Notes from the "xxxxxx" War:*

Drippings in a humerous vein by Barry Silverberg

The Home Front Command has announced that anyone from Tel Aviv on North
should take precautions.

How any one can even think of having sex in a shelter is beyond me. It may be safe sex, but an embarrassment, if not a physical impossibility. Sadly, this war has already affected many people's conceptions.

You're probably thinking of Public Shelters, where you've got all your neighbours watching, or, alternatively, you are involuntarily watching all your neighbours. Yeuchgh! But no: the private sector is also affected. We have a private shelter, but private means the whole family and guests. The other night I turned in, all pooped out, and almost lay down on my shelter mattress when I realized someone was sleeping in my bed! Turns out one of our adopted 'Soldier/teachers' showed up at our house after a nerve wracking day; it's her first war, and took the first sheltered mattress she saw. I fled back upstairs until I could arrange enough rows of wife and kids between us for proper shelter etiquette.

HERE's another confidence building fact that was sent to me today.

Statistically, one is in much more danger on Israeli roads and streets. In over thirty-five years of intermittent rocket attacks on Kiryat Shmona, some periods lasting as long as two weeks, … less than 20 people have been killed.

This really cheers me up as I prepare to cycle to the local Civilian HQ in Kiriat Shmona despite the Shelter Alert; I have a chance of getting it form both directions.

Another thing that really gets me is the Corona Beer ad. I'm forced to watch these because, like most of us, I'm glued to the News, and all we have is Channel TEN as we insisted on a dish without cable. For thosefortunate among you without even a TV, this ad features a bottle of beer with a piece of lemon stuck in the mouth ( of the bottle, for starters), a man, and a woman. By the end of the commercial, one of them has the lemon wedged in his or her mouth, and the other one has to suck it out. The lemon. Get it? I don't. It's a version of a party game that I almost got to play in Grade Nine, but it never quite moved along. (Either that or Hartley and Maureen went off to another room with the bottle and left me with Myron, Candace and a curling broom).

Why, I ask you, are these two attractive people sucking on the same lemon slice? If there's one lemon slice, ergo there should be a whole rest of the lemon some were in the kitchen that can make at least 3 more slices. We're not living in the tzenna.

Do these ads really work? I wonder: I was at the beach with my daughter yesterday dodging medusa jellyfish, and when she got absorbed in sandcastles, I idly sauntered over to the bar, ordered a Corona beer, and tipped the waitress another 5 shekel for a slice of lemon. I sat down on the chair with the lemon in the bottle, and pretended to doze. Sure enough, this woman comes along and sticks the lemon in her mouth and leans over to me! I bite firmly on edge of the lemon and as I pull her mouth towards mine her dentures come out!

ANOTHER VERSION: The man is Israel, the woman is Lebanon, and when they fasten on the lemon it explodes.

BUT this week's prize goes to the Channel Ten crew. They're standing in the middle of Tsfat or Haifa or someplace, and they grab that microphone and do their best to allay our fears. Here's on the spot reporter Yahav Nobreinz:

Yahav: Yes, here is where, only a few minutes ago, a rocket fell on this very street. (Camera pans the street address: Rechov Rubble 14), Yes, here we are at the corner of Rubble and Gore, in one of the city's most strategic neighbourhoods. Very very strategic. ( He winks.) Only fifty meters away in this direction, is the Bank Mizrabel, full of people at this time. Just think what could have happened. So many people! And I heard that the Chief of Staff was paying an emergency visit this morning. And next to the bank is one of our top secret radar stations. We wouldn't want that damaged, would we now! Hah! There's some idiot Hizbollah cursing his bad luck. If he had only adjusted his calibration for another fifty five meters left! That's FIFTY METRES … LEFT. He would have hit a TOP SECRET RADAR STATION! Almost as far as the Paratroop Patrol base up two blocks over there. What is it? Yableet? A message? Over to Yableet, at the border: Rosh Hanikra:

Yableet Desheh: Well, Yahav, I've just received a phone in request from a Cindar 'Allah in Beirut.

She has a question.

Yahav: Go ahead! Cindar? I can hear you.

Cindar: Tfaddall, I couldn't hear you over the bombing: The Barratroop Batroll Beyyyys, how far is it from Rubble St?

Yahav: Well, I said it's about a 5 minute walk to the main entrance. But it's only seventy meters as the crow flies.

Cindar: As the Katyusha flies, you mean. Titter titter. Oh yes, one more thing: The Chief of Staff, will he be there much longer at the bank?

Yahav: No, he'll be leaving in another thirty minutes.

Cinder: Well, Shukrun! Shukrun! I'll tell Nasr—I'll tell my uncle, he needs to make a deposit. Salam!

Yahav: Salaam to you to, dear! This is Yahav Nobreinz, giving you all the information, Channel Ten.

  • For security reasons, the name of this war is being withheld. We wouldn't want the Hizbolla running around bandying the name for the war on their sneering filthy unglossed lips. I'm not saying we haven't chosen one yet, nor am I at liberty to say that you still have a chance to send in your suggestion, and if your name is chosen, you will have gained immorality in the history books. I mean immortality. I mean, with the people who are making our history lately, what difference does it make?

/Barry Silverberg, two stories under/ Kiriat Shmona, 19/7