Dialysis with Osama

Dear Sindy,

So as you know I get my dialysis treatments in Pakistan because it’s like so much cheaper and Daddy says there’s no way he’s paying MSRP not even for his little angel, plus Mummy can come with me and go shopping for uncut emeralds and handicrafts and whatnot, but the whole thing is such a drag because this place is so third world, I mean not even second place, but anyway I’m at this clinic which is like such a rest room I can’t even believe it with these old wire fans in the windows and no AC and actual typewriters that go clack clack clack I mean not even Mac Classic, these people are stone age, how did they get dialysis machines, right? And I’m in the waiting room and there’s a man with a diaper on his head, but he’s got shoulders and dreamy brown eyes so I’m like looking at him over the corner of this old copy of Golf Magazine from back when white people still won the game, and he sees me, and he smiles this little shy smile, but Mummy is right there, so nothing happens, right? And then like after the treatment I’m waiting on this totally scabby porch while Mummy has a cigarette in the car because it’s air conditioned and this same guy comes out, and all of a sudden I’m like, “Oh, my God, you’re Osama Bin Laden!!!!” And he’s like “Yeah,” and he smiles again like he was some little kid. I totally perked out. He’s like so famous and the last famous person I met was Ben Affleck, and he’s into miss bubble butt so forget it!!!!

I don’t even know what to say because he’s like totally evil and I’m not even a sophomore yet, and I could ask for his autograph or something but I mean that is so Ebay. I never thought about what to say to somebody who’s like “dead or alive”, am I supposed to grab a pen out of my purse and stab him in the neck, or find out if he has an Email address? I thought about following him back to his hotel or cave or whatever, but that’s way too Pierce Brosnan for me, and Mummy is TNC with vehicular pursuits. She didn’t even let me watch the OJ chase. “Honey, nobody chases anybody if they’re serious. They just wait for them at home.” Osama looks a little bit like OJ, how creepy is that? Or Keanu. But he’s really tall. It’s been like ten seconds and I’m like oh my God I have to do something, this is so weird, and I can tell he’s thinking the same thing, maybe because I’m wearing a halter top and I know he’s used to burlap bags from head to toe, right? So I “accidentally” drop the minibar bill from the hotel and go to the car. I’m like how lame is that, but I have no idea what to do around a serious outlaw, like Axel Rose level, hard core?!?!? He rides away, I’m totally serious, on a horse!!! I saw it out the back of the car. Mummy’s like “who was that?” And I said it was the towel guy from the hotel pool. Like I’m going to tell her.

This is the totally amazing part. I am serious fingers crossed true about this, no lie!!!!!! Mummy’s out shopping at some rug place and I’m at the hotel with cramps, which is grody beyond compare (the hotel I mean) they have these weird drinks in the vending machines in bottles that have been like used fifty times so you can’t even read the label any more, I hope they wash them. I’m between the pool and the bar getting a serious brown on in one of the chaises and I forgot all about Osama. And then there he is. He’s at the bar ordering a club soda, and then he comes over and sits on the chaise next to mine and starts talking right to me, and I’m like oh my God is he going to crash a plane into the hotel? Because if so, I’m changing rooms. “Hi,” he says, and he’s got a total Omar accent. But he talks English. “We met at the clinic.” No duh. I act like I’m trying to remember, and then I’m like, “oh, right!” He smiled that little smile again. He would be cute if he shaved off that totally lumberjack beard, IMHO. He looks out over the pool like it was the ocean, which I notice is something he does. He has this look like he can see really far, even if really he can only see to the end of the patio where they have the dressing rooms. Maybe he’s stoned on that quality hash they grow. And then he’s like, “I shouldn’t even be drinking this, my kidneys are shot,” which is funny and so I like laugh and he smiles and says “American, right?” Just to be safe I say I’m Canadian, but he shakes his head. “What are you worried about, I got what I wanted. I’m focusing on regional issues now. At least for the time being.” That loosened me up a lot. You could tell he was telling the truth. Just as long as he’s not getting nukes from the Pakistani rebels!!!!!!!!! JK, LOL. Why would they give him those, right? Duh.

Anyhoo, we hang by the pool for a while and then these total Indiana Jones rejects come up and he’s like “Gotta go” and he makes like a fetus and heads out? So I’m like stuck with nothing to do but wonder if Cosmopolitan would pay me cash for the story of my brush with this terrorist mastermind with the melted chocolate eyes. I should tell DeeDee’s dad about it at least because he works at the CIA and he’s such a Mulder he would probably pop a fly to hear about it, but then they might stick me in Guano bay with all those other unlawful awfuls. So I decide not to say anything.

Then I’m at the disco with Kevin and this complete Gunga Din whose mom runs the hospital, we’re talking gold chains from here to there, WAL!!! And I’m totally pounding sea breezes even though my kidneys could totally fail on me, but you only live once if you’re even that lucky, right? The place is about 500 degrees, it smells like somebody spilled a quart of Drakar on a rhinoceros, and the music is so Dollywood it’s insane. And we’re like partying in a heavy manner and then across the room I see this tall white turban bopping along. So I scoot over there and it’s Osama b. L himself, looking fine even though his beard is so way vile. We dance for a while but he’s focused on his mysterious beyond the whole time and I’m like “Okay, later” and he says “Don’t go” and we end up on this upstairs patio where they store the empty Coke bottles. In the moonlight it almost looks like Redondo Beach out there.

So he takes me by the arm really gently, partly because he can barely move his hand which is all wrapped in bandages, and he says “I like you. I like you a lot.” I’m kind of like not sure where I stand because he did kill way many people, but he’s cute, and then all of a sudden he’s going for me like some kind of animal. Note to self: white guys only. I mean I am all about the brotherhood of man and human rights and that, but not for just everybody. You have to earn it. Earth to Osama? He’s saying all this stuff about how lonely it is being in the mountains and the eternal war for God’s people, how the flower of his enemy is still the fragrant bloom, like I’m going to buy that line? And I grab one of these ten-pound Coke bottles and I hit him with it but the towel on his head stops it from doing much damage. He calls me a spirited she-cat and comes in for more and this time I take off my Prado and jab the heel right where it counts, because I spend half my time dealing with my own kidneys, so I know what’s going to work on him? He starts yelling in Ali Baba language and falls right off the patio into the recycling dumpster and just lies there with his head at a weird angle and his towel all tangled up around his ears.

You can imagine how fast I got out of there.

So now we’re at the hotel waiting for the plane to get un-cancelled as usual, this place is so not Club Med it’s not even funny, and I thought I should write down what happened because number one I’m dying to tell somebody and number two I need to know if I should like go public with this because I think we are talking movie of the week minimum but more like solid Memorial Day Weekend blockbuster material, you know? HCWTB? We’ll be back in three days, according to Mummy, who doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but anyway within a week, and my kidneys will be good for at least three months if this new treatment worked at all, like I don’t think so but oh well. As for Osama, he seemed nice at first, but these terrorists are SO unreliable. I think I’m better off without him. Maybe you could tell DeeDee to tell her dad for me.



BEN TRIPP is a screenwriter and cartoonist. Ben also has a lot of outrageously priced crap for sale here. If his writing starts to grate on your nerves, buy some and maybe he’ll flee to Mexico. If all else fails, he can be reached at: credel@earthlink.net


Ben Tripp is America’s leading pseudo-intellectual. His most recent book is The Fifth House of the Heart.