D.I.S.S.U.S. 2030 by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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2) Yell out ‘Israeli troops!
3) Bring three goats.
4) Open the Social Services office.
5) Hold a knife sale.’
‘The best way to be classified as a bigot is to quote from the Koran and Hadith, unless you’re a Muslim, of course. Try this gem. Koran (22:19-21); ‘But as for those who disbelieve, garments of fire will be cut out for them; boiling fluid will be poured down on their heads; whereby that which is in their bellies, and their skins too, will be melted; and for them are hooked rods of iron.’ One is doing the work of their ‘Allah’
to implement this.’
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‘....... Make no mistakes about it. I’m all if favor of Mosque construction ........ in Muslim countries like the U.K. ......
Just joking. Half way anyhow. In this great land of religious freedom, bring ‘em here. If you got enough Saudi riyals we’ll build ya yuge, classy ones here. It’ll be terrific. Mosques concentrate the enemy in a small area. Make America great again. Bomb a Mosque on a Friday. Thank you.’”
Hooey said; “Forgive me, but one small point, as unfortunately wealth protection has never been an item of personal import.
......... More or less, tending toward the more, if one is still trying to measure, it is more polite to suppose. But look. More importantly, the silent guys with the cards are flashing me to
‘End the show.’ If they’ll just bear with me; err us; a bit they’ll allow me the time to thank ......................’
A voice feigned the excitement some needed, saying; “Please tune in the same place, same time next week when Hooey questions a representative yet to be named from ‘Biden and Son,’ about the value of governmental co-operation in the field of international wealth creation and maintenance in Ukraine and China! You don’t want to miss it! The topic might be viewed as a bit of a
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deference to the over-rated Arbitron series of ratings, though it must be admitted that pre-net ‘Arby’s and Co.’ did boast an excellent corned beef Reuben. For nostalgia buffs, once upon a time they did have an undeniable handle on the distribution of the advertising maize.”
Murder leaped in celebration of another pro-capitalistic, anti-Muslim blast; and Hooey, now with a dead mike and thereby safely comfortable in a personal oblivion to a world oblivious to him grinned in his celebration of having earned another paycheck, whispering; “wheeeew,” like any other member of the non-ruling class does at quitting time, careful not to wake Artless.
Alice allowed the door to bang close as she walked in, startling me. I looked in her direction and she chose to deadpan; “Norton’s taking a loosely constructed constitutional, and may be headed this way.”
“Thanks for the warning.” I thought; “Yeah; right in our face. ........ I guess. Right in our tummy, anyway. It’s difficult to precisely tell in this advanced, removed, and
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almost simultaneously neutral and opinionated age lived in by those who pay a plethora of attention to media, some allegedly
‘social.’
No doubt some DISSUS centered confusion emanated from the derived and willing, Western European submission to an accepted, contagious, former US Presidential position some would like to rather have seen viewed as being from the depths and not having initiated. That false posture being to their advantage, it resulted in the proverbial farcical replay in modern clothing of an inverted act dating at least as far back as that which is chronicled in belated recognition of Machiavellian basics.
Cable TV distributed ‘News’ became not so much the commonly regarded villain once called ‘fake news,’ simply because it was neither fake nor was it news. The 24 hour ‘news’ sources filled their allotted spaces with biased interpretations, biased opinions, and biased discussions provided by amenable, never-previously-heard-of-expert ‘guests’ with-all-too-obviously-ready-to—wear allegations-of-having-once-met-someone-currently-deemed-significant after having subjected their audience to yet another opening 15 minutes of the reporting/recap of their
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carefully chosen events of the past, both young and old, but mostly old. The lock step viewers seemed to prefer to be browbeaten by their comrades, rather than risk being tweaked by the bad guys on the other channel. Or else they had lost all the interest that they now wished that they previously had. Wasn’t the original Frankenstein monster also fueled by storm generated electricity?
Oh, for the good old days of late second decade adamant closemindedness in pairs. The Muslim singular insistence has brought about their approval of only one TV channel; the Muslim Broadcasting Channel, with all the daring ingenuity and consequent entertainment value of a BBC documentary produced in
‘advanced’ Syria.”
Alice said; “Whoo hoo. You there? Aren’t you worried about your impending charges?”
“I guess so. .............. In a way, no. I’m sure that it’s not bravery. But, you see, it’s much easier to worry about
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things when what I do or say might have some effect upon the outcome.”
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The Fire Franchise Boss Becomes Bugged The next day I returned to my non-sentient job at the crematorium. As usual, I got there thirty minutes early as did Burner #2 Operator, Pal Konstanty. We nodded “mornin’” and leaned on our cars. I pulled out my Lucky Strikes, lighting one and offered the open pack to Pal. As usual, Pal waved it off and got out one of his Camels, and said; “Could use a light though.”
I flipped on the flame of my precious, golden cross lighter. I think that Pal admired it too, as he continually was without his own light, necessitating his being lit by it. His beady eyes almost salivated at its sight. It was the last possession I had of my father’s; and we once again smoked. He asked me why I had left early yesterday, hoping that everything was all right. Not wanting to state my “secret” problem with IDEAS, I confined my response to work related things and said;
“Yeah, I guess. ‘Bernie’-Abdul sent me home because road kill was slow, interrupted, or something like that.” Feigning disinterest, I added; “How about you?”
“The high and low end human supply is always pretty regular. And the suddenly meticulously caring heirs don’t want
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the dearly departed’s ashes to get mixed with the ashes of another dearly departed. So, I’ve gotta clean out the oven more than you do. Keeps me pretty busy.”
After we went in, I hardly had the time to give a few overly-headlight-infatuated deer their wildest dreams, when
“Bernie”-Abdul used one index finger and a grimacing, critical facial expression of “grudging minimal disinterest,” signal to accompany him to his office. I strongly suspected that this meeting was not going to be a pleasant one, but that most likely its cause was that he might have again found contraband venison in my oven. Admittedly, I’m a bit sloppy with that here and there, as in order to get all the work done, it is sometimes necessary to cut a few corners, and the non-human-left-behinds have yet to register any complaints regarding “carcass-ash purity.”
You know, any remaining venison will get fried to the crispest of powders, neither comestible nor potable without the addition of vigorously stirred aquatic material; like the ice tea concentrate of sole interest to your dog, cat, or untraditional, perverse pet, with the next firing of the
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subsequent crushed load. It’s not like that I’m trying to sneak out any contraband, anti-Muslim, decadent luxuries. It’s just an attempt at an efficiency required to get my job done without moving into this oven franchise. I’d suspect that Pal, desite his standardized, pro-working-hard-yadda-yadda has it easier; but, you know; that kind of thinking doesn’t help anything, and it’s so easy to judge from the outside. Only the oven knows.
I mean, come on. Just be a little bit reasonable and look at the results. ........... Okay, yes. That complex method of evaluation is not yet universally available. Maybe someday soon, Goggle will “freely” provide a means to algorithmically calculate oven common sense, but I wouldn’t suggest holding half a breath in anticipation of that. Look, can’t you see that this is not about any sort of play for a personal aggrandizement; the
“prizes” attendant thereto those I’d characterize as “booby.” If of the other opinion, I can’t help but think that it seems
“fabulous” to profess that; in seemingly overwhelming contradiction to the observable realities, including that Alice, James, and I proudly do live on Humble Lane, in a development called Humble Hovels, which is situated in the borough of Humbletown, in the state of Humility, in the Delphic Islamic Squealing State of the United States (DISSUS), formerly known as
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the United States of America, now still commonly referred to as Rogue State.
In the lead, and in control as much as any white chess pawn chronically devoid of shade thinks he is, and without bothering to look in my direction, apparently assuming my correct interpretation of, and compliance with the “subtle and sophisticated” leadership one of tiny fingers was intended to convey, “Bernie”-Abdul again used his bent index to gesture me into his office on the up side of burner #1. ....... My many comrades and I, well acquainted with the rigmaroll associated with annual evaluations performed by those “important” folks with the head-to-toe nervous twitches need say no more. If you been there you know. If you haven’t there’ no ‘splain’it.
........ Oooh, oooh. The definitions of “reasonable,” “good behavior” and “time served” would be so welcomed. In that limited regard which they find as being of five word use to them, until one has experienced it a bit, it can be difficult to refrain from cracking up right in their face. You see, it’s not as if the more gifted of them don’t understand the game. It’s as if they think that they understand all too well; that if you don’t grovel, there are scores of others who will be proud to take your place, and do so with the most obsequious of butt-
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butt-kissy-kissy smiles; that not any reference to any particular, failed, and showing strong indications of forgetful early Alzheimer’s, USA presidential wannabee losers. One must admit that the odds are heavily on their side.
I pounded my head with my open left palm. I tried to convince myself that the matter at “Bernie”-hand potentially held more personal significance than any accidental, time constricted attempt at a glorious ascension into Vilon, Rakia, Shechakim, Zevul, Maon, Machon, or even Aravot. ......... Not likely, but there’s always a chance, and Vilon, Rakia, Shechakim, Zevul, Maon, Machon, and even Aravot have indicated a predilection for almost infinite patience.
“Bernie”-Abdul was displayed with a tail end appendage of Nouri on his wall hanging credentials, including a framed diploma indicating a bachelors in Church Burning from Jihad Ramadan U, right next to his computer “autographed” photo of some AARP target in hiding, who has alleged to having met Osama.
I was encouraged by not having seen the usual computer autographed photos of football players not in the NFL for long.
I grabbed a poor wooden chair and he grabbed his cast iron
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symbol of behind superiority. He didn't beat around any bush,
“Bernie”-Abdul in alleged person that is, most efficiently, and might I say to the point of abrupt rudeness, informed me that since I was in trouble with IDEAS he couldn’t risk keeping me on at the crematorium. “No matter how many squished, unclean, scavenger puppies you can burn.”
I immediately knew that in his mind, I had endangered his
“friendly” financed fire franchise. I obviously didn't mean to.
Most things just kind of happen, but the assholes usually take it personally, or at a minimally advanced level, in their pants.
To expect more is kind of a prescription for late stage depression. How he could know this "secret" information told me that Norton's assessment of Goggle's information collection methodology supplemented by their aspiring yenta-hood was one more degree believable.
I immediately knew that for him to have this information only two possibilities existed. It was either an indication of his being one of them, or that he goggled extensively. Given his
“credentialed” name, I strongly leaned toward the former. With that lean, I suddenly understood why I’d been kept at non-
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sentient Burner #5 level all these years; never; despite providing a most efficient flame for the compacted and dead deer and bunnies among us, being given any sort of promotion and
“progression” to sentient Burners numbers one through four; not even the kangaroos retired on #4.
In fear of impending financial desperation and degeneration, I blurted and pleaded with Bernie-Abdul to allow me to be the grounds keeping contractor or the nightly latrine attendant. Thereby I wouldn’t be an employee, and we could work out some company name like “Islamic Gardens, PLC” or “Islamic Gardens, Inc.” as an effective cover. I stressed that I had prior experience with sprinklers and was able flush most commodes not plugged by a floppy, obese, and hairy ass.
However, “Bernie”-Abdul remained as resolute as an Islamic Fundamentalist in possession of a chain saw. Frankly, he never previously struck me as one capable of performing difficult mental gymnastics; like simultaneously chewing gum and breathing, but in both fiscal and monetary desperation the plea was worth a shot.
