Read My Lips - the blog

It sounds like a good plan

Another of those things that get forwarded to me. I sure wish people would attribute the authors when they forward things like this around the world. IF IT IS GOOD ENOUGH TO SHARE, THEN SHARE WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR CREATING IT. If anyone knows who wrote the following, please let me know.

Inspection Teams....

Have you noticed anything fishy about the inspection teams arriving in Iraq? They're all men!

How in the name of the United Nations does anyone expect men to find Saddam's stash? We all know that men have a blind spot when it comes to finding things. For crying' out loud! Men can't find the dirty clothes hamper. Men can't find the jar of jelly until it falls out of the cupboard and splatters on the floor.... and these are the people we have sent into Iraq to search for hidden weapons of mass destruction?

I keep wondering why groups of mothers weren't sent in. Mothers can sniff out secrets quicker than a drug dog can find a gram of dope. Mothers can find gin bottles that dads have stashed in the attic beneath the rafters. They can sniff out a diary two rooms and one floor away. They can tell when the lid of a cookie jar has been disturbed and notice when a quarter inch slice has been shaved off a chocolate cake. A mother can smell alcohol on your breath before you get your key in the front door and can smell cigarette smoke from a block away. By examining laundry, a mother knows more about their kids than Sherlock Holmes. And if a mother wants an answer to question, she can read an offender's eyes quicker than a homicide detective.

So... considering the value a mother could bring to an inspection team, why are we sending a bunch of old men who will rely on electronic equipment to scout out hidden threats?

My mother would walk in with a wooden soup spoon in one hand, grab Saddam by the ear, give it a good twist and snap, "Young man, do you have any weapons of mass destruction?" So help him if he tried to lie to her. She'd march him down the street to some secret bunker and shove his nose into a nuclear bomb and say, "Uh, huh, and what do you call this, mister?"

Whap! Thump! Whap! Whap! Whap! And she would lay some stripes across his bare bottom with that soup spoon, then march him home in front of the whole of Baghdad. He would not only come clean and
apologize for lying about it, he would cut every lawn in Baghdad for free for the whole summer.

Inspectors my foot... You want the job done? Call my mother.