Sunday, May 3, 2009

Jews and Iguanas: The Complete Trilogy

How does a gay Palestine Refugee picture his own demise?

On a remote Cuban island, via rum-fuelled hallucinations, the Jews would feature prominently in my imagined death, proving that our cunning Semitic kin have usurped not only our land, falafel and colourful curses, but our sub-conscious as well.


Estrogen Gehenna

I let myself go in the shower near the hotel pool, emptying my bladder into my shorts, relishing in the relief.

Six days earlier, as I boarded the rickety Cubana jet, I salivated in excitement at the prospect of the foreskin fiesta that awaited me. Like a hummingbird I would hover, from one prepuce to the next, gorging myself on countless pearls of sweet, translucent nectar.

But Allah would prove to be a most unmerciful deity.

There I was, on the sixth day of my trip, so miserably disappointed at the shortage of men, that pissing in the shower would be the highest form of carnal pleasure that my penis would experience on this forsaken island.

And as if this queer Palestine Refugee hadn’t suffered enough…

Suddenly, three topless Italian women invade my shower from all directions. Whichever way I looked, areolae as wide as saucers glared back menacingly. Totally encircled, like Sadat’s Third Army, I stood upright, in a futile attempt to compress my body, as six nipples, hardened by the shower’s cool stream, would peck mercilessly at my torso with the gusto of a thousand famished Ganges vultures.

I looked heavenward and invoked Allah’s name, begging the Almighty to put an end to this mammarian onslaught.

Ya Allah: even Job didn’t go through such horrors. What unforgivable sin have I committed to earn such a fate?

Distracted by complementary margaritas, the sows waddled off.
I cursed their mothers’ vulvas and Allah herself for sending them my way.

I escaped from the Estrogen Gehenna of the resort and walked towards the cave.. There I would find peace, or so I thought…

Mitzpe-Iguana’s Triumph

A cave, hidden in the escarpment, would serve as my refuge from the woman-infested resort.
In the afternoons, I would sit at the mouth of the cave, facing a lip of white sand jutting into the Caribbean. My only companions were a large, sun-faded iguana and a thorny bush that had somehow found a way to obstinately grow into the rocky wall. Inside the cave, upon shelf -like protrusions, I would store bottles of water and rum, a note-pad and a pen.

Sitting naked, or as we say in Arabic:
Rabbi Kama Khalaqtani (my lord as you have created me), I would scribble furiously on the note pad, putting the ideas for a future novel on paper, pausing only to imbibe some rum and re-arrange my testicles. Like a gypsy reading a coffee cup, I would attempt to make sense of the pattern that my scrotum would leave in the sand. On the 6th day, the creases would tell me that a great calamity was heading my way. I dismissed my vision as mere paranoia. Surely, my near-lynching at the hands of the 3 topless Italian women was the biggest malheur du jour. Little did I know...


I pondered the following question:

If Rabbi Bar Yochai was able to compose the Zohar in a cave, what kind of work would I come up with if I were to cloister myself in here for the next 13 years?

Then again, Rashbi had the company of his son and a carob tree for sustenance; while, all I have is a thorny bush and a near-comatose iguana. Of course! The Jews have all the luck! We Palestinians always get the short end of the stick.

At that point the iguana turned to me and proclaimed:

"You're doomed, because Allah is a vindictive Moroccan Jewess.
Indeed, Allah (née Renée Abitbol) is a perpetually irate ex-Brooklyn septuagenarian, frustrated at her late Ashkenazi husband's chronic impotence, and in his later years, incontinence. Upon his death, she moved to Miami where she spends her days verbally abusing other condo owners, taking periodic breaks to rain misfortune upon the Palestinian nation as punishment for your people's cheering of Saddam Hussein's 1991 attack on Tel Aviv."

Wallah, if after half bottle of rum the iguana would start speaking to me, what wonders await when the bottle is empty?

And that's when they appeared.

Hola! They greeted.

I looked up from my notepad and saw a nudist couple in their forties. Out of the man's sizable pubic mane dangled a kosher sausage and two pendulous eggs; and on the woman's neck, shone a diamond-studded star of David.

I turned to the iguana for an explanation, where these Renée's emissaries, coming to spy on me?

Shalom! I answered
They smiled, and the man pointed to the water.
Yes, Jews indeed, they've known me for less than a minute and they're already making themselves comfortable.

