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Sitting at a cafe on a downtown street corner in Beirut before the sunset I understand why this was known as the "Paris of the Mideast". I'm nibbling on some tasty dolmas and drinking my second glass of Chardonnay when I take notice that it's taken on a pinkish hue from the blood that's splashed into my glass from bodies now mutilated by the precise guided bombs that struck them. I think to myself, "If only their precision was as good as these dolmas".
Some intellectual Lebanese students are having a heated debate about politics and what they claim to be lack of Democracy in Iraq, I'd go over there and tell them that MTV is planning a 'Rock the Vote' in Baghdad but they probably wouldn't listen. It's funny, every time I hear a sonic boom by a fighter-jet screaming overhead I'm taken back 2 weeks ago when I was watching a fireworks display celebrating Americas Independence, I really ought to have a word with those students and tell them what Freedom and Democracy really is. I just can't tear myself away from these dolmas though.
Black smoke billows in the foreground towards the direction of the airport, it reminds me of the Kuwaiti oil fires during Gulf War 1, I saw a movie about them in an IMAX theater, this suddenly saddens me because I realize that the it's probably one of the large fuel depots burning meaning the cost of gas is going to go up.
Well my glass of wine isn't pink anymore but looking more like a Merlot. I think at this point it's more suited for a transfusion than a drink, to bad the Red Cross, Red Creasent, or Red Star of David isn't here to collect it...of course if they all showed up at once they might fight over who's blood it is, better just pitch it, but not before I finish off these dolmas.
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