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.)

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.

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.

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiii

pig (pg)
n.

1. 
   
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.
2. Informal. A person regarded as being piglike, greedy, or gross.
3. 
   
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.
4. Offensive Slang. Used as a disparaging term for a police officer.
5. 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?”

“Walkin.”

“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?”

“No.”

“Can I search you?”

“No.”

“Do you have something to hide?”

“No.”

“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.

“This?!”

“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, 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.

Translation:

“This is kid I told you about.”

“I’m hungry.”

“He’s the one getting smart.”

“Do you have a donut?”

“Oink”

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.

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiii

Only one word can summarize the pain and agony I suffer. That word is: Ouch. Day by day the pain escalates. Insurmountable pain, that my words barely illustrate the wounding ordeal. Ouch. Just thinking about it hurts. Tears from my discomfort are flooding down my cheek. Unbearable, even as I reminisce on the pain staking experience. The terrifying torture is totally tormenting, turning into a tremendously troublesome trial. Ouch. The throbbing sensation does not stop. Ouch. Not even for a split second. Pulsating at every breath I took. One, pain ouch. Two, pain, ouch. Three, pain, ouch. It was a never ending cycle of pain. Four, pain, ouch.

Finally, I could not take the pain anymore. I had to go to the doctor, uh dentist. My tooth was literally killing me and the pain was too much. Ouch. I called up my salafi advisor and told him about the sharp pain I was feeling in my tooth. You see, I do not have insurance nor do I have money to throw around, therefore I was hoping my advisor would come up with a viable solution. Like always, my salafi friend did not let me down and he found me a dentist. Not only was she a dentist, she would also do the task for a small fee. This is great, not only did I find a way to rid my toothache but rid it in an inexpensive manner. Life in the suburbs is rough.

On my first visit the dentist said I had healthy teeth. She only said that to cheer me up before she gave me the really bad new. And that news is…you know that I am going to add a little suspense before I actually reveal the bad news.

An overtone of extreme danger is circling my head, like an omen sent from above. Dentist appointments are always the worst. The spot light right in your eye like it is an interrogation. I am sorry that I don’t floss, really I am. And, I promise I will brush my teeth at least twice a day. And mouthwash and eat less chocolates and sweets and from now on I will chew on sugar free gum. My new dentist asks me all these silly questions with her fingers in my mouth. How does she expect me to answer them questions without biting her hand off? And the questions she asks are extremely retarded. “How often do you floss?” “Do you brush your teeth regularly?” “Did you know that you have cavities?” She knows the answer to all these questions; why else would I be at the dentist. It’s not like I go to the dentist for fun. I should have just bit her hand off when she had her fingers all up in my mouth for being so annoying. Even worse, here is the bad news: she has to pull 5 teeth. Five of my precious teeth are going to get pulled out of my mouth. The same teeth I use to bite down food and the same teeth I chew food with and the same teeth that was going to bite her hand off with. What kind of logic is that? “since you have pain in your tooth, we have to get rid of it.” That’s like if you go to a neurosurgeon for a headache and the surgeon chops off your brain.

To make matters worse she is not a full practicing dentist. She is just student and the only dentist I could afford. Finances are tight and I could only manage to pay for a bootleg dentist who does basement surgery. My life is getting rougher by the second. But, at least she gave me pain killers. It’s no oxycontin but it will do. A week later, I had a follow up appointment. That day, the rain was coming down hard. The hardest I have seen it that year. I was an hour late due to traffic and morons who for some reason like to drive 3 miles an hour because they feel it is safer. While writing that past sentence I realized the world is full morons. It took me forever to find a parking spot. My dentist assisted me to find a spot right under a bus sign.

After parking I make my way towards her office. She sits me down on a chair, and takes out the hugest needle I ever seen. I am strong man. I don’t cry. I got punched in my face once. I got hit in the eye causing my contact to come flying out. I fell from the top of the steps, when I was a child. But, when that needle penetrated into my skin injecting who knows what, I shed a tear. Pain, I hate it. Her professor came up to me and told me to be a man. What?! Let me shove a 5 inch needle down the back of your mouth and see how you like it. Here comes the fun part. My bootleg dentist takes out some sort of instrument that looked like pliers. I do not know how hygienic it was. She shoves into the back of my mouth and with ease takes out my wisdom tooth. Next, she aims for my upper first molar. She puts the tool on my tooth and starts twisting it. Never mind, that I am human and I feel pain. She starts using brute force and breaks the tooth. Her professor comes in and started showing her how it is done. I am so glad that he showed up. Even though, he had bifocals and I doubt that he had reliable vision. He took out the rest of the broken tooth. Actually, a week later a piece of my tooth was protruding out of my gums. It later fell out and I accidentally swallowed it.

