Written by Auntie Matter
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Sunday, 24 August 2014

image for Terror at Heathrow Airport Fly me to the Moon. Nobody knows you there!

American insurance salesman James Henry Galbraith thought it was just another tedious return home from the three-week business conference he had attended in London. It wasn't. A Heathrow customs official found a bottle of whiskey in his holdall.
"I'm sorry Sir but I have to confiscate this."
"Aw... come on buddy. Gimme a break! I always take a bottle home to the wife."
"Excuse me."
The official disappeared into an adjoining room and returned five minutes later.
"James, the expense account receipts you scanned to your boss yesterday are all false. You stayed with your friend Frank Skinner in London for the entire three weeks. Your boss Melvin is not happy with your work or your late attendance, by the way, and has resolved to fire you soon after your return. Your retirement pension due next year is not going to happen is it? Your tax returns for the last three years are all proven to be fraudulent and action will soon be brought against you.
"The girl you are seeing back home in New York has been married before and is ten years older than she told you. Bet you didn't know. Your wife suspects your disloyalty and has texted her fellow teacher Samantha about her concerns. She is right now consulting a solicitor about a speedy divorce. She has also hooked up with your best friend Hank Grabbit and they have had sex sixteen times since you been away. She has already cancelled your joint bank account; and it is very likely you will lose everything.
"Your son Malcolm is not attending university, as he has led you to believe, but is working at Paolo's Pizza joint in Chicago's Fifth Avenue. He was too afraid to tell you he flunked his exams. He is into cocaine by the way and pushes for a known mobster called Luigi Ambrosia. He is headed for jail.
"Your taste in literature is frankly a con. You don't read the stuff and the little you do read you do not understand. You buy books so that you can brag to your friends.
"The whiskey is not for your home-coming celebration. It is for your office desk... because you, James, are a closet alcoholic. Last but not least, James, your daughter is six weeks pregnant to a man three times her age that she met at a party and does not even remember. Now move along... you are holding up the queue."
An eye witness who saw the whole altercation said:
"The poor man was visibly shaken. His face got all red and he couldn't even speak. He trembled from head to foot as he zipped up his holdall. I thought he was going to faint. Thank God I had no booze in my luggage!"

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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