The happiest man on earth
January 17, 2015 by Thomas Wictor
Thanks to a mysterious woman who has all sorts of skills that make me wonder who she really is, I met the happiest man who ever lived. His name is Pierre Rehov.
Someday I hope Mr. Rehov writes a memoir. We’ve had several long discussions by phone; his happiness isn’t the type seen here.
If life seems jolly rotten
There’s something you’ve forgotten
And that’s to laugh and smile and dance and sing
When you’re feeling in the dumps
Don’t be silly chumps
Just purse your lips and whistle
That’s the thing
And always look on the bright side of life
He’s faced incredible hardship on almost very level. What makes him different from me is that he’s got much more willpower. He’s also a people-person.
I’m about as far from being a people-person as you can get while remaining within the same species. My hope is that the documentaries about Operation Protective Edge and the BDS Movement are smash hits, and Mr. Rehov is whisked into the stratosphere of recognition.
That’ll allow me to return to the life I prefer.
Today Tim and I bought a stand for Brother Cat.
I set it up next to the window in front. It’s hard to believe, but Brother Cat has been in my house a little more than a week. Before I captured him, he wouldn’t let me get within two meters of him. And now?
But he sits in the window and seems to pine for the outdoors.
So I got him the cat stand, thinking he’d enjoy sitting at the top looking out the front window.
Well, he’s too afraid to go into the front room. Tim tells me to give him time, but it’s very hard. I didn’t want pets ever again, and now I have two extremely difficult cats. It’s like what happened with the Pallywood posts. Though I’m glad they make people feel better, this is what I get all day, every day.
The point of living my monastic life was to get away from creatures of total negativity like aXahier. Now they contact me incessantly.
I just don’t have it in me anymore to feel the happiness that Pierre Rehov does. As I sit and write this, my neighbors are throwing a drunken, drug-fueled movie party. They’re playing a deafening action film on a giant-screen TV outside, and people are screaming and blowing whistles like at a football game. It sounds like a recording of hell.
What I want to do for the rest of my life is collect postcards, read, and think. That’s it. Today I got a great postcard that shows men of the Mexican Constitutionalist Army after the Second Battle of Agua Prieta, November 1, 1915.
The Constitutionalists—under the leadership of Venustiano Carranza—were fighting the irregular forces of Pancho Villa. Unfortunately for Villa, the Constitutionalist commanders had studied the fighting between the European powers on the western front. In preparation for the battle, the Constitutionalists dug trenches, created machine-gun nests, and emplaced land mines and electrified barbed wire.
Villa refused to recognize what he was up against, so he launched a nighttime cavalry charge, the way he’d always fought. The Constitutionalists turned on searchlights, making Villa’s cavalrymen sitting ducks. They suffered heavy casualties from the machine guns and land mines, but Villa ordered another frontal assault the next day. His men refused, forcing Villa to retreat. Then more than 10 percent of the survivors deserted.
The Constitutionalists had 37mm revolving cannons in the front-line trenches.
They also had rocketeers called Dinamiteros or “Dynamiters.”
I want to go back to studying conflicts from a century ago. Today someone posted a ludicrous photo of Izzat Dheir, a terrorist of the Al-Quds Brigades, Palestinian Islamic Jihad.
He was killed, and the Palestinians listed him as a journalist. After a while, you just lose your stomach for wallowing in lies and fantasies. Look at that useless rifle, all pimped up with a scope, flashlight, giant magazine, and collapsible stock. It’s a wannabe’s rifle. Like the inbred, moron terrorists in Paris, this guy went up against the pros and became very dead.
My life has been and continues to be defined by ugliness. In the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the terrorists commit atrocities without end, and the Israelis are accused of crimes that EVERYBODY KNOWS THEY DIDN’T COMMIT.
Who speaks out? A handful of people. I’m now working with two of the most outspoken defenders of Israel, and that’s a great honor.
But I’m tired. I must put this period behind me. As Tim said today, we’re running on fumes. We need to get out of the failed state of California, and I need to limit my exposure to Jew-hating freaks.
People ask how they can repay me for the work I’ve done.
Make Pierre Rehov’s movies successful. That’ll take the heat off me. I’ve got two messed-up cats to take care of now, and I keep forgetting to pay bills. My water was turned off the other day. Luckily they turned it on again within hours, but there’s nothing like waking up to faucets that just daintily hiss air at you.
I drew a Fyunch(click) for my Israeli friend Jessica.
That thing is from one of the greatest novels ever written, The Mote in God’s Eye, by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle. It’s about humankind finally coming into contact with intelligent alien life, these fur-covered female thingamabobs. Each human is assigned a Fyunch(click) or interpreter. They learn English at lightning speed, and then they take on the personalities of the people to whom they’re assigned.
It’s a deeply moving, sad, and wildly imaginative story.
I need to get back to reading, collecting postcards, and thinking. A person must be incredibly strong—and happy—to do what Pierre Rehov does. I’m neither. A cat with diarrhea almost sent me to the hospital. I gave Brother Cat ham for the first five days he was in my house, and it turned him into a flatulent crapping machine. The sound was unbelievable, like long pieces of cardboard being torn in half, a pot of boiling water, and a garden hose on at full blast.
Once I realized that the ham had done the damage, I wanted to go out and lie down on the nearest freeway. But I went and got cat anti-diarrhea medication instead, and now he’s cured.
Over to you, Pierre! Steal the spotlight. PLEASE!
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