I was in Somalia last week doing the medical version of meals on wheels - assisting doctors who go to underdeveloped countries (doctors without borders). My job is basically to make sure we get through customs, passing as Jews, Muslims, Frenchies - mostly non-Americans, all depending on the country. Then, we set up shop in an abandoned building or open area that probably won't get bombed or set on fire and help out some freaks.
Anyways, I meet this Ethiopian in lucid nomadic cloth named Adelee. She winks at me and I imagine her fellating me immediately. Before I act on impulse, experience comes to surface and I check her medical records for disease. Unfortunately, finding Somalian medical records usually takes a few days and I do not have that kind of patience. And though her sister lies on our table with a crushed peritoneum, Adelee's innocent tears delude my standard cynosure.
I comfort the Sister Who is About to Die (her last name is Mwakikigale, but I called her that because she didn't understand anyway and it was relevant at the moment) until the stricken is finally former. I massage her calves, whipe her cheeks with my hair and hug her waist. She speaks to me in Somali and then Arabic, which I know of neither, trying to explain to me some important aspect of our love, or perhaps her sister. As the kin heartbeat fails, I lift Adelee over my right shoulder. She kicks and screams as I help her dispatch. I place her on an abandoned rocking chair and feed her burnt azuki beans from my palm.
I rock her incessantly until she diffuses her last discharge. I get down on my knees in front of her and impulsivley say, "Adelee, your neck is a bridge of intoxication, your family is a curse, and your teeth are the color of amber. Angelo!! Angelo, come quick! Stop flossing and get over here, I mean it!"
Dr. Angelo Bagelini - once a boy genius - cured a tomato virus in his spare time at age 16, graduated Malta at 24, but got fired at 52 from Bonafacio Hospicitiani for using tax money to install a piece of furniture made of marble . It was found by the hospital that they funded what would equal to about $5,000 for a beautiful island countertop, in which Dr. Bagelini's patient table was jettisoned. A most seemly countertop for dicing tomatoes and making his famous La Panna di Pomodoro Orgasmica. Bagelini was a doctor of humans and a doctor of cooking, for his mother was not fancied with torpescence, yet was spiteful of young Angelo's desire to both use parsley and parcel users.
Dr. Bagelini disposed of his dental floss and waddled in the couples direction.
"Angelo! Adelee seems to be depressed about something and I do not understand why she is not as gay as I about our inevitable encounter this day. Is she sick?"
My mind was made up, however - there would be no more courting; no more weeping; no more befuddlement. Adelee was inescapable to my desires. I told Angelo to fix us a supper that only Henry Armetta could handle.
We feasted for what seemed like minutes, but was surely hours upon hours long. Adelee had the most beautiful chewing motion, the kind that assured me that my temporary inhabitance was a wave of felicity for the peacock.
Then, amongst a fruitless civil war, pirates raided our tent, murdered everyone but me, and ran away with 23 jars of the world's best tomato sauce.
How did I subsist the ambush? I was under the dining table.