I asked them how they were able to find the hidden cave but they shook their heads:
"Sorry, no Inglés". So I switched to Hebrew, but to no avail. Yet, with my limited Spanish I was able to comprehend that the couple were from Argentina.

As we attempted to make conversation, a frustration festered in my heart, nay a fury, at their mono-lingualism.

How can they speak only one language? Do people in Argentina not go to school? What cave did these dungervolker crawl out of?

I looked at the man and thought,
oh member of a tribe that gave the world one out of five Nobel prize winners, how dare you speak one language? And here I am, a Palestinian who speaks five, and my nation only had one Nobel prize winner; won by a man whose only notable skill is the ability to out-slime an eel in a bucket of olive oil.

Turning to the woman:

And you, from wombs of women like you sprung forth great men like Rabbi Joseph Rosen, from whose brain one could reportedly build 10 Bialiks and 4 Einsteins, all geniuses in their own right.

You're a Jewish woman!

You're a Jewish woman!

You're supposed to trill ten languages simultaneously; as your right hand resolves a complex quadratic equation, while your left writes down invitations for the next Hadassah fund-raiser. Not to be outdone, your right foot would light a Sabbath candle, while your left kneads a Challah. Crowning the multitasking achievement is your clitoris, which would strum Hatikva on a miniature guitar, entertaining the rest of the extremites as they go on about their work.

And that's within the realm of the average Yiddische Hausfrau. Many Jewesses are capable of far more.

How dare you speak only one language?

Paying no heed to my grimaces and gesticulations, the couple wandered about, surveying the grounds.

Of course, that's how it all starts. Before long, a group of trailers would gather on top of the escarpment. Within a month they would build a lookout settlement they would name Mitzpe-Iguana, from which they would keep an eye on me, the pesky Arab. Within a month or two they would point to my beloved thorny bush and accuse me of allowing the land to lay fallow. Thus the JNF would expropriate my lip of sand, on which they would plant rows of pine trees. They would then paint a blue line around my feet and tell me that everything outside the line was land earmarked for Mitzpe-Iguana's future expansion.

I protested, jumping up and down, arms flailing.

With my blood I shall redeem my land, you shall not take it away from me!

The couple stood at the mouth of the cave, in between them was the iguana. In fact, it was no sun-faded, near-comatose iguana at all, it was Ariel Sharon! Arik, as it would seem, had been revived and dispatched to the Cuban island on one last mission: to put an end to my life.

As they closed in on me, the Jewess reached into her pubic sideburns and pulled out three sharp knives...

As Renée looked down smugly from the heavens, the massacre began..

Within moments my blood-curdling screams would cease.


Amira's Eulogy

Monte Carlo lies in ruins.

The city's wealthy inhabitants went on a destructive rampage in what became known as the Champagne Riots of 2009, or Cristalnacht. Their fury was aimed at the Jews, whom while celebrating my demise had emptied Monaco and other such nests of wealth, of their very last bottle of the pricey effervescent libation.

"Kill the Jews!" cried mobs of blond, heavily bejeweled women in Jackie O' shades and sleek Escada pant-suits, as they overturned smart cars and broke into liquor stores in a futile attempt to imbibe just one last drop of Veuve Clicquot.

But the Jews were too busy celebrating to notice.

Back at the Knesset, Avigdor Lieberman raised a flute of Moët in a toast to Arik Sharon's successful mission, fiercely code-named Sulphur Rain on Sodom's Fruit. After a short speech punctuated by Ahmed Tibi's loud protests, he downed the bubbly and shattered the empty glass on Tibi's head. MKs from across the political spectrum followed suit, reducing Tibi's noggin into a pulp of blood and glass. The revelry continued through the night, as Tibi was permanently transferred to Gaza, where he received over a hundred stitches at Al-Shifa Hospital.

Meanwhile, down in the bowels of Al-Shifa, applause preceded and followed Ismael Haniyyeh's address before a gathering of Hamas leaders:

"Today we celebrate the death of the self-immolating defeatist named Nizo. May a thousand fiery embers burn this self-hating slanderer who portrayed our valiant Palestinian nation as the appendix of the Arab world, void of human capital and perpetually suckling on the teat of the UN, like a sixty-year-old man who was never weaned. Gone is this libelous collaborator, who depicted our brave freedom fighters as bloodthirsty terrorists and our ideology as inflexible and rejectionist. May he never be mourned!"