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When he said that I was flirting with a fatwah, I got up and left. On my way back home, I couldn’t help thinking about returning with a gun to shoot up the place; a restoration of good old US values; but decided that my notion of patriotism was outdated. Rather, I should use a box cutter in the name of Allah.
I searched the garage, but sadly, could only come up with a rusted hedge clipper.
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My Trial at IDEAS HQ
My outstanding terrorist violation and sham “trial” date arrived. During coffee I had the thought that if I was going to do the time, I should have done the crime; you know, like using my pig-blood-filled, super squirter to paint the local Saudi-royal-family-financed Mosque red, or at least congealing, dripping, contaminated carmine.
My fantasy of a more productive, equitable, and fulfilled past ended when Alice joined me in the kitchen, and drew my attention by saying that she wanted to come with me. I told her that I appreciated the offer, and I truly did. But, I added that despite the seeming public knowledge of my unspecified charges, that it would be better for me/us not to throw an open disregard for IDEAS’ written secrecy order right back into the cyber face they proudly use to advance their world domination cause. I full-heartedly kissed her a special goodbye, told her that I loved her and left after trying to half-heartedly explain that to solve for the absolute value of X given one algebraic equation containing three variables, the result is a three dimensional array of numbers, possibly incorrectly taken as a finite group, in the sense that other three dimensional non-
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solving arrays are known to exist. In an attempt to avoid that version of the ghastly finite-infinite, right-wrong argument, the "integral" question regarding the possible co-existence of a finite solution with one that is infinite, might well be whether or not the limited, non-solving, three dimensional arrays are a temporary manifestation of absolute irrelevance to anything greater than or equal to a Lang-Nietschean view, now being incontestably reverse foisted upon current DISSUS, formerly the US of fucking A, or the lying, devilishly influenced continuation of a set which has absolutely no positive contribution to any existence other than that of its own brief duration. If not easily dismissible on a symmetrical basis, ouch. I was immediately regretful as I think that part two’s anti-logic based, confusing and wrong pessimism had detracted from, though mercifully not negated, number one’s loving anti-warmth. I hoped that I was not being totally self-serving, when I interpreted Alice’s wonderful, kittenish eyes as ones that either understood or found all of my long-ass, mixed discipline BS personally innocuous, misguidedly well intentioned, and/or as amusing as the humor provided by the unintentional banalities haphazardly stacked in Markson’s “Wittgenstein’s Mistress.”
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That made me want to stay more than my desire to suffer the less than bumble bee buzz of a tattoo granting, one hand holding machine, with a three colored “artist” palette at the flesh one eighty end; called “bonobo,” generally an unintentional insult to bonobos. So, lacking that billboard, I’m like “Baby, you’re so great, that you can deal with it either way; and uhh ......
uhh; damn, the clock on the wall says that it’s time to go.”
Alice is looking like; “Yeah, kinda. After all these years, I’m used to his unfounded BS which more or less requires my non-disapproval of its periodically anti-substance, minutiae usually conceded easily; that viewed by irrelevants and irrelevance as a wrongful deference. But, who cares? Not me. Not us. So sad.
Losers. In other words; fuck you sincerely; ...... err somebody; or not.”
Whatever. Just hope they let me and her go; me the immediate question ........ That to be yet seen in the Millennial assessment yet to come, not at all a function of this petty personal situation which the dominantly backward, again and seemingly immune to any lack of appraisals-evaluations indicative of having unwittingly made maximum standard use of
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that predictable “advantage” of the group think prompted by the lowest common denominator methodology still utilized by the living minority of the brown and black Islamicists who; since the mainstream media control effected by the western branch of the international Illuminilibtardi; now make a living, in the financial sense, of their violent righteousness and the prior DISSUS supposed diss, as if their US supportive keepers withheld their required victuals and weapons; providing a perfectly expected calculation for the multi-nationals they claim to oppose; legally tax irrelevant charges and tax deductible contributions/”donations” welcomed.
I kissed Alice twice and sadly exited through the kitchen door adjacent to the unheated utility room; which in one of its ordained functions served as a conduit between the humble house proper and the need-of-repair garage; wondering if that momentarily prior notion was ultimately just another self-serving cacophony of solipsistically inevitable words designed for personal benefit, easily camouflaged in the to date, lack of anything more than poor attempts to Nostradumus the self. For the ostensible benefit of my possible solipsism, I may have chosen to think not. The “laughing out loud” one may lay upon me hurts for infinitesimal manifestation moments periodically, but
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so far it hasn’t come anywhere near the dragons of devastation; maybe a cute morning lizard or two. If kind, I would think that it should be as such, as it seems more of a supposedly outlawed, outlaw “cruel and usual” indoctrinated Islamic punishment to be otherwise now. Yes, it’s twisted. So, I’ve failed; or somebody else has. ........ The big time nature of the failure would seem to eliminate humble little me from consideration, but I’ve been indoctrinated to say and even think un-humble humble stuff like that. Harsh in the light of “necessarily” migrating oooh, so sorry not to have met the common and thereby lowest-common-denominator standards-of-the-popularity-unpopular aahhhs, which are also analogous with the anchovy-pizza topped regurgitation of the old loops, not seen as so by those not taking Community College level history of anything; but sometimes cum laude from a course offered by the trade schools on matchbook interiors.
Get it? Best of luck. If you do, you’re ahead of me. .......
Viewpoint seems to be lost; however, circling back in ordained imperfection ..... Thank you something or someone, for whatever you deem an appropriate attempt at a “lay” person’s point of view, that herein inclusive of that editorially reported by the fictitious inversion ineptitude, Godard called not the subject of differentiation; that persuasive illusion accidentally and with necessarily commercial intent created and five starred by the many pretentious, in terms of self-importance, hyperlinked
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to the commercial recommendation to the banality, present in one of the un-viewed websites, presented as “oh, so cool.”
Apologies, in a sort of feigned abstention, kindly extended to any and all of those who lionize obscurity only. I’ve lost my train of thought. Thank you, my old train friend. Monterrey.
Huh? A different place; a different time, Not exactly you. Not exactly me; through a personally uninvited persistence. Me ...
and ....... in their lack of experience with the comradery thingy induced through the loved ghosts they presented, they offered as a compelling monetary sort of half-truths, a deviated math; initially and calculated to be seen as one of an algorithmatic which throws away the beautiful, retaining and utilizing only zeroes and ones, convincingly substituting the current version of the never wrong, but contemporarily deficient layman “science;” that ordinarily induced leap of a faith kindly interspersed somewhere in the middle or so by the saints among us, only meant as .... an offering, simultaneously seen as interpreted as a seventies, deference to an eighties loop on guttural Barry White and Donna Summerbut, as derisively induced and inferred as an annihilation of innocence which was clever in previously being not so .................. That’s all that passed through my mind while traversing the humble utility room
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on my way to the garage. I’m sure I could have added much more was I afforded the time it takes one to ride an airport escalator.
My humble old Toyota was parked in the garage, as it should have been, semi-safely immune to any of the misunderstandings caused by less-than-insightful surveillance. Or so I was temporarily able to think what Sisyphus may have thought prior to having been saddled with the floppy, transitioning boulder.
With the ludicrous “faith” attendant to the standard Muslim Western Asian “religious” nut cases, I pushed the automatic garage door opener button. It made some garish, impressively metal-on-metal type of grinding-through-ineffectual-
“thoroughness” noise before conking out and defaulting to its historically silent and worthless norm, to the tune of an unplugged toaster, leaving the door still closed; that position kind of usefulness-challenging to not only me, but my Japanese import assembled in the old US of A. Faith callously restored for all of the glorious ten seconds of machine groans and whines which I silently cheered on in a half-assed, futile, and pragmatically petty defiance of personally irrefutable, non-mathematically based .............. whatever. The easy button push was undeniably worth a shot for that seemingly reasonable
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ten second duration; whose redundantly boring culmination was no more a future deterrent to future attempts than a losing lottery ticket purchase to a routinely odds-unaware and slothful 7-11
addict; number agreement a luxury of sorts. For the rookies who may be still here, it would likely help to suffice to say that what may be construed as a seemingly, and much too exceedingly a Pollyanna-ish point of view, which was once again predictably dashed; I’d like to be able to honestly say that I was surprised and eternally put off the button. .......... No matter to moi, really. Think what you will. You have more freedom than you would like. So sorry that you think that your cheese is hard.
Not. At this point, no possible argument is personally interesting to pursue; and I will push that god-damned button every time I want the door opened; and in the absence of absolutes it is assured that one day it will. No offense intended; differences are most likely to be no more than one of those species’ things.
Editor’s note. When the inevitable clarification is required by the non-sentient laptop jockey with no authority to require anything, let that loser please see the sites goggle leads you to after typing in ”garage doors” in one of their seven convenient and appropriate spots. They know everything and
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aren’t shy to blab it anywhere. It doesn’t exactly take a PC
maven to extract their government, post-intelligence distribution of already-paid-for data 24 hours after the credit is verified; seven days clearance required for matters of national security.
I grabbed the ground level handle with both hands and with no small effort, mind you, pulled the door, which slid on its tracks to open. Before I could hop in and start the engine I saw that Norton’s humble old Nissan and Norton himself was in the driveway blocking my exit. I was a bit surprised, but I wouldn’t say flabbergasted, as Norton had a proven uncanny way of showing up whenever the possibility of being totally useless or the possibility of starring as an impedimet presented itself.
“Hey, hey, Ralphie boy. Don’t worry, my friend. Got your back,” he said while making yet another of his clichéd attempts to secure his sideways, crushed, old, grimy fedora on the peak of his irregularly sized head. I always thought that this maneuver was quite an accomplishment; the hatpins and/or strap nonexistent or hidden; not reflecting any of the sun’s light; his hand delivered grime not echoic.
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I thought; “Oh, shit,” as Norton’s opening line made me recall all the “benefits” I had thankfully, thankfully, and thankfully received from Mr. friendly Roger; the thanks a necessity along with the hundred dollars which was
“coincidentally” needed to get my Roger “friend” out of the driveway before I collapsed from dehydration, while bearing his obligatory constant grin/smile/approval of his stated and stated efforts, which were demonstrated through his oft teary love of all people, the off button to which would necessitate more
“friendly help” which I sometimes could not afford, when being low on hundreds.
Roger was the purported handyman-gardener I periodically used; back in the good old decadent Trump days when I was still devil-blessed with some of those “evil,” white, Senior Vice Presidential systems analytical, bi-weekly, checking account credits. Not to sell tiny, chirpy Roger short, it is most fair to note that he had two “hidden,” outstanding attributes somewhere beneath his five foot two, mankind-helping, and not-so-effectively concealed need for being in charge married to his slick, getting money-for-nothing exterior. Roger had a long
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honed ability to sound so sappy, sometimes even capable of effecting a sad tear or stream of them, that I’d find difficulty in telling him to go away because of his other outstanding attribute; an ability to be so useless, that it must have been one of God’s gifts at birth; as you can’t learn this much in
“please-help-this-pathetic-sap-with-a-heart-of-gold” school, even if one had attained two PhD’s. Natural born con-men are customarily a shoo-in for winning elective office. But Roger was hampered in that by a three year prison term for drug sales, a two year stint for sexual abuse his foster son, and never having filed an income tax return, the latter explainable by his never having had a discernable source of income sufficient to occupy his single-wide in the tax-free, unincorporated part of the neighboring town; where they were fracking.
