By Drake Moreau
I was disgustingly smashed on a recent Tuesday when the name came up. It’s all anybody’s been talking about nowadays, so I shouldn’t have been surprised, even though everything being reported is the same, vague crap. No one knows what’s going on, so everyone repeats everyone else, with splashy headlines. The only guy with any balls to really stir up the pot is me… plus this other asshole, RFH, who published some fantabulous junk on this very blog. [Ed’s note: Goddamnit, Drake.] Well, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to get serious for a moment. That’s right, I’d like to talk about Bo and his hot wife, who I’ll refer to by the James Bond villain-like initials G.K.K., and WLJ, otherwise known as Bo’s “right-hander” (that’s what I call him: that trusty right hand).
It started on a shitty Tuesday night, made shittier by Bo Xilai. I was at one of those massive Chinese restaurants off Dongzhimen Inner Road with red neon lights out front and cars parked on the sidewalk, employees standing around doing as little as possible without getting fired, trying to entice you to enter their restaurant because their food is so different and delicious and cheap.
There were about 15 to 20 of us, mostly people I didn’t know, friends of a guy we’ll call Margarine (no relation to the sugar, he just acts like a wuss). I was to his left. Two seats to his right was an Italian girl who, in her thickly accented English after many, many shots of baijiu and bottoms-ups of beer, shouted, “So how is this so bad, this Bo zy lai?”
The table turned to her in silence. We were like an audience of moviegoers after Bruce Willis realized he was a ghost in that movie whose ending I won’t spoil for those who haven’t seen it (The Sixth Sense). No one really knew where to start.
One tightwad in dark-rimmed glasses started giving a lecture the way Tao did during his radio interview about who the former Chongqing Party secretary was. I quickly got bored and annoyed and interrupted him by forcing everybody to drink in honor of the party (or did I mean “Party”?). The dimwit Italian wore the blank expression of a goldfish.
I shouted some inexplicable things. It was all for shits and giggles, blowing a bit of tumbleweed through the vast expanse of imagination. I began doing an Aristocrats routine. Bo Xilai was in front of this talent agent and mounts Neil Heywood while saying, “Imagine this is a dungeon, imagine this is a dungeon,” and then Heywood says, “No, Bo, you have it all wrong, I’m Marcellus Wallace, BITCH, and we’re in Zed’s basement” – and here he takes out a red-ball gag and puts it on himself, then slobbers a bit as he mumbles – “and you’re in a zip-up leather suit…” So then Butch walks in – which is really the right-hander Wang Lijun – and in front of the talent agent he begins dehumanizing Bo Xilai while G.K.K. pulls out a shotgun, which is the cue for the French woman to say her one line: “Zed’s dead, baby.” I wasn’t exactly sure how Bo Guagua fit into all this.
Perhaps I didn’t actually say all this, only thought it. I don’t know if anybody listened. It doesn’t matter. The dinner ended with the Italian girl getting drunker and falling on her ass because she passed out.
And then I did something very uncharacteristic that night. She was drunk, stumbling, lost – so I put her in a cab and went home on my own. A WLJ awaited.
Drake Moreau can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. |Drake Archives|
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