Thursday, September 13, 2007

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiiiiiii

I make the impossible seem possible.

I am the greatest superhero ever to come out of the state of Maryland or even the D.C. metropolitan, tri-state.

A black, triple X t-shirt; dark grey sweat pants that magically hovering under my butt; roughed up Timberland boots missing a shoelace; a faded black bandana covering my long, curly, black hair; a black Ghostface-style jacket made from fake rabbit fur is far from normal superhero attire. Spandex and cape was the style for the last millennium. I am your unconventional hero, armed with only a 52 lethal assault array of chaotic force that lies in a small box, which rests in my pocket. Once taken out, the shock and awe powers will leave opponents in dismay as if they were hypnotized, followed by the underhanded words, “pick a card.” Word. A menacing and lethal combination of style and charisma, to my knowledge, is unattainable by the average American youth. I make it look easy. I give David Blaine and any other fake me out magician a run for their money. I am so damn good at times I amaze myself. It should be illegal that I possess a deck of cards in my hand.

Not only is my sleight hand quicker then the eye. Every movement is stealth like that of a cheetah possessing lightening quick reflexes. But, I also have the sleight of mouth. Every letter to every word unites to formulate a sentence which can cause many affect to the feeble human mind. Affects vary from anger to confusion, to anger again and sometimes confusion. Every now and then I do make people laugh or smile, most likely to quell my ever growing boredom.

Silence is the best answer to the stupid. The fool has his answer on the tip of his tongue.
-Arab Proverb

With highly technological gadgets orbiting his environment like satellites, our new hero is filed with the stress of making a mere eight dollars an hour. From batteries to microphones to wearing a black collared polo shirt as his uniform, this child was on the route to survive college life. Stocking shelves, taking inventory and having to meet monthly sales quotas can take a toll on a young man. Plus, the added pressure of school and other social aspects encircled by the university life can add boulders to a growing man’s shoulder.

This hero was slightly over weight, unintelligent, and unattractive. He was in infatuated by a young girl who possessed a hypnotizing smile. He would walk her to class and wait ever so patiently for her; at times he would even attend her classes; even though his campus was 25 miles away. His relentless attempt of romancing went unnoticed. And before his very eyes, the young heroine was swept off her feet, falling madly in love with another man.

What can a man do when his heart is shattered? A million pieces, facing cardiac arrest, the hero has no choice but to live his life. A broken heart can never mend, and a broken heart can make a man do terrible things. This man started his journey back to single life in a terrible way, making only one mistake.

Cable connectors and wireless communication devices, our hero returns to his weekend job at Radio Shack in the local mall. Behind the register, as he assists the herd of battery consuming shoppers. When finally a customer arrives, 40 at age, old enough to be his mother, they start conversing in Urdu. She asked politely about his studies, and he replied stating he was a student at the University of Maryland. She then asked if he knew of her nephews, (the rule with Pakistani’s is that there are 2 degrees of separation.) He replied, yes, he knew of them. He could have stopped there and continued on to a lovely conversation about curry and samosas with the elder women or in Pakistani terms auntie. But he was now full of spite and jealousy, and as if the weight has taken its toll, he said one of them has been fooling around with a girl. This Aunt had no idea how to react, Pakistani culture is much different then the premarital sex or relationships that occur every other second in American society. The immodest sexual practice is new trend for humble Pakistani immigrants.

Words. They are powerful things. Nations have fallen. Wars have been commenced. Lives have been slain. The power of words is the most unexplainable phenomenon in the universe other then my forever increasing cell phone bill.

People do not know when to shut-up. They keep talking and talking expecting nothing will happen with their inane ranting. Severe headaches and migraines can form, even small tumors known to cause cancer, with all this blah-blahing. Mental contusions can cause mental illusions, which therefore may proceed with a beating causing bleeding, bruising and contusions. It is spectacular how the human tongue works without thinking as if it has no correlation to the brain.

During a dynamic debate that discombobulated the psych with my salafi advisor, my phone began to vibrate. I do not like ringers, nor would I pay a ridiculous amount for the latest ringers advertised. It’s another way the man has devised to swindle me out of my non-sufficient funds. Anywho, the phone vibrated, I never answer the phone immediately. Good things are worth the wait, and nothing is more gooder than me. Noting it was Hassan, my mentally dilapidated cousin, I tentatively ignored the call. In theory if it was important, he would call back.

He called back.

He asked where I was, what I was doing and who I was with before I could I even say hello. Noticing a great deal tension in his voice I instantaneously noted that something was wrong. He then stated someone was going to die tonight, and ordered me to meet him at his house as soon as possible.

My salafi advisor overheard our conversation and recommended that I stay away from trouble. I cogitated to the advice advised by my salafi advisor. If I were to heed his advice more often, I would not have a story to write. I wished him peace, and went along my merry way.

A long car ride between my salfai advisor’s house and my cousin’s house can unravel many thoughts that play in my mental theater. I am infatuated with those thespian mermaid twins that my imagination conjured, and Daffy Duck serving us cotton candy by waterfalls made of chocolate milkshakes like a Willy Wonka factory. Bugs Bunny making funny jokes with an Arab accent, I love my mind and the short entertaining theatricals it plays. But before my imagination could turn indecent and vile, I arrived at my cousin’s house. Darn.

Before entering the basement of his house, questions after questions flooded my brain. Why do I always wear sunglasses indoors? Is it permissible to tuck in one’s undershirt into their underwear? Most importantly, is it uncivilized to floss my teeth with my long hair? Oh, and why am at my cousins house; and who is he going to kill?

Upon entering I was greeted with cacophony and vivid group of people, reminding of an immigration office. There were at least fifteen people, maybe sixteen, possibly seventeen and eighteen, if I was included. Heavy hitters, rowdy rapscallions, treacherous thugs, who are careless when it comes to human emotions, human welfare and laws that preside over them, were still left in the dark on the reasoning of their attendance.

Who shall wreak the eternal slumber after the nightmare we bestow?

After calming the swarm of people, congregating in the crammed basement, Hassan addressed the crowd.

“we are gonna kill that son of a female dog.[censored]”

“who?’ Someone in the crowd rightfully inquired.

“azim.” Hassan answered. “that homo told my aunt eye was messing wit a girl. then my aunt told my mom and now i’m in trouble. she went 2 radio shack 4 batteries and all she got was his stories of me.”

An apology can never be a panacea for most sensitive issues. If Napoleon would have apologized to the native Haitians in Papa New Guinea, would a second world war have transpired? The answer is no. Plain and simple, using history as an example, apologies don’t work. If Michael Jackson just keeps on saying, “my bad” after all his Ninja Turtle themed slumber parties, would that be acceptable? NO. No weapons of mass destruction, so what? Gandhi was a pacifist, and look at India, now harboring Al-Qaeda terrorist. Say no to diplomacy say no to terrorism. Say yes to Paris Hilton.

What was my role in this debacle? After all, I am good for instigating a quarrel. Now to sound braggadocios but I can rouse up a conflict between Martin Luther King and Mother Theresa on who can pacify the conflicts in my life. Accordingly, the hoodlums gave me the phone after connecting it to our new victim; and told me to do what I do best.


“huh?” Azim questioned not sure if what he heard.

“I tawt I heard a puddy cat.” I replied to his confusion.

“what the fudge?” He responded, leaving him even more confused.

“I did, I did hear a puddy cat.”

I could expand more on our senseless conversation, but due to graphic words and regrettable statements I would rather not offend any readers. But, there is a methodology that I abide when confronted with such matters.

