“We must expel Arabs and take their places.” — David Ben Gurion, 1937, Ben Gurion and the Palestine Arabs, Oxford University Press, 1985.
“There is no such thing as a Palestinian people… It is not as if we came and threw them out and took their country. They didn’t exist.”– Golda Meir, statement to The Sunday Times, 15 June, 1969.
“Any one who speaks in favor of bringing the Arab refugees back must also say how he expects to take the responsibility for it, if he is interested in the state of Israel. It is better that things are stated clearly and plainly: We shall not let this happen.” — Golda Meir, 1961, in a speech to the Knesset, reported in Ner, October 1961
“This country exists as the fulfillment of a promise made by God Himself. It would be ridiculous to ask it to account for its legitimacy.”– Golda Meir, Le Monde, 15 October 1971
“We walked outside, Ben-Gurion accompanying us. Allon repeated his question, What is to be done with the Palestinian population?’ Ben-Gurion waved his hand in a gesture which said ‘Drive them out!”– Yitzhak Rabin, leaked censored version of Rabin memoirs, published in the New York Times, 23 October 1979.
“[Israel will] create in the course of the next 10 or 20 years conditions which would attract natural and voluntary migration of the refugees from the Gaza Strip and the west Bank to Jordan. To achieve this we have to come to agreement with King Hussein and not with Yasser Arafat.”– Yitzhak Rabin (a “Prince of Peace” by Clinton’s standards), explaining his method of ethnically cleansing the occupied land without stirring a world outcry. (Quoted in David Shipler in the New York Times, 04/04/1983 citing Meir Cohen’s remarks to the Knesset’s foreign affairs and defense committee on March 16.)
“[The Palestinians] are beasts walking on two legs.”– Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin, speech to the Knesset, quoted in Amnon Kapeliouk, “Begin and the ‘Beasts,”‘ New Statesman, June 25, 1982.
“The Partition of Palestine is illegal. It will never be recognized …. Jerusalem was and will for ever be our capital. Eretz Israel will be restored to the people of Israel. All of it. And for Ever.”– Menachem Begin, the day after the U.N. vote to partition Palestine.
“The past leaders of our movement left us a clear message to keep Eretz Israel from the Sea to the River Jordan for future generations, for the mass aliya (=Jewish immigration), and for the Jewish people, all of whom will be gathered into this country.”– Former Prime Minister Yitzhak Shamir declares at a Tel Aviv memorial service for former Likud leaders, November 1990. Jerusalem Domestic Radio Service.
"(The Palestinians) would be crushed like grasshoppers … heads smashed against the boulders and walls.”– Isreali Prime Minister (at the time) Yitzhak Shamir in a speech to Jewish settlers New York Times April 1, 1988
“Israel should have exploited the repression of the demonstrations in China, when world attention focused on that country, to carry out mass expulsions among the Arabs of the territories.”– Benyamin Netanyahu, then Israeli Deputy Foreign Minister, former Prime Minister of Israel, speaking to students at Bar Ilan University, from the Israeli journal Hotam, November 24, 1989.
“The Palestinians are like crocodiles, the more you give them meat, they want more”…. — Ehud Barak, Prime Minister of Israel at the time - August 28, 2000. Reported in the Jerusalem Post August 30, 2000
“If we thought that instead of 200 Palestinian fatalities, 2,000 dead would put an end to the fighting at a stroke, we would use much more force….”– Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak, quoted in Associated Press, November 16, 2000.
“It is the duty of Israeli leaders to explain to public opinion, clearly and courageously, a certain number of facts that are forgotten with time. The first of these is that there is no Zionism, colonialization, or Jewish State without the eviction of the Arabs and the expropriation of their lands.”– Ariel Sharon, Israeli Foreign Minister, addressing a meeting of militants from the extreme right-wing Tsomet Party, Agence France Presse, November 15, 1998.
“Israel may have the right to put others on trial, but certainly no one has the right to put the Jewish people and the State of Israel on trial.”– Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, 25 March, 2001 quoted in BBC News Online.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
On safety features and hope.
Thanks God Al Mighty. I've got all sorts of safety features I need.
