psubrat | companions

We received a very nice fax at work one day (remember the fax?), from Mrs. Nazek Audi Hariri. I’m sure you’ve heard of her husband, Rafik Baha al-din Hariri. Or at least, it’s possible you once raised a din while driving your Audi in Baha.

Mrs. Audi Hariri offered to give us 20% of 36 million dollars.

I thought to myself, “Well, we’re all getting raises this year!

It seems her husband, a respected businessman and politician in Lebanon, was killed in an explosion on Valentines Day. Tragic, right? Afterward, Mrs. Hariri was contacted by a European security firm, which held a trunk that belonged to her husband – a trunk containing the aforementioned three dozen million bucks, all in cash. This no doubt cushioned the lady’s grief, and provided a nice little Valentine gift.

Apparently the money came from business associates, and was meant to for Mr. Hariri’s next election campaign. I’m guessing the campaign finance laws work a little differently in Lebanon.

This is believed to be the spare bathroom toilet for Rafik Baha al-din Hariri, but since the explosion demolished it we can't be certain; there's nothing to go on.

20%, amounts to, um, let me do some quick math … seven million bucks. Give or take--at that point do a few hundred more bucks really matter? I could buy a lot of ramen noodles with a seven and six ones.

Here’s where things get a bit fuzzy: The reason Mrs. Hairy sent this fax is because a person receiving it, identified by her as “you”, is one of her husband’s business partners. But the fax came to my work, and anyone working there who had enough money to contribute toward a multi-million dollar campaign fund would NOT be working there.

Mrs. Heshe explained it all in this clear and concise sentence:

“The part of services the diplomat is required to render is to assist you in claiming the consignments from the terminal of the security company and to set up a transit domiciliary account in your name in one of the prime bank he has contacts to carry out the exercise through the back door.”

Oh. Well, when you put it that way, it all makes sense.

I checked into the story. There really was a Lebanese Prime Minister Rafik Hariri, who really was killed in an explosion, and he really was estimated to be worth billions. Which is like millions, only more. He even has a son named Baha:

“What are you going to name your son?”

“Baha.”

“Well, what happens in California stays in California. Where are you vacationing next year?”

“Saadeddine.”

“Oh boy.”

For some reason, people who want to send you lots of money never want to end up in a courthouse.

I called Mrs. Hibijibi's contact person, a diplomat in London named Mark Johnson. “I’d like to help with the Audi Hariri Funny Honey Money Fund,” I told him.

“You would?” I couldn’t figure out why he was so surprised. After all, 20% of 36 million is so much money I’ll never have to do math again.

“I sure do. I mean, the poor lady’s so oppressed that she has to go through the back door! If this keeps up, they’ll take her names away, one by one. First she won’t have an Audi, then she won’t be Hariri any more, and next thing you know she’ll never get to go to Baha again.”

“Ah, yes …” He seemed a little uncertain about whether I was for real – after all, people do crazy things for money. “Well, with this much cash flow involved, you must understand that certain guarantees will be needed, certain, ah, capital assistance to provide for the transference of funds.”

“I live in the capital of Noble County. Does that help?”

“What I’m saying is, a certain amount of financial incentive on your part will be needed to assist in the transference of cash into your account.”

“Are you saying I need to send you money in order to get money? So in return for services, you need a financial contribution?”

“Well … yes.”

“So you’re like the federal government?”

“Um –“

“Look, here’s the thing. Mrs. Hihickey obviously needs our help, so what if you bring the money over yourself? It just so happens that we have a place near my job where you can stay while we get this all sorted out. You’ll get a nice bed, three square meals a day, entertainment, and even people who’ll stay with you and help you acclimate into our society.”

“Really? Where would that be?”

“The Noble County Jail. Now, if you’ll just give me your –“

That’s when Mr. Mark Johnson hung up, and he wouldn’t answer my return calls. Honestly, I’m beginning to suspect he wasn’t on the level.

You can send us 30 million dollars--or more likely less--to buy our books here:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO

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Remember: You don't have to blow anyone up to get a good book.

It seems like no one wants to face challenges or work for their dreams, anymore--they just seem to want everything handed to them. That made me wonder, what would have happened if Americans shared that attitude back at the time of the Revolution?

