How Is He Not Dead Yet?
In the last three weeks, the once-ailing Fidel Castro has made eight public appearances. For the last four years Castro’s colon has been has been so inflamed that intestinal fluid was dripping into his abdomen. Yet recently, he has managed, on eight different occasions, to pull on his hipster pajamas and spew on about the nuclear holocaust like it’s 1960 and the Cuban revolution hasn’t been reduced to a sticker on the bottom of every slack-jawed fourteen year-old’s skateboard. Castro supposedly suffers from Diverticulitis, an illness which is fatal to 90% of elderly patients. That he has managed to fall into the surviving 10% is some pretty clear proof that evolution favours nasty shit. Castro’s bounce back has certainly helped me understand a world in which cockroaches can live for a week without their heads but peach season is over in days.
While Castro may be back in uniform, a few key accessories are missing: his military insignias. Those now belong to Raul, as does the government of Cuba, for now. I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were Raul. If Fidel Castro is back to his fascist chest-thumping, possibly without a large intestine, then he can certainly sit back on his communist throne and keep out the American tourists out for a little while longer. If Fidel’s embargo is good for anything, it’s keeping fatties off the beach.
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