I try to take care of my health: I exercise regularly and I try my best to eat healthy food. There's an airbag in the car and a small fire-extinguisher. Well spaced fire-escape exists in every crowed place I go. My building is equipped with smoke detectors and fire-fighting sprinklers. No one can even smoke in the corridor without setting off the screeching sound of the fire alarm system. And then if God forbids the worst happens a simple call to 993 and fire engine will come racing in a minute. The access in my building is controlled through special cards. Security guards and CCTV monitoring round the clock. The building itself is designed against seismic loads.
And I yet I am not able to sleep tonight. Why weren't there safety features in place for those people?
The definition of Hope: Hope is a belief in a positive outcome related to events and circumstances in one's life. Hope is the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best.
The definition of Lack of Hope: The belief that the world is ruled by bunch of crooks and assholes who don't give a fuck about the normal human being. They carry their slogans and are ready to see the last child killed so that they stay at the helm of power. The lack of hope denotes a gigantic drop in the moralities of mankind. The lack of hope argues that man is evil by default, and will sieze every opportuinity to demonstrate his cannablism and blood thirst. The lack of hope suggests that established rules are only there for a little percentage of the Homo sapines to enjoy, and the rest can bang their heads in the wall if they don't like it. Some people are more equal than others, Orwell will say. You say hope? I say nope! not for today at least.
And yes, picking up from Yazan, Happy bloody new year, and merry fuckin' christmas.
I try to take care of my health: I exercise regularly and I try my best to eat healthy food. There's an airbag in the car and a small fire-extinguisher. Well spaced fire-escape exists in every crowed place I go. My building is equipped with smoke detectors and fire-fighting sprinklers. No one can even smoke in the corridor without setting off the screeching sound of the fire alarm system. And then if God forbids the worst happens a simple call to 993 and fire engine will come racing in a minute. The access in my building is controlled through special cards. Security guards and CCTV monitoring round the clock. The building itself is designed against seismic loads.
And I yet I am not able to sleep tonight. Why weren't there safety features in place for those people?
The definition of Hope: Hope is a belief in a positive outcome related to events and circumstances in one's life. Hope is the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best.
The definition of Lack of Hope: The belief that the world is ruled by bunch of crooks and assholes who don't give a fuck about the normal human being. They carry their slogans and are ready to see the last child killed so that they stay at the helm of power. The lack of hope denotes a gigantic drop in the moralities of mankind. The lack of hope argues that man is evil by default, and will sieze every opportuinity to demonstrate his cannablism and blood thirst. The lack of hope suggests that established rules are only there for a little percentage of the Homo sapines to enjoy, and the rest can bang their heads in the wall if they don't like it. Some people are more equal than others, Orwell will say. You say hope? I say nope! not for today at least.
And yes, picking up from Yazan, Happy bloody new year, and merry fuckin' christmas.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
For me it's wonderland. For my enemy it's quicksand.
“they brought these little machines that give you coordinates of the land, you know what’s that called?” my father asked on the phone.
“it’s called GPS dad” I replied.
“yeah… whatever…so they brought this machine and they started plotting the new divisions of the land. We kept telling them it’s unnecessary but they wouldn’t listen to us, they said it’s a part of national project for ‘demarcating’ all agricultural lands”
I nodded. Life has its interesting turns of events. My grandfather died last month. He was 88 years old. Heavy smoker for 70. Worked in the farm for 75. Although the last few years he hasn’t done anything beyond the passive supervision. He left a decent farm behind. Gorgeous groves of pomegranates, olives and pistachio. I loved that farm a lot as it has been a definite landmark in shaping up my childhood. I climbed trees. Drove the three-wheeled motorcycle/pickup truck and tried to hunt doves with a sling. It was amazing. I tried but failed to learn the intricacies of the old-fashioned 'surface' irrigation system: the one where the water runs through endless maze of small bayous controlled by hatches at strategic location. I still remember trying to plunge the heavy steel hatch by myself….. it bounced as it hit the wrong place (not the slits in the embankment where it is supposed to rest), and then it flew and landed in the water which was now approaching me wildly and threatening to flood the place if it wasn’t for the swift action of my uncle. I wish I could go back in time to do it again, but alas… now we’ve got a network of hoses and nozzles and drips of water to replace that lovely cool stream… and now we’ve also got the GPS and the binding new regulation that each and every land shall be re-demarcated upon the demise of the owner and the appraisal of his properties.
