Time in Malta
Malta owes me five bucks. That smug little republic — floating like a limestone-rich turd in the Mediterranean toilet bowl — stole one crisp Abraham Lincoln from my sweaty little paws. All because it just had to join the European Union. I had been poised to earn untold riches from the barflies and indie geeks gathered for Trivia Riot night at the Brick when Malta pulled its jack move. All I needed to do was name one of the two newest EU countries. I guessed Turkey. I was wrong. I forfeited my entry fee. I let Cyprus off the hook. But not that foul 316 square kilometers of leprosy known as Malta or its 400,000 inhabitants, with their 93 percent literacy rate — oh, look at us, we’re so smart — and 80-year life expectancy. I demanded an apology from President Eddie Fenech Adami. I requested the Maltese Falcon and a Maltese poodle as arrears. But Adami just said, “Dude, you’re supposed to be writing about Time in Malta, the kick-ass hardcore band from San Francisco that has toured with bands like Thrice and Dillinger Escape Plan!” The uppity bastard has a point. But I still want my five bucks back.