Three rules to infuriate an adversary:

1. Insult their mother.

2. Insult their sister, if there is no sister applicable then proceed to insult another female family member such as an aunt, niece or my personal favorite their grandmother.

3. Insult their mother.

He gave us his address. Mission successful.

Sixteen or seventeen maybe even eighteen individuals including me departed from Hassan’s basement to teach this poor fellow a lesson. You see, this child, Azim, was coerced by our persuasive technique to get into an altercation. It would be rather nefariously inhumane of us if we would pound his head in without a sufficient motive. So, we angered him enough to seek a legitimate reason to pound our heads. Everyone in life has certain strings that can be controlled; I was to be that marionette to put on show not only for the readers but the sixteen or seventeen other delinquents.

To make a long story short we arrived at his house, only to see him not there. Actually, we were not sure which house was his; so we called him to step out and meet us at another spot. (We had no intention of meeting at another place, this was our surprise tactic.) While someone called him one of Hassan’s friend opened up his trunk and started handing out weapons. I would hate to be stereotypical but his Asian friend handed out a pair of nunchucks. A few baseball bats and metal pipes were dispensed out as well; those always add excitement to a fight.

Juggling his keys, Azim ran out his house and towards his car. Visibly intoxicated the stench of the vile alcohol could be seen through his actions, barely able to run as if his body stood on rubber pegs. His judgment was impaired; it took awhile for him to realize that he was surrounded by 16 or 17 even 18 hostile people.

I have never seen fear as I did strike on that man’s face. I saw the white’s of his eyes even in the midnight hour that glowed like being powered by an Edison invention. His hands and speech began to shake, barley able to hold on to his car keys. Now, given the anarchic circumstance it would have been the perfect opportunity to apologize. A man’s ego sometimes is too powerful for a 5 letter word to disperse from their tongue.

Hassan confronted the poor man, asking for a simple apology. He was circled by us hoodlums like blood thirsty vultures on to their prey, who were curious as to the outcome of the situation. He reached in his pocket and quickly grabbed his only life saver, a cell phone. Hassan slapped it way, the echoes of it breaking were the only thing that was heard, when all of sudden from afar a voice was heard.

“hey, azim!” A man, who was witnessing the whole catastrophe from his porch, asked. “u need help?”

“no.” Azim responded as if he could handle the situation in diplomatic means.

“ok, bye.” The voice disappeared in the darkness.

That was a minor inconvenience to cure our little problematic parasite. There was a long delay and it seemed as if our trip was fruitless. We hoodlums were beginning to get restless as Azim was relentless on not apologizing. And, before we could encourage Hassan to either fight, or bounce; he stuck him in the face with his fist. I seen it in slow-motion as the impact of the hit made Azim do a total 520 degrees, pleasing the whole crowd. Then, to add insult to injury, Hassan kicked him in his large and cumbersome behind.

The problem with Zike lies within the fact that he does not care. He does not care for his family. He does not care for his house. He has nothing. No job. No car. No money. He has nothing and is nothing. So if we deal with him in military manners like the Bush regime; how would he retaliate? If the problem lies, then who knows if the answers are true?

"This ain't funny so don't you dare laugh. Just another case about the wrong path, straight and narrow or your soul gets cast." Slick Rick, A Children's Story

Monday, August 20, 2007

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiiiiii

There are a few things in life that I do not comprehend. One of which is my intense infatuation with Paris Hilton. Another is my constant attraction to hazardous situations. In fact what I do understand is the concept of reruns. When a television show is first aired, there are many viewers who missed it the first time round; thus, the rerun was impeccably conceived to serve those who neglected the show. Now, a word from our sponsor.

There are a few things in life that I do not comprehend. One of which is my intense infatuation with Paris Hilton. Another is my constant attraction to hazardous situations. In fact what I do understand is the concept of reruns. When a television show is first aired, there are many viewers who missed it the first time round; thus, the rerun was impeccably conceived to serve those who neglected the show. Now, a word from our sponsor.

The chicken is the wisest animal on the farm. They lay eggs.

Now right after the chaotic incident at the mosque, I quickly called his older brother who is my friend. His brother at that time had several personal issues, often confusing himself. Like staring at the sun, his own thoughts are blinding himself. I worry about him at times, more than I worry about my evil counterpart. His brother heard my version of the scenario, which is the same version you all read in the previous chapter. Not surprised, by his brother’s stupidity or utter delinquency, he gave me advice. I do not remember word for word what he said, thus I paraphrased his thoughts.

“When I was child I would take the bus. And, there was this bully, who would always pick on me. I would try my best to ignore him. But that didn’t work, and he still picked on me. Then, one day I decided to confront him. I told him that I was sorry for what I have done. And after that day he stopped picking on me. Even though I knew I wasn’t wrong.”

His Oprah Winfrey advice would have worked on bunch of unemployed feminist, but was I to take his advice seriously. So I told his moronic brother, in the most sarcastic tone, “thank you for your help,” which sounded more like go to hell with your advice you retarded hamster looking gremlin. He understood, and hung up the phone. Stupidity runs in the family. I sympathize deeply with this tortured soul, who grew up in a dysfunctional family with issues that daytime talk shows would tackle. I was disappointed, not that I expected answers from his brother, what upset me most was he wasted my day time minutes.

7 days later.

I like jumma; it makes me feel more Muslim. It is in our nature to sin, therefore jumma is the day I feel I can cleanse my inner-self. A weekly cleansing to rid my soul of the impurifications that I have fornicated, the soul is often overlooked. So on this jumma day, I started it off with a nice long session of ghusul.

Randomly, my doorbell rang right before I left to the prayer. It was my cousin, not Hassan (he was in Houston assaulting gay male prostitutes), Zain. He heard about the incident that happened last week with Zike and offered his assistance. Bless his little menthol congested heart, but I doubt this scrawny kid could hold his own against Zike. I told him that I did not want him escorting me to the prayer, but he refused. I don’t need protection, I have a gun. Meow.

I vegetated in my usual spot in the masjid, in deep concentration. I tried. And, I tried hard to understand the imam, the cleric, and his lessons. But, I dozed off to world led by imagination. Cotton candy fantasies, enjoining in the wealth of this world with a pair of twin mermaids and Bugs Bunny, the imagination is an escape that we seldom use. I then envisioned, the rascally rabbit delivering the jumma sermon. That’s when I woke from the uncontrollable daydream.

After the prayer, like always I gathered my shoes and went on my way out the mosque. From the corner of my eyes I saw my future brother-in-law conversing with Zike. I hate to think the worst of people, but I already knew Zike’s intention was at the mosque. (He did get shot the previous week.) My sister’s finance was trying to quell the dilemma of any drama between Zike and me. What intrigued me most was Zike’s ridiculous outfit. He was dressed as if he had a trial in the morning and the only place open was Wal-Mart. Adorning a red and black plaid colored shirt that most rednecks would be proud to wear at any formal event, which was tucked into his pleated khakis, Zike was costumed like a gump. Envisioning himself as a thug, Zike was walking paradox in his get up. His outfit made me chuckle. My future brother-in-law was satisfied with the progress in alleviating the seven days of suppressed anger Zike had in store for me; thus my future brother-in-law walked away.

I could have walked out the mosque with no conflict. I should have walked out the mosque with no conflict. I would have walked out the mosque with no conflict, but that would have made for a bad story.

Before I could even acknowledge Zike, I felt his cold reptilian eyes piercing through me like a mouse in a loin’s den. I returned to Zike a smile. He hates it when I smile. Subsequently, he started a small ruckus, not as big as last week’s circus.

