Waiting. Hurry up and waiting. That’s what it seems we are all doing these days. Just waiting. Waiting for the bearded bastard to either die or for his minions to let the world know he’s already down in hell with Beelzebub.
Here’s a report from the Miami New Times from a reporter that recently returned from Cuba with some stark truths:
Waiting for Him to Go
Castro’s Cuba brims with hushed anticipation, and paranoia
It’s not often that I get to stand on a street corner in Old Havana and talk to an 81-year-old man (who is selling Granma, the state-run newspaper, no less) about Fidel Castro’s asshole.
“What do you think happened to him?” I ask.
“Well, it’s not his rectum,” my new friend, Rene, says. He pauses. He nods. I nod. The word rectum hangs in the air.
“Maybe it’s his intestine. But if he got only a bit of his intestine taken out” — Rene holds up his thumb and forefinger two inches apart — “then he wouldn’t be laid up this long. No, I think he got a lot of his intestine taken out.” Rene holds his hands about a foot apart.
A beret-clad policeman stands on the corner, a few feet away. I wonder if Rene will get in trouble for talking about Fidel’s bowels in public. Rene moves closer to me. “Things have to change here,” he whispers.
Read the whole excellent thing here.