I left that appointment with a numb mouth; I was unable to speak. As I walked towards my car the rain had furiously picked up, drenching me as each step I take. Approaching my car, I noticed that the parking enforcement was kind enough to give me a notice of how I was illegally parked. That notice also came with a $75 service fee. What a day!

In other news, my car was broken into. Every single window of my car was smashed. And, it was not only my car. Hassan had the same exact problem. It was a going away gift from our buddy Zike. He is such a sweet guy.

the great adventures of a fallen star part iii

There’s a great difference between me and Zike. Even though he lives “thug life,” don’t forget that I too have a little thug in me. Anyone who knows me, that by blood, I’m 3% Pakistani, 2% Persian and 95% thug. So, there is a little hardcore in me. One may ask, “Can a superhero be a thug?” why not? I am not 100% thug. And, even though Zike is missing a considerable amount of much needed brain cells, you have 2 be conscious that he does indeed have a heart. He is intensely in love with a girl, but can only show his love in a true thug manner. Even though, one may argue that violence and aggression is barbaric; it is perhaps the only way he can display what is actually in his heart. Although he wants to kill me, maybe in fact it is a twisted and perverted way to exhibit his love towards me. Delightful.

This chapter maybe shorter then previous ones, since there is no conflict or introductory of new characters. And, because I have a test and homework which I should be doing right now as I type these words. At this rate I think I may never be done with school. But, on with the story.

Friends. Whoodini said it best “how many of us have them?” I now have one too many. Zike now calls me off the hook. He wants too chill in other words get high. He is now calling for rides and favors. Wanting me to take him to the club and get “crunk.” I, still to this day, have no idea what “crunk” means.

After becoming my new best friend; I thought I had the power 2 change him from haram 2 halal. Spending a few days with him, I came up with another conclusion; that I do not posses this power. In fact, it is like making a roast ham a delicacy in the Islamic world with white wine as the beverage of choice. Nearly impossible. Everyone knows that Saudis like red wine with their ham. Plus, I am no magician, well, ok maybe. But even David Coperfield’s and David Blaine’s illegitimate love child could not miraculously solve such a travesty.

Anyways, I took the kid out to eat. I paid for the food and obviously gave him a ride. During our dinner (cute isn’t), we had numerous conversations. Most were revolving him and his impeccable way of always finding trouble. He was boasting about his fight records. The stories went on from minor crimes of stealing, to hitting his high school teacher to ramming his car into his “future wife’s” car. Even though I was getting input on his psychoness; I was very much intrigued. He had exciting stories; action packed like a low-budget DMX movie. Speaking of movies, I am hungry.

Sorry I easily get sidetracked. My salafi advisor says I have a mild case of ADD. Back to the lecture at hand, I try my best to get him out of his thug mentality. I told him that he should start reading. He would say something like there is no reason to and that hollywood will make a movie about any book. And every time I would give him in my opinion good advice, he would shoot it down with confusing, insensible ignorant comments. For example, I tell the kid to pray and he responds, “Nah, man. Like I pray and then I think. And when I think, I need to get high.” Huh? Exactly. Meow. Word.

One day I come up with a brilliant idea. I figure that if Zike would chill with my other friends they might influence him to do good. Me and my cousin, the moron, were going to chill (socialize) on a Friday night. I call up Zike and told him to be outside his house. It was a cold night; I don’t remember the month or the season, but I remember pumping gas in my car and thinking that it would suck waiting outside that night. Now, I was on my way to pick Zike up, when my Einstein of a cousin Hassan somehow convinces me not to pick him up. Sometimes I have no idea why I ever listen to my cousin. He is my Gilligan to my Skipper. My Pinky to the Brain. My Janet to me being Justin. In essence, he is like all three stooges combined in one man with GNC supplements. Zike ended up waiting for me for about 3 and half hours that night. He called me up the next day wanting to kill me. Joy!

Realizing now, I found that Zike has a great temper. It didn’t hit me when he rammed into his “girlfriend’s” car or got suspended from school for hitting a teacher or even when he tried 2 kill me. But I realize it now.

Now, we become enemies again. Great! The story must go on. But he goes to Pakistan. Darn. But, a new villain comes out of the darkness. Yay! And, a whole new story unravels. Fun!

the great adventures of a fallen star part ii

I found that life is just merely a metaphor. For what exactly, I do not know. But, I do know the world is spinning. And I don’t get dizzy. all I am saying is that I need to stand on my own 2 feet. Do not rely on anyone or anything. And, once the world stops spinning hold on 2 something quick. Newton’s 3rd law of motion. I haven’t even taken physics. You could say I am ahead of my time.

