M.”
“Come again?”
“S and M. Sustainable Alternative Natural Development Mechanisms,” said Sabine.
We were interrupted by the waiter, as oleaginous as a tanker spill. “Will sir and madam be having the Beluga caviar, foie gras, lobster, and magnum of champagne?”
“Certainly not!” I snapped. “The papers back home are full of stories about how we’re all scoffing the caviar and chugging down the bubbly while just a mile down the road the locals are holding the Distended Belly of the Week competition. In compliance with Foreign and Commonwealth Office guidelines, I’ll just stick with Set Menu B.”
“An excellent choice,” he said. “Would sir prefer the mako shark soup or the black rhino confit on a bed of Amazonian mahogany leaves?”
“I’ll have the rhino,” I said, “followed by the lightly poached panda with a goldenseal salad and two green-cheeked parrot’s eggs over easy.”
“And would sir like to see the wine list?”
“Just bring me a Scotch and humpback whale oil on the rocks.”
As Sabine ordered, she looked coolly into my eyes and Natalie Cole’s voice wafted across the room to capture the moment:
Like a cloud of smog that clings to me
How the thought of you does things to me. . . .
The orchestra pit had been converted into an authentic replica of a Rwandan latrine and, even as Natalie sang the line, it sprang to life in a hundred dancing fountains of E coli-infected martini.
“There’s something heady in the air tonight,” I murmured.
“It’s the CO 2 ,” purred Sabine.
Four hours later, the exhausted UN lovely, her spent body glistening with the heat of passion, lay back on the shards of her shattered headboard. “Wow!” she whimpered, struggling for breath. “Now that’s what I call sustainable growth. You are incredible!”
“UN seen nothin’ yet, baby,” I said.
Yet, to my extreme annoyance, who should burst through the door but everybody’s favorite Guardian columnist. “You know, of course, George Monsanto,” said Sabine, hastily pulling the tigerskin bedspread around her.
“Monbiot!” I exclaimed. “I thought you were running away from The Guardian to join the gaily pealing fields of Gamo Gofa, where the rude peasant existence is so much more fulfilling than life in the west.”
“I am,” he said. “I’m on my way to Ethiopia right now. But I just wanted to stop in and thank you for coming here, eating the caviar, drinking the champagne, sucking the praline-flavored centers out of the individually wrapped Belgian chocolates on your king-sized bed, and blowing all the billions of western taxpayers’ dollars. Without your sacrifice, those poor industrialized chumps would have even more money to spend on consumer goods and home improvements, making their pathetic lives even more worthless and hollow.”
“You’re right,” sighed Sabine. “But I don’t know how much longer I can sustain this level of sustainable development conferencing.”
“Then why not come with me?” said George. “Be a happy, laughing Ethiopian field hand.”
“Okay, I will!” said Sabine.
She had me just for a moment, and then we both exploded in guffaws and ordered another bottle of the Château Margaux.
THE MEDIA’S MATERNAL INSTINCTS
The National Post , May 15, 2000
BACK IN THE SIXTIES , when he held one of Britain’s oldest Cabinet posts, Edward Heath, the Lord Privy Seal, was greeted by a foreign dignitary as “Lord Heath.” Mr. Heath explained that, though Lord Privy Seal, he was neither a lord nor a privy nor a seal.
Likewise, yesterday’s Million Mom March: there were neither a Million, nor did they March, and while most were Moms, or anyway female, their mommyness was not their defining characteristic. Instead of marching, they milled on Washington’s Mall, listening to keynote speaker Rosie O’Donnell. Instead of a million, the Moms themselves downgraded expectations to a hundred thousand. I see
“Come again?”
“S and M. Sustainable Alternative Natural Development Mechanisms,” said Sabine.
We were interrupted by the waiter, as oleaginous as a tanker spill. “Will sir and madam be having the Beluga caviar, foie gras, lobster, and magnum of champagne?”
“Certainly not!” I snapped. “The papers back home are full of stories about how we’re all scoffing the caviar and chugging down the bubbly while just a mile down the road the locals are holding the Distended Belly of the Week competition. In compliance with Foreign and Commonwealth Office guidelines, I’ll just stick with Set Menu B.”
“An excellent choice,” he said. “Would sir prefer the mako shark soup or the black rhino confit on a bed of Amazonian mahogany leaves?”
“I’ll have the rhino,” I said, “followed by the lightly poached panda with a goldenseal salad and two green-cheeked parrot’s eggs over easy.”
“And would sir like to see the wine list?”
“Just bring me a Scotch and humpback whale oil on the rocks.”
As Sabine ordered, she looked coolly into my eyes and Natalie Cole’s voice wafted across the room to capture the moment:
Like a cloud of smog that clings to me
How the thought of you does things to me. . . .
The orchestra pit had been converted into an authentic replica of a Rwandan latrine and, even as Natalie sang the line, it sprang to life in a hundred dancing fountains of E coli-infected martini.
“There’s something heady in the air tonight,” I murmured.
“It’s the CO 2 ,” purred Sabine.
Four hours later, the exhausted UN lovely, her spent body glistening with the heat of passion, lay back on the shards of her shattered headboard. “Wow!” she whimpered, struggling for breath. “Now that’s what I call sustainable growth. You are incredible!”
“UN seen nothin’ yet, baby,” I said.
Yet, to my extreme annoyance, who should burst through the door but everybody’s favorite Guardian columnist. “You know, of course, George Monsanto,” said Sabine, hastily pulling the tigerskin bedspread around her.
“Monbiot!” I exclaimed. “I thought you were running away from The Guardian to join the gaily pealing fields of Gamo Gofa, where the rude peasant existence is so much more fulfilling than life in the west.”
“I am,” he said. “I’m on my way to Ethiopia right now. But I just wanted to stop in and thank you for coming here, eating the caviar, drinking the champagne, sucking the praline-flavored centers out of the individually wrapped Belgian chocolates on your king-sized bed, and blowing all the billions of western taxpayers’ dollars. Without your sacrifice, those poor industrialized chumps would have even more money to spend on consumer goods and home improvements, making their pathetic lives even more worthless and hollow.”
“You’re right,” sighed Sabine. “But I don’t know how much longer I can sustain this level of sustainable development conferencing.”
“Then why not come with me?” said George. “Be a happy, laughing Ethiopian field hand.”
“Okay, I will!” said Sabine.
She had me just for a moment, and then we both exploded in guffaws and ordered another bottle of the Château Margaux.
THE MEDIA’S MATERNAL INSTINCTS
The National Post , May 15, 2000
BACK IN THE SIXTIES , when he held one of Britain’s oldest Cabinet posts, Edward Heath, the Lord Privy Seal, was greeted by a foreign dignitary as “Lord Heath.” Mr. Heath explained that, though Lord Privy Seal, he was neither a lord nor a privy nor a seal.
Likewise, yesterday’s Million Mom March: there were neither a Million, nor did they March, and while most were Moms, or anyway female, their mommyness was not their defining characteristic. Instead of marching, they milled on Washington’s Mall, listening to keynote speaker Rosie O’Donnell. Instead of a million, the Moms themselves downgraded expectations to a hundred thousand. I see
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