Through the process of simple default, you might have guessed that this was most of the reason I didn’t get rid of him. You’d be half right. Roger was my slick little supplier of overpriced weed, as well as the nonpareil source of the best derisive gossip about everyone he knew and many he didn’t. It was certain that given his Enquirer type disregard for any in his imaginative perspective, that he also told others fabricated stories about me. I really didn’t care about that, as I felt
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that anyone stupid enough to believe Roger was also someone who’s approval I was not inclined to seek; and rather never have to speak with.
I knew damn well that Norton was being his obsequious
“helpful” self in the hopes of ensuring that I be sent to Abu Grabby, so that he would have no obstructions other than his mind, face, and body in trying to get into Alice’s pants. Or even more likely, the pants of twelve year old James. I wouldn’t put anything past this meddlesome, deceitful bachelor, and confessed Goggler. Being the only non-Arab-Muslim on the Humbletown Central sewer crew, his lucrative job could be the result of him being an informant. He often said that I’d be surprised at all the good stuff you can find down there.
But, you can’t clear the air and say that you know his real intent; at least not to his face. It’s a guaranteed losing position, as though you know it, you can’t prove it, and it sounds just too mean. So my first black move in the chess match was a seemingly innocuous one inviting his next, more aggressive one. I said; “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Norton, old pal, old buddy. Listen; I’m late, I’m late for a very important date. No
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time to say ................. you know. Would you mind clearing my path, like pronto?”
“Please correct me if I’m wrong; but Ralphie, Ralphie, boy.
Might I have detected a slight note of ........ ungrateful dismissal?”
“You tell me, chum. But, I have no idea why you would feel that way, old buddy, old pal.” I wiped the nonexistent tear from the corner of my eye. Through Norton’s nanosecond grimace I could see that my finesse approach was not going to accomplish my goal, so I tried to think of some lying, deceptive trick to accomplish my purposes. When one is confronted with a physical
“check,” the options to avoid “mate” can be extremely limited.
During my ponder Norton patted his bulging pocket, and said; “I’m packin’.”
In no way on this side of Mohammed’s heaven did I want to risk advertising to the IDEAS people, that I had violated their
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written order and had told someone of my terrorism charges. For the nothing it is worth, it was highly unlikely that Norton had a real gun, as two weeks into his four year term as D.I.S.S.U.S.
Muslim in Chief Tupac Obama had ordered the confiscation of all guns held by white devils, even the sewer rats. Some foolish whites tried to hide their revolvers in bank lock boxes and back yard burials, probably unaware of the technology available to the Tupac administration. They should have guessed as it was merely an extension of the old metal detectors, upgraded to recognize not only metal, but certain forms of plastic. They came up with quite a cache, most still stored in Area 51; the rest distributed to those on the approved IDEAS list.
And no matter to me, as if they wanted to detain me, Norton’s gun, if any, would only cause a losing complication.
Time was of the essence, and I was as completely blocked as the pitiable indie writers should be.
I said; “Hey, Norton buddy. I’m just a little nervous. You can understand. Tell you what. Just get your car out of the driveway, and we’ll go in mine.” Norton wasn’t the brightest
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fink on the block, so I figured that a “sophisticated” two-step approach would baffle and lose him.
He did move his car to the curb, no doubt aware that if I just took off in my humble Toyota, he could easily follow me in his humble Nissan. So, I reversed my car down the driveway, stopping to let him into the passenger’s seat. Feigning overdue appreciation, I went on and on about how I was grateful for his support, hoping that he would not subliminally question that if I was eager to have him accompany me, why I did not also bring
“packing” Alice. I think that he semi-bought it.
I pulled into the first 7-11 we reached. I told him that I just had to have some coffee. Norton looked at me sideways, before following me in, maybe considering that I might slip out the back, if unattended. I got the coffee and added some overpriced accoutrements, as did he. As I checked out the items, I reached into my pocket and said; “Damn. I’ve forgotten my wallet. Can you ...... ?”
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While Norton presented his plastic for the “fie bipty” tab, I went to the car and drove off, leaving him with the armed and surly, Q-Tip headed cashier, who would not return Norton’s plastic until he provided a “satisfactory form of payment,”
inclusive of the five digit PIN number which Norton was incapable of memorizing. It seemed an obvious standard-operating-procedural, Muslim Indian scam compounded by the typical American predilection for “duh,” now taught at the pill dispensing grammar school of one’s choice. Sometimes you get a bit lucky. Not.
I got to IDEAS barely early enough. After being checked for belly suicide bombs by one of the mean and serious looking guards with ISIS armbands and mucho hair on their chinny-chin-chins, toting Benelli M3’s, I was going over my mental notes, as were the five or six Barney’s off-the-rack guys also waiting, when whatever it was in the face covering niqab and full body burqa called my name. I followed it to a room with a simple copper or blended brass “Determinator” plaque on the door. Oooh, atomic.
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Perchance foolishly insofar as I had any control, I was imbued with song. As far as I could tell it was no fault of mine. I was as devoid of effective differentiable discipline as the Illuminitardi lock step viewpoint which lock-steps to the politic misnomer of “Identity,” just as much your everyday Muslim lock steps to looting marauder, had he no more enlightened Illuminilibtardi propagandist available during his shithole country provided, psychically challenged introduction to rich white deviltry.
D.I.S.S.U.S. 2030
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Bomb detonation and “Atomic” by Deborah Harry and James Destri; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
I shook my head semi-vigorously, as to clear the music from it without drawing the unwanted attention given to those with a seizure disorder. This was serious business. Inside was Mohammed Amjad Yasser Abdel Rahman Abdel Raouf Iqbal al-Qudwa al-Husseini III, with an “Under Assistant Determinator for Humbletown Affairs” designation on his plastic breastplate, right under his full name. I couldn’t help but think that Islamic breastplates had expanded well beyond those utilized in the now deposed USA; and might serve the dual function of implying a semi-bullet-
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proof forgery in the Muslim heart area. No matter; not of priority at the moment.
He rose and took a few steps toward me, stooped more than a bit and had one hand on his lower back; much in the manner of a spirited black woman when she is just about to give you hell.
After checking my driver’s license, He said that I should refer to him as Amjaad Iqbal, as it sounded more westernized.
Amjaad Iqbal read me my rights under The Patriot Act, Section 5, subsection 50b, which basically said I had the right to do what I was told, and I would likely have confused any possible future attempt to check the statute as it sounded like “Fie bipty bee,”
had I had not had any prior 7-11 gouging parlance experience.
More or less necessarily I re-focused on the matter at hand. I had learned that in a situation which is totally out of one’s control and potentially maiming, the best play is always obsequiousness. Sure, it is obvious. But it is also obvious that 9 of 10 of the insecure functionaries in ostensible charge lap it up like famished mongrels with rabies, prior to begging for more.
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Yasser Arafat; modified public domain.
Trying to get on Amjaad Iqbal’s good side and curry favor, I pointed to the Arafat painting on the wall and said; “I thought you guys had some sort of a problem with images.”
“Interesting that you mention that. It’s actually a bit complicated. But, just like Judaism and Christianity; Islam considers idolatry to be a heinous sin. However, the Qur'an does
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not prohibit making images or possessing them; only worshipping them. The Hadith clearly and consistently prohibits all images of any living being, with special mention of punishment for painters. One exception to this rule is dolls for children, probably because children are not considered in danger of worshipping them as idols. Neither the Koran nor Hadith specifically mention depictions of Muhammad. So, it’s kind of up to you on that one. Now, this is the view of we majority Shia.
The damn Sunnis have a different interpretation. Sometimes they can be so stupid, you just feel like killing them.”
“I guess that puts a crimp in photography. Nice painting.
I’d call it expressionistic.”
“You know, now that we’re on the subject of mistaken western views of Islam, this is one that just irks me. You white guys think that we’re all uniformly religious, without taking into account the fact that the backward fundamentalists among us can become violent if they thought otherwise. It’s no different than your politicians spouting all of that ‘God willing’ and
‘God bless’ crap when running for office. Preliminary studies find an inverse relationship between degree of education and
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degree of Islamic indoctrination. If you’re Catholic, you should easily relate.”
This seemed a bit much. At this point I had to consider the possibility that Amjaad Iqbal was trying to lull me into a false sense of security, whereby I’d respond in kind, and my own likely recorded words could be used to print my one way ticket to Abu Grabby. Not that I didn’t expect to be going there anyway, but I figured I’d make them use their own bullshit, rather than mine. Trying to concoct a measured response under time pressure, I came up with; “That sounds so remarkably humane.”
Apparently that was not one of the desired responses that Amjaad Iqbal was looking for. So rather abruptly he changed tone and said; “Okay, enough chit chat. Empty your pockets.”
I placed the items on his desk, and his eyes gleamed like a Bedouin who had just chanced upon a camel in heat. Abjaad Iqbal added fresh salivation to his multi-hued and partially cleansed beard when he sputtered; “There it ish!” I was thinking; “Uh oh.
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In addition to Abu Grabby prospects, all I needed was a warped Arab pervert with an unbalanced fixation.” I mean like, that in retrospect I should have anticipated the chance; but in my defense I do think it fair to say that this was the first time I had gotten such an exhilarated reaction to my humble wallet, key chain, and cigarette lighter, since the earliest of days when Alice discovered that I was carrying a Trojan as well as a horsey approximating gift. It’s a curse. Believe me. .........
Well, sometimes. My first priority was to calm Amjaad Iqbal down. So, I tried to be as un-sexy as pejorative words can be, and said; “Ish shumthing there which meetsch your interesh?”
Undeterred, and as if he had calmly ascended to his coveted place and was now in the presence of Moe and some girls whose ages could be measured while keeping on one’s Islamic flat sandals, at three bipty per pair plus the Ayatollah cut, in bulk, and apparently failing at trying to show that it was a reasonable expectation, he said; “I’ve got the contraband golden lighter!” He then screamed; “Guards, come and take this to Evidence,” and two of the thuggish appearing, ISIS arm-banded guys with rifles carefully put it in an Islamic themed iPhone case and took it away.
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He said; “Let me cancel that house tossing. They might not have started it yet. ......... The backlog here can drive you nuts. ............ No, they’re already on site in progress. You know, these Allah damn workers always show up whenever they want to and always when you wish they wouldn’t, and Allah forbid they have to adjust their half-day, self-convenient work schedules.”
Christian Dior Windproof Special Edition Golden Cross Lighter; property of the author.
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“I now know who finked on me; Pal Konstanty over at the crematorium. I should have let him go suck on his unlit Camels.”
“Ha, ignorant rich white American devil. Pal Konstanty is Khaleel Abadi in Arabic. And, partially correct. Actually you’ve been finked on 142 times. You know, at the drop of a skullcap, you honky devils be sangin’ on each other like cryin’-ass niggaz up on they third possession-with-intent-to-distribute narcotics charge. However, Khaleel is the only one on our Approved Fink List. We originally pursued the reports of any fink, but our resources are finite, and you rich white heathens fink on each other in a jiffy with the fall of a, a ............... a calligraphed mabkhara. It’s disgusting. I mean, we get charges emanating from neighbor’s disputes over bushes, bicycle tracks on lawns, kids who got slapped by a parent, romantic rivals, people who lost their lunch .............. You name it.”
