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Edited on Sun May-22-05 06:54 PM by KCabotDullesMarxIII
was when George said to the suddenly flustered Levin (I presume it was he - "No why don't we discuss illegality?!?"
"Illegality?!?! Oh no! Move along quickly now. Nothing to see here" seemed to equate to Levin's reaction .... Very funny.
Levin had been getting more and more truculent and cocky, and thought he'd got Georgie boy in a corner by pestering him to "confess" to being prepared to condone the illegality of any hypothetical business deals of contributors to his charity.
Instead, Levin found that while he'd been trying to slash George to ribbons with a blade of grass, with his badgering, he had handed him, a loaded uzi, instead!
A young female, Daily Mail journalist by the name of Charlie Lee-Potter wrote article in today's paper, containing the following amusing snippet:
"My very first job as a journalist was covering the miners' strike for BBC Radio Manchester. On the day the strike collapsed, I was sent to a lcoal pit to report the news, and one of the strikers physically hung me up on a coat hook by the back of my jacket. I didn't bame him. He was half-crazed with worry and fear about his future".
I dare say Norm felt the same, but he had the double misfortune of being hung up on the coat hook, as well! Hung out to dry, as they say.
There's a very funny article in the same paper by the George, himself, with the headline, "How I blew away the mother of all smokescreens with a fat Cuban cigar".
Apparently, though he'd paid his way over, they booked him into a really downmarket hotel with a grand-sounding name.
"Most of my Muslim friends urged me not to go, saying the Americans would hurt me, maybe even put me in Guantanamo Bay. I said I'd pack an orange jumpsuit. "You know me", I said, "I wouldn't want to be seen in an ill-fitting one".
We had booked into the grandly entitled Presidents Hotel in New York Avenue. Suspicions grew when the taxi driver said he had never heard of it and generally avoided the area. Sure noug, on arrival we picked our way through a crowd of drunks and down-and-outs to the desk clerk. He told us not to go out after dark. "You'll risk getting shot".
I had thought there might be a politically-inspired Jack Ruby moment when some crazed Yank would take a pot shot at me, but the clerk meant something more banal: "They'll kill you for a mobile phone".
The whole article was very funny. But I loved the big fat Cuba cigar!
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