On mad dogs and Israelis

My fucking dog kept me up the whole night with his barking.

Why was he barking? Who knows? Why does Bibi talk the shit he talks and Ehud ‘Fukushima’ Barak fuck up everything he touches?

Because he’s Israeli – paranoid, obsessive, narcissistic and loudmouthed. Whatever is going on outside – a cat scruffing up the leaves or a neighbor talking too loudly on the phone at three in the morning – it’s all about him. And not only is it all about him, but it’s aimed at him. He’s being victimized. And, being a post-Holocaust dog in the sovereign state of Israel, he’s not going to take that shit anymore.

Like the rest of us here, he has assumed the twin burdens of being one of the chosen and the eternal victim.

This morning, I’m tired and irritable, while the arsehole is sound asleep in his basket, farting gently in his oblivion. That’s also typical; the wounded innocence. Me? What did I do? Why is everyone pissed off with me? Who was barking all night? What do you mean occupying and brutalizing the Palestinians for decades? There’s no-one to talk to.

The historian of the future is not going to lack for primary sources when writing about the monumental folly that was Israel. He’ll have his work cut out for him, slogging his way through the labyrinths  of bureaucratic jargon, bombastic self-justifications, depraved rabbinical fatwas  and smug media apologias. Not only are we hell-bent on screwing up, but we’re going to do so in a blaze of words, video and bits & bytes. This time around, we’re not going to go quietly.

Maybe, just maybe, a lone and unassuming voice from a modest apartment in Tel Aviv can illuminate where all the bluster and pomposity befuddles. That’s the humble purpose of this blog: to reflect from street level on Israel’s descent into dementia.

If nothing else, it will give me something to do at night when the fucking dog is barking.