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Brain Farts was a weekly humor column that ran in the Louisville Eccentric Observer from mid-2000 until the summer of 2002. It was, well, eccentric. And occasionally satirical. And sardonic. Some liked it, some hated it; some just didn't get it, and that's OK. There were times when I didn't get it either. I've compiled here some of the archives from Brain Farts for the enjoyment of friends, family and anyone else who happens by. I also have written some new Brain Farts, and added some links and other trivialities that you shouldn't be too concerned with.

Unless you're as bored as I am.

Brain Farts: See Ya Later
	By Kevin Gibson June 12, 2002

I am moving to Enoosaen, Kenya. Since Sept. 11, Americans have bombed the living bejeezus out of Afghanistan, imprisoned a bunch of Taliban soldiers and suspected terrorists, cleaned up the entire mess left at the World Trade Center site, patched the gaping wound in the Pentagon, and watched in awe as the Arizona Diamondbacks won the World Series. They’re an EXPANSION team, for God’s sake!

Meanwhile, in good ol’ Enoosaen, the Maasai tribe raised a few cows and rejoiced every time they got a pair of Nikes. And they didn’t hear a word about the biggest terror attack ever on U.S. soil.

And how did they react, some nine months after the fact when they finally did hear (from a villager returning from college)? They held a ceremony of mourning and the village elders presented the United States of America with the best sympathy offering they could afford: 14 cows. Now, short of slaughtering those cows and using them to make hamburger at a cookout for the WTC and Pentagon survivors, they won’t do us a damn bit of good. But you know what? Reading about that Kenyan tribe, I decided that would be a helluva place to live.

First of all, in Enoosaen, you’re so far out of touch with “the civilized world” that you don’t even KNOW about a thing like Sept. 11 until nearly a year later. Those must be the most stress-free people on the face of the friggin’ planet. No need for Xanax or massage therapy in that village, I’ll wager. Second, when they do find out, they feel genuine concern. And they offer up cows that could probably have fed their children for a week.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, more and more individuals and agencies face prosecution for defrauding others out of money donated to help the victims’ families. I’m sorry, but I just have a helluva time believing anyone could live with himself after scamming money collected to help children whose fathers or mothers were obliterated by terrorists. And these frauds were Americans, for crying out loud. I’m all in favor of capitalism, and I love what America stands for, but geez. It’s getting so you can’t trust anyone.

Meanwhile, this tribe of people living in mud huts is genuinely concerned and willing to give us food. According to the Los Angeles Times story I read, the Maasai people are so angered that unpopular people in the village are now referred to as “Osamas.”

“We don’t have anyone as cruel as him,” said tribesman James Ngodia. “This man is a world enemy. If he comes to Maasailand, we will surely kill him with our spears and arrows.”

I’m with you, James. You know why? He’ll never work for an Enron. He’ll never get blown away by a disgruntled co-worker. He’ll never have to keep quiet because his wife’s friend got a really bad boob job. Ignorance is bliss, and Mr. Ngodia and me, we’re gonna be neighbors. I’ll send a postcard. And a cow.

Contact the writer at kgramone@aol.com. Moooo.