I was genuinely curious whether I was a mere heathen or a full-fledged devil, but had a more urgent question asking;
“Norton on there?”
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“I really shouldn’t say. But, yes; thirty-three times.
Norton has been placed on our Crank List. And please pardon my amusement, but there’s a Joseph Finke on here eight times.”
“Goggle?”
“They still send stuff. Every week we get a roomful of info, which we no longer look at, but we haven’t told them. They send garbage like every bank transaction in the world and every purchase of a Tommy Robinson poster. We wish they would find a way in which to be more discriminating.”
Thinking “Woo,” but not wanting to risk putting a damper on Amjaad Iqbal’s scorching and garrulous zest, I instead said
“Aabirah?”
That proved to not have been the most superior of possible bets, but an un-harming neutral, when Amjaad Iqbal seemed to have returned to the confines required by his official Humble
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Islamic Operating Manual, and said; “I’m going to stop right there. But, with the numbers involved I’d guess that everyone you know has finked on you at least once. ......... By the way, that’s not the least bit unusual. Let’s proceed.”
“For the benefit of my assumed future reference, might I inquire if Bics are okay?”
“Those with the 7-11 imprint bearing the star and crescent foreground only. Beware of the forgeries propagated by the rich, white, entrepreneurial devils. They’re rather easy to pick out, with their screen-shot-induced-manipulation, which invariably results in a shading of the star. ........ So just sign this.”
“Can I read it first? I don’t want to be buying a pig in a poke.”
“Possible responses aside in the face of efficiency, I’ll let the cat out of the bag. You’re pleading guilty to possession of obscenely expensive contraband with intent to distribute.”
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“I had no intent to distribute!”
“Well, Khaleel might say otherwise.”
“ ................ “
“Okay. I like you.”
I got nervous again.
Amjaad Iqbal continued; “Intent to distribute carries with it the possibility of Abu Grabby. Look; I’ll make it simple possession. First offense; worst case bipty-bie days latrine duty at the local Mosque. I’ll recommend that. Okay?”
“Sure of that?”
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“No. You can never be sure what a judge will do.”
With some trepidation, thinking this the best deal I could get; I said; “Thank you, Amjaad Iqbal” and signed.
Abjaad Iqbal yelled; “Guards!”
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Sentencing
The armed guards entered. One tightly cuffed my wrists to the point of discomfort only recognized by me upon the sight of a quickly drying scarlet line which I saw in the mirror of his shades. I thought that most likely this was not necessarily an act of un-needed Muslim doctrinaire viciousness; but rather, the work an uninformed and inexperienced ISIS retard, concomitant with his mindless attempt at a singularity of ignorance which the “anti-fascist” Illunilibtardi fully supports, though they would not tolerate the same from a Fundamentalist Christian.
It’s not a matter of a Webster definition; but rather merely another instance of the long-term Islamic inability to master the intricacies of anything other than losing battles and chucking rocks. The “new,” unjustly and underhandedly demanded by the rigors of the 21st century high tech norms befuddle the Islamic crowd, despite their having become as sufficiently inventive as one must be to shoot themselves with a bazooka.
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Particularly advanced and headless Allamah demonstrating how one can blow it out both holes simultaneously”; property of the author.
Famous last words- “Gee, I wonder what’s wrong here. Let me take a close look at the hole parts.”
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Page 1 of US legally safe “Bazooka Instruction Manual”; property of the author.
In all fairness, the techies rarely deign to explain how to use that which they make; and when they do, each one says something different. But, they were lucky that the Islamic bazooka maven was not in the former US while he conducted his investigation, as the manufacturer, wholesaler, and retailer would all be seven digits legally liable for not having written;
“Do not stick Q-Tip head in either hole part, especially hole part 2, when bazooka is loaded.” Take my word. It’s not any
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particular teaching of the Koran or Hadith which prompts these guys to use knives, hammers, and box cutters. It’s merely a down-to-earth function of Islamic capabilities.
In the small, likely overstated as such, victory available to me, I succeeded in doing my best not to overtly laugh at the tech challenged beardo harboring hard green snot with which he imaginably had found to be the stepped down remnants of a visit to one of the Mohammedan heavens, this the one which found a heavenly release in blowing it out through the standing nostrils rather than the upturned ass. I was again foolishly encouraged to a fault or worse a default, as true revolution once again seemed deceptively at hand. Fearing an over obviousness, I am uncontrollably compelled to state that it is high time to admit that sweet Pollyanna is my loved sister. So, dare to ridicule me. In the throes of passion, I don’t care, while also realizing that you have not the ability to understand. You further might find it hard to take that as something other than a depression.
If it matters and it likely doesn’t to you, “Au contraire.” It is an exhilaration; one which continues to a perpetuity not yet recognized. On the other hand, if you believe any of the aforementioned bullshit, you are undeniably a top candidate for an eternal seat next to this Moe guy, obviously prone to
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randomized killing, even more than the talking dog inspired predilections and transitory horrors generated by the Son of Sam, to which idiots and conveniently affix, despite Berkowitz’
recants and story changes, a lack of recognizable distinction as to age of consent, and finally, but not lastly, in a seemingly disproven potential of an un-testosterone-controlled male foray into an ignorance chosen or inherited through the concept of an Original Sin easily disputed, seen as all too inconvenient by one with a partiality or weakness toward a recognition of that which merits no recognizing. ........ It is Vonnegut-said that popularity is only a function of writer inviting the reader to ride a relatively definable norm, that norm or near facsimile thereof first dropping and then rising. Happy endings; my, oh how the heart soars. The wondrous cacophony of the yays of the speaking monkeys deafen the ears of the monkeys who hear no evil. Congratulations; progress well noted.
Amjaad Iqbal; resplendent in his flowing gown, I don’t know. Beards and hairy legs in a dress just don’t work well together; the value judgement aspect a philosophical problem, in whose discussion I’d rather not participate. Until totally negated, I will continue to insist upon my rights. I’m sure that Allah has cursed me into an insoluble limitation, but
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nonetheless ............. The dumb, flouncing thug pulled guilty white me to a waiting room full of other handcuffed and guilty, rich white terrorists, the rest in pinstripes and ties.
Accidentally given a modicum of leeway by the prodding, bearded ones who were just a bit inattentive in their self-congratulatory glances at each other’s whiskers, I took an end plastic seat next to another comrade, white terroristic contrabander who appeared to be on the low end of the dangerous spectrum, his tie devoid of a diamond stickpin. One of my escorting guards exchanged conviviality and papers with the IDEAS snipers who guarded the room from their perches on the rickety scaffolding left by the last hedonistic painting crew, and left.
...... So, where was I/you et al? No, not in terms of all of that, but just in terms of the story as so far mis-presented?
Ever go to the theater when they played a film not advertised on the posters in the lobby? You kind of sit there un-entertained and wondering if you had arrived too early or too late; which gives way to an acquired taste which nags, strongly suggestive of your having been cheated; which you petty rebel at, with all of the strength of still clutching half of your ticket in your left hand, your right feeling at your posterior for the bulging
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signs of your market dependent wallet, while the projector streams the replay of an old B flick, which you think in a lack of memory of the uninteresting, that you have never previously seen. .......... Dare I say that I’ve forgotten something, but suffice to say; “Get back, Loretta.”
I got the feeling that I had been duped by tricky Abjaad Iqbal, who was now probably finishing the process of cyber classifying me as “finished,” prior to bringing up the details of his next white terrorist contrabander. I couldn’t see his screen; only its reflection in his Subha beady eyes.
I soon became aware that my behind-the-back handcuffs made sitting uncomfortable, and also prevented me from perusing the Al-Shamika magazines piled haphazardly on the Safavieh Desta Natural End Table. My fright level went up a few notches, as this slyly provoked inability for cuffed white devils to see anything more than partial covers, excepting that of the top one in the pile, was suggestive of no top drawer, authoritative qualms concerning cruel and unusual punishment. At that moment I was sure of intrusive, offensive doom, and wished that I had not
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left squealing Norton at the 7-11; his puffed purported bluff better than nothing when cornered by snarling dogs.
For any ignorant white heathens who might be reading this, and thereby intelligently deducing my ultimate survival, please allow me to insert a note which probably should be footed. The end tables were wicker concoctions with loose, sharp ends; much like that of a well-used, antiquated bathroom hamper, possibly left as an unfortunately un-differentiable, branding-intended calling card by one practitioner or a small group of those Muslim Western Asian, US dollar grabbing, parasitic louses, with all the subtlety of one of the myriad of Seventh Day Adventist, tax-free property replete with buildings rented to various and sundry retailers, wholesalers, manufacturers of whatever, and a Sunday parking lot yard sale, begging an exterminator visit. The periodic play station of surreptitious, nocturnal vermin, though newly and unconvincingly marketed as something akin to a “re-invented” foray into a hot item represented as brown squigglies rather than the traditional, but scientifically unfounded representations of the end of the infinitely hued rainbow; that singular concoction marketed by the enterprising Muslim which called itself Safavieh; it’s insignia lettered in gold leaf like a Trump “statussy” project of old, just under some particularly
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unruly strands of now errant wicker, the vermin not yet complete in their elimination attempts.
You might well have imagined that under the circumstances I finally had a use for my smart phone; but alas my smart phone’s battery had run out while I was in Abjaad Iqbal’s office, and my hands were not positioned to use it, were the battery still good, anyway. .......... Tell me about frustrating futility.
Suddenly I became fearful that I’d get an urgent need to wizz with no manual access to my woo or a bathroom. That soon converted to a liberating feeling, as I was totally out of control of my destiny and if I wizzed my pants it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t care, as I wasn’t wearing my best Sunday church pants, anyway. I wondered if guilty, white pants wizzers got stiffer sentences. The questioning thought quickly passed as I surmised that I would or might soon find out, more or less.
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Door placard with Islamic symbol of justice; property of the author.
The door with the Judge Pasoon Al-Hussain logo opened and after they carried out the remains of the previous, offending, white terrorist, one of the snipers came down and gently nudged my head with the butt of his imported FX-05 Xiuhcoatl.
I was left alone with Pasoon, but appendage limited to the use of only my feet. The judge seemed quite cordial when he motioned me to the seat opposite his. As I plopped down with all
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the grace of a hoarse muezzin I saw that the room’s light emanated only from the sun, which streamed through Judge Pasoon’s only window; that portal behind him and with a Medina view, if one could see 6,462 miles and adjust for the earth’s curvature from this room’s vantage point. But what captured the interest of rich, white terrorist me with a demonic bent, is reasonably counting on anything but appropriate punishment in full, radiant illumination; a conclusive blasphemy if there ever was one. Any sort of semi-Mecca or full-Mecca view is righteously reserved for the truly faithful on Haj or thrice daily, ass-in-the-air reverence to Allah; at least insofar as that has been Koranthed or Hadithed by perverted Ayatollahs, Imams, as well as various and sundry ISIS aficionados well attuned to that sweet injection of the fruits of Afghanistani poppy. Turning my guilty and humble eyes away from the consequences of the filtered, yet semi-blinding effects of the sun, I saw a framed photo of Muhammed on Pasoon’s western wall; and given what Amjaad Iqbal had related to me in confidence, I was more than a tad intrigued.