- - -
But mourned I was, by the three women who made the trek to Cuba.
They stood on the lip of sand, facing the sea.

At their bare feet they laid my sun-bleached jawbone, my only physical remnant.

There stood Amira Hass, Um-Nizo (my mother) and Lisa Goldman, wearing flowing white linen dresses, stained and creased after a day of intense mourning involving the violent pulling of hair and scratching of breasts.

Lisa reached into her scarred, ample bosom and took out a folded piece of paper she had found earlier in the stone wall of the escarpment. Overwhelmed with emotion, she passed it on to Amira, the only one among the three who had the fortitude to read it out loud before an audience of supplicatory Cuban iguanas expecting to get a meal out of the event:

"In the name of Renée the Unmerciful,

Dearly beloved,

As the heavens ominously darken with Renée’s circling vultures; I leave you with these parting words:

Do not mourn, for in death I shall find great liberation!

For it is only through death that this refugee can return to Palestine.

My dear Lisa,

Do one last mitzvah for your dead friend:

I ask of you to arrange for the cremation of my remains and the compression of the ashes into a pellet which you shall take back with you to Tel Aviv.

As soon as you disembark at Ben Gurion airport I want you to locate the busiest men’s room and deposit me in the first urinal you see.

In the porcelain receptacle that would become my temporary grave, throngs of unsuspecting Jews would unwittingly implement the Palestinian Right of Return, one steamy golden jet at a time…

For as I melt away… little by little, I shall become one again with Palestine."

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Thank You Saddam, for Hitting Tel Aviv

I would like to dedicate this post to two great Arabs:
Mo-ha-med, the Egyptian blogger who inspired me with his essay on Egypt’s national schizophrenia towards Israel and the late Saddam, the Sword of the Arabs, who continues to nourish my own personal schizophrenia towards the Jewish State from beyond the grave.

If anything, this post should serve as a reminder to my Israeli readers that despite being the most moderate Palestinian they'll ever meet, my perception of Israel and peace with her is built on a sense of pragmatism - or defeatism as some of my Arab brothers could very fairly argue.

We have been fighting you for over sixty years and we keep losing. Our conflict with you, which has been perpetuated thanks to devastatingly stupid decisions on our part has absorbed every single ounce of our energy, and has come at the expense of our own development. Your society is far more advanced than ours in many ways, and at the risk of appearing as an untermensch who has internalised this sense of inferiority, I enviously proclaim that what you have achieved in the last 60 years is far superior than whatever we have accomplished. Verily I say, we have a lot to learn from you.

So, I advocate a two-state solution, recognition of Israel and trade with her. This, I believe in the name of our benefit rather than yours, for despite being an avowed Judeophile, I don't love Israel or Zionism. That would be unnatural.

In fact, Koss Imko

I curse the yeasty vulvas of the mothers of your Israel and your Zionism, neither of which have anything to offer me.

But in the end, you seem to function in the name of your self-interest, something you cannot be blamed for, whereas we Arabs and our leadership, towards whom my animosity knows no bounds, seem to insist on going against my own personal interest - chiefly in the way they have kept the refugee saga alive, like the camps' Brimos burners with unlimited reserves of Arab incompetence for fuel.

Nevertheless, despite the feelings I have described above, I still do get erections at the thought of Israel's humiliation. I once shared how at 10-years old, I dreamt of replacing Israel with an Arab state.

Mo-Ha-med's post re-ignited that feeling, and somehow reminded me of how I felt that sweet night when Saddam rained Scuds on Tel Aviv. So hold my hand, and let's take a walk down memory lane...

- - - - -

An older Iraqi joke goes as follows:

Upon spotting a fresh, sizeable mound of human faeces on Baghdad's show-piece Abu Nawas street, a mukhabarat gendarme encouraged the gathering crowd to find the filthy beast who committed such a crime so that he could be swiftly punished.

Within minutes, an older women pushes her way through the mob, sticks her finger in the khara and proceeds to taste it.

"It belongs to our Great Leader Saddam, May Allah protect him!" She proclaimed.

"How do you know?" asked a surprised gendarme.

"We have been putting up with his shit for such a long time that we have come to recognize its unique taste"

- - - - -

The astute observer of our region is quick to deduce that in the Missile East, certain leaders tend to enjoy more popularity among the people of neighbouring states than in their own, for the simple reason that the neighbours get the rhetoric minus the khara. Think of the Arab masses' excitement at Ahmadinejad's anti-Israeli shrieks, or more relevantly to my own life, the Palestinian euphoria when Saddam's scuds hit Tel Aviv in 1991.