I love my grandfather. He didn’t talk much. But he laughed and joked a lot. It’s strange, I don’t remember much of his jokes. It’s even funnier that he spoke an old dialect which was hard for me, his own grandson, to understand..(!) but he was unbelievably patient. I once listened in amusement as my grandmother told me how she used to shave my grandfather’s beard for him when she was young. She didn’t need to tell me at the time that she wasn’t doing that any longer, I knew that myself.
There is unbreakable emotional attachment between every man and his land. More so than any other property or a possession. In a farm, and within the kind of mentality which my grandfather grew up on and brought up my uncles on too, a mentality which almost prohibits recruiting labor to do the farm work: in such mindset every tree is a child of your own. Every little plant has a story. Life has been good to my family and the farm work has been largely complementary to their livelihood. But even for those who had to rely upon the farm and its produce for their survival; working in a farm of your own is almost always enjoyable. Life is rough and you’re largely dependant on the rainfall and the market demand and what have you; but it beats the hell out of enslaving your professional ass to a scum of a boss or a vampire-like landlord.
I can’t imagine the farm without my grandfather, and now with the GPS and the pinch marks, I can almost see the pomegranates shedding tears for him…
“it’s called GPS dad” I replied.
“yeah… whatever…so they brought this machine and they started plotting the new divisions of the land. We kept telling them it’s unnecessary but they wouldn’t listen to us, they said it’s a part of national project for ‘demarcating’ all agricultural lands”
I nodded. Life has its interesting turns of events. My grandfather died last month. He was 88 years old. Heavy smoker for 70. Worked in the farm for 75. Although the last few years he hasn’t done anything beyond the passive supervision. He left a decent farm behind. Gorgeous groves of pomegranates, olives and pistachio. I loved that farm a lot as it has been a definite landmark in shaping up my childhood. I climbed trees. Drove the three-wheeled motorcycle/pickup truck and tried to hunt doves with a sling. It was amazing. I tried but failed to learn the intricacies of the old-fashioned 'surface' irrigation system: the one where the water runs through endless maze of small bayous controlled by hatches at strategic location. I still remember trying to plunge the heavy steel hatch by myself….. it bounced as it hit the wrong place (not the slits in the embankment where it is supposed to rest), and then it flew and landed in the water which was now approaching me wildly and threatening to flood the place if it wasn’t for the swift action of my uncle. I wish I could go back in time to do it again, but alas… now we’ve got a network of hoses and nozzles and drips of water to replace that lovely cool stream… and now we’ve also got the GPS and the binding new regulation that each and every land shall be re-demarcated upon the demise of the owner and the appraisal of his properties.
I love my grandfather. He didn’t talk much. But he laughed and joked a lot. It’s strange, I don’t remember much of his jokes. It’s even funnier that he spoke an old dialect which was hard for me, his own grandson, to understand..(!) but he was unbelievably patient. I once listened in amusement as my grandmother told me how she used to shave my grandfather’s beard for him when she was young. She didn’t need to tell me at the time that she wasn’t doing that any longer, I knew that myself.
There is unbreakable emotional attachment between every man and his land. More so than any other property or a possession. In a farm, and within the kind of mentality which my grandfather grew up on and brought up my uncles on too, a mentality which almost prohibits recruiting labor to do the farm work: in such mindset every tree is a child of your own. Every little plant has a story. Life has been good to my family and the farm work has been largely complementary to their livelihood. But even for those who had to rely upon the farm and its produce for their survival; working in a farm of your own is almost always enjoyable. Life is rough and you’re largely dependant on the rainfall and the market demand and what have you; but it beats the hell out of enslaving your professional ass to a scum of a boss or a vampire-like landlord.
I can’t imagine the farm without my grandfather, and now with the GPS and the pinch marks, I can almost see the pomegranates shedding tears for him…
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Whatever I like!
First black prez
Aint that nice,
Im in the highest office thats right!
Now I can do whatever I like
Now I can do whatever I like
yeahhhh
So what Im half black and half white
So what I fist bump with my wife
Man, I can do whatever I like
I can do whatever I like
McCain I thought that you knew
By debate number two
That I was gonna win and there was nothing
That you could do
You got so upset by the third debate
I swear to god I think I saw tear,
LOOK
I picked Joe Biden
Now this ones riding
Long as yall got me you wont need nobody
You want it I got it
Propose it, Ill sign it
Tell them republicans BE QUIET
First black prez
Aint that nice,
Im in the highest office thats right!
