts get pushed in, and I do my best not to tangle them up as that would kill the whore too too sweet, and in sort of kneading them like bread dough into place, as intestines just are odd once let out of captivity in being more dirt than you dug out of the grave..............most times though you never have enough dirt for some reason........not in the gut case though.
Then comes the 20 pound bag of sulfa dust. That is the lovely thing the French came up with in the Napoleonic Wars in their physicians started putting pine tar on wounds, and people started getting better. Pine tar from trees is a natural antiseptic and is what sulfa pills are based on, and of course the America FDA does not want things like Creosote on people as it causes cancer now........only saved millions in the last century.
So with sulfa dust a flying like DDT, the flies even stop laying eggs on this girls entrails and I start sewing things up, and you know........well you don't , but this little whore is being quite the tough girl about this now, in she stopped crying, and wailing, and she is only wincing a bit when I jab the needle into her sewing her up.
I'm impressed on this, as I much prefer operating on myself than having others do it, as when other people are cutting on me, it hurts like hell, but with me, I can do it much better in I can prepare my mind for the pain and whittle away, and not get too excited about the blood.
Where was I?
Oh yes, the stitches.............
She isn't too fat so I don't have that pretty yellow fat to contend with and make things slippery, and in about an hour with my pliers sometimes to stick through the hide she has, I get her looking pretty good. Mind you this ain't no pretty C section scar below the bikini line, but it is skin for skin and no meat, fat or gut sticking out, so we are quite good to go.
I follow up with the magic potion of 300 cc's of camel penicillin.......no difference from human this critter drugs, except it is more refined. The Soviets gave their sick folks critter medicines and it never did any of them any harm.
I pronounce her healed, but is not to be doing any whore stuff until the stitches rot out or her guts will fall out again. I make this point vital to Hasan Hasan, that the stitches will not be removed but rot out so it will not be necessary for me to stick around.
HH though is quite pleased with the news, and orders me to stay for roast goat now in my honor, and as we dine, he and the boys get roaring drunk on sacred Muslim whiskey, and I get offered the use of any male or female in his possession.
Always abiding by the advice of "when in Rome" I gladly take HH up on his offer and retreat to a sacred Muslim place where I tell the offering to get on the mat and stay there as I need to ritual clean myself first, and with that I run like hell for my camel and put my vibrams to use spurring my fleet footed camel as far from this friendly place as it's little hooves can carry us.
I really though should have stayed around as some of the camel traders were soon telling me of how popular I was, as the whore not only lived, but it became quite vogue to show her big scar off and HH was quite proud of it all.
HH got it in his head I was some grand mahdi witchdoctor with big medicine as I was sent to save his whore and just vanished without a trace...........yes I was an act of God in a heathen land and I even heard some sort of shrine was set up that local whores offered oil cakes to to gain my patronage.............as in favor and protection.
Used to be diploma's weren't necessary. You wanted to teach, you just started class......you wanted to practice law you just put out a shingle literally........you wanted to be dentist you just got a chair and a pliers, and if you wanted to practice medicine you had lots of practice on people and the dead ones never complained.
John Wayne did a great service in his fiction which made the world that westerners could do anything.............regrettably the current crop looks at Obama and has figured out that westerners can't do a thing in getting it right.
No diploma necessary.
agtG
