Qadaffi, Qadaffy, Gadhafi, Gadaffi

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How many freaking names did that a-hole have?

It's funny, but it's not. The other afternoon I was in the bank where there was a plasma television on to the news of (I'll use the name I know from childhood) Gadhafi's death was announced.

There was a man about ten years older than me in front of me. The teller was maybe twenty-five years old.

"They killed Gadhafi, huh?" I asked.

"Who's he?" the teller asked.

"Who's he?" the older guy asked. "Are you kidding me?"

"No, what team does he play for?" the kid asked.

(That is not a lie for a better blog....the kid asked that question).

"He's the Libyan leader. There's a revolution going on," the older man was beside himself.

The kid gave the best answer. I laughed.

"I live in a nice neighborhood," he said. "I don't concern myself with that negative crap."

So there we were. And I was going to write a nice, liberal condemnation blog about how we shouldn't celebrate the fact that they dragged Gadhafi's body through the streets, and that violent overthrow isn't really the answer...but then...

...then I read an article about the plane crash that Gadhafi claimed responsibility for back in 1988.

We all live in the global community and right now, it's a better neighborhood now that Moammar, or Momar, or Mommoar - or however the hell he spelled it - is not a part of it.

So, they dragged him through the streets and gave him a good beating. Them's the breaks, I guess when you live your life like a tyrant, no matter what your freaking name is.

I read the account that said that when he was confronted, M.G. called those who killed him, 'His Sons.'

The problem with killing one of the bad guys remains...

...there will be another one right behind him.

I live in a good neighborhood too.

And there's only one way to spell my name.

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