Honey, was that the Door?

(Short Attention Span Theater logs another millisecond)

Well, it took nearly ten years, but we finally found him. And captured him. And took him down.

And then we forgot his name.

That's right - if you watched very much TV last week, you very likely heard professional news announcements from several news-announcing professionals, professionally announcing the news that the United States had finally tracked down and caught The World's Most Wanted Man...

Obama bin Laden.

Of course, you and I know that "Obama bin Laden" was not his name. That's the name of our President! I think. Isn't it? Sure it is. You and I know that The World's Most Wanted Man was named Usama bin Hyden. Wasn't it? Or Ushuda bin Duckin. Or Orlando Al Jolson. I think. Or maybe it was al Haffa Hot Qaffi. Or was it ar' Sauna B Leakin?

It was odd to watch. After all this time, after all this effort, nobody in the news business could seem to remember the guy's name. Granted, his was not one of your standard, run-of-the-mill names, names we commonly, comfortably associate with "Father Knows Best" or "Leave it to Beaver," names like, say, Wally, or Jimbo. Or, say, Bill.

Or, say, Barack Hussein Osama.

But you would think that paid news professionals would know the difference between The World's Most Wanted Man and a bumbling guy in a suit whose experience is limited to organizing playgrounds and who can't say "I'm glad to be here" without reading from prepared notes and two or more teleprompters.

But let's not drag Donald Trump into this.

Name-fumbling aside, the news story was huge. The World's Most Wanted Man, who according to Pakistan was absolutely not in Pakistan, was found in Pakistan. Nobody inside Pakistan was surprised, except for the entire Pakistani government, all fourteen professional soldiers in the Pakistani military, and a disgruntled waiter at the local Kebabs 'R' Us. Nobody outside Pakistan was surprised except for Geraldo Rivera, who still held out hope that he would eventually find The World's Baddest Bad Guy in Aruba.

Pakistani officials, attempting to be helpful allies, immediately threatened the United States, daring us to ever do such a thing again. And that triggered an indignant response from a spokes-droid at the U.S. State Department, who instantly responded to this insult by doubling our annual foreign aid to Pakistan.

In Pakistan, the face-saving damage control and political spinning shot out of the gate. According to official Pakistani sources, The World's Most Wanted Man must have had a nearly supernatural gift for hiding in plain sight. However, according to leaks from unofficial sources (see "Joe Biden"), the fugitive hosted a wildly-popular weekly poker game, regularly sang at local karaoke bars, and consistently sported a neon-green t-shirt bearing the slogan, "Al Qaeda: Dig My Posse."

Furthermore, The World's Most Wanted Man was a standard fixture on a popular Pakistani cable channel (WADI), where he hosted the ratings-grabbing reality show, "Fatwa Knows Best."

But last week, the U.S. military finally closed in on the amazingly well-hidden Bad Guy after several hundred thousand reward-seeking informants spotted him reporting the local weather on KUSH-TV, guest-conducting the Pakistani Philharmonic, and taping more "car recall" public service announcements for Toyota.

Overall, the bold military campaign went off without a hitch. And afterwards, there was much to be learned from reviewing the transcripts of the Pentagon's insertion-and-possible-extraction operation. When our military team popped in for their visit, they recalled hearing much murmured giggling and feigned, histrionic hollering from behind the door of the "clandestine compound."

(Yeah. Right. "Clandestine compound," my west-leaning east nostril. Turns out this guy had been about as demure in Pakistan as Richard Simmons on an espresso binge in a remake of "Caligula.")

Finally (according to the military debrief), after several anxious seconds, the "target" answered the door, wearing nothing but a red flannel shirt, a "Bat Masterson" felt Stetson, and a pair of plum-colored vinyl chaps. Apparently, America's score-settlers had interrupted The World's Most Wanted Man, and several of his wives, in the middle of a raucous game of "Scolding The School Marm."

Cleverly comprehending that this was not his usual Chapati Pizza delivery dude, The World's Most Wanted Man grabbed a nearby wife, slapped his chaps on her, shoved her out into the downtown Hilton's hallway to face the strike force, and slammed the door.

Then, confident in his politically-protected Pakistani cloister, he settled back down in front of his coal-powered laptop, logged back in to his Facebook account, and continued to swap

odd hat photos with Muammar Qaddafi.

For a minute.