How low do you have to go to insinuate a quarrel at a place of worship, Zike succeeded to go that low twice consecutively. He may have set a record, going as lower then my credit score. It was not that I was irritated or frustrated or agitated or aggravated or even infuriated, it has become annoying. Like when reading a magazine and al those little subscription cards keep falling out, Zike is sublimated spam.

“they call me the Blockbuster!” Zike proclaimed proudly.

I was stunned; I had no reaction for his statement. Stupidity is unpredictable, but did this word have a deeper meaning? Blockbuster. Block: noun, hindrance or obstruction, an obstacle. Buster: a person who breaks something up. Was he implying that he breaks up or busts an obstruction? Was I an obstacle in his path? Am somehow in his way, to his greater goal? Or did he merely use the word as a metaphor that he was going to rent movies.

“What!?” I responded in pure and utter confusion.

“Yea, man. I’m the blockbuster!” Zike declared his silly iconic name.

He is the prime example of the harmful effects of drugs. Children, drugs are bad. Like Peter Parker, he fell prey to the sweet seductress known as Mary Jane. Tetrahydrocannabinol is the active chemical compound released that causes psychoactive and physiological effects. Scientificial studies, which I did not participate, have shown that cannabis can impair short term memory and affects the hippocampus of the brain. Those, that are predisposed for psychosis, my arch nemesis, increase the risk of psychotic symptoms. It is argued that long term effects of consuming the drug have an effect of personality or possible brain damage. Now, you see what I am dealing with, the poster boy of the harmful effects of drugs.

“I don’t get it?” I asked as if I was to get a coherent answer from this idiot.

“Blockbuster.” He reaffirmed confidently, “I bust blocks.”

Stupidity is ubiquitous. I do not comprehend how hard it is to create an appealing moniker. Was his goal to strike fear in my blood with that name. Super Mario was known for busting blocks with his head. If he was making a comparison to the legendary video game emblem, why could he not use more clever title? Pyro-Hurler, Koopa Trooper Stomper, or even Raccoon Man sounds a tad bit more menacing than Blockbuster.

Zain, my cousin, was not present when I was confronting Zike, I think he was engaged in conversation with my future brother-in-law. What they were discussing, I don’t know. But I believe it was my boisterous brother-in-law parading that he extinguished a confrontation.

“y r u dressed like bob tha Builder?” I commented on his hillbilly attire.

His response was laced with profane obscenities and obscene profanities. I smiled. He hates when I smile. Now inciting his anger, I figured this is the best time to get the upper hand. I would no longer be the victimized by all the Danny’s out there and I will fight for all those like me who have been oppressed.

“meet me at tha mcdonald’s and we’ll take care this.” I did not know why I said this.

“let’s go then.” he responded, which was not the answer I was hoping.

“let’s go.” What I have I got myself into? And, why would Zike agree to this.

“let’s go.” The retard reiterated.

“I’m going.” I am now consuming as much time as possible, so I can think of way to get out of this mess. “or we could go 2 blockbuster,” I added with a smile. He hates it when I smile.

Camels are efficient animals. Throughout history, they have been known to provide their services in the military without the concern of draft regulations; economic and trade with seldom challenge and restrictions; they assist in the diet’s of man through history, providing protein rich milk and meat eaten in many East African and Middle Eastern countries. Camels can adapt to their environment by changing their body temperature, ranging from 93 degrees F to 106 degrees. Able to survive unheard of climate changes, and the ability to travel long distances are a few benefits that civilizations in the past have utilized. Camels can carry up to 990 pounds, but that last statement I said to Zike, was the straw that broke his back.

A small riot almost broke. I have good news, and I have bad news. No physical altercation ever occurred that jumma day. My cousin Zain and Zike’s cousin who was also present at jumma intervened before blood could spill. But the good news, my cell phone is activated.

A man will not abandon illusions he believes as facts in favor of facts he believes as illusions. Because of too much 2pac, Zike vicariously lives his life as a thug. His mind is deluded from the mere reality that the ideology of “thug life” is not needed to live in suburbia. Now, I may have said a few words that would have garnered the wrath oh my lethal numbskull hooligan of a friend. Even the wise man dwells in the fool's paradise. If it is true that ignorance is bliss; subsequently, Zike must be in absolute utopia (after the drugs of course).

Sunday, June 24, 2007

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiiiii

“when I die, I wanna be a living legend.”

Those are words to live by, or die by; honestly that man has got me in a state of utter confusion.

Slap bracelets, the running man dance along with Vanilla Ice, grunge, before Marky Mark was an actor, and the governor of California starred in the highest grossing movie of that year, before Jordan won a championship, ripped jeans and florescent colors, children adorning fanny packs and scrunchies, parachute pants made famous by MC Hammer, Del the Funkee Homospaian released his first album as a Tribe Called Quest released their second, it was either Me, Myself and I or engine, engine number nine on the New York transit line; I am back an era that laid the foundation of who I am now. The same year when the leader of our nation (Bush) obliterated Iraq; a lot has changed since then.

When a newly incarcerated individual enters prison, they are labeled a fish. I am not familiar with the rationale, but in my opinion it is possibly due to the fact that fish have gills. Entering elementary school, I was the new kid in town, transitioning from Alabama to Maryland. The adjustment was hard or maybe it was all the learning that was taken place; whatever it was, I found it difficult. Reading, writing, arithmetic, on top of all that nonsense I had to become socially accepted among my new peers. As always, I was the only Pakistani in the whole class. Being different is hard, especially when you smell like curry.

My own best friend is me. This is what losers say, when they in affect have no friends themselves. So, I am that fish, ignorant of the elementary ways of the social etiquettes in Maryland. In Alabama, I was the big shot; everyone wanted to be my friend. (They still do.) Therefore, making friends was new to me; it was a task that I did not want to accomplish. I feared not being accepted among my peers. Was I supposed to enter a new world full of solitude and emptiness? An abyss surrounded by peers who reject me? Or forever being alienated by those who smell better than me? I am a lonesome child unwanted like brown M&Ms. My own best friend is me; however, I am my own worst enemy.

Lessons being taught and lessons being learned, it was my first day of school in Maryland. I paid little attention to what was being taught; instead I was intrigued by the enormous size of the class. The teacher kept blabbing on and on, while I kept analyzing the class. I noticed the students were mainly Caucasian sprinkled with a few minorities here and there; which was much different than school in Alabama, where I was surrounded by an unending population of white people. The teacher, I think her name was Ms. Roberts, but who cares the story does not involve her, was lecturing about Mexico. I zoned out, not caring about her telemundo lesson plans. Later, she instructed the class to draw a Mexican environment.

One of my many amazing talents was the ability to make giant spit bubbles. I am not sure what that fact has anything to with anything. But another uncanny talent in my arsenal is the ability to draw the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles without glancing at the image. Not to boast, but my artistic skills at my young age had a slight resemblance of a sane Salvador Dali. After the Ms. Roberts handed out the paper, I quickly began drawing. Lightening as my pencil hit the paper, quickly doodling my rendering of a Mexican environment. When the storm had cleared, my paper exhibited a grand portrayal of Michelangelo, from the ninja turtles, wearing a sombrero and eating a taco.

All the other students were in awe of my masterpiece, as they all praised my work. One kid, named Danny who had a strong similarity to the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, asked me to draw the same image on his paper. Maybe my talent was a gift to make friends. I agreed to his wish and began drawing. I was not about to draw the same image, a masterpiece can never be duplicated, thus I drew Donatelo with MC Hammer pants. He was not nearly as impressed with my new artistic piece, so he insisted on switching papers. I was not about to part with my work of art, consequently I called him “fat.” He retaliated by calling me “skinny.” If those aren’t fighting words then I do not know what is.

