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 7^th of July. President Reagan nominates Sandra Day O'Connor for the U.S. Supreme Court. Hawaii is officially announced as the 50^th 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.)