Now I can do whatever I like
So what Im half black and half white
So what I fist bump with my wife
Man I can do whatever I like
Man I can do whatever I like
Palin was the hottest
MESS that ran for office
She spoke so odd
Couldve swore it was a comic skit.
She got people excited
But still she couldnt stop this
I won all three debates
If you got it Then you got it!
Now im trying to put money back in your wallet
So as I fix this financial crisis
Theres a long list
Of things I really gotta fix
Like no more shady healthcare
YOU can get what I get.
My country can have what it wants.
McCain can have a seat and think about what he did wrong
I know you aint never have a prez like that
That gives amazing speeches then turns around and raps!
I picked Joe Biden
Now this ones riding
Long as yall got me you wont need nobody
You want it I got it
Propose it, Ill sign it
Tell them republicans BE QUIET
First black prez
Aint that nice,
Im in the highest office thats right!
Now I can do whatever I like
I can do whatever I like
So what Im half black and half white
So what I fist bump with my wife
Man I can do whatever I like
Man I can do whatever I like
Im talking Black prez rides
And black prez ice
Fo at least the next fo years thats tight
Americas upset
And Im just right
Time to put this black pres in yo life
THATS RIGHT
I picked Joe Biden
Now this ones riding
Long as yall got me you wont need nobody
You want it I got it
Propose it, Ill sign it
Tell them republicans BE QUIET
First black prez
Aint that nice,
Im in the highest office thats right!
Now I can do whatever I like
So what Im half black and half white
So what I fist bump with my wife
Man I can do whatever I like
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b-yJBsjatW0
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Baby you can have whatever you like!
Hey girl,
You know our economy's in the toilet
But I’m still going to treat you right
I said you can have whatever you like (if you like)
I said you can have whatever you like (if you like) yeah, yeah
Tater tots, Cold Duck on ice
And we can clip coupons all night
And baby you can have whatever you like (if you like)
I said you can have whatever you like (if you like) yeah, yeah
Take you out for dinner, anywhere that you please
Like Burger King or Mickey Ds
And baby you can have whatever you like (if you like)
I said you can even have the large fries (large fries) yeah, yeah
Baby, you should know I am really quite a sweet guy
When I buy you bathroom tissue I always get the two-ply
Want it, you can get it, my dear
I got my Costco membership card right here, yeah
You like Top Ramen, need Top Ramen
Got a cupboard full of 'em, I’ll keep 'em coming
You want it, I got it, go get it, just heat it
Dump the flavor packet on it and eat it
Pork and beans and Minute Rice
And we can play Cribbage all night
And baby you can have whatever you like (if you like)
I said you can have whatever you like (if you like) yeah, yeah
I can take you to the laundromat downtown
And watch all the clothes go round and round
And baby we can go wherever you like (if you like)
I said we can go wherever you like (if you like) yeah, yeah
Hottest shawty I know, if you had some lipo
You could be second-runner-up Miss Ohio
Seven dollar bills rolled
Up inside my plastic billfold
Buy you a bagel even if it isn’t day old
And you never ever gotta wear your sister’s old clothes
As long as I’m still assistant manager at Kinko’s
Cut your hair with scissors and a soup bowl
You ain’t got to pay me, that’s the way that I roll
My chick can have want she want
At Wal-mart she can pick out anything she want
I know girl you ain’t never had a man like that
Who doesn’t make you buy generic brand like that, Yeah
You like my Hyundai, see my Hyundai
I can take you to see your cousin Phil next Sunday
But that’s kind of far and I’m not made of cash
Do you think you could chip in for gas?