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Pasoon’s wall photont; the kind courtesy of Pexels.com under their CC0 license; modified.
Also immediately recognizing that perspective as another opportunity simultaneously conducive to again trying to ingratiate myself with those backward weirdos in whom the humble fate my carcass lied, while choosing to ignore the picayune, petty, prosaic, possible precept attendant to that recently
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detailed by Amjaad Iqbal, I said; “That’s a remarkably clear photo of Muhammed; or perhaps a painted product of photo realism at its best.”
In all his fuzz-faced glory, Judge Pasoon graciously condescended to respond to my U.S. patented suck-up attempt with a semi-snarling; “You must be joking as neither is possible.
That’s my brother-in-law, Paywastun. As far as I know he’s dead, having succumbed to the complications arising from the un-schooled shaving required by his decadent, western, Kojak re-make, gosi. He had many times asked that I hang his photo here; and he is my wife’s favorite brother. So, if you are sufficiently Allah blessed to have been married to a good woman, you know how that goes. I figure that it won’t hurt anything unless one of those dumb Sunni’s sees it and compounds their fatal error. Anyway, please be advised that white heathen suckuppery attempts tend to result in stiffer sentences.”
My fear level again increased. This bastard was the real deal. I considered and rejected further explanation on both ineffectively artistic and ineffectively plebian levels, leaving nothing I could imagine in the space provided in the protected
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semi-Sharia limitations positioned conveniently, much like a frozen Franzenian flip-flop in between, if one was of the
“Identity” restricted skimmers in lock time; that position, most often one of the timid writer rather than one of the more secure reader, insofar as differentiations can be calculated without the professional use of a precisely calibrated wattmeter or one of a loser with no support at the electing, hypothetically un-committed center which invariably and “popularly” determines, or more likely merely reflects a direction debated as to source, in structured abnegation of that which is perceived by the players through polls, despite their oft demonstrated, poor methodology, web-encouraged proliferation, and unanimous insistence upon an absurd Hillary presidency, the laughable conceit dating at least as far back as when Tom Dewey defeated Harry, “The buck stops here,” Truman in the Chicago of forgotten 48. For the sake of the Asian, hypothetically minority opinion, it has been long offered that; “Bad shit is coming. Better leave.” ...... Oh, freaking well. You might pay more attention next time.”
The incorrectly perceived gloat now stops here, manifesting to some as a Disney deer surrounded by a pervasive fire, but nonetheless one from which we now know that Bambi will escape.
Personally having also survived many flicks of the Bic, and now
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as your everyday “curiously” indifferent spectator of the predictably funny whine as is unfittingly generated by the inanely jealous miscreant interpretation and limitation all too obviously projected onto the attitudes of Holden
..................... Please pardon my break away from the thought pattern deemed most accessible, as I have been indoctrinated to believe that something more important is going on here ........ or there. No sarcasm intended or implied.
Unscientific and wrong, as they undoubtedly are, I once again relied upon my proven-to-be-failed instincts which suggested that most likely, there had been a continuation of the communications breakdown somewhere between the monetarily-based conclusions of the scientists and the monetarily-based conclusions of the politicians, which a switch from AC to DC
would not ameliorate.
As it were, as it were again, it makes no further sense to go there, no matter how deified and adulated, as fully within my undoubtedly incorrectly perceived bounds of my supposed free will to be stupid, I concluded that this Q-Tip head was no fool, despite initial head and mean as hell on top of it. In the standard methodology provided to I thought it best to curtail my
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stymied opening attempt, and wait for him to display his opening move.
Judge Pasoon typed on his computer, periodically squirming and making a scrunched face, which gave him the appearance of one who has just sat on the naugahyde saddle of a camel after it spent a sunny afternoon in the summer Sahara. Without looking at me, he said; “Mr. Modesto. You have pleaded guilty to possession of contraband.”
“Yes, your honor.”
He held what seemed to be an intercom or electric shaver to his beard, and said; “Clerk; bring in the evidence.”
A few minutes later, the clerk entered and said; “Habib in the Evidence Room says they have no evidence for this case.”
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Pasoon sort of lost it for a minute; “Fucking Allah damn!
Just fucking allah damn! This is happening all the time now. Get Habib in here right now.”
Habib, Evidence Room Director entered and said; “Yes, sir.
You called.”
Judge Pasoon: “The Modesto evidence was just put in a half hour ago. How could it be lost this quickly?”
Habib: “I have no record of having received any Modesto evidence.”
Judge Pasoon: “Get Amjaad Iqbal in here.”
Amjaad Iqbal: “Yes, sir.”
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Judge Pasoon: “Did you send the Modesto lighter to Evidence.”
Amjaad Iqbal: “Yes, of course, sir. A half hour ago by Debasish Das sundial.”
Judge Pasoon: “I suppose you have a receipt for that.”
Amjaad Iqbal: “No, sir. Like always, I had the ISIS guards bring it. They should have one. ..................All right? I’m kind of in the middle of another case right now.”
Judge Pasoon: “Tozz feek. Go and send in the ISIS guards.
Ya Ibn el Sharmouta!”
ISIS Guard #1: “Yeah?”
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Judge Pasoon: “You guys have a receipt for the Modesto evidence?”
ISIS Guard #1: “No. You, Abu?”
ISIS Guard #2: “No, Salah.”
Judge Pasoon: “Why not?”
ISIS Guard #1: “I never touched the Modesto evidence. You, Abu?”
ISIS Guard #2: “No, Salah.”
Judge Pasoon: “Aryeh feek. Stay here. Clerk, bring Amjaad Iqbal back in here.”
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Amjaad Iqbal, with an undeniable air of annoyance: “Yesss, sir.”
Judge Pasoon: “Iqbal, are these the ISIS guards you gave the evidence to?”
Amjaad Iqbal: “Probably.”
Judge Pasoon: “Probably?”
Amjaad Iqbal: “Well, sir. I can’t be 100% certain, as all these ISIS thugs look alike to me. ........... And I really didn’t stare at them.”
Judge Pasoon to the ISIS thug/guards aborted: “Kol khara.
Were you two on duty ............” To Amjaad Iqbal instead:
“When did this exchange take place, Iqbal?”
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Amjaad Iqbal: “As I previously said, about a half hour ago by Debasish Das sundial. ........... I’m sure that the Judge has made note of the morning clouds.”
Again, Judge Pasoon addressed his question to the ISIS
thug/guards: “Were you two on duty about half an hour ago?”
ISIS Guard #1: “Yes. You, Abu?”
ISIS Guard #2: “Yes, Salah.”
Judge Pasoon: “So, how might I say this politely? As you two were the guards on duty a half hour ago, and Iqbal says he gave the lighter evidence to the guards who were on duty a half hour ago, someone here must be lying. No?”
ISIS Guard #1: “Not me. You, Abu?”
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ISIS Guard # 2: “Not me, Salah.”
Amjaad Iqbal interjected with a reply to the question asked of ISIS Guards #’s 1 and 2, intending to be helpful and simultaneously hoping it would expedite his return to his own paused case in progress. He may have made a poor choice when he opted for brevity and said; “Not necessarily.”
Judge Pasoon aimed straight at the equivocating detail sought to be avoided when he said: “Tellhas teeze. Why not necessarily?”
Amjaad Iqbal said; “Well, sir; at any given time there are eight or more ISIS guards on duty. You might have seen that that is mandated by our IDEAS Operating Manual; section 2; paragraph 8.”
Judge Pasoon: “Kess ommak! Allah damn kess ommak! Allah damn dess ommak that Allah damned manual! Allah damn and dess
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ommak that hominid written, attributed to Allah manual!
Everybody, just get out of here. Kess ommak!
I got up to leave. With all the misdirected motion and confusion I thought it was worth a shot; but Judge Passoon yelled; “Not you, wise guy!”
I stopped to face him, and saw his fiery eyes riveted upon me. In an attempt to lighten up things, I pointed my index finger at my chest as if to say; “You talkin’ to me?” My DeNiro attempt didn’t work on any Pasoon level. He probably needed some more time in D.I.S.S.U.S. to become more familiar with the finer points of old American culture.
Without a discernable twinge of appreciation, even in the pejorative, Pasoon bellowed with all the resonance of a Mosque muezzin”s morning call to prayer in Istanbul, veritably singing the words; “Yes, you. Kess ommak!”
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It wasn’t the easiest of tasks to refrain from sticking my ass in the air. I was only deterred by the fact that I didn’t know Mecca from Medina; and didn’t want to risk farting in the wrong direction. Aiming at humble appeasement, I said; “With all due respect your honor, it might help if you gave some thought to being more precise. And if I might dare say so, potty mouth never helps anything.”
As I sat, I heard an unemotional, under-the-breath, though resolute; “kess ommak.”
Despite his brave words, after having seen and heard Pasoon’s ineffective exchanges with people who seemed to be his de facto subordinates, though probably not exactly that on the Sharia organizational chart, I came to view Pasoon as being somewhat akin to the confidently inept Basil Fawlty type, though in Pasoon’s case without a wife present to fix things up for him. Immediately following that observation I realized this probably made my situation worse, as ineffective people regularly seek to maximize their “importance” through being overly assertive with the poor souls over whom they have some
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degree of authority; almost always conferred through the humble attitudes of the poor souls.
Adding another layer of potential, perceptual problem to any attempted assessment daringly proffered by those who can audaciously chew gum and breathe simultaneously, Pasoon also had the attributes of post-Churchill British Prime Ministers, post-Roosevelt United States Democrat Presidents, wife beaters, and wannabe-made-men-numbers-runners-in-disguise-indistinguishable.
Amjaad Iqbal had warned me that judges were unpredictable.
I knew that US criminal case law was a bitch. But, not having previously been familiar with those of the Islamic bent, I thought it best to take Amjaad Iqbal’s unconfirmed word, in the absence of proper time for study, as this Pasoon, who was right in front of my face, had the power of Abu-Grabby over my modest, though rich, white, and demonic life. So, I decided that my best move was to be as obsequious as a beginning level, unqualified through liberal arts degrees, sales job applicant, with a Japanese-R lisp; insofar as I was capable of doing that without laughing in his face. I also realized that my thought process was formed in an old country not ruled by Islamic religious
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fanatics; real or fabricated; risking that the feigned capitulation might not disarm those with a history as long as has been recorded by uninvited interlopers, of inevitable, semi-understandable, entrees into a perpetual warfare which makes heroes of soldiers who dare not ask; “What if they gave a war and nobody showed up?” OmiAllah, the shock of the seventh century “news” in the twenty-first!
Returning to a business he must have considered manageable, surely in comparison, Pasoon gruffly said: “You have pleaded guilty to possession of contraband; specifically one Christian Dior Windproof Special Edition Golden Cross Lighter. Is that correct?”