Fast forward the rest of the class period to lunch, while I stood in line, Danny cut right in front of me giving me an evil stare. Was I supposed to be offended that a fat lard cut in front of me in a lunch line? But, whatever makes him happy. He then farted, and stunk up the entire line, the aroma of rotten eggs was too much for a class of elementary students. Chaos erupted. During the pandemonium, I lost my appetite, worse he blamed his stench on me. This was not the first impression I would have liked in front of my new peers.

During lunch I was now known as the lunch line farter. Echoes of laughter and teasing bellowed the large cafeteria; classmates would now acknowledge me with this new title. Kids are cruel; but so am I. Tensions between me and my new chubby friend had grown. I confronted my new enemy, approaching his table, asked him ever so politely if he ever stops eating. He took offense to my question, and told me to go back to my home land. I wish I could, honestly this hostile environment had given me nostalgia for Alabama.

Let the trash talking begin, all the kids crowded up. For some reason, children find joy in other people’s misfortune. This is bizarre phenomena that I cannot explain, either for lack of education or not caring. I perform well in crowds, especially under pressure.

“u look like a rescue ranger.” Danny the obese child yelled.

ur an overweight Gummi Bear,” I responded as well as the crowd with a roar of laughter.

“Alf.” He retorted.

“Fat Albert.”

So far, I had the upper hand; poor child had no idea what he was getting into. His smile quickly turned into an unsmile. (Not a frown but not a smile, I do not think Mr. Webster put that word in his book of words. But, I do plan on sending him an e-mail, until then I reserve all rights for the usage of that word.) I always got in trouble for breaking things in my youth, even up until my adulthood. Breaking things is always fun; except for the fact of facing the consequences and repercussions. That day I broke the feelings of my new overweight and circular friend with embarrassment and shame all over his face. I could have stopped there, and let Danny wallow with humiliation, but I opted to make him cry.

“Mr. Belvedere.” I added to the injury. The children who served spectators to this unrehearsed mean spirited game of dozens could not control their laughter. I love pouring salt on an open wound, already knowing Danny is over sensitive about his weight.

There were many ways my foe could react to such an insult, but that would require quick wit and clevarity, none of which he possessed. And instead of crying, like I hoped, he got furious. The new lunch line farter kid stole the spot light from the over eating pudge. He then challenged me to duel, wanting to fight me and pound my face in with his stocky and flubbery arms. Little does he know that I have an older sister, and can take a great deal of damage. It was settled; we would meet at the playground during recess, and fight it out mano y mano. Yo hablo Espanol, muy bein.

Bring it on. The class was dismissed to recess, and I walked alone towards the playground. A huge crowd hurdled around Danny, like small moons orbiting a large planet. They escorted him to the jungle jim in an entourage fashion. Walking alone, I noticed I had this feeling tingling sensation in little tummy. Butterflies or school-made French fries, I am not sure what I ate. I also did not know how to fight such a large opponent. Quickness and stealth is what I relied on against this sumo-wrestler. I also doubt that I could talk my way out of this out of control incident.

Once we both arrived at the playground, we shared evil glances at each other. The children were screaming, almost animal like behavior as if they were characters come to life from Lord of the Flies. Danny’s body was now eclipsing the sun, as he stood thirsty for blood. The children were either taunting me or encouraging their portly classmate, “Danny the Killer” or something creative like “Dan the Man. I planned on winning the hearts of my classmates with a swift and quick victory.

Without warning I ran full speed at the fat turd, only to bounce off like a rubber ball. The fart accuser stood his ground, and then ran towards me. His blubber flapping while he ran, his stomach bounced up and down in the air like a pogo stick. I stood helpless, screaming on the top of my lungs. I have never seen a fat boy run at me as fast as he did.

Black, as if was trapped in the night without lights while closing me eyes. I do not recall where I was, or what had happened, I could not move my body, paralyzed yet my mind awake in the darkness. Then, I slowly assembled the pieces of the puzzle; the plump child was sitting on top of my forty pound body. Ouch.

Thinking back, I have never been successful in duel against my sister. I do not recommend violence to end any dispute. My mind is quicker than any fist, my wit is sharper than any blade, my words are weapons and my weapons are words, delivering lethal blows and demolishing the esteem of my peers and foes alike. I have learned a valuable lesson that day. Who said that you don’t learn anything from school? Including that mulch leaves a nasty after taste. The ink of a scholar is holier than the blood of a martyr. Fighting does not always have to be physical. This was in essence my first fight, but was it to be my last?

Thursday, May 03, 2007

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiiii

The last I heard of Zike, was on an instant message conversation online. The proceeding was an actual reenactment of the online conversation.

Zike: I heard u got in trouble lol

Me: tru, but how did u kno I was at her house?

Zike: wtf? im going 2 kill u

Your warning level has increased by 5%.

I intentionally infuriated my advisory by insinuating that I was at his “girl’s” house, even though I was at my salafi advisors couch that night. His anger was only a minor part of my great impulsive scheme.

POW!!! Huh?

Through certain situations heroes are made. On the other hand, superheroes are born. On a murky July night, I was born. It was far from a normal birth of a normal child. You see, I am not that normal. In fact normalicty and its boundaries were unknown to me. I do not know the definition of the word normal or normalicity. Remind me to look it up one day. The day was the 7th of July. President Reagan nominates Sandra Day O'Connor for the U.S. Supreme Court. Hawaii is officially announced as the 50th state. The New York Yankees win whatever baseball teams wins. Steroids? And, a superhero is born. (My birth was so anticipated, that three days before my actual birth, the United States government displayed fireworks for the whole nation to celebrate. To this day, fireworks still go off annually.)

After coming out of my mother’s womb I had unresolved anger issues while I was in there, suffocating in the dark, with unpleasant dungeon like conditions. Most of my anger was directed towards my mother’s doctor, who helped with the procedure. With nine months of bottled up aggression, I attacked the doctor and strangled him with my umbilical cord. From the moment I took my first breath, I knew I was different. If you ask my mom, her story differs. She would say something along the lines; I was born naked and crying. Honestly, who would believe that?

Every Friday I would attend the local congregational prayers at my mosque. It was clockwork, I always came at the same time, sat in the same place, and I wore the same outfit. Tick tock. Actually, I wear the same outfit everyday of the week for the past 5 years. I keep it hood in the suburbs.

On my way to the mosque, curiosity struck me like bowling ball on Fred Flinstone’s head. Where was my mortal and dim-witted enemy, Zike? I have not heard from him in a while. Maybe, because he does not know how to dial numbers from a touch tone phone; or maybe, because my cell phone is cut off. Maybe he finally forgot about me. Maybe he finally progressed to place that accepts his barbaric and delinquent persona. I just hope he does not drop the soap. After editing the last sentence, I had a mental picture of that disturbing scene. Astghafullah.

I took my usual seat, slouching by the wall. I strategically crossed my legs, my head facing the ground with my hands covering my face. This position provides an illusion of deep contemplation. Instead, what I was really doing was catching up on some necessary sleep. One o’clock in the afternoon is quite early for a professional bum, I mean uh super hero. Meow. I awoke form my state of trance only to be dulled again by the voice of the imam. His monotone voice covered with a thick West African accent bored me to death. Not only could I not understand what he said, it made whatever he said less understanding. (If you can understand that, then you understand my ordeal. Understood?)

