Clandestine Reflections

Editor's note (Val): While the cadaver in chief met with Evita Wannabe yesterday, operatives embedded within fidel castro circles were able to covertly enter and search fidel castro's private quarters/hospital room and retrieved copies of fidel castro's personal diary, where apparently the cadaver in chief jots down notes for his published reflections.

Our colleague Paco of Paco Enterprises breaks the story and reports:

The Cuban government has been keeping mum on Fidel Castro’s condition for months; however, thanks to the efforts of a courageous and dedicated band of patriots in Havana and Miami, who have created an informal intelligence network, we have managed to learn several important facts concerning his health, his whereabouts and his daily life. We know, for example, that, for security purposes, he has been moved back and forth between healthcare facilities, and that he has been registered under the code name, El Inválido Máximo. Of tremendous interest to historians, we also know that Castro has been keeping a diary, in which he has been recording his thoughts and the personal events of what are undoubtedly his final days.

It is with great pleasure, and with the knowledge of the importance that these documents will have for posterity, that we present Fugitive Entries from the Diary of the Maximum Invalid.

November 5, 2008

General Enrique Villalobos, my personal orderly, whipped my spectacles off of the night table, gave them a quick wipe with a silk handkerchief, and placed them with brisk, military precision just above the bump on my nose (his Stasi training is still standing him in good stead). I scanned the front page of the New York Times and the big headline virtually leaped off of the page, giving me almost as much pleasure as the annual notice in Granma announcing that I have turned the corner on another year. “Barack Obama Elected President.” Excelentíssimo!. The Yanquis have elected my favorite-color president: green. Looks like Carter all over again (except without that stupid grin). Maybe it’s time to brush off Raul, stuff him into his Wall Street suit and send him to the U.N. so he can get the anti-embargo conga line going.

* * *

Karl H. Marx! Doesn’t anybody around here know how to follow orders? I left specific instructions that brother Ramón was not to be admitted to my room, and sure enough, one of these idiotic hospital orderlies escorted him in this morning. Ramón has been a farmer all his life, and, true to form, he spent two hours boring me to death, yakking about one of his pet agricultural schemes. I couldn’t bother to attend to the details, but, judging from the smell that wafted into the room with him, and the disgusting state of his boots, I assume it had something to do with pigs. If nothing else, his visit diminished the regret I had been feeling at the doctors removing pork from my diet.

At least I thought I might wangle a cigar from him (what I wouldn’t give for a Cohiba!) But nothing doing. When I asked him to slip me a stogie, he wagged his big sausage of a finger in my face and said, “No, no, Fidel; the doctors say you shouldn’t smoke.” It was just like when we were kids. “No, no, Fidel; mamá says only one cookie”…”No, no, Fidel; mamá says only one slice of flan”… “No, no, Fidel; mamá says not to torture the cat.” Coño! I should have put you on that plane with Camilo.

November 15

Ok, now I’m pissed. Up until a week ago, the hospital staff had been furnishing me with a steady supply of bedpans - real aluminum bedpans. Then, all of a sudden, they fobbed me off with an old oil can. Today, they brought me an empty 2-liter Coca-Cola bottle with the top lopped off. It’s bad enough that I can no longer go to the bathroom by myself (every Maximum Leader likes to be able to “hold his own”, so to speak). But it is intolerable that I am reduced to pissing in bottles (and black market, Yanqui soda pop bottles, at that). I have instructed General Villalobos to investigate.
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I have to hand it to General Villalobos; he gets results. He threatened to shoot the hospital staff – starting with the orderlies and working his way up the food chain to nurses and doctors – and the first pimply-faced orderly he talked to confessed. In truth, I was more flattered than angry when I heard the surprising explanation. It seems that the drudges who were emptying my bedpans were selling them as souvenirs to foreign admirers of the Revolution; apparently major bidders included Hollywood types like Sean Penn and Oliver Stone, and reporters for the Guardian and Le Monde (Michael Moore even made an offer for the contents). There was so much demand for the bedpans that eventually the hospital ran out of them. I figured a stern reprimand to the orderly would suffice, softened with a few grandfatherly words of forgiveness. So, they bring the guy to my room and the first thing I see is he’s wearing one of those damned Che t-shirts under his open jacket. “Ten years, hard labor!” I bellowed. I swear, the next fool I see wearing a t-shirt with that conceited buffoon’s mug on it will be rewarded with a blindfold and a last cigarette.

* * *

Watched my personal VHS tape of the Zapruder film tonight; it never fails to cheer me up.

Posted by Val Prieto at January 22, 2009 08:58 AM

Comments

Posted by: Mambi at January 22, 2009 06:23 PM