Sender: |
|
Subject: |
|
From: |
|
Date: |
Wed, 26 Mar 2003 10:59:19 -0500 |
MIME-Version: |
1.0 |
Reply-To: |
|
Parts/Attachments: |
|
|
i found this to be cute even if old
Inspection Teams....
Have you noticed anything fishy about the inspection
teams who have arrived in Iraq? They're all men!
How in the name of the United Nations does anyone
expect men to find Saddam's stash? We all know that
men have a blind spot when it comes to finding
things.
For crying' out loud! Men can't find the dirty
clothes hamper. Men can't find the jar of jelly
until it falls out of the cupboard and splatters on
the floor.... and these are the people we have sent
into Iraq to search for hidden weapons of mass
destruction?
I keep wondering why groups of mothers weren't
sent in. Mothers can sniff out secrets quicker than a
drug dog can find a gram of dope. Mothers can find gin
bottles that dads have stashed in the attic beneath
the rafters. They can sniff out a diary two rooms and
one floor away. They can tell when the lid of a cookie
jar has been disturbed and notice when a quarter
inch slice has been shaved off a chocolate cake. A
mother can smell alcohol on your breath before you get
your key in the front door and can smell cigarette
smoke from a block away.
By examining laundry, a mother knows more about
their kids than Sherlock Holmes. And if a mother
wants an answer to question, she can read an
offender's
eyes quicker than a homicide detective.
So... considering the value a mother could bring
to an inspection team, why are we sending a bunch of
old men who will rely on electronic equipment to
scout out hidden threats?
My mother would walk in with a wooden soup spoon
in one hand, grab Saddam by the ear, give it a good
twist and snap, "Young man, do you have any weapons of
mass destruction?" And God help him if he tried to
lie to her. She'd march him down the street to some
secret bunker and shove his nose into a nuclear bomb
and say, "Uh, huh, and what do you call this,
mister?" Whap! Thump! Whap! Whap!
Whap! And she'd lay some stripes across his bare
bottom with that soup spoon, then march him home in
front of the whole of Baghdad. He'd not only
come clean and apologize for lying about it, he'd
cut every lawn in Baghdad for free for the whole darn
summer.
Inspectors my butt... You want the job done? Call
my mother.
|
|
|