A warm summer breeze, birds chirping and bees busying away on a Monday afternoon doesn’t quite set the mood. Add a day, and a few hours and it becomes Tuesday evening. Now the mood is really set. With a ring on the cell I get an unexpected caller. You guessed it, my arch nemesis, Zike. (The names of the innocent and guilty have been changed, for their own protection from humiliation, embarrassment, or any other disgrace they may face. And, also protection from any lawsuit that I may face.) Anyways, Zike got my phone number from my idiot and never thinking moron of a cousin, Hassan. (His name has not been protected and neither has his phone number. Feel free to call him at anytime, 240.481.6546). It is about midnight and Zike is begging for a ride. I felt pity on the poor child. I mean the kid is almost an adult and basically on his hands and knees asking for a ride. Not only was he groveling but the kid was also throwing around compliments like I was his high school teacher ready to fail him. But while, he was on the phone he was literally kissing my toes, hehe it tickled. It was sad. But, I would be lying if I said that it didn’t make me feel good about myself; especially with the words coming from my worst enemy. So it didn’t make me feel good. Ok, I’m lying. That was cheap shot for a laugh. Anyways, what had happened was that this guy had persuaded me 2 give him a ride. Not only does he live mad far deep in the cut, he needed a ride 2 the other side of town. The year was 2004, and to my knowledge I have not committed any good deeds, so in affect you can say that this was to be my good deed of the year.

I’m ready 2 pick this kid up. I grab my keys and bounce. For future notice, I rarely carry my license on me. I take my mother’s car because I was low on gas plus she got a v6 engine and its pretty damn fast. Which is not a good thing; I have 5 points and coming fresh from a suspended license. That is a different story all together. Zoom! I’m out in a hurry. Blinding fast speed and I get to his house in seconds, actually in 12 minutes, but who’s counting. As I approach his neighborhood I give the kid a call. He is not picking up. While driving I see a dark shadowy figure underneath a streetlight. The figure doesn’t move but it seems 2 be coming closer probably because I’m driving towards it, but who knows. The figure is wearing a dark hoodie covering his head and hiding his face, he was holding something in his hands which I could not see. I tried 2 see what he was holding but with limited light I failed to see what it was. Before I knew it the figure ran straight towards my car opened the passenger side door and jumped in and yelled “go!”

It turned out 2 b Zike, what a relief. (Sarcastic comment) he was thanking me for the ride; I assured him that it was no problem. He told me that he got me gift, I was flattered. He grabbed what looked like a black box from under his hoodie and gave it to me. It was a Kenwood stereo, “I stole it just for you.” My better half told me not 2 accept it, but my poorer and realistic side knew that I need a new head unit for my car. I have been listening to 36 chambers lp on tape ever since it came out. “Can it be that it was all so simple then.” I listened 2 my better half. I knew how the laws of the jungle worked. You give a lion a ball of yarn. And I knew that I would be obligated for a favor in the future. He asks if he can smoke and I said it’s my mother’s car. He assumed that my mother is smoker, so he lit up his cigarette and started smoking. Cough, cough, second hand smoke kills.

Once we got onto the highway we had a series of interesting conversations. I told Zike that he needed to pray, he insisted that I need to get high. I told him to go to school, he told me to get high. I told him that he should read a book; he said he hit a girl on the head with a book. Oh dear. Now this is where I figure out he is really a psychopathic, deranged, ice cold mad man. Insane, like the hamster that runs the wheel in his brain stopped running. Maybe it has asthma, I do not know for sure. For some reason the girl, that he is truly, deeply and madly in love with, will not talk to him. So, he does what any man would do in his position and ram his car into her car while she was still in it. And I thought flowers and chocolates were romantic. She in turn got a restraining order against him. Not quite a match made in heaven. I finally arrived at his destination, and dropped him off. He was thrilled and thanked me a million times. I made a new friend. This is only the beginning of the adventure. More confusion and stuff lies ahead. Meow. Where is that pesky cat?

the great adventures of a fallen star part i

I have come 2 a conclusion. A simple conclusion, one that needed much thought. But I realized my life maybe more exciting then the average superhero. And even though I possess neither superhuman power nor strength (we'll leave my charm out of this) I have somehow managed make an arch nemesis. My sworn enemy, like me has no power, but in fact is a brainless buffoon. He has been desenizted by american pop culture, and for some reason he believes he is the reincarnated version of 2pac. It’s rather cute, actually. But, I do worry about him sometimes. But I do think that his main power maybe the fact that I have no idea what the hell he is thinking. Sometimes people do things for a reason but this guy has me baffled. It's like when you see someone doing something, and you have no idea why they do it. Bananas. The electo-magnetic stereo waves received from hardcore gangsta rap music have descrambled his brain. Poor guy. He is not like the normal 2pac impersonators, he in fact really lives life as a thug. Weird, especially since he was raised in the suburbs in montgomery county. 1 of the richest county's in the east coast. He has mastery in the skill of ebonics, where he performs at a high linguist level. Word up.