The Boston Tea Party:

“We’re being taxed on that tea without representation! We should dress up as Indians, sneak about the ship, and throw all those crates of tea overboard!”

“Are you kidding? Do you have any idea how much it costs to rent an Indian costume? And that war paint is terrible on my complexion. Besides, those tomahawks are dangerous, and don’t you think it’s insulting to our Native American friends? Why don’t we just write a letter, instead?”

The Battle of Lexington and Concord:

“Paul Revere, ride out and warn the Minutemen the British are coming!”

“I’m kind of busy doing engravings right now; are you sure they’re coming?”

“There’s a lantern in the church steeple!”

“I can’t remember if it’s one if by land and two if by sea, or the other way around. I’d hate to make a mistake; can’t you get Samuel Adams to do it?”

“But you’ve got the fastest horse!”

“Upkeep is a killer. She throws a shoe every other day, and it’s a pain taking care of all that leather, and she only gets about three miles to the bale. If I’m going to keep doing this, I’m really going to need some kind of financial assistance.”

The Battle of Bunker Hill:

“As long as the ammunition holds out, we can fight the British off for days!”

“Um, about that, sir: We’re out of ammunition.”

“What?”

“Well, the New Jersey guys were supposed to bring some, but they forgot; and the Virginia boys were willing to sell us some, but they wouldn’t take our Massachusetts money; and the Rhode Island guys say theirs all got wet on the way over, because hey--island.”

“But--"

“The New York fellas didn’t think their bullets would be compatible, and the guys from the Carolinas didn’t show up at all. We had supplies still left at Lexington, but Paul Revere wouldn’t lend us his horse.”

“Oh, never mind. I just found out we’re on the wrong hill, anyway. Let’s call it a day and sample some of that beer Sam Adams is so proud of.”

Not historically accurate: It should have 50 Continental soldiers and about a thousand British.

George Washington:

“George, the Congress wants you to take over the army and beat the British.”

“Say what?”

“Now, I know they’ve got a large, well trained, disciplined, and well supplied army of experienced soldiers, and you’ve got farmers and merchants who’ve never shot at anything bigger than a turkey, but--"

“If you’re trying to convince me, you need to take lessons.”

John Paul Jones:

“As you know, Captain Jones, we’re fighting the most powerful navy in the world, and our navy consists of two barrels we borrowed from Sam Adams. Still, we’d like you to take a ship out there and give ‘em a good fight!”

“No way. Sam Adams doesn’t have enough beer in all of Boston to get me that drunk. I’m changing my name to John Paul Smith.”

Trenton:

“Dear Diary: We were supposed to cross the Delaware and attack the Hessians today, but we couldn’t get anybody to lend us boats. Then our feet got cold, and besides, we were a little hung over from all that beer Sam Adams sent over on Christmas. Besides, Hessians aren’t even British – what did the Germans ever do to us?”

There's been a flag on the play.

Valley Forge:

“To the Continental Congress: We are suffering under one of the worst winters in history, and we lack clothing, housing, firewood, food, and medical supplies. This is the greatest challenge my army has ever faced.

“I’m going back to Virginia. It’s warm there, and Martha makes a great stew.

“Sincerely, George Washington.”

And finally, the Declaration of Independence:

“Um, guys, I really don’t feel up to writing this.”

“But Tom, you’re our best writer!”

“Yeah, but … you want me to put all our causes and reasoning, and justify the first revolution of a British colony ever, in one little document? That would be hard.”

“But you’ve got that neat portable desk, and the copy machine you invented, and a really cool quill pen.”

“My wrist has been hurting. I think I’m getting carpel tunnel.”

“Look, this is important. We’re dedicating our lives, fortunes and sacred honor to this fight.”

“Yeah, about that. Is that such a good idea? I can let go of a little sacred honor, but that life and fortune stuff … I mean, my name would be on this thing.”

“If it makes you feel better, we’ll get John Hancock to sign his name in great big letters, so he’ll be the one they arrest.”

“Hey --!”

“Sorry, John, you wanted to be President of Congress. Come on now, Tom. Do it in
rhyme. We’ll call it the rappin’ revolution, it’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know … don’t you think people will be bothered that a slave owner wrote a declaration of freedom?”

“We’ll call it a declaration of independence. Semantics, Tom! It’s all in the wording.”

“Well, all right … but I’m not paying for all that ink.”