September 28, 2011 – SECOND POST TODAY – You might have all heard that Syria has now taken the front row seat at the arena where its champion bull was to be gored by the western alliance of zionist slaves and raving hypocrites.  Now, the western matador has conceded defeat amidst the cacophanous jeers of the masses who were promised a real dreory (as in “bloody”) day of battle in La Corrida.  Now, the western powers, whose lingering stench of zionistic motivation, have agreed to a “watered down” resolution at the UN which might bridge the gap between their positions and those of Russia and China.  They are asking for a “no violence from both sides” resolution as if to finally admit that the dissidents in Syria are actually using something more than paper spitballs to kill police and soldiers.  Finally.

Here is my reponse:  No agreement to anything until the scum-laced hooligans are finished once and for all.  Seditionists who clamoured for the murder of president Assad or who call for the violent overthrow of the Syrian government are traitors and spies whose only fitting end is before a firing squad or atop the gallows.  I sincerely hope that Syria sees this for what it is.  The French, British and Americans have given up.  They know that the last of their agents and terrorist murderers are being routed, collected and vaporized.  There is no other option for the Brits, French and Yankees but to concede defeat.  I say to Dr. Assad: show no mercy and give no quarter. 

REVIEW OF “CAPERS” – Special to SyrPer –

Dearborn, Michigan:  I arrived at the Capers bar and eatery after 3:00 p.m. last Monday and gave no hint to the staff as to who I really was as is befitting a critic of my stature.  I was accompanied by that detestable Arab, Ziad, and his friend, Mark the Brit, who spoke in a dialect with which I was unfamiliar.   I was initially impressed by the fact that the bar was located in a mini-mall next to Dunham’s Sports Center which, as I noted, sold a wide vareity of lethal weapons to the general public, an amenity remarkably well-suited for those gangrenous days when nothing but a mass murder will do to assuage one’s hurt feelings. Or, perhaps a night of depressed drinking followed by the ritual scream of frustration and “BLAST!” right through the cranium! Hmm.  Located at the corner of Southfield Freeway and Outer Drive, the establishment impressed me with its non-appearance,  as though it were appointed with stealth technology.  It took my driver some time to actually find it amidst the irridescent baby-poop-tinted brick motifs so much in vogue in the Midwest these days – or so I’m told.

Upon taking a seat at the bar closest to the front door (a precaution well practiced by those who fear strange places with customers hunched over saliva-beslubbered mugs of cheap beer), I hailed the barmaid, one with the strangely masculine name of “Taylor” – a name I, incidentally,  associate with others like “Ashley”, “Amber”, “Kansas”, “Lulu”, “DeeDee” and “Waheena”, all mostly found in stripbars called “Gentlemen’s Clubs” in specially zoned neighborhoods hard by depressed ghettoes and trailer parks.  She was prompt enough with a youthful girl-next-door smile and mien, that is if the street you live on is an army barracks filled with orphaned women from Manila.  She sported a giant tattoo of a squid on her left arm just below the shoulder, brightly coloured with eyes staring heavenwards.  I first assumed it was an octopus, but she cheerfully corrected me by turning her bicep full-face so that I could completely absorb this “objet d’art”.  I made the rather complimentary leap of faith that arrogated to this young lady a life-narrative of travel throughout the world – I mean, where else can someone have a foot-long squid permanently stuck to one’s pelt except in Thailand or Calcutta?  She disappointed me once again and confirmed that her tattoo was fashioned in the exotic town of Romulus, close to the bloody airport that introduced me to the Hell in which I was seated. 

The bar’s appearance is Epcott Center provincial.  That means that you have a neighborhood tavern, with all the marks of ancient provenance, stuffed between a miasma of technology.  The fakery is ordinary and I don’t believe the proprietor meant any harm.  In point of fact, as it turned out, Taylor the Barmaid, was his daughter.  And Taylor was not a real barmaid for she sheepishly admitted that she had no idea about what she was doing.  She also admitted somewhat candidly that she “did not drink”,  an admission which immediately demotes the tavern by at least 3 points in accordance with the rating system of the Alcohol Distributors’ Associaton of Naples. 

This was our first visit to the Capers Lounge.  I ordered what I thought would be a drink familiar to the local citizenry, a cheap beer and a shot of V.O., but that presented Taylor with problems as she struggled to find the bottle of whiskey.  Finally, one kindly oldster seated at the bar, amused by the goings-on, pointed her in the right direction and the thimblefull of whiskey was placed before me for the price of $4.50.  When I told her that her pouring was stingy, at best, she laughed and said “Oh, gosh”, but did nothing to dispel my unhappiness. When I asked her if there was an “happy hour” here, she responded with that age-old adage: “It’s always happy hour here”.  Oh, Agony!  It turns out that Capers has no Happy Hour and serves up the same cold gruel each day for the same exact price. The liquor she poured was genuine. That’s good.  Next time, we will try their food, which if consistent with standards in this area will be good only if it doesn’t sicken.  See you tomorrow.