May 19, 2011



Yes, I did win the gold, but most of my opponents died natural deaths during the contests. Next month I will be in Germany for the World Masters Judo Championships, and it will be much, much tougher. The judosphere’s Rommels and Guderians will face the poor little Greek boy for the last time, as I’ve decided to throw in the towel. Frankfurt will be my last competition in any sport. Orlando has left me an inert, pale, existential zero, but I’ve promised to bring home a medal from Germany, and I’ll do my best to keep my word. It will feel funny to no longer compete. I began wrestling when I was ten, then went into boxing, karate, tennis, and polo. I would routinely have butterflies, a dry mouth, and sleepless nights before a contest. Strangely, nothing like that happened in Orlando. I was nervous 24 hours before the fights, then everything felt fine and relaxed. But it’s time to call it a day, as they say, and after Frankfurt, beastly judo bullies will not have the poor little Greek boy to kick around anymore.

Ironically, just as I decided to retire from competition, so did Dominique Strauss-Kahn. The only difference is that I fought against men, whereas he allegedly worked his submission holds on women. Strauss-Kahn is a bum, a typical lefty who married a very rich woman, and a coward who has been accused of jumping on women against their will throughout his life. The law presumes he’s innocent, which spares me the trouble. I’ve been chasing women all my life, and the idea of forcing myself on one is totally alien to me. It’s simply not done, except for socialists like Strauss-Kahn and a few dumb English country types who prefer men. I hope they throw the book at him, but knowing the system, I’m not holding my breath. He’s got expensive mouthpieces and lotsa moolah, whereas the woman is a maid from Africa, but he could get some hard time and then we’ll see how tough he is when some horny con treats him like an African maid.

And now for some bad news. Fifteen years ago my daughter brought home a tiny beagle with ears that were much too long and the kind of mournful gaze that brought tears to the eye. We named her Gypsy and she became the bane of our life. Gypsy was so greedy, she made Bernard Madoff look like Mother Teresa. In no time she grew a big stomach, although she remained lightning-fast when in the vicinity of anything edible. She would play possum, then strike like a cobra and grab steaks, sweets—she once even ate a box of paper hankies. She snored and made terrible smells. She bit and growled at everyone, but we loved her more than any other dog we’ve ever had. Last week, two years after her stroke, she had to be put to sleep, because she was suffering. Her last act before a nice vet injected her was to grab a lamb chop and devour it, bone and all. There will never be another like her. RIP, Gypsy.


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