But, he is not my only problem. I have a sidekick. At times he can b my best friend but most times he is like my enemy. And even though he is my cousin we have very few similarities. I’m cute, he looks like a gremlin. At times I maybe funny, he is funny looking. I dress nice, he wears a dress. He is very stubborn and most time does not like 2 use his brain. He believes real thought comes from protein bars and health shakes. So basically I use him 4 his muscle and I do all the thinking. I am probably the only person 2 know that he is really not a homosexual, but is just really affectionate 2 the same sex.

I also have an advisor, he is salafi. He tells me 2 cut my hair and wear clothes that fit me. He also tells me that it ain't cool to have your pants hanging off your butt. He also has a super power. He has knowledge of stuff. Not ordinary stuff. But stuff about stuff. Sometimes it is deep philosophical stuff or stuff that relates 2 stuff u never thought about. So deep that you say “wow, that’s some deep stuff.” Sometimes I don’t understand his stuff. It’s like he is on another level thinking, not even Socrates could comprehend. His stuff would confuse some of the greatest thinkers of our time. He personally has me puzzled or befuddled. Whatever. He gives me a headache. Because of his stuff he has the power 2 give headaches at will. That is sum powerful stuff.

Now, I’m not your typical protagonist, especially in western sense. I have no steady income, I’m skinny, arrogant and I’m pakistani. meow. Did u hear a cat? Anyways, where was I? Plus, I’m also a victim of mtv propaganda and have been brainwashed to a point where I have become a mindless zombie. That is until now, television has soaked so much in2 my brain that it no longer affects me. I no longer believe anything on TV, or any other media. Now, that I think about it I don’t believe in a lot of things. I’m lazy; I have no idea why I even started typing this story. I don’t own a pair of sneakers and I don’t floss. I have high mastery in the art of cards and vast knowledge of hip hop. Basically, lb fam. Also I have a skill that somehow every month I go over my cell phone bill. Amazing, is it not. Especially since I have free incoming. And what I truly do not grasp in life is...stuff. And, now our adventure begins.

sacrafice

slaughter the natives and forced to reservations
for the greater good of the nation
take the black man captive, enslaved on2 plantations
for the greater good of the nation
territorial acquisition, brutal unjust invasion
for the greater good of the nation
rich get richer and poorer get 4gotten,
social injustice, social separation
for the greater good of the nation
the white man shall prevail with great pride 4 caucasians
for the greater good of the nation
black & white can never integrate,
separate but never equal, segregation
for the greater good of the nation
ceos of corporations
live lavishly while they feed on those facing starvation
for the greater good of the nation
political prisoners silenced,
fundamental rights confronts violation
for the greater good of the nation
historical facts dismissed with no past recollection
media revelation, twisted lies become reliable information
for the greater good of the nation
double standards, hypocrisy, globalization
ethnic cleansing, suppression, soul annexation
moral decay, social injustice, commercialization
misled narration, ignored reparations, ideological fornication
veiled from the Creator of all creations
for the greater good of the nation

sacrifices must b made lives have 2 b laid

poltics

pornographic painted pictures
of pained prisoners
proudly parading in published papers
protested by pompous presidential powers
panic polluting the public
paranoia prepares a paradox of propaganda
politicians plunder and pillage
patriotic poster boys practice
principles that r improper
perverse pages of proverbs
as pious patrons pray 4 paradise
paralyzed by the parasite
passion of the priest perceived as passive
the project of the planned peace process
perishes with the rest of the primitive policies
probables and possibilities ain't positive
patience and persistence seem preposterous
potent poison put in2 practice

tru story by azeem

I was walking on Devon Ave
And this MAchlee Bachee tried to cut me with her rusty camry
while I was crossing the street
So I transformed into voltron
and let the lions take care of her
the lions are the feet
but since my feet were seperated
I had to sit on the sidewalk
and beg for change
since thats all i could do with my hands
but since I still had my tail
I was tripping people with it
and then robbing them
but since i didnt have legs I couldnt run away
so they robbed me
and slapped me up
but since i had metalic hands I could block and fight back
but then people started stepping back
and shooting RPGs at me
which left a whole in me
but as you know voltron has 6 people
who sit inside
3 died
two were in the lions
and the 1 that was left was me
so I hopped out
and said Im outta here
then I headed to the masjid
and I prayed in the masjid
but this dude saw me
doing massah on my socks
and he reported me to the imam
the imam flipped out and said I had to marry his daughter
and she turned out to be a man
who was related to me
and he was my mehram
so i couldnt marry him
plus it would be gay
and gay marriages were revoked in 11 states
on election day
so Im still not married.
the end.