Mac and Cheese would be all right
But let’s send out for pizza tonight
And you can order any toppings you like (if you like)
I said you can even have the last slice (the last slice) yeah, yeah
Ran myself a cable from my neighbor next do'
Now I can get free HBO
And baby you can watch whatever you like (if you like)
I said you can watch whatever you like (if you like) yeah
And you can always ride the city bus
Got a stack of tokens just for us
Yo, my wallet’s fat and full of ones
It’s all about the Washingtons, that’s right
You want White Castle, need White Castle
Long as you got me it won’t be no hassle
You want it, we’ll get it, just don’t be a hater
If I grab a bunch of napkins for later
Thrift store jeans on sale half-price
The underwear at Goodwill is nice
And baby you can have whatever you like (if you like)
I said you can have whatever you like (if you like) yeah, yeah
Baby, I can give you anything you please
Even share my government cheese
And baby you can have as much as you like (if you like)
I said you can have as much as you like (if you like) yeah, yeah
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yRVi0paZlfI
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
whoissecretdubai?
"Once upon a time, on an otherwise uneventful day, an UNUSUAL stalker (seeing how talkers are USUALLY a tad more discreet in their stalking ha!)popped up in my mailbox asking about a secret gal I secretly and openly dunno about.. Next thing I know, I find myself on a blog where everyone is feeling stalked, courtesy of mails received from said Unusual Stalker. So UAE bloggers decide to unite to combat this cyber crime! ;) Their analysts come up with different scenarios to explain the unhealthy fascination with SD. One theory goes that The Unusual Stalker has a secret crush on SecretDubai. Another theory has it that the stalker is an undercover informant for the LAPD.
However, the undisputable truth is that the stalker is a believer in the old Jericho mythology where a man christens his sexual perversion by stalking controversial underground bloggers. The mere idea of him stalking other people and causing little shivers of discomfort down their spines is arousing to him. In fact, at this very moment, the stalker’s tiny boner is about to pop out of the tight thong which he had stolen from the laundry basket of his midwife neighbor (while she was summoned in a hurry to deliver the ninth son of the wiry ironsmith down the alley), and which he’s now wearing inside out…so that the seam doesn’t cause him discomfort.
Hedonist yes, but masochistic physical pain does not sit well with him, as it threatens to compete with his overwhelming mental addiction to better know the subject of his obsession.All this time he has sought to contain it, but alas, he cannot control it anymore. Indeed, his need to know has consumed him and drives him to new depths of despair. He sends one more futile email to an unsuspecting blogger, and then another, and then another, leaving desperate messages on UAE bogs – while denying all the while that he is a spammer of the worst kind: the sort that wants us to tell him all about our Queen, while he remains an enigma behind his pseudonym which, in some perverse way, is in homage to his obsession.He adopts many disguises while he flits around the sordid cyberworld.
Today, he is a compassionate and caring person who only wants to do what’s right.
Tomorrow he will be wondering what the hell is going on, as I drop kick him into next week.
His (inside out thong) is causing much discomfort & having glimpsed at himself in the mirror of a stationary Prado (with 90% tinted windows & the personalised plates of:Do You Know Who I Am? which is blocking the traffic, he finds himself silently screaming as he rapidly descends back down to the Sandpit with a bump. He thinks to himself, in a somewhat dazed state, that he should make a hasty exit, as people are gathering around him, staring with bulging eyes at his dishevelled (lack of) clothing.
Undaunted in his task of finding the uber-mysterious Secret Dubai, he hurries off towards the nearest Etisatwat building, where he’s supposed to meet his masseur for a stress-relieving session. The nondescript building is a two floors concrete box with a decaying grocery shop at the corner. He gives the grocer a courtesy nod as he descends from his Prado and the grocer nods back while cursing under his breath. His voice inaudible under the brutal hum of a window air conditioner. Two minutes later, The Stalker maneuvers his bulky naked self around the massage bench and lies down on his stomach. The bench is whining and creaking under his weight. He repositions himself so that his navel comes at exactly a center point. Although his navel is nowhere to be seen amongst the flaps and crevasses of fat. He turns his head around to survey the dimly lit room for the second time. Nothing much has changed: the bench is lonely at almost exactly the middle, a single window with heavy curtains at one narrow wall, a glossy world map is mounted on one of the sidewalls. He stares at the map and his face breaks in a crooked smile while he recognizes the mark he’d drunkenly drawn two days ago with a black marker; a penis pointing toward the north pole.