No, I wasn't even among the rooftop revellers in the territories but I do remember harassing my father who was glued to CNN at the time. "Baba, baba, how many Israelis died?" I kept asking.

At some point he got impatient with me and sent me to the Abu-Hussam, the neighbourhood's Jerusalemite bakkal (grocer), to buy yoghurt.

That's when the corpulent Abu-Hussam, a man far more patient than my father, nestled my chin in his hand, and described to me the tenderest moment in his life, back in October of 1973 he was taking a shower and his brother barged in, arms flailing, shouting that Syria and Egypt had attacked Israel.

He told me to savour the scuds falling on Tel Aviv, for such moments only occur once every couple of decades. I remember the happiness of the day, a joy only comparable with when I discovered the acute pleasure of masturbation. Incidentally, my lubricant of choice at the time was "Samed", West Bank olive oil that was sold to raise funds for the first intifada. The objects of my onanistic practices were Abu-Hussam's chain-smoking, crotch-scratching Datsun-pick-up driving sons, whom I watched and lusted after as I lurked behind our bathroom's window-mounted fan.

In fact, I firmly believe that my frequent masturbatory sessions of the time were the reason the first intifada lasted as long as it did. The reverse corollary of which is that the intifada floundered due to the serious decline in funding due to my dumping of "Samed" in favour of the water jets at the neighbourhood pool.

- - - - -

Many years later, I praise Allah, for I'm fortunate to live in a city were men's behinds have replaced both masturbation and Saddam's scuds as the chief thrills in my life.

But, if you ask me whether or not a serious and effective missile strike on Tel Aviv today would give me a thrill. I would shout, yes, my arms flailing, from the rooftop.

For while I do accept your state as a reality, and while I do want to be your neighbour and apprentice, the idea of you being humbled every once in a while, has me ejaculating in all directions.

I lay my ambivalence before you, in honesty and good faith.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

מכתב גלוי לאסמעיל הנייה

מכתב גלוי לאסמעיל הנייה מפלוני אלמוני פלסטיני


החלטתי לכתוב לך בעברית כדי למנוע משכנינו היהודים להתלונן על כך שאנחנו תמיד זוממים מאחורי גבם.

כמי שישב שלוש שנים בכלא אצלם, אתה בוודאי תהיה מסוגל לקרוא את מכתבי.

אז תרשה לי לקפוץ ישר אל תוך הנושא: אני מבקש ממך לא לשחרר את גלעד שליט; לא תמורת אלף מאסירינו או מאה אלף או אפילו מליון.

תן לי להסביר:

כפי שאתה יודע היטב, לא היו לעם שלנו הרבה ניצחונות, ואני מודאג שחטיפתו של שליט תהיה הניצחון האחרון לזמן רב. מחר כשהם יגלו טכנולוגיה שתגלה את מנהרותינו מתחת לגבול, את מי נוכל לחטוף?
מה זה יעשה לאגו הלאומי שלנו?

אל תגיד לי שנשגר קסאמים עליהם יומם ולילה. הרי, אחרי שהם הרסו את המסגדים ובתי הספר, איפה נוכל להסתיר את הרקטות שלנו?

ואל תגיד לי שאנחנו נחכה להם לבוא לעזה. תסתכל על מה שקרה בפעם האחרונה שהם ביקרו, הם באו ועזבו, אך לא השאירו לנו אפילו מרכבה הרוסה אחת! איזה אנשים יש בעולם הזה? וואלה מעולם לא פגשתי קמצנים כמו היהודים האלו.
אז עכשיו איך נוכיח לילדינו שאנחנו לוחמים אמיצים ומנוסים ?

אדוני, האם אתה זוכר, שהיהודים היו נ
וסעים באוטובוסים בלי לדעת מתי הם יתפוצצו? וואלה היו ימים! היינו הורגים לפחות תריסר ביום. אך עכשיו, מאז שהם בנו את הקיר הגזעני שלהם, לא נותנים לנו להפגיז אפילו אוטובוס ריק! איך השאהידים שלנו יעלו לאללה עכשיו?