At the time that was much more difficult a question than it might now appear. Since I was now aware that the evidence had been “misplaced” somewhere between Amjaad Iqbal and the Evidence Room, my first thoughts were to say that I had signed that confession only after extended application of the Heretic’s Fork; hoping and perhaps naively expecting that to be a mitigating circumstance even under Sharia law or Sharia whatever. I dismissed this as a bad idea upon mentally pursuing
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other possibilities; one of which was that the Islamic thieves would suddenly produce the item in question just to be a bitch; another that a re-sellable E-Bay acquired duplicate would be made available just to further enhance the Abu Grabby terrorist population with yeztruly. Those thoughts, more or less, required all the nano-second stated time attached to that of another unrequested efficiency boast attendant to a Goggle search as calculated and “volunteered” by Goggle; and I promptly responded with a; “Yes, your honol,” which seemed both uncontestable as well as bench deferential.
Despite my near-flawless execution of step one of my obsequious ploy, and in that further, despite my synchronized, clandestine and temporarily measured overture; the recognition of that, if any, obviously taken as a sign of weakness by the excessively needy, “important,” Basil Fawlty vis-à-vis Pasoon redundancy; was demonstrated through a continued hard-ass, fundamentalist approach, with Passon saying; “Do you realize that the cost of this purchase, currently estimated at twenty thousand, and we’re not talking Syrian pounds here, is enough to feed an Afghanistani family of four for each and every of the four months which precede the poppy harvest, as well as the
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ensuing 30-60 days during which the notes are expected to clear?”
I was momentarily tempted to avoid the trap of the financial mechanics to which Pasoon more or less accurately depicted through a rhetorical notion somewhat flawed through being much too suggestive of a cloister founded ideal, and thereby an outlook which was totally unaware of Dylan’s utopian hermit monk side saddle on the golden calf thingy of old; and threw out as if his perspective was absurdly analogous to that of Mister Murder; “As werr that of the yacht Brack Medarrion Box, on a roan from Miltel Muldel .......... any fulthel yadda yaddas ealprugged.”
I was encouraged when he had no contentious follow up. On a deceptively, seemingly practical level I again weighed my options hindered like an imperiled sovereign by the porous borders of immediate Muslim “necessity,” primarily through the nasty imposition of the rudeness of time constraint, which I was required to get on my side through the process of eliminating any consideration of that which falls outside the range of the normal distribution, thereby attempting to ape AlphaGo, who in
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turn was attempting to ape its techie designers understanding of human decision making under memory and time constraints, leaving out a few of the remote candidates. If they’re not going to co-operate by getting on the hill, then just the hell with the oddballs. Again I considered denying “full” possession, as claiming that I was just holding it for Norton might have worked when triaged with the US legal disallowance of being tortured into confessing and the US-bound-archaic-insistence-upon-evidence; two out of the three more than sufficient to likely establish reasonable doubt, since the item had disappeared into the “illegal,” yet sanctioned through non-enforcement of the Islamic world of Banu Sasan. But I quickly rejected that foolish notion engendered during the gone, rich, white, devil thief days; as any claim to having signed a confession “under duress”
is not recognized as either an ancient or “modern” Muslim legal concept and also very subject to a dismissal as Sharia “law”
does not require any sort of evidence, and even further dismissed that nonsense as the lighter in question or a copy of it might miraculously re-appear if the ISIS guards were as stupid as Amjaad Iqbal more or less said that they were; my short term memory function as inaccurate as a possibly faulty short term memory function allows. Yet, I had the disturbing feeling that something essential was missing. That feeling may have gotten more personal attention if Judge Pasoon had been a
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bit less boisterous in his lauding of hardships encountered by the Afghanistani Islamic sources of opiate origin.
Or vice-versa. With all this foreign, aberrant behavior prevalent, is one still expected to act as if they care about an Illuminilibtardi and PCP approval of a chosen, “needy” migration to the land of milk and honey? Aircraft and flotation devices were the vehicles of choice for the “impoverished” and
“desperate” Muslim Western Asian and Mexican haters of rich white devils, and ostensibly consequently wanted to join them. I have to admit that the day was wearing on, and my head was spinning not necessarily in tandem with that of the world, as I had only had a coffee or two; that starvation not in the best interest of promoting my attempt to not further populate the perennially combative, three-headed, Cerberus-like, contradictory beast’s Abu Grabby resort, segregated and exclusive to rich, white devils in possession of contraband; the intent to distribute apparently negotiable at some level of the Islamic version of beast; heavenly trips available for sums in excess of those formerly legally availed in US “damages” from the retailer, wholesaler, and/or manufacturer of bazookas used by Islamis to blow their own heads off.
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My consideration of alternatively stating that is a result of my not having been aspirationally trained as one certifiably blessed with a full-fledged metallurgical diploma, replete with a passed test, and thereby being a mere layman in no “expert”
position to estimate substance or value, posed merit. Without any fear of recrimination, I could say that I was always under the impression that the lighter was not gold, but merely a cheaply gold-leafed piece of scrap metal, like a Trump structure, without being in violation of the Islamic legal advancements evident in 2030 D.I.S.S.U.S., but I also dismissed that, in and of itself, for the same reasons summed up as no longer being in the US. An addition was needed. So I said; “No, youl honol. I had no idea as I did not pulchase this item.
Lathel it was a gift flom my dying father. It’s the last thing I have of his.” Tear ducts can be so damn un-cooperative sometimes. No matter, as the harshness previously in Pasoon’s eyes shifted toward a dewy malleability, and I was 75% sure that the departed daddy story worked better than any Muslim-bride-oppressed-woman’s-ISIS-jihadi persecution had in the past.
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I guess that I was at least partly wrong about that as Pasoon quickly recovered his contentious keel, and said; “I have no record of you having paid any inheritance tax.”
I said; “I was not awale that any tax was due for estates ress than some gleatly highel numbel they adjust for infration whenevel an Obama is not in office. As I said, this was the only thing I leceived flom my dad.”
Pasoon said; “My judgement is this. There will be no Abu Grabby for you. Place is over capacity anyhow. But, you are instructed to pay a 33% tax on your inheritance, inclusive of non-tax deductible penalties dating back to receipt of the item.”
I said; “Does that mean I’rr get the righter back?” I was thinking that I could dump it on E-Bay, pay the tax, get a buck bipty Bic, and keep the difference.
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Pasoon said; “Not rikery; errr likely. You may have noted the difficulty in retrieving anything after the ISIS thieves get their camel dung hands on it.”
I said; “I’rr be honest with you. I can’t pay. Just yesterday “Belnie”-Abdur ovel at the rocal ‘Jimmy Hoffa Memoliar Clematolium’ flanchise filed me. Though he shouldn’t have, he seemed to know something about my plobrem hele.”
Pasoon said; “Sakhifing Goggle as always. I wish they’d quit talking about it, get off their pesty nerd asses, and actually move to bolshie China. ....... Excuse me.”
I watched as Sasoon typed something into his laptop. I was completely un-nerved, as his angry, beady-eyed expression made me consider that his monetary judgement might turn to an overstocked Abu Grabby one. But, it was okay, as Sasoon was a rational man, despite Muslim Western Asian birth. Rather than a state draining incarceration, enjoyed only by the ISIS sadists who work at Abu Grabby, he wanted me to pay money to the state.
The simple practicality of John Kennedy’s “Ask not what your
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country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.”
flashed through my mind. Sasoon said; “You are hereby ordered to return to your non-sentient job at the local ‘Jimmy Hoffa Memorial Crematorium’ franchise at 9AM tomorrow; and if
“Bernie”-Abdul gives you any trouble just call me. A deduction from your wages will be made to satisfy your tax and penalty obligation over the next two years.”
I not only wanted to thank this man; I wanted to kiss his beard. But upon thinking of beard, I had a much greater passion for showing up tomorrow at 8:30AM, and setting fink Pal Konstanty’s beard on fire with a Bic.
On the way home I stopped at 7-11 and got a five pack of Bics for eight bipty nine plus Ayatollah cut. Norton was no longer there. I tuned the radio to BrightBart and picked up Trucker Carpson somewhere into his information vent. His words were as quick and sharp as the knife of an Islamic groomer.
“ ............... should be advised that the life of Muhammad demonstrates that torture is sanctioned in cases of
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interrogation. The prophet of Islam did not stop his people from beating and abusing individuals in his presence when information was needed, whether it concerned a matter of sexual impropriety or the location of wealth that could be looted. In at least one case of the latter, ‘the prophet’ is noted to have directly ordered the torture.
Torture is also allowed as a form of punishment and when putting people to death. Rather than prescribing quick methods of execution there were times when Muhammad ordered his men to make a victim's death as slow and agonizing as possible. In one case, his men literally pulled apart the body of an elderly woman named Umm Qirfa by tying her limbs to camels then sent in opposite directions.
One of the most influential Shia religious leaders in Iran recently extended the validity of torture to the practice of raping prisoners in the defense of Islam. Mesbah-Yazdi said that it was advisable for the rapist to ‘perform a ritual washing first and say prayers while raping the prisoner.’
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Mesbah-Yazdi went on to add that ‘If the judgment for the male or female prisoner is execution, then rape before execution brings the interrogator a spiritual reward equivalent to making the mandated Haj pilgrimage to Mecca, but if there is no execution decreed, then the reward would be equivalent to making a pilgrimage to the Shiite holy city of Karbala.’
According to the cleric, ‘If the prisoner is female, it is permissible to rape through the vagina or anus.’ When asked if the rape of men and young boys was considered sodomy, he said,
‘No, because it is not consensual.’
When asked how a Muslim might meet a good girl, he directed them to the MeetIslamicWomen.com website and advised disabling the white function.
A 2006 fatwa on the popular Islam website WikiFatwahPediaphile.com. authorized burning people as a form of punishment. It was pulled after ISIS began doing this to people in 2015.”
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On my way back I saw Norton walking a mile from our Humble Hovels development. He frantically waved, so I sped up and showed him the most vigorous rendition of Lal Shahbaz Qalander of Sehwan I could muster bird.
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The Broken Clock is Looted
I got back home and Alice greeted me like she did when we first met, excepting the question about the Trojan horse.
Understandable under the circumstances. I coolly answered her
“What Happened?” entreaty with; “Ah, they’re just after loot like every other migrant. The judge got me my job back just so that I can make their chump change payments.” For a second I thought that had to have sounded much too nonchalant; but I quickly settled into the realization that this well-loved woman knew me better than anyone on earth; both truth and bullshit.
I might have been paying too much attention to what was written rather than what their actions and speech suggested; but I was initially reticent to fill in all the details, as in the absence of any Islamic “authority’s” written attestation to an alternative understanding and/or a modern “enlightened”
disregard for prior words, I had seen what they had left for me to see. Duh? The IDEAS e-mail did explicitly forbid my doing so.
But since I already had told Alice of my “appointment” and had experienced what seemed to be a Muslim disregard for the precision of the Koran, I plugged in the particulars about the
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confiscated and quickly lost contraband lighter and my fine for non-payment of “inheritance taxes.”
She found that funny, so I added the part about how out of limited-resource-necessity the local Muslim authorities disregard honky devils finking on each other all the time; and work entirely from their Muslim based “Approved Fink List.”
Alice apparently found that much less funny, and shrugged as if to say; “What did you expect?”
Those considerations fell by the wayside when I opened the bedroom door to see that the place had been ransacked. Cabinets and drawers had been emptied onto the floor, closet doors were left open, furniture was upside down, the cushions were cut open and bleeding snips of humble foam rubber protruded with all the disheveled, sympathy-inducing ugliness attendant to a thwarted escapee, ceiling light fixtures made a maze of the floor, and, and, and; and most disturbing of all, Alice entered the bedroom again laughing.
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I said; “Are you all right?”
She replied; “Do I look all right to you?” before continuing her chuckles.
“What’s so funny?”
“The ISIS guys took the clock which doesn’t work.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“They got so excited about ‘sneaking out’ that 1905 Ansonia Mantel Clock which didn’t run and is probably worth about forty dollars, that they didn’t bother tossing the rest of the house.
The IDEAS ISIS crew must have thought it valuable.” Alice had to sit on the upside down Eames chair reproduction to maintain any sense of tickled balance.
D.I.S.S.U.S. 2030
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1905 Ansonia Mantel Clock; property of the author.
I was puzzled and said; “Won’t there be a contraband charge?”
“I wasn’t arrested and don’t expect to be.”
We embraced and laughed together once more.
James walked in, eyed the situation, and said; “You two tied one on again. And I’m not cleaning it up this time.”
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I said; “Are you learning your timing skills from Norton?”
James left, closing the door behind him.
Alice said; “So, Norton’s the fink?”
“Yeah, like thirty-three times. But they don’t pay any attention to the cranks. The only one that mattered was Pal Konstanty at work, which also means Khaleel Abadi. He was lusting after the golden cross lighter.”
“This doesn’t get it for him.”
“No. But, the sickest of the envious ones are as content as they can be through denying what they can’t have to everyone else.”
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Alice stood up and we cuddled. I was compelled to add; “We keep this stuff our little secret. Right?”
“Sure, babe. No point in showing our down cards.”
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The Grind Restored
The next day I returned to my re-appointed job at the crematorium. As usual, I got to the parking lot thirty minutes early as did Burner #2 Operator, Pal Konstanty. He may have been surprised to see me, as his khaki brown face went blank and buff. We nodded “mornin’” and leaned on our cars. I pulled out my Lucky Strikes, lighting one and offered the open pack to Pal.
As usual, Pal waved it off and got out one of his Camels, and said; “Could use a light though.”
I flipped on the flame of my Bic lighter and first lit my Lucky Strike. I had set it to the highest flame possible, just as I had done the other. I think that Pal admired and was entranced by that aspect of it, as he was continually without his own light, necessitating his cigarette being lit by it. His eyes bugged, likely the result of his secondary view. This time the flame emanated from an IDEAS approved Bic, rather than the customary, contraband golden cross. If he had any sense, at that point he should have exercised extreme caution, as there were now two things which were out of his norm. I couldn’t help but think that his sentient burner assignment was more a function of his alliance, rather than any testimony to his flaming acumen. I
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immediately wondered why that was not previously obvious to me.
I dismissed that in favor of my down-to-earth business at hand; not yet fully executed.
I started low, about ZZ Top’s belly button level, and slowly worked my way on up; maybe a function of placement, maybe a function of desire, maybe a function of my assessment of effective tactics; but undeniably a function of a few move forward statement of biased intent. When surreptitious Abadi finally may have seen the function and not its placement, that likely a much too generous a valuation of his abilities, though deemed necessary in mathematical calculation, his inertly yellowed face showed no sign of quickly noticing that it was not only our smokes that were lit. His long unkempt beard was kicking up a wild blast reminiscent of the government
“supervised” controlled burns scheduled for, and “efficiently”
performed when the easterly gusts exceed 40MPH on the scheduled day.
I smiled as Pal-Abadi sucked his smoke, blowing out a few drags. He seemed wary, though his face and body did its best to deny that by trying not to make his temporary posture the
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obvious affectation that it did. Concerned with his appearance to his audience consisting of yeztruly, I don’t think that he made any note of the conflagration which started below his head until the undeterred, thereby persistent flames reached the level of his nose. Yet he pretended that it wasn’t there and calmly dragged on his Camel. For some difficult to explain reason, I didn’t feel obliged to tell him of that Ayatollah-approved advancement. Apparently his supposedly sentient burning job prevented him from keeping up to date on his procedural Hadiths. No my yob, conscious Q-Tip.
To tell you the truth, I was kind of detached. I mean on one level, like I’m supposed to be all sorts of worried and helpful to the condition of a fink who tried to get me sent to Abu Grabby for life? Barf out. Get a little real. I suppose that, as a Christian, you’re not supposed to admit that, but if you want to bless and help your killer through putting up no self-defense; go ahead, jerk. I’ll deal with any possible repercussions when I meet the Ultimate Judge. On another level, this pathetic one; not having personally witnessed any ISIS-type brushfires, only having seen a few movies with flaming, soon-corpses-to-be, I was most taken by an intellectual interest in seeing at which point the searing pain level would become an
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item of personal burn victim note. ....... It seemed to be when the flame encompassed the Q-Tip head and the nose started to kind of melt. But, to be more certain, I’d have liked to have been able to observe at least bipty more similar events.
Spared the sideways crunching of squatting, like self-immolated Buddhist monks, Pal kind of kneeled there, ass not yet in the air, headless insofar as we rich, white demons traditionally think of Q-Tip regulated head/headlessness; his long beard perhaps having worked as an undocumented, enhanced natural accelerant; the obviously existent, dried green snot, not mentionable on the PCP owned web. His lower parts spasmed, though in an insignificant and confined area, somewhat like a miniaturized replay of what granny told me about what chickens do when their heads are cut off.
My smoke had a few drags left when I started to feel bad about the whole thing. For a second I considered telling the blaze deifying fanatic on the Approved Fink List that I’d take care of his woman and give her lots of Christian babies, but for some stupid reason balked in likely consideration of my early Christian teachings, and did not want to lie, as I was happy
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with my own, and had no interest in his ........ if any. So, I removed any feelings of guilt which might have been hag-witchly brewing when I told the heap of fat-on-a-low-flame; “You shouldn’t take it so personal, pal. Any sympathy is with your Camel. ........ Does it hurt? Oh well.”
And the ohest of dears; I fear that the inevitable Goggle duplication of this, in or out of context, might hinder the approval that I so crave from the solutionless-pissers-and-moaners-who-don’t-like-it-whatever-it-is, thereby ostensibly implying knowledge of a crossed what it is. In the most measured of responses I could imagine as appropriate under the circumstances, I was resigned to keeping the voice in my head which kept repeating; “Kiss Muslim ass before Biden kisses Obama’s once more.”
My dark doppelganger, aiming for a competitive joust to determine #1 darkest status found that the height of hilarity.
........ Sorry, no win or place; but you got a show, suck-up. If you are lucky, one day you will see real hate. Persevere, intrepid rookie. It is not all that hard to find.
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By the time my Lucky was down to a nub which perhaps jokingly mimicked what was left of Pal’s body, only serviceable with a roach holder which I no longer had; the smoke-acid, hippy days long gone, cursed to death not only through the concerted effects of right wing economic “education” passed down to those ignorantly agreeing in basic absentia; but more significantly by the fact that the system-working-necessity of full co-operation and giving-the-benefit-of-the-doubt reciprocity was just a short-lived, innocent, naïve inability to see that the overwhelmingly vast majority of those who perennially seek to take “smart” advantage would revert to default status as soon as the draft ended and the economy sputtered. If there is any, the mystery is why anyone would bother to say anything other than
“fuck you, let me get away” to such ignorant cretins. World continually contracted by scientific “advances,” the creeps took and continue to take stupidly perceived advantage of any situation which gave them an extra dollar bipty. I chucked my spent Lucky; careful to make sure it was fully out. I had always taken Smokey’s old advice of; “Only you can prevent forest fires.”
I entered the crematorium and took my place at burner #5, and commenced throwing the piled up, dead deer into the oven,
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obliviously content to go through the required motions, eased by my mental image of Pal’s righteous demise, hoping it lasted an eternity. Soon Abdul (Bernie) Nouri left his office and walked over to me. He said; “Got the word, sahib. Glad to have you back.”
Trying my best not to openly diss the sucker-under-the—
“irresistible”-throes-of-lock-step-identity-politics-identically-limiting-orders, who I actually would have set aflame in any verse I could imagine; instead I smiled and continued with my deer, rabbit, and squirrel chucking duties, wanting to show the pejorative aspect of my “diligence.”
Bernie slapped my back and said; “Good man. Carry on,”
apparently unaware, or very aware of the possible homophonic interpretation. I thought; “Oh, dear either way.”
Bernie gait stalled on the way back to his office. He turned to me and said; “I’m glad you didn’t take that previous day’s dismissal joke seriously. Glad you’re back and hope you enjoyed your day off; ........... with full pay, by the way.”
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Pretending to not know that I had job security passed down from a Pasoon high to which Bernie deferred, ............. okay, maybe from a corruption of on high, but as any distinction doesn’t matter in this particular case, I was quite jovial in responding; “Haha. No sweat, Bern.” Just like as in a “Wired,”
unwanted conversation, I had the whole thing recorded on this miniscule thingy here. To address Bernie’s deferential ‘well wishes,’ I used a productive and enjoyable yesterday to file a meta suit for worker harassment. In “modern” times, thieving owners no longer have the fascist right to instruct socially protected employees; though if dexterously deceptive, they still retain the ability based right to thwart the voted will of the majority of the people.
“................. “
“Little joke, Boss Bern. Hahaha.” I went back about my work; this morning inordinately high in squished chickens; while headlight fascinated deer were in the minority. In an hour the
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human corpses started to pile up next to un-manned Burner #2. It wasn’t as if the pile was anything more than you might see at a standard ISIS cleansing of rich white devils; but being in closed quarters, the internalized air was becoming an increasingly obnoxious stink of the type normally associated with the standard, unkempt, Muslim beards; the maggots, various, and sundry parasites jumping and playing in the rotting slime, no longer subjected to their customary boundaries. No doubt this would have been cheered by insulated globalists in the Cloisters; but within the stagnant air of this local “Jimmy Hoffa Memorial Crematorium” franchise, it was sufficient to get Boss Bernie’s attention, even from behind his now closed door. I guessed that there must have been some unsettling seepage, most prominent where the door’s base was a full quarter inch from the floor; as if the wall-to-wall carpeting had been removed in favor of a filthy, pressed board abomination which attempted to cheaply approximate wood.
I was on one of my serene quantum quantum breaks, monkeyed with only by the stench; the load of non-sentient carcasses now the job of the flames. Bernie finally came out of his office, and with an air attendant to those quaintly sidesplitting folk
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who want to appear as being in charge when they are obviously not; yelled out; “Why is Pal not burning?”
I almost laughed aloud, but realized that Pal may have gone out by now. And in the typical response to those quaintly sidesplitting folk who want to appear as being in charge when they are obviously not, Bernie received a silence that might have been sufficiently cacophonous to raise the buried dead.
I thought that by now, since Pal must have had adequate time to have been through with his burning assignment of today, and had likely entered the esoteric phase which transcends considerations bound by epidermal constraints. That silly kind of optimistic expectation always leads to depressive results.
But I felt immune due to prior vaccinations and I followed Bernie outside, if for no other reason than to get some fresh air.
We saw the smoldering rubble heap which was once Pal.
Presented with another unfinished cadaver, Bernie seemed upset,
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saying; “What happened here? What happened here? What happened here?”
Not thinking that his questions were directed toward me, I said nothing. While Bernie was pacing I saw that my golden cross lighter was in the heap. It had been dirtied by the ash, but was still visible to me. I pocketed it while Bernie was nervously calling the authorities, most concerned that he might not be paid full price for immolating an already half-baked stiff.
My fleeting optimistic thoughts of being advanced to Burner
#2 were dashed an hour later when Qadim al-Beydoun took Pal’s place there, after the briefest of introductions. Qadim seemed a natural for the job. Having the raghead, dull eyes, the beard, and a nifty command of the English language, suggestive of habbing bin in this country a long distance, I guessed that he had significant prior experience in a shithole, Muslim country crematorium.
Oh well; I had dad’s lighter back. When I stopped to light a Lucky on the way home; I tested it, and it still worked!
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Immersion in my pocket had removed most of the ash, and it shone as brightly in the late day sun as Muhammed did on Lailatul Miraj Day when the angels purified him with Zamzam water, filling his murdering, torturing, and raping, heart with wisdom and belief, and he ascended to heaven, where he was honored by being allowed to see Allah directly, visiting the highest levels of heaven, and leading all the past Prophets in prayer.
......... “Damn,” I muttered. “Where did I leave my supply of Zamzam water? Could it be all gone? 7-11 could be so erratic in their stockings.”
That question was soon forgotten, as I was so excited to have gotten back my one possession of dad’s, twenty thousand smackers worth, and my Lucky had a few puffs left.
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Tupac Obama’s Speech
For the rest of my day at the crematorium, things proved to have been rather uneventful; any further heavenly ascensions; they either non-existent or going unreported in the calamitous face of effort rewarded by pragmatic, dollar seeking, D.I.S.S.U.S. judges bearing a discernable affinity for crinkly, green things, oblivious to their previously having resided in the barnyard, penned in a semi-sloppy and semi-lumpy vessel.
In the Illuminitardi forbidden, Hebraic words, whether to the easily believable low end of a wondrous Vilon, while certainly not dared to be humbly expectant of the high end hyper wonder of Aravot; the miracle unfolded.
D.I.S.S.U.S. 2030
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Muhammed’s ascension with some explanatory Arabic notes; modified public domain.
My humble day had been spent with the dead; disposing through gas powered flames of mostly squirrels, pet white lizards, pet Muslim rats, and various predatory pigeons. When I got back home, Alice was already there, futzing with one humble, cast aluminum, unclad, supposedly unstuck pot or another. I took dad's lighter out of my pocket and lit up a Lucky. Alice made no
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note of it, and cuddled me perfunctorily, as if she felt it necessary to do the obligatories while tired. There was something else which exceedingly had her interest, perhaps a preciously generated glimpse into Aravot.
She said; “How was your first day back, hon?”
“Ah, same old burning of non-sentient carcasses. You?”
Alice didn’t have to feign the deadpan voice, with which she replied; “Same old babysitting of immigrant kids until their
‘loving’ parents sober up, find their way to the Humbletown Social Services Center, file a complaint, and eventually somehow remember to take them back.”
Was I a rookie Alice lover, I might have been offended, feeling rejected. That would have been all too self-centered and in zero recognition of the crap she had put up with all day.
Since I’d been around the block more times than a slow, foreign kid on the training wheels supplied by D.I.S.S.U.S. largesse, I
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looked forward to the mysteries she was about to reveal. .......
Retrograde backtrack. I felt guilty, but I was first uncontrollably compelled to again show her the lighter. When she again saw it, this time making note, she perked up, or so I would like to think. As I had hoped, she didn’t inquire about the source. Had she, I’d likely have been unforgivably stupid and told her, despite her early admonitions not to. Together we found an excellent hiding place in the garage, catty-corner to the tricky, electric chainsaw, which the ISIS guys had either overlooked in stopped-clock excitement or rejected as having been much too difficult to handle in their fledgling understanding of the high tech acumen required to make effective use of a rich, white, demonic extension cord.
Charges of limitations be damned, I only planned to use it when smoking at home.
Upon re-entering in the standardized tandem dictated by standardized space, Alice truly did seem perky to me when she said; “Come and look at what I found on the web,” as we once again entered the house proper. She led me to her juiced laptop.
There it was. The choice was ours. The screen contained a poll
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regarding Brexit. It was not of the largest of concerns in D.I.S.S.U.S., but an interesting diversion. I read the screen top which said “QueraOutdatedRelies.com,” and proceeded downward or vice-versa from there; that ostensibly required word
“necessary” for an accepted, complete sentence; and herein offered only as a wish to continue the levity. Yes, Alice had it right there with the push of a refreshing button. I tried to read and may have done that; she didn’t confirm by saying anything. Super cool.
Poll
Question: What do you think of Brexit now?
1) I favor a second vote. And if the stupid Brit citizens and Muslim illegal aliens get it wrong again, a third.
2) Trick or treat.
3) Who cares? Only things that happen in D.I.S.S.U.S. (formerly the U.S.) matter anyway.
4) Wanna get punched?
5) I don’t know. Whether the UK leaves or stays, the experts say it's bad for the economy. Limbo on down.
6) I like Paisano.
7) Boris Johnson's hair is really pretty cool. If he'd just stop cutting it, he could look like Rod Stewart with an untreated eating disorder.
8) The UK is a member of what Communist organization?
9) Upstanding Brits do not want to belong to any club that admits Italians, Germans, and Polocks. Pul-eeze.
10) Hasn't Brexit's term expired by now?
11) Let the UK Parliament boys play some more. They're on the verge of a major breakthrough, in designing an insoluble Rubik's cube.
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12) At this point the UK is a better candidate for the Parliamentary Union of the Organization of Islamic Co-operation Member States. Jeez, these Ragheads just love the long names and titles; don’t they?
13) What legitimate business do these foreigners have here anyway?
14) One world? Your cracked ass.
15) How about London remains and the rest of the UK leaves, and the leaving segment of the UK doubles our offered cash settlement part of the agreement?
16) I'm not voting because no one ever listens to me anyway.
17) If you add any more possibilities, you're getting such a fatwah, you rich white fascist demon.
18) If the Irish sots have to stand on line longer, I don't care. Let them bring an extra flask or three.
19) Its absolutely futile. GR-Amaway has now disabled my "like"
button.
20) Isn't the UK surrounded by some kind of water or something which prevents invasion? I mean like, the bums can’t just walk here. Right?
21) Please be advised that answers not approved by the Euro-PCP
may subject you to Tommy Robinson treatment, you inadequate agent of provocation. No footy games for you! You got to be either smart or cyber hidden these “advanced” days.
22) I just wish that Trump was Prime Minister. He'd build a wall and the shithole countries in the EU would have to pay for it.
23) It is not my fault. I’m completely innocent.
24) If you need social media recognition; beware of Gog, Golligog, and Goggle.
25) Why are you asking stupid questions? Either way we’re all fucked. After all, we are still exercising our modified free will. Aren’t we?
26) Before answering, I’d like to first know what Putin says.
27) What’s a Brexit? Is it anything like Franzen’s “The Corrections?”
28) I bet that you haven’t yet seen what Brexit spells backwards. Where is McCartney when you need him?
29) Kill that commie Corbyn.
30) Many more answers are possible, but I’m cutting it here, primarily out of a psychologically healthy disinterest.
31) You know where you can shove your stupid polls. Don’t you?
32) Where did this mess start?
33) If we close our eyes and dream, Brexit will go whatever way we have subliminally chosen. Leave the details for those so inclined to be blighted.
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I said; “I’d definitely vote for #15. A mutually beneficial reciprocating compromise is needed.”
Alice excitedly said; “Me too! What a perfect wavelength we have for slightly in excess of two hours every week.”
“Better we keep it to ourselves though, as Goggle will know and they blab like the National Enquirer on steroids. No big thing, but it just ain’t any of their algorithmic, squealing business. Nowhumsayin?”
Now more enthused, like a homie not interested in approximating the distance between a currently scanned object vis-à-vis the lacking technology available to portray it in less enlightened times; though not inclined to respond to an overly obvious question through some sort of elementary form of osmosis, no matter how simplistically, and imaginatively broached through the likelihood of a widely compelling; perhaps subliminally engendered, long term appreciation in decline of the immediate merit easily conveyed, desperately, and in that which is restricted as to the prevalent previous, Alice dashed
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to the TV room, saying; “Just in time. Any second now, our Second-Muslim-in-Chief, Tupac Obama is giving a speech which his minions have characterized as ‘significantly ground breaking,’
the customary leaks silent. I don’t know completely, but am reasonably certain that the ‘new’ ideas theoretically and obviously attendant to the electable bullshit of his daddy, are designed to serve as an un-apologetic apology to the tintinabular attendance of prior assholery. This could be funnier than those Trump-boiling-and-eating-brown-orphan jokes used to be.”
Omigod. Alice’ beauty once more overwhelmed me. For the infinitely un-countable of the wondrous Alice days of my life, which were much too often viewed through my blinders as difficult to not do so, as that which was reasonably expected at the naïve outset, I was humbled, thankful, and in possession of a Trojan horsey.
I have to admit that I instinctively had my doubts about the degree to which sheltered-through-First-Muslim-in-Charge-parentage Tupac Obama could outdo the surreal prognostications of one who has actually been somewhere; like an elected, roaming
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jihadist. But, simple, simple, simple acquired taste; I trusted Alice’ assessment, and sat next to her in front of the TV. Alice held my hand and smiled at me as if to say “This is going to be more than good.”
With a more than anxious semi-air toward the “newest” of words, most akin to the expectation of a hissing and howling cursory cat fight over an illogical over-supply of vittles cat-deemed otherwise, most attendant to the scenario in which it is only permitted to publicly state one of the entire set of
“logical” reactions; that in support of a now Muslim controlled politik of identity falsely identifying an overwhelming, unannounced, and bogus shortage for all but the rich, white devils, in which all too capacious, “professionally proficient”
practitioners in detached retrospect “wisely” couch their bias in a wrapping they incorrectly think to be not too obviously in conjunction with the latest polls and the cumulative media popularities on all of the Muslim Broadcasting Channel; in which the few significant participants, followed by their regurgitatively trained minions seeking the “niche recognition”
of their leaders pretend not to notice that there are actually at least three other participants, likely infinitely more
......... I curtailed my incomplete thought/sentence in favor of
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focusing on Alice in the TV room, while puffing my Lucky, with dad’s golden cross lighter once more safely in my pocket, and trusting her interest. I vowed not to joke of the BS I was certain to soon hear ........ unless she did first. I was excessively proud to think that any flip-flop would have confounded the likes of a simplistic Occam. He might well have taken a hint from the currently fashionable Muslim rejection of razors. No matter, the problem, if any, was now that of his simple cadaver.
All of their possible “convincing” subterfuges which made me momentarily unsure about the effects of the fine print bastion of the devil, which obviously lie in incorrectly giving the appearance of having taken up residence somewhere within the remains of Pal’s ashes floated away; much like the digitally enhanced 2030 Retro Programmed improvement upon “Happy Days,”
now a thrice weekly provided “Purged Infidels,” with Richie, Potsie, Joanie, and Fonzie redone as Omar, Amir, Aaliyah, and Muhammad