Thomas Friedman is my husband. He is also a petty man. Thursday we went out doors, a rare occurence since it requires him abandoning his beloved shorty robe and putting on pants, to go to a French bakery on 9th Street. Thomas Friedman wanted his rice pudding. Jean Claude repeatedly explained that they had no rice pudding. They had many things. They had eclairs and Napoleon's but, yes, they had no rice pudding.
Thomas Friedman began bellowing, "You and your Freedome Bakery suck! You blow!" over and over until we were asked to leave.
The whole time, Thomas Friedman had a perverse grin on his face that seemed to say, "You don't know who you're messing with buck-o!" Or maybe I just think that because he kept screaming it at Jean Claude.
Regardless, it was with trepidation that I read the column Thomas Friedman kept thursting in my face this morning.
It's, as I told Thomas Friedman, the most embarrassing thing I've ever read. Embarrassing because a child knows better. Embarrassing because I'm married to the global village idiot that wrote it.
Note that he once again claims to be in India. He also says he was in Europe. Ninth Street isn't Europe. But Thomas Friedman says "it adds color."
He manages to insult everyone, not the least of which is any reader who took joy in reading in Friedman's columns. There have to a few of those, right?
He never came off more simple minded. Take this sentence, "It is interesting because French voters are trying to preserve a 35-hour work week in a world where Indian engineers are ready to work a 35-hour day." A thrity-five hour day? Again, Thomas Friedman's defense is it "adds color."
Way to tackle the tough issues, I told him.
"Indians are ready to work harder" than Americans and Europeans probably pissed off at least two continents right there. For someone so quick to point a lazy finger, Thomas Friedman is the king of sloth. Many's a day when the only way I can trick him into getting out of bed before ten is to trick him and tell him that The Young and the Restless is on. He swears Nick Newman is so him. Personally, he reminds me more of Victor of the bad mustache.
So who is this highly pampered man to lecture anyone about hard work?
Take this sentence which made my blood boil: "Sure, a huge portion of India still lives in wretched slums or villages, but more and more of the young cohort are grasping for something better."
That's right, Thomas Friedman, disadvantaged people are disadvantaged because they choose to be. And, of course, because they are lazy.
I read that sentence and wanted to punch him in his latern moon-faced jaw.
Thomas Friedman grew very angry at me. I told him I had even started to speak.
"You see yourself as the Paul Revere of the global village," I informed him, "But in truth, you are the world's Gladys Kravitz, the nosy neighbor on Bewitched, peering in the neighbors' windows and forever getting the details wrong."
Thomas Friedman's face grew bright red and he started huffing and puffing. Picking up a can of cheese, he looked at me and I knew he was considering hitting me over the head with it or, perhaps, throwing it in my face yet again.
"Do not even think about it," I hissed. "And for God's sake, put on some pants. That shorty robe does not go with your stick legs!"
As I left the room, he was muttering something about dosage and saying he'd set me straight.
How? Via another "turbocharged" bedroom session. Thomas Friedman calls it turbocharged sex. I call it premature ejaculation. I am seeing a side of Thomas Friedman that is far from pretty. It makes him flat, hairy ass look quite fetching by comparison.
No "gut check" time for you tonight, Thomas Friedman, sleep on the futon.