לפחות הם יכלו לשלוח לנו אוטובוס מלא אנשים שהם רוצים לסלק, למשל: משה קצב ,ראאד סלאח ,טלי פחימה, ומיקי בוגנים המציק מהפרסומת של מחסני תאורה.
ככה הוא באמת יכול לומר "באתי נדלקתי".

נו, אדוני, האם אתה עכשיו רואה שאם נחזיר להם את שליט, לא יהיה לנו שום דבר ללגלג עליהם בו?

זה לא מצער, אדוני, שאחרי 60 שנים מהמשחק הזה, נשאר בידיינו רק כרטיס אחד?

כרטיס בשם גלעד

- - -
** 22-March - translated into English by popular demand**

An Open Letter to Ismael Haniyeh from a Palestinian John Doe


I've decided to write to you in Hebrew in order to prevent our Jewish neighbours from complaining that we're constantly scheming behind their backs.

As someone who has spent three years of your life in their jails, surely you'll be able to read my letter.

So allow me to jump straight into the heart of the matter: I ask of you not to release Gilad Shalit; not in exchange for a thousand of our prisoners, a hundred thousand or even a million.

Allow me to explain:

As you know pretty well, a nation of many victories we are not, and I am worried that Shalit's kidnapping will be our last victory for a long time to come. Tomorrow when they discover a technology that reveals our tunnels under the border who will we be able to kidnap?
What will this do to our national ego?

Do not tell me that we'll lob rockets at them day and night. After they destroyed the mosques and schools, where will we hide our rockets?

And do not tell me that we'll wait for them to come to Gaza. Look what happened the last time they came for a visit, They came, they left, but single destroyed merkava tank they didn't leave us! What kind of people are there in this world, verily, I have never met people as stingy as these Jews. So, now, how de we show our children what real fighters we are?

Sir, do you remember, when the Jews rode on buses without knowing when they were going to blow up? Wallah, those were the days! We used to kill a dozen a day. But now, since they built their racist wall, they don't allow us to bomb a single bus, not even an empty one! Now, how will our martyrs ascend to Allah?

At least they could send us a bus filled with people they want to eliminate, for example, Moshe Katsav, Raad Salah, Tali Fachima, and that annoying Miki Buganim from the commercial for Machsanei Teura. Now he can really say "I came, I was lit up".

So, Sir, do you now see that if we return Shalit to them we will have no one left with to taunt them with?

Isn't it lamentable Sir, that after 60 years of this game, we're only left with one card in our hands?

A card named Gilad.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Replace Both Palestinian Leaderships With Goats

This second-generation Palestinian refugee is about to embark on yet another rant regarding his leaderships' mishandling of the refugee saga. The fact that there's little mention of Israel doesn't absolve the Zionist entity of its responsibility. However, Israel has her own internal critics, the many Gideon Levy's and Amira Hass's, while we Palestinians never seem to have enough Sari Nusseibi's and ....umm.. who else do we have?
You get my point.
Read on.

- - -

The fact that the Palestinian refugees keep wallowing in misery while George Galloway receives a Palestinian Passport from Hamas leader Ismail Haniyeh enrages me to the point of advocating the wholesale slaughter of our two Palestinian Leaderships and their replacement with goats.

As a sapling, I once raided my mother's closet, put on her silver stilettos and wiggled around the salón to the tune of the infamous "Shik Shak Shok".

My parents, both products of the rugged Palestinian refugee camps were hardly entertained by my attempt at becoming the next belly-dance sensation, so they administered a beating with the dreaded belt.

Don't cry for me, revenge was swift.

My mother, whom I specifically resented for picking the thickest belt, opened her sizeable jewellery box that night only to find a nasty surprise. Let's just say it wasn't chocolate.

But father was so scarred by the stiletto incident hat he pursued two antidotes to ensure his son would grow up to be a "zalameh" - a real man.

The first of which was military-exposure therapy. For two consecutive summers, I was dropped off at an army base where I became the ward of an uninspiring uncle who cut hair for a living. While I wasn't allowed to handle any weapons, I did roam the base, Capri-sonne juice in hand, befriending heat-stricken, listless soldiers and high-pitched one-eyed cats that hung around the base's Keralan cook like a stubborn case of genital herpes.

This was the nouveau-riche Gulf in the early years, where the indigenous population was too busy crashing their newly acquired Benzes into stray camels to inlist in the army, so most of the soldiers were imported - from Yemen.

