I officially gave up on acquiring a copy of Charlie Hebdo today. The latter days of my search last week seemed to indicate that salvation was to be had on Monday, with “possible deliveries” scheduled.
Such was not the case, though.
Perhaps amusingly, on the first day of its release (the day on which the first printing run sold out before 0600), I saw somebody reading a copy on the métro.
In the realm of the distinctly non-funny but related news that I’m dredging up because two weeks have passed, said terrorists (the unfunny part) stole my birthday (the potentially funny part, at least if 17 people hadn’t been killed).
After raining on everybody’s parade on Wednesday, they then decided to take it further and ruin what was to be the birthday dinner at Ralph’s on Friday; while we technically could have gone (and while the woman on the phone actually seemed a bit taken aback that we were rescheduling; something surprising to us given how empty the streets were, even though the dual sieges had been brought to their respective ends), dressing up and t-rexing (it’s a thing) shrimp cocktail and eating tuna steak burgers and carrying on didn’t seem appropriate.
We did, however, have a big damn bottle of champagne (magnum-sized champagne bottles: instant class) in the fridge, so we ordered pizza, drank the wine (terrorists hate wine), and watched The Big Lebowski (I’m pretty sure terrorists hate The Big Lebowski).
Say what you want about the tenets of national socialism, dude, at least it’s an ethos.