"bugger!" he thinks........."is this mangy masseuse gonna charge me ten dorrar again? I think I should get a discount, coming (*coff*) so often". Looking again, at his drunken artwork, he suddenly realises an infidel has violated his artwork - there's a foreskin! He knows he was drunk when he drew that picture, but he's sure he wasn't THAT drunk! With a depressing sigh, he shifts his bodily mass & turns over again, like a beached whale. The soothing echoes of the 'relaxation CD' are marred by a barely stifled scream, as the hairs on his arse get pinched in the much worn cracks of the massage table. Meanwhile, in a broom cupboard, training officers seconded from the Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice (aka Muttawa, courtesy of the Magic Kingdom) raise & lower untamed eyebrows like rampant caterpillars with St Vitus Dance. They are waiting to pounce! The 28kg Thai masseuse enters the dingy room, trying not to retch at the sight of her portly customer. "Yalla!" he exclaims........"I was wondering when you were going to show your skinny ass in here. Get to work, I haven’t got all day.”
Knowing the trap was set, the masseuse approached the table, casting nervous glances at the cupboard. She had traded immunity from prosecution for helping the muttawa. They didn’t like that she would be free after this job was up, but her employer’s wasta carried a lot of clout. Still, there was always time to get her at a later date.Skin crawling, the hapless Thai raised her arms to begin the massage, but was saved from having to go any further by the cupboard door bursting open with screeches of “Khalas! Stop right there, we have you now!”In their overzealousness to make their first arrest and please their superiors, the officers propelled themselves with undue speed out of the cupboard to seize the, by now, alarmed stalker. In their haste, the second officer stepped on the hem of the first man’s kandoora, momentarily halting his progress before the latter crashed into him; the forward momentum causing them both to lose balance and career crazily towards the horrified masseuse. Unable to escape, she was knocked over by their flailing arms and, in slow motion, the trio crashed to the floor enveloped in a mass of white cotton robes and loud, unholy curses.
Over his initial surprise, the stalker leapt to his feet and ran from the room, grabbing a small towel from the hook on the door. Holding it on front of him in a thin attempt to cover his nakedness, he ran from the building heading for his Prado. The grocer stopped stacking his tomatoes to stare in disbelief. As the stalker neared his 4WD, he is hit with the realisation that he doesn’t have his keys which are still with his clothes and cellphone in the changing room.He stops in horror, not knowing what to do.
Just then Hamshoor appeared. The stalker spotted his lean figure fifty yards away and waved for him to hurry up. Hamshoor then quickened his stride, his arms and legs looking more animated as he barely kept balance over his clumsy, uncoordinated movement.
"got your picks with you?" asked the stalker. He's now sitting at the curb of the small walkway between the Prado and the fence of a construction site. Dust was clinging to his body and getting stuck in the bushy areas that was in a dire need for a massage. He was sweating profusely, not out of embarrassment, but because of the physical exertion of his escape.Hamshoor started laughing hysterically when he took in the scene.
"oh yeah… I got my picks, would you like to bend so I can pick you?"
"HAMSHOOR! THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR HUMOR"…..he breathed in, and then out he exhaled…"please ma' man, give me the picks and go fetch us some Laban Up, I think I might faint any moment".
Hamshoor has never ever impressed anybody at first encounter. But people learned not to underestimate him. There were rumors about his connections to a human trafficking ring, and other rumors about his supernatural ability to communicate with the stray cats of Satwa and gather the latest gossip amongst the mewing specie. There were many. Most of them untrue. And while his IQ could barely reach 90, he was connected and socially smart. He was a travel agent, a realtor, a private eye, a fixer….all at the same time. Once he'd even fixed the vibrator of Mrs. Abercrombie (he called her Mrs. Grumpy) who had run out of warranty (or patience, he couldn't tell)… Hamshoor might not be very bright, but his nonexistent ego helped him talk himself through many tough situations. Least of which is to convince a grocer in awe to keep his mouth shut about the huge tattoo he'd seen on the back of the naked stalker, which resembled roadkill. An upside down cockroach? Or a bad atempt to make the Buj Al Arab.
Meanwhile the stalker realises that it has started raining and as the rain picks up in intensity, and he wakes up in the gutter, where he passed out in a hooch induced stupor, that the houseboy concocted in an empty Dalda tin. He realises that the sensation of being blown is NOT because Bipasha Basu is riding him but because some stray dogs are licking his balls, and one poor canine is gagging in the corner due to a (stalkers) hair ball.He has the insane desire to run around the trees and start singing, and fight 37 men with his bare fists. But the sensation to sing and run around trees over rides all his other impulses.Almost automatically with help from the costume department he has changed into skintight yellow crotch crushing trousers, which is not helping his herpes much as he needs to itch bad and deep.He wonder where he kept the tube of medicine, and whether the dogs have had a go at more than his testicles while he lay asleep.He thinks. I will surely die of this itch if I cannot find SD. Because the SD THE GREAT MYSTIC and knower of all would surely take pity on him. And this why he feels death is imminet if he cannot locate SD...."