Verily I say, had Uncle Sam not kept his aircraft carriers nearby, our Persian friends would have overrun such bases and their pathetic soldiers within minutes. Although our valiant one-eyed cats would have been fierce and steadfast enough to inflict significant casualties on the Baseej.

Little did my father know that being surrounded by moustachioed military personnel not only reinforced my love for males and their behinds, but I grew up to develop a severely debilitating uniform fetish. Many years later, when I was strip-searched by uniformed Syrian gendarmes at the Beirut Airport, I knelt down in prayer and thanked Allah for this stroke of good fortune.

To this very day I still stroke myself just thinking of that whole affair...

Back to my father's antidotes to gayness, the second of which was visits to the maslakh (slaughterhouse), where I witnessed the slitting of throats of sheep and goats. Despite the disturbing sight of cattle gasping for air as they choked on their own crimson blood, I never developed a violent side. Although I do occasionally fantasize about taking to the maslakh people who annoy me. The ever-lengthening list includes all kinds of loud, obnoxious creatures, ranging from cockatoo-coiffed queer Italians who take it upon themselves to destroy the relaxed ambiance at my favourite café, to hordes of portly Moroccan-Jewesses who run me over with their shopping carts as they advance in phalanx formation towards the freshly-discounted couscous at the nearby Wall-Mart.

However, the top spot in my maslakh list will always be reserved to our notoriously malicious and incompetent Palestinian leaderships. Not only would I like to take them to the maslakh, but I would free the goats and invite them to Gaza and Ramallah where they would replace them. Do not attempt to convince me otherwise, our ungulate friends, if given the appropriate powers will actually make better decisions.

This is fast becoming my credo, especially as I examine our leaderships' inability to build any kind of functioning pre-state, despite billions of dollars in aid money that has flowed into our coffers since Oslo. I will also add that our Palestinian voters who have elected these animals should also get an invitation to the maslakh. Then I would round up the millions of our arm-chair cheerleaders around the world who continue to encourage "resistance" instead of holding us at least partially accountable for the 60-year catastrophe that we have helped perpetuate.

So Mr. Haniyeh, explain to me why that cheeky Galloway deserves a Palestinian Passport, while my grandmother who has lived in a refugee camp since 1948, and who clings to the key to her old house can't get one?

I know the Zionist entity won't allow her into Gaza, but then what about the refugees living in the camps of Jabalyah and Al-Shati? tell me Mr. Haniyeh, why haven't you built homes for them in Gaza's vacated Jewish settlements? Instead you continue to use the "liberated" land to train the young and poison their minds.

In lieu of undulating to "Shik Shak Shok", they wrap their waists in plastic explosives and goose-step to the tunes of your fashistic songs, all while you stroke yourself in excitement thinking of all the new Qassams you'll be able to smuggle with the millions of dollars that will now flow into Gaza after the bombardment you've helped bring upon their heads.

But worry not ya Haniyeh, you and your hobbits aren't the only targets here. You were hardly imaginative with your gift to Galloway by the way:

Abu-Mazen beat you to it, by bestowing Palestinian citizenship upon Daniel Barenboim. Although I prefer the peace-loving pianist to the bombastic Galloway, someone needs to remind Abu-Batata that his own people, including my grandmother are more worthy recipients of such a citizenship.

Again, I don't expect my grandmother's resettlement just yet, give her something symbolic, a temporary passport but more importantly an apology in the name of all the leaders before you who stripped her of her humanity and used her as a pawn against other Arabs and Israel.

In the meantime, what I do demand is a reformation of the PA, the removal of all the bahayem who line their pockets with the aid money. Dollars we were very lucky to receive in the first place. Wallah, African nations with more pressing needs are starving while we sit back, multiply, beg for handouts and get angry at the world when it doesn't go that extra step and wipe our asses for us.

Speaking of asses, or goats, I will continue to advocate for the removal of both leaderships and their replacement with the latter, and while I don't expect to succeed, I could at least convince some of our sheep-like cheerleaders, that support for the Palestinians should come with a condition that we reform and start treating our own people more like people, and less like goats.

In the meantime, you can watch Haifa Wehbe shimmying her goat-like udders to Shik Shak Shok and when you're done, don't forget to read my other refugee-related posts listed below the video.

- - -

Dance of the Farting Bears
On the Palestinian Right of Return

The Palestine Refugee Saga -- Part II

The Palestine Refugee Saga -- Part I