MERCURY NEWS SERVICE – “Always at your service”. October 11, 2011 – Brunhilde Liebesbombe – on special assignment reporting: 

In a startling new development just revealed today by the French government of MAGYAR CUCKOLD NICOLAS SARKOZY,  the leader of Syria’s newly formed Transitional Council has received an invitation from SHAPUR BAKHTIAR and SALAHUDDIN BITAR to join them for tea.  None of this would be of any interest but for the fact that Shapur Bakhtiar, former P.M. of Iran, was assassinated in 1991 in Paris by alleged agents of the Khomeini government.  Salahuddin Bitar, one of three founders of the Baath Party of Syria, along with Michel Aflaq and Zaki Arsouzi, was assassinated in 1980 by “agents of some government somewhere in the Near East”, according to Lt. Tristane Defulge-Comfittante, head of the Surete in Paris.  That two dead men murdered in Paris would invite Professor Ghalioun to join them for tea has Paris abuzz with rumours of a possible “Reunion des Mortes”.  Professor Ghalioun, whose name in Arabic means “pipe” as in the kind into which one stuffs tobacco, would only comment on condition that his name not be used.  We refused at MNS to not quote him then listened in on his statements to other, more scrupulous journalists.  He said:  “Cet invitation est evidamment un communication d’Enfer” but would say no more than: “I don’t think I want to light my pipe tonight in Hades”.  At that point the notorious dullard made his way to evening prayer at the Montmarte Mosque for the Grande Pouffe.  Lt. Defulge-Comfittante was livid with anger that the letter came with an RSVP.  “It’s so rude to invite someone to his own death and then ask him to respond.  Professeur Le Peep should not have to consider such options.”  Syrian Ambassador to France, Lamia Shakkour, would only state that she doesn’t believe in ghosts and that “Mr. Ghalioun can go to Hell anyways.”  More on this story as events develop.  BL.

Yes, yes, yes.  I know that I was accosted by some white rodent in Pennsylvania while collecting some ice for my martini.  You’d think that would be enough to warm me up to the motel in Newark, the Hojo Liberty Motel, which that evil-doing Harvard Ph.D. bum Proscia snookered me into.  First of all, there was no complimentary breakfast.  I mean, come on.  They all have little cheap croissants with Smuckers jam and some coffee after fleecing their customers.  But not the Hojo at the Newark Airport.  Upon checking in, I asked the booking clerk if it was true that they had an infestation of “BEDBUGS!!!” at their establishment.
This was occasioned by Proscia’s internet research into the motel which disclosed that regrettable condition. She shrivelled as she said  in some patois which could have been Brooklynese: “Some person may bring this stuff in with him.  The people here took care of everything.”  I was not reassured and quickly found my magnifying glass which I used in the presence of Doctor Doom to give the room my seal of Acceptable Hygiene.  I seriously feared waking up without my lower lip, it having been devoured by ravenous bugs after a deep, vodka-inspired bender.  Nor did I want to awaken to find Proscia in an on-going state of absorption and digestion such as one sees in the Tarzan movies when an extra is eaten by a swarm of red army ants.  What this story tells us has nothing to do with the deplorable conditions in Newark.  Instead, it says so much more about the unrefined, vulgar, abysmal bad taste of the miscreant who reserved any room in Newark!  That I am alive to tell this tale is testimony to my fortitude and patience.  I shall have more to say about this anon.  Ziad Abu Fadel.