The Dutch Sailor and the Russian Jewess

In less than 12 hours I'll be on my way to the Land Down Under, a trip I'm making out of familial (matrimonial) obligation rather than free will. After all, my sojourn in Ersatz-London has rendered me allergic to small-town Anglo-Saxons regardless of geographic location. Grunts à la sweet, awesome and the vacuous, over-used interesting, risk inducing uncontrollable bouts of projectile-vomiting. As if the dread of dull anglos wasn't enough, a rather un-merciful Allah has decreed that I be tenderized between the hammer of my wild Palestinian family and the anvil of equally unruly Balkan future-inlaws for two full weeks of breakfasts, lunches and dinners - mêlées guaranteed to inflict permanent damage to my eardrums.

My only consolation is a stop in Amsterdam and the prospect of premium sex with a previously sampled Dutch sailor whose libido rivals mine. My pork-sword is poised, keenly awaiting the upcoming duel with the wood of the wood-shoed one.

On a swine-related note, I was just handed my dry-cleaning by a Russian Jewess whose delectable posterior I would ravage with the dedication of a boar digging for truffles. Right here right now, under the giant menorah and in full view of the schtreimel-wearing owners. I've said it before and will say again - ex-CIS women are unbelievably sexy. The svelte Russian Jewesses who escaped to North America thanks to Natan Sharansky's efforts are a far cry from the high-haired, buffalo-shaped descendants of those who left Russia over a century earlier.

As a Palestinian, I doubt my input is welcome regarding the eternal "who is a Jew" debate, but I shall toss my two Agorot nonetheless (yallah, pick them up). So verily I say, the Russkis and their long-legged kurvas are a genetic upgrade that should be embraced - an influx of elegant Arabian thoroughbreds that can only beautify the herd of stumpy bovines for the next couple of millennia.

...and on that note I shall bid you all farewell, the next post will be from western OZ..While I'm stuck in a plane for over 24 hours you are invited to enjoy the following (rather dated) video of one Russki who begs to be ridden fast and hard:

Nizo University: Lesson VI

Literal translation of noteworthy idioms courtesy of Maryam Khalil from "The Breeze of Al Aqsa" programme on Hamas TV:

"I say to you Abu Mazen, oh blessing (sarcastically), oh president of Palestine, oh lemon so sour that it melts teeth" (à la (הורים אכלו בוסר ושיני בנים תקהינה

"Abu'l Abed (Ismail Haniyyeh) shake your spear, we are loyal to you, whether west-bound or east-bound we shall follow you. You are the knives and we are the meat. And when the difficult nights fall oh Abu'l Abed we shall reside in the forests and befriend the wolf with seven fangs"

"When the Haganah came, the bullets were raining on us like wheat being threshed. And we were expelled, and if only we weren't expelled."

Missionary Style

***updated on 5/17/2008***

My aunt is disappointed with her latest missionary expedition in Jordan.

So I've been informed by my pomegranate-titted cousin who joined her mother in a working holiday in Amman and Zarqa. The American Evangelical church that bankrolls such activities will not relish in knowing that the only fish they've trawled in were a Palestinian divorcée in her 30's and an Iraqi refugee family - suspected by my cousin of converting to gain access to free education for their children. Nevertheless, it does cement my perception that the vulnerable underbelly of any given society is the first to line up before the cosmic ATM machine that is the American Evangelical Jesus.


***originally penned on 1/15/2008***


Every year at Christmas, tradition dictates that I call my Bible-thumping aunt in Beirut. Every year I conclude that I would rather have the Syrian Mukhabarat insert a white-hot steel wire into my urethra than have to listen to her verbal diarrhea about El-Rab Yassou' (The Lord Jesus).

Her sudden metamorphosis from human being to evangelical missionary took place during Israel's aerial bombardment of Beirut in 1982. Moments before a bomb flattened the building she lived in, El-Rab Yassou's baritone voice warned her to immediately vacate the premises. What followed was a religious awakening that compels her to harass and annoy the rest of humanity to this very day. On a strict mission from above, she brandishes El-Rab Yassou' like a giant black dildo, ramming him forcefully down her victims' throats whenever they put up any kind of resistance.

She travels to the poorest Muslim neighborhoods in Lebanon and Syria, seeking out the hungry and downtrodden masses and plying them with chocolate. Only once they unwrap the Hershey's Kisses do they discover that the wrappers contain biblical verses about... you guessed it: El-Rab Yassou'.

The Quran was written by demons! she screeches.

Mohammed was spoken to by Satan and not the angel Gabriel! she moans.

Most folks politely decline her message while helping themselves to handfuls of Hershey's Kisses. Every once in a while, she lassos a gullible fool, and so begins the process of de-islamification. It all starts with purging the victim's lexicon from all references to Allah - the Demon-god. Allah is replaced by El-Rab, Inshallah by B'izn El-Rab, Al-Hamdulilah by El-Shukr Lil-Rab etc... No easy task, for Arabic is heavily infused with Islamic references. Most non-Muslim Arabs themselves tend to pepper their conversations with Allah & co. without batting an eye-lid.