While the imam was speaking, blah blah blah, I came across a great mystery; which surprisingly, unfolded right on the tips of my fingers, literally. A mystery that was in front of me all my life, yet I never paid much attention to it. I never realized it before, but today it came across like a sign. Mankind has traveled far in search for answers of the greatest questions. From the vast miles of ocean water to dangerous space traveling, man has always been on the constant quest for key to the unknowns. It was no coincidence that I stumbled upon a great unnoticed mystery, today. Since the discovery, it gave potential to open doors for more and more questions.

Cuticles. What the fudge are they? Do they serve a vital role in our lives? How does one get rid of such things? More importantly, do females find them attractive? I may have been the only person to ask such bold questions. Never have I heard anyone discuss this strange phenomenon, being ignored by modern society. I will be the first to lead a team of researchers to this scientific exploration.

Anyways, right after the jummah prayer, I walked out the mosque in excited at my discovery. And, impatience grew wanting me to enlighten the rest of my peers. Hurrying I put on my shoes, like a child with his first secret I was in a rush to open my mouth of the finding. And, as soon as I opened the door I ran right into my friend Shairef; he’s my favorite Bengali. He also has a boatload of problems, no pun intended. One day, my salfai advisor and I should actually sit down and discuss that he sucks in Madden.

Now I am standing outside of the mosque or in Muslim terminology the masjid; eager to tell my Bengali friend of my discovery. But being raised by television, my favorite babysitter I have developed an incurable level of ADD (attention deficit disorder). Thus I forget my discovery. Huh? I am surprised I have written this much; especially, since I am plagued with this high level ADD and an above average level of laziness. However, I am more surprised that you people are still reading this. Congratulations!

While talking to Sharief about something that is non-important, I was brutally interrupted by voice of man standing behind me.

“do u hav ghusul?” a muffled voice said with a sense of anger.

Oh, my God! The story has finally picked up. After pages and pages of pure creative artistically written rubbish the story has finally hit its climax. You would never guess who was standing right behind me. Wrong answer, guess again. Not to delay anymore of your precious time, and to kill any suspense that was dramatically built; it was my arch-nemesis, Zike in the flesh. He was standing inches away from me; his eyes boiled with unrelenting anger, his mouth filled with lethal venom, and his nose filled with boogers. Yuck! Our eyes locked with immense tension; I sensed he was not happy at my appearance at the mosque, thus causing a chaotic scene.

“do u hav ghusul?” He repeated, as if I was blind.

Zike was at least thirty pounds heavier then me and at least five inches taller. His voice was resonating within the bones of my skeleton. It was not fear nor was it anxiousness; it was just that I anticipated something was going to go wrong. In other words, my spidey sense was tingling.

“did u do ghusul?” again he repeated, but I had no reply to his silly little question; because I was dumbfounded for his reasoning for asking such a retarded question.

Ghusul is an Arabic term referring to the full ablution in Islam. In order to enter a state of purity before Sal’at (prayer), a Muslim usually performs the partial ablution, or wudu. In some cases, like on a Friday it is preferred to have a ghusul. In other cases a ghusul must be performed. These cases are:

After having sexual intercourse.

After a woman completes her menstrual cycle.

After a new Muslim takes Shahada for the first time

I hope you were taking notes; I rarely give out useful information. Actually, I usually give out false information. For example, I’m pregnant.

Where was I? Oh, yes, Ghusul. Exactly what was my unbeautiful friend insinuating? That I was convert to a religion that I was born? Or was he stating that I had sex before coming to the mosque? (I wish). Astghfullah. Or maybe that it was that time of the month? If that was the case, than I can’t be pregnant.

I was dumfounded by his stupidity.

Looking at his face is as if one was looking at vomit. It is so nasty and repulsive, yet we sometimes stare at it out of sheer curiosity to understand what the vomit consists. Indeed, one may find food that appears hideous and inedible after going through the gaseous states of the human stomach. Curiosity gets the best of us at times. His pimples made up most of his gruesome Halloween mask-type face, where they formed vast geometric type regions, similar to that of the Appalachian Mountains. His muskrat moustache covered his upper lipped, but was easily camouflaged by his nose hairs, which grew out of his nose like wretched, garden weeds. Interestingly enough, most of his pimples made up constellations. It was as if I was gazing upon a flesh colored canvas with bright pink and red stars making up the night sky. I saw the Big Dipper, Bug Bunny and Orion. The craters on his flesh made his face look like an alien landscape. This may have been inhabited by some new form of bacterial life feeding from the pores of his skin. Craters that was large enough to hide Sadaam Huesian, when escaping the American militia.

People like him have coined the redundant phrase “beauty is only skin deep.” One does not realize how ugly a person has to be. I know they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder but not even Ray Charles can find this man reasonably decent. I highly sympathize with the poor women who had to breast feed this monster. Sometimes, God makes ugly people to remind us how blessed we sexy people really are. No wonder Zike is always angry; if I had to wake up, every morning, looking like a mistake, I would be angry too. I doubt that cosmetologists, dermatologists and plastic surgeons with scholarship knowledges cannot help his face, even with reconstructive surgery and the technological advances in cosmetic surgery. Zike is doomed to remain ugly and stupid.

While observing his face, Zike kept yelling at me. It grew considerably annoying, and I tired my bestest to ignore this fool. There are times when the stimulus in my brain realizes that I should leave. Secreting acids in my cerebellum causes me to fail. That probably explains a lot.

“ghusul!” Zike yelled, as if I never heard him the first time. “u ruined my prayer, and the prayer for the rest of us. u hav 2 ask tha imam 2 pray again.”

At this time, all I am thinking is how this acid is emitting out of my ear. Yuck, I need a q-tip.

“tell the imam 2 pray juma again!” His decibel level was increasing; it hurt my eyes to hear him speak. His tone was rather vicious, like a pitbull who chewed off his tail.

“mayb, I will.” I responded. I am quite the clever one, no?

One could admit that I was in a quirky quagmire, a peculiar predicament, a difficult dilemma, a perplexing position, a troublesome tribulation, a titanic tangle, a chaotic complication all at the same time. His voice resonated with fierce anger, and the only resolve was to pound me to death. I do not mind dying, as long as I am still alive, but Zike had me in a catch 22. Not that I would question his faith, but this is the first time I have seen him at jummah in about year; probably, to knock me out.

Finally, I turned around and gave the product of malfunctioning contraception device a piece of my mind. “Zike, do you always talk out of your butt; that would explain your breath.”

What I love most is angering my opponents. At that point in time Zike was absolutely baffled, and for few seconds he did not know how to respond. He must have had an inclination; if he came to jummah to intimidate me that I would I bow to his greatness. At this point Zike responded with an awful amount of profanities that would have made the FCC faint. The retard retorted that he would resort to violence. We are now standing face to face, as if we were about to be engaged in a preflight ritual of brutal trash talk. Like a bull, ready to attack the matador, Zike’s eyes grew with intense rage. Yet, I still did not budge; I kept my feet planted as if they were roots to tree, wrapped underneath the concrete I stood. Zike kept yelling inaudible blabber, hoping that it would intimidate thy. Yet, I still did not budge.

Sharief, at his point, was getting bored; thus he tried to separate us, and try to force me to walk away. Yet, I still did not budge, neither did my antagonizer. Sharief tried again and again; but to of his avail his efforts were futile. Finally, a white convert, who was larger in mass then either Zike or I, felt compelled to split us apart. I just got bored so I walked away; knowing Zike would not be able to do anything. Honestly, if had wanted to do something he already would have done it.