And the story continues...(courtesy of Kaya, Jayne, NZM, and Bridget Jones.)
However, the undisputable truth is that the stalker is a believer in the old Jericho mythology where a man christens his sexual perversion by stalking controversial underground bloggers. The mere idea of him stalking other people and causing little shivers of discomfort down their spines is arousing to him. In fact, at this very moment, the stalker’s tiny boner is about to pop out of the tight thong which he had stolen from the laundry basket of his midwife neighbor (while she was summoned in a hurry to deliver the ninth son of the wiry ironsmith down the alley), and which he’s now wearing inside out…so that the seam doesn’t cause him discomfort.
Hedonist yes, but masochistic physical pain does not sit well with him, as it threatens to compete with his overwhelming mental addiction to better know the subject of his obsession.All this time he has sought to contain it, but alas, he cannot control it anymore. Indeed, his need to know has consumed him and drives him to new depths of despair. He sends one more futile email to an unsuspecting blogger, and then another, and then another, leaving desperate messages on UAE bogs – while denying all the while that he is a spammer of the worst kind: the sort that wants us to tell him all about our Queen, while he remains an enigma behind his pseudonym which, in some perverse way, is in homage to his obsession.He adopts many disguises while he flits around the sordid cyberworld.
Today, he is a compassionate and caring person who only wants to do what’s right.
Tomorrow he will be wondering what the hell is going on, as I drop kick him into next week.
His (inside out thong) is causing much discomfort & having glimpsed at himself in the mirror of a stationary Prado (with 90% tinted windows & the personalised plates of:Do You Know Who I Am? which is blocking the traffic, he finds himself silently screaming as he rapidly descends back down to the Sandpit with a bump. He thinks to himself, in a somewhat dazed state, that he should make a hasty exit, as people are gathering around him, staring with bulging eyes at his dishevelled (lack of) clothing.
Undaunted in his task of finding the uber-mysterious Secret Dubai, he hurries off towards the nearest Etisatwat building, where he’s supposed to meet his masseur for a stress-relieving session. The nondescript building is a two floors concrete box with a decaying grocery shop at the corner. He gives the grocer a courtesy nod as he descends from his Prado and the grocer nods back while cursing under his breath. His voice inaudible under the brutal hum of a window air conditioner. Two minutes later, The Stalker maneuvers his bulky naked self around the massage bench and lies down on his stomach. The bench is whining and creaking under his weight. He repositions himself so that his navel comes at exactly a center point. Although his navel is nowhere to be seen amongst the flaps and crevasses of fat. He turns his head around to survey the dimly lit room for the second time. Nothing much has changed: the bench is lonely at almost exactly the middle, a single window with heavy curtains at one narrow wall, a glossy world map is mounted on one of the sidewalls. He stares at the map and his face breaks in a crooked smile while he recognizes the mark he’d drunkenly drawn two days ago with a black marker; a penis pointing toward the north pole.
"bugger!" he thinks........."is this mangy masseuse gonna charge me ten dorrar again? I think I should get a discount, coming (*coff*) so often". Looking again, at his drunken artwork, he suddenly realises an infidel has violated his artwork - there's a foreskin! He knows he was drunk when he drew that picture, but he's sure he wasn't THAT drunk! With a depressing sigh, he shifts his bodily mass & turns over again, like a beached whale. The soothing echoes of the 'relaxation CD' are marred by a barely stifled scream, as the hairs on his arse get pinched in the much worn cracks of the massage table. Meanwhile, in a broom cupboard, training officers seconded from the Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice (aka Muttawa, courtesy of the Magic Kingdom) raise & lower untamed eyebrows like rampant caterpillars with St Vitus Dance. They are waiting to pounce! The 28kg Thai masseuse enters the dingy room, trying not to retch at the sight of her portly customer. "Yalla!" he exclaims........"I was wondering when you were going to show your skinny ass in here. Get to work, I haven’t got all day.”