It's a testament to levantine Islam's tolerance that my aunt still has her head intact. The most pronounced act of resistance to her crusade was when an irate gypsy-woman flung a kettle full of hot water at her. Apparently, my aunt walked back into the house beaming like she had won the lottery. The third-degree burns, for which she refused treatment, were a gift from El-Rab Yassou'. He was testing her resolve. To the chagrin of the gypsy slum, she would invade them repeatedly until she finally won a convert. And so she weaves her web, from one slum to the next, like a giant christian spider, canvasing the Levant with a trail of Hershey's Kisses and preparing the world for the second coming of El-Rab Yassou'.

I recently heard that her evangelical backers in the US are planning to send her to Saudi Arabia - the fiery den of Allah the Demon-god.

I've already made arrangements to be in Riyadh's Deera Square with a giant bucket of popcorn.

The Palestine Burden

Elie, one of my melon-bicepped cousins in Lebanon doesn't want to be a Palestinian refugee - but powers and events greater than him have decreed that he remain stateless.

He was born in Lebanon, to a Lebanese-Maronite mother who is two times hairier than a sasquatch - but only half as shy. Elie's father was also born in Lebanon, but to Palestinian parents, and since nationality (or lack thereof) is patrilineal, both Elie and his father are registered Palestine refugees. In fact, unless Elie manages to acquire Lebanese citizenship, his descendants and their descendants will be also be Palestinian refugees.

Despite the perks of monthly sugar and flour rations, being a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon is hardly an attractive proposition. One is banned from most forms of gainful employment and has to pay exorbitant rates for government health care or settle for the free UNRWA-run clinics. "Asbirin, w'Yallah", a commonplace expression in the camps, sums up the tendency of the latter to prescribe analgesics for ailments ranging from the common cold to cancer.

But Elie is still young and health care doesn’t feature as one of his primary concerns. Instead, he spends his days carefully concealing his refugee status from his friends and more importantly from Rita - his long time Lebanese girlfriend. He worries that if things get serious, she wouldn't agree to marry him on account of the many limitations that his situation imposes. Furthermore, what would compel her to give birth to stateless children so they can be added to the ever-growing list of wards of the UN?

This rather absurd situation is worsening exponentially, as the powers and events conspire to maintain millions of untermenschen like Elie.

We can debate the J’accuse ad nauseum but that’s not the point of this post.

Elie’s story is merely one piece of many that constitute the dreary mosaic of the Palestine refugee question. One should remember that the spectrum includes those who long for Palestine, as well as those who have grown roots elsewhere. For a solution to be comprehensive, it must include the nationalisation of those whose link with Palestine is being perpetually maintained against their will.

For related posts, you are cordially invited to read the following:

Dance of the Farting Bears

On the Palestinian Right of Return

The Palestine Refugee Saga -- Part II

The Palestine Refugee Saga -- Part I

The Catastrophe Turns 60

60 years ago, my paternal hamoula streamed into Lebanon. Into a truck they huddled as my father wept at having to leave his dog, Rex, behind. But they did take Fatima the goat. The children listened attentively as they were instructed to avoid calling the generously-uddered goat by her name - so as not to offend any Muslims within earshot. After all, Fatima is the name of the prophet Mohammed's daughter.

On the other hand, my ecologically-minded maternal hamoula shunned vehicular transport. Instead, my grandmother clip-clopped into Lebanon on the back of dromedary while her father crossed the border on top of a five legged donkey. So chaotic was the exodus that it took them a full year to find each other.

60 years later, I find myself ruminating on tales of yore as I lie in wait for the arrival of my own ruminant - a rather stocky neighbourhood ox.

To honour all those who got screwed in 1948, I shall observe a moment of silence in between mounts.

Livid

The insects who took over my lease in Ersatz-London have vanished off the face of this earth, which renders me liable to pay the rent until I find new tenants. Needless to say, I'm fighting the temptation to drive to the provincial border and plough through a herd of anal-retentive anglo-Ontarians. But I'm too lazy, and too drunk, so instead I shall unleash the fury of this Youtubed Lebanese mega-curse (partial translation below).

"I curse the vulva of the sister of he who ejaculated you, brother of the fucked one. My cock in your conscience, you're not worth my cock from its base to its tip you son of a whore. You are a debased nation, whose sister was fucked, whose bottom was played with. Go! Having your mother's vulva on your head is too much for you, I curse the vulva of the mother of he who sent you to my cock. Male-whore! Ars (jigolo)! Son of a slut! My cock in your mother's vulva, I curse the vulva of the sister of he who farted you, you brother of the fucked one"

Services Available in Lebanese

Does that mean they actually have an army and a navy?