Walking away from confrontations, does make one feel good. I walked with my back facing Zike, still frustrated from the event, towards Sharief’s car. Sharief was talking, as he was walking besides me, some type of talk, which I completely ignored. Possibly he could have given me advice or some type of talk dealing with the intense scenario. He kept talking and talking, reminding me of the imam. I stopped and stood still, turned around to see if Zike was still there. There was a large crowd congregating, veiling my view. I waited for the crowd to clear, while Sharief was still walking and talking, thinking was right beside him. Once the crowd cleared, I made eye contact with Zike, shaped my finger to a gun, pointed at his hideous face and fired. POW!!! Walking away from confrontations, does make one feel good, but shooting your adversary with an imaginary gun makes one feel even better. Meow.

I saw Zike’s eyes reignited with anger, after I pulled that trigger. I turned back around and walked with a swagger, as if I shot Ariel Sharon. A large smile came across my face. I heard the steps of an individual running towards me. Predicting it was Zike, I did not respond to those steps. Turing around to see what was pursuing me, I saw Zike being stopped by an older man, persuading him to calm down. A smile arose on my face, to see Zike out of breath from trying to capture his prey. Poor guy was convincing the old man who held him back, that I possessed a gun. Angering any individual to the point they want to kill me, I boast, is a another tremendous super human power.

“he had a gun!” Zike exclaimed. “he shot me!”

A deck of cards, $2.98; a pair of grey sweat pants, $14.99; Large black t-shirt from foot locker, $5.25; a black pair of Timberland boots, $120.00; inducing Zike to make a fool of himself, priceless.

He, who last laughs, laughs last. As along as it makes no sense, it makes perfect sense to me. Thus, I laugh last. And with all that laughing aside, I have not yet unleashed that ace that anxiously waits up my sleeve. Muhahahahaha. (Evil laughter.)

Monday, February 20, 2006

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiii

The common characteristics of a sidekick are not too appealing. The sidekick is far inferior then his predecessor. He lacks intellect, personality, and the natural animal instinct that every hero requires. The sidekick, more often than not, has homosexual tendencies. Seriously, look at Robin. Hassan does not shy away from the sidekick role at all. Instead he has fully embraced it. At times, he even wears his underwear outside his clothes. Due to his extensive diet on protein bars, he tends to give gas. Gas is merely an understatement. His expelling intestinal gas through the anus can employ nuclear energy, which both the Ayatollah and Kim Jong desire to possess this powerful technique of dispensing natural fatal gas for an experimental use of biological warfare. Deadly.

Ever since we were kids Hassan and I have always gotten along. Even though he is my cousin; he is also a good friend and even a better sidekick. All the mistakes he makes and all the homosexual inclinations actually help fulfill the role of him being my valuable yet destructive sidekick. Never have we gotten in a fight. Never have we argued over trivial and minute matters. Okay, alright, there was this one time…

Que flashback music, fade 2 black.

Tha making of a sidekick.

Working at a bank is more tiresome than tiresome. Counting hundreds of thousands of dollars, that is not mine, a day can cause fatigue. Especially, if the hours are counted down by second by the contemplation of an Ocean’s 11-esque heist. I am not ashamed of my once so not so prominent career path. Indeed I was a mild mannered banker fully equipped with a tie and wing tipped shoes but by night I am a vigilante superhero to save the day. Every superhero has a secret alter ego not known by the rest of society. I chose to become a banker; the irony is that I have no money. I may have been the poorest super hero of all time, but at least I have my looks.

After a hard day of work, I decided to retreat to my Cousin Hassan’s house and unwind. I would occasionally make random visits at my sidekick’s place for numerous reasons, one of which was to kill time. It was an excellent location to relax, primarily after a strenuous day at work. Plus, I saved a lot of money by raiding his fridge.

Winter nights always start early; the darkness crept up like a bad wedgie. I parked my car on his small driveway. After slamming my car door shut, I approached Hassan’s house. Goosebumps and the hairs on my neck stood up, I had an eerie feeling when walking towards his house. Something was not right. (Foreshadowing.) But I ignored this feeling, mainly because I was hungry. Food for thought is not thought without food; think about it, that’s deep.

I rang his doorbell and to my surprise there was no answer, only an unnatural silent. The awkward silent had begun to worry me, and negative thoughts immediately flooded my sexy little head. I rang his doorbell again, hearing it echo through the walls of his house yet again I there was no answer. My worriedness begun to grow, not wanting to imagine what could have befallen my trusty sidekick. Peering through his window, I struggled to see behind the curtains. Then I knocked on the door.

The door flung open. All I saw was dark shadowy figure, which immediately grabbed my petite body, and threw it to the floor. I slammed violently against the cold hard linoleum floor. All I felt was pain. Oh, how I loathe pain. My cartilages or my bones or my skin tissue or whatever keeps my ankle connected to whatever it is connected no longer felt connected as if it were disconnected. Pain, I hate pain as much as I hate writing.

The figure had not loosened his grip; no instead his grip grew stronger. Like the boas constrictor of the Amazon, tightening its grip and releasing life from its victim, I felt hopelessly weak. My lungs were stiffening, I could barely breathe. It was a downhill struggle to loosen my right arm. But through the agonizing ordeal I had freed my arm using all my energy. In Tibet I learned a Korean funk kung-fu move made famous by the notorious Moe from the 3 stooges and I gouged the monster’s eyeballs.

Screams loud enough to wake the dead were echoing through his house. He quickly loosened his grip; at that same moment, I jumped out and without delay grabbed my precious ankle I hobbled towards the light switch t unveil my attacker, who was masked by the darkness. The hallway light provided me with enough illumination to answer my question. But, that answer came with more questions that I bargained for. To my surprise my attacker was none other then my idiot cousin, Hassan. Meow.

How could he? What have I done to receive his wrath? Is he retarded? Where in the heck is that cat?

I stared hard at him with a look of disbelief and disgust on my face. He gazed back at my eyes and smiled his gay Mr. Ed smile. At that time I was speechless, and only one word came to my mind. “Why?”

“I don’t know?” he answered pathetically. Was he serious?

Why I am always surrounded by idiots? Every step I take I cannot avoid someone who is intellectually inclined. It is as if I am stuck on the short yellow school bus on the path to who knows where. To make matters worse behind the wheel is a chimpanzee diagnosed with Down syndrome. Idiots to the right of me. Idiots to the left of me. I am in desperate need of valium.

This next statement maybe totally irrelevant and most likely one hundred percent pointless, but I would like to share it with my readers. At this moment I am not wearing any pants.

Back to the lecture at hand….

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” my retard cousin apologizing. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I did not respond to this primitive animal nor did I accept his existence. I was in too much pain. I quote Shakespeare in one his boring books, “et tu, Brute.” Betrayal is the ultimate form of humiliation. But my pain was not revolved around his honor and duty; instead the anguish I felt was directed at my illustrious and promising basketball career, which was no longer a foreseeable dream. I squeezed my ankle, ignoring all the agony.

In desperation Hassan, my bastard cousin, runs and get bandages and a bag of ice, apologizing at every moment of every second. I stood strong, in my stance, refusing his apologies. He was groveling, literally on his hands and knees begging for forgiveness. I was stubborn with my ways. No matter what he did, nor the amount of his sincere apologies I was never going to forgive him.

“I am no longer your friend, nor do I want 2 b associated wit u.” I expressed my thoughts to the monkey. “I am going home.”

“I’ll make you brownies!” He exclaimed.

Every man has a weakness, the breaking point in which they fall prey unto their desires. My kryptonite is brownies, for all super heroes have flaws. Yes, even I am not perfect, close, but not perfect. Later that night Hassan baked brownies and mended our once tattered relationship. On that note, I’m hungry.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiii

“Because you look suspicious.” That was the answer the pigs gave me when I asked for their justification on their actions. On my way back from the incident, I am contemplating on the event that just occurred. Can my day actually get any worse? If you have been reading the past chapters then you would realize the answer to this ridiculous rhetorical question.

I am climbing the ladder of life; the irony is that I am afraid of heights. When I go as I high as I can, I fall. I fall all the way down landing on my precious sensitive buttocks. Ouch. Once I try to get up again, some idiot (who intentionally tries to sabotage my life) places a banana peel near the ladder. I failed to mention that the ladder is foolishly placed near a cliff and I fall to my doom. This whole story is about how, when, where, and why I fall. In scientific terminology this phenomena is most commonly known as the While E. Coyote effect. Meep! Meep!

Rewind back 24 hours.

Ringty-ring. My phone rang on my way back from work. Yes, I actually had a job at one point in my life. The time was 11 pm, the night before Eid-ul Adha. (Which is the festival of sacrifice, in which the prophet Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son for God.) I did not recognize the number, yet my curiosity gets the best of me at times. So, I picked up the call, and I did not distinguish the voice. Whoever it was, he was speaking hardcore Urdu. After awhile, I got tired of listening to whoever was speaking. Too much Urdu gives me a headache. I let the anonymous caller know that I was hanging up if I did not get a translator. He quickly replied in English, “Yo.” Lo and behold, and to my surprise, it was my arch nemesis Zike. For some reason a smile came across my face. No hero can be complete without an evil villain. Honestly, how cool is Batman without the joker, Superman without Lex Luther, David Lettermen without Jay Leno. To keep the story going, adding fuel to the engine, Zike had to have come back. Without him I would be writing nothing but pointless stories that have little to no meaning. In other words he somehow makes my story from ordinary cheese doodles into Picasso-type doodles. I would like to add that my doodles are quite artistic. He, and I hate to say this, gave life to what would be a rather pholonous story.

We had another delightful conversation. It mostly consisted of how he was emotionally over that “girl.” (He didn’t actually say “girl”, instead used a derogatory term that I deemed to profane and obscene for my audience. I want to keep it PG.) Funny, how he switched hardcore Urdu into Ebonics in a matter of seconds. I doubt he can speak normal English. I doubt he can read. I doubt he can think. Whenever he spoke, it reminded me of a rap song; ignorant ranting with no point, that should include a parental adversary sticker.

I sympathized with my undomesticated enemy, in that the only girl he ever loved and truly cared for, left him. Any girl with half a brain would leave a man if he tried to run her over. If my wife ever tried to run me over with her car, I would slice her throat…uh, I meant, she would have to hear it from my legal team and get struck with a restraining order. All I am saying is that I show women respect, I won’t Ike Turner a girl. Especially, since my mom is a girl; and so is my sister, I think. He kept going on and on about how the “girl” was so nice to him, but she broke his precious heart. It was right then and there, that I figured that my heart-broken enemy had a heart. I thought he was born without a heart. It turned out he was born without a brain.

There is a medical condition where a baby is born with a hole in the heart. It is a sad and tragic occurrence and to my knowledge is not curable. I am no doctor but I heard there is an another type of occurrence where a baby is born with a hole in its brain. Our buffoon, thug evil villain may have been born with a hole in his brain. That theory would explain everything and make sense in this nonsensical story. Or maybe he has a mental condition known as Phonemophobia.

Why does he continue to tell me his life problems? I don’t care for him or his problems. He rants on an on about his little love life. If I wanted to hear about tragic love stories I would have read…I meant I would have rented Romeo and Juliet. Do I look like a psychologist? Dr. Phil, himself, would not be able to help this poor twisted being into rationality. I, myself, personally, am need of a therapist. Sometimes I think and it hurts. My dear friend, Zike is in need of some electro-shock therapy or even a lobotomy. After just rereading this paragraph (while I was editing and speel chekin) Zike is almost reminiscent to Frankenstein’s monster minus the brain and change the green skin into turquoise.

After a few minutes on the phone, Zike went straight to the point. I knew for a fact that he did not call me for relationship advice. And, if he did I would have told him kindly to jump off a bridge. Zike was asking for a ride for Eid prayer. I refused, based on the fact that he only calls me for a ride or to get “crunk.”

No. I love that word. NO. But, Zike on the other hand, was not too thrilled with my answer. Thus, he insults me. The male ego is a precious thing. Once challenged it stands to wrestle all who opposes it. The next ten minutes of our conversation was an exchanged of verbal engagements that consisted of feelings being hurt and egos being crushed. By the time I hung up the phone, I still had a smile on my face; I wish I could say the same for my friend.

Rewind back another 24 hours.

Before the anonymous phone call, I was in a heated debate with my salafi advisor about stuff. I was at his house conversing on the subject of stuff. Our talks ranged from an array of topics that scoped from issues about stuff to stuff about stuff. It was deep. My advisor’s brother even joined in our conversation, which was accompanied by chocolate and a refreshing cold glass of milk.

My salafi advisor’s brother is quite a character. He is the first person I met who has an undying love for food. The relationship he developed with food is actually in fact astonishing. Slowly throughout the years, the calories and the carbs came sneaking like my cat. Meow. In time it made him quite pudgy. He reminds me of those obese babies the network always showcase on Maury Povich. If you look close enough you could see a double chin forming. Disgusting. Yuck.

And after such conversing we participated in tactical rounds of strategical battling that may help in the near future if ever confronted in certain situations. We are now dressed in fatigues, armed and equipped ready to strike first and to kill at will. Some might call it a simple video game but we call it the ultimate first person shooter, Halo. Senseless acts of inhumane killings justified by pure entertainment. I still could smell the blood in my defeat. My salafi advisor shows no mercy as he brutally kills his brother and me just for the thrill to see our agony. The painstaking rounds of dying grew tiresome. The battling session lasted past the late hours of the night and unto the early hours of morning. My eyelids felt like bricks and I doubt I could have survived a drive to my house in my condition. Those battles were strenuous and tense and took a lot of energy out of my little body. Thus, that night I fell asleep on my advisor’s couch.

Fast forward 48 hours.

After coming home from the whole pig ordeal, I was confronted with both my parents. They started interrogating me on where I was, and who I was with the other night. I let them know that I was with my salafi advisor. They asked me again who I was with. I answered them again, saying I was with my salafi advisor. They asked me one more time, and I gave them the same reply. I had no idea what was up with the serious and tense and heated questioning. They had me backed in the corner and I sensed some sort of anger and disappointment in their faces. My parents tend not 2 believe a word I say. It reminded me of the story of the boy who ate the wolf. But, I am no wolf nor do I eat boys.

Then, my parents said they had a phone call from my friend Zike, who stated I was at some “girl’s” house and that I spent the whole night with her. That would have been lovely if it was the truth. But all I could say is ouch. That Zike know when and where to hit, and he hit hard. Never underestimate stupidity. Because stupidity has a certain level it can reach and it cannot go any lower.

Zike had created a new level of hatred from me. A level hatred that has no bounds of mercy. A level of hatred that defies the spectrum of emotions. A level of hatred that can only be shared with my sixth grade English teacher. But, with all the hating on the side, I was thoroughly impressed at his decisive tactic to get my parents involved in such a feeble matter. He has defiantly out done himself this time.

But, I, the suburban superhero, always keep an ace up my sleeve.

Fast forward to the present.