Knowing the trap was set, the masseuse approached the table, casting nervous glances at the cupboard. She had traded immunity from prosecution for helping the muttawa. They didn’t like that she would be free after this job was up, but her employer’s wasta carried a lot of clout. Still, there was always time to get her at a later date.Skin crawling, the hapless Thai raised her arms to begin the massage, but was saved from having to go any further by the cupboard door bursting open with screeches of “Khalas! Stop right there, we have you now!”In their overzealousness to make their first arrest and please their superiors, the officers propelled themselves with undue speed out of the cupboard to seize the, by now, alarmed stalker. In their haste, the second officer stepped on the hem of the first man’s kandoora, momentarily halting his progress before the latter crashed into him; the forward momentum causing them both to lose balance and career crazily towards the horrified masseuse. Unable to escape, she was knocked over by their flailing arms and, in slow motion, the trio crashed to the floor enveloped in a mass of white cotton robes and loud, unholy curses.
Over his initial surprise, the stalker leapt to his feet and ran from the room, grabbing a small towel from the hook on the door. Holding it on front of him in a thin attempt to cover his nakedness, he ran from the building heading for his Prado. The grocer stopped stacking his tomatoes to stare in disbelief. As the stalker neared his 4WD, he is hit with the realisation that he doesn’t have his keys which are still with his clothes and cellphone in the changing room.He stops in horror, not knowing what to do.
Just then Hamshoor appeared. The stalker spotted his lean figure fifty yards away and waved for him to hurry up. Hamshoor then quickened his stride, his arms and legs looking more animated as he barely kept balance over his clumsy, uncoordinated movement.
"got your picks with you?" asked the stalker. He's now sitting at the curb of the small walkway between the Prado and the fence of a construction site. Dust was clinging to his body and getting stuck in the bushy areas that was in a dire need for a massage. He was sweating profusely, not out of embarrassment, but because of the physical exertion of his escape.Hamshoor started laughing hysterically when he took in the scene.
"oh yeah… I got my picks, would you like to bend so I can pick you?"
"HAMSHOOR! THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR HUMOR"…..he breathed in, and then out he exhaled…"please ma' man, give me the picks and go fetch us some Laban Up, I think I might faint any moment".
Hamshoor has never ever impressed anybody at first encounter. But people learned not to underestimate him. There were rumors about his connections to a human trafficking ring, and other rumors about his supernatural ability to communicate with the stray cats of Satwa and gather the latest gossip amongst the mewing specie. There were many. Most of them untrue. And while his IQ could barely reach 90, he was connected and socially smart. He was a travel agent, a realtor, a private eye, a fixer….all at the same time. Once he'd even fixed the vibrator of Mrs. Abercrombie (he called her Mrs. Grumpy) who had run out of warranty (or patience, he couldn't tell)… Hamshoor might not be very bright, but his nonexistent ego helped him talk himself through many tough situations. Least of which is to convince a grocer in awe to keep his mouth shut about the huge tattoo he'd seen on the back of the naked stalker, which resembled roadkill. An upside down cockroach? Or a bad atempt to make the Buj Al Arab.
Meanwhile the stalker realises that it has started raining and as the rain picks up in intensity, and he wakes up in the gutter, where he passed out in a hooch induced stupor, that the houseboy concocted in an empty Dalda tin. He realises that the sensation of being blown is NOT because Bipasha Basu is riding him but because some stray dogs are licking his balls, and one poor canine is gagging in the corner due to a (stalkers) hair ball.He has the insane desire to run around the trees and start singing, and fight 37 men with his bare fists. But the sensation to sing and run around trees over rides all his other impulses.Almost automatically with help from the costume department he has changed into skintight yellow crotch crushing trousers, which is not helping his herpes much as he needs to itch bad and deep.He wonder where he kept the tube of medicine, and whether the dogs have had a go at more than his testicles while he lay asleep.He thinks. I will surely die of this itch if I cannot find SD. Because the SD THE GREAT MYSTIC and knower of all would surely take pity on him. And this why he feels death is imminet if he cannot locate SD...."
And the story continues...(courtesy of Kaya, Jayne, NZM, and Bridget Jones.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)