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.