My cell phone is cut off.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiii

pig (pg)

    1. Any of several mammals of the family Suidae, having short legs, cloven hooves, bristly hair, and a cartilaginous snout used for digging, especially the domesticated hog, Sus scrofa domesticus, when young or of comparatively small size.
    2. The edible parts of one of these mammals.
  1. Informal. A person regarded as being piglike, greedy, or gross.

    1. A crude block of metal, chiefly iron or lead, poured from a smelting furnace.
    2. A mold in which such metal is cast.
    3. Pig iron.
  2. Offensive Slang. Used as a disparaging term for a police officer.
  3. Slang. A member of the social or political establishment, especially one holding sexist or racist views.

Red white and blue. Dead in the middle of winter, cold enough that one’s breath is not only visual but frozen. I was coming out of a local McDonald’s, after only eating a fish filet. I started walking towards my car, when I saw a cop. I froze like my brain when I am drinking a slurpee too fast. Ouch. The cop, still in his car, gave me a long, cold hard stare. Not carrying my license on me, I walked past my car, knowing in fact he would pull me over. I had my hands in my pockets to fight the bitter cold. Ignoring the pig, I casually walked past my car and towards the shopping center. Call it intuition, call it the sixth sense, call it raw animal instinct, call it what you want, but I knew that I was in for some trouble.

I was in need of a deck of cards, and determined to buy one. Red white and blue. The bright flashes of sirens are now blinding me. I needed that deck without it I felt powerless; so, I kept walking. The officer jumped out of vehicle and yelled “freeze.” Knowing, in fact, he was talking to me, I kept walking. Now, he jumped in front of me, standing as barrier between me and my deck of cards. “I’m talking to you!” Damn. Meow. I told the officer, “I didn’t kno u were talkin 2 me. I thought u were talking 2 her.” I pointed at an old lady with a cane that reminded me of a grandma.

Let the fun begin.

As a child growing up, I always wanted to be a cop. Honor, glory, a shiny badge, a dark uniform, saving lives and best of all, a gun. I always thought cops were fun, from Axel Foley to Police Academy. I allow television to shape my view on almost every aspect of life. Lo and behold, my perception of cops along with everything else, as always, was wrong.

“What are you doing?”


“Where are you going?”

“2 the pharmacy.”

“To buy drugs?”

This cop, I mean pig, somehow felt I committed a crime. He interrogated me for ten minutes straight for whatever reason he had. Cops abuse the precious law that they uphold, enforce and protect. They become power hungry and eventually obese with the amount of power they possess. This is not my first incident with a pig, not even my second. Each incident provides a greater hatred for these public servants.

The pig asked me for my identification. As usual, I did not have it. He got my name and address, and then radioed to confirm it.

“Do you smoke?”


“Can I search you?”


“Do you have something to hide?”


“Then why do you have your hands in your pocket?”

“Cuz it’s cold.”

“Stop getting smart.”

Cops are like dentists. They ask the most ridiculous questions at the most inopportune time. The pig somehow implied that he would not leave me alone until I was searched. I refused at least a half dozen times. How retarded does a person need to be to ask, “Why do you have your hands in your pocket.” Especially, since it was the coldest day of the year.

At this time the relentless pig has gotten me flustered. The hardheaded civil servant was now reminiscent of a nagging mother asking her child for their report card. By his implications, the pig insinuated that I would be free from his grasp if I was searched. So, I let him search me. I took off my jacket and handed it to him.

“What are you doing? Put your jacket back on!”

I did what I was told.

“Put your hands on top of the vehicle.”

I did what I was told.

At this point I felt not only helpless but like a common criminal. He patted me down; first, checking my sweat pants and then my heavy jacket. My cousin, Hassan, would have loved this. I kept a watchful eye on the cop, making sure he was not putting anything that would incriminate me in my pockets or even seizing the twenty dollar bill I had. After a throrough anal cavity- type search, the cop reaches into my packet and finds…

“What the hell is this?!”

“What?” I innocently inquired.


“Gum wrapper.”

“Gum wrappers?” the pig repeated

“I don’t believe in litterin.”

“There are trash cans everywhere.” He said while pointing at a trash can.

“I was on my way there, until u stopped me.” I said with a hint of sarcasm.

Sometimes I never know when to shut up. I keep talking and ranting on and on. I doubt people even pay attention to what I say. Half the time I say nothing of importance. The other half, is when I talk out of my butt. And, let the record show that talking out of one’s butt is never beneficial. The pig was not humored by my comments and proceeded to call for back up.

The back up cop was even worse. Nothing like a normal pig, his resemblance was that of a wild boar. Disgusting. Since boars don’t have any sweat glands, they must wallow in the mud to cool off. That explains the nasty smell. Wallowing may also help get rid of fleas and ticks. During the rest of the year, boars eat roots, grass, fruits, mushrooms, bugs, eggs, and even dead animals. I think they tend to eat their own feces. Boars have tough noses, or snouts, which help them dig. They have an excellent sense of smell and can sniff out underground foods. Their eyesight is not very good, but they hear very well. In other words, he was no different then the rest of his primitive species.

Once he arrived the two pigs had a dialogue.

“Oink oink oink. Oink.”


“Oink. Oink, oink oink oink. Oink”

“Oink, oink, oink”

I am not fluent in pig, but after being pulled over at least a dozen time and a few other altercations with cops; I have been able to pick a few things up.


“This is kid I told you about.”

“I’m hungry.”

“He’s the one getting smart.”

“Do you have a donut?”


Now this cop came at me with a different approach. He must have wanted to be a psychologist and obviously failed. He came at me trying to be my friend. As if being my friend, I would answer all his stupid and pointless questions. I don’t even know the answers for pointful questions. What makes him think I can answer all that?

“Hey, if you don’t smoke, then do you have friends who smoke?” He asked convincingly

“No.” I answered.

“C’mon now, u can tell me, buddy,” he said convincingly.

I seriously started to ponder about his question. Maybe, if I dealt with this situation with the most adult like manner then my little pig problem would just disappear. So, I started thinking, then recollecting. Hmmmmmmmmm. Well, to my knowledge, I do not have any friends who do drugs and only a few who actually smoke cigarettes. My answer would have to be a resounding “no.”

“Liar!” The pig exclaimed, “Your eyes rolled to the left; classic sign of lying.”

Oh my lord. Cops are retarded. This incident truly answered my question if cops have to take an intelligence test to get a badge. Any idiot can be a cop. If their brains were J-ello it wouldn’t jiggle. Basically, this cop watches too much CSI. He figured out suburban life is not that exciting so divulges in primetime television to escape from reality and creates a fantasy where he plays a Dennis Franz type bad boy type character. The world has become a cesspool infested with parasites who have become deluded by cable television and TV land reruns of CHiPs.

Now, for one second, you (the reader) think of the last time you or someone you know smoked? Think, long and hard. You got your answer? LIAR! Your eyes rolled to your left. You can’t pull a fast one on me.

The cops finally promised to let me free, but under one condition. Their condition was to have my picture taken. If I refused he would have taken me to the station and have my picture taken there, all because I failed to present any identification. I think it is for some convict dating service the sate of Maryland is trying prescribe for all those murders and rapists who are getting out of jail. The first picture he took, I blinked. The second picture, I looked pretty damn gangsta, if I don’t say so myself. After taking my picture, making me feel like a criminal, wasting my time and harassing me they let me free. Before they let me go. The pig shouted barbarically, “thank you for wasting my time.”

Walking towards my car, a kid approached me. He was about 18 or 19, and witnessed the whole scene. He sympathized my ordeal and I thanked him for kindliness. Thereafter, he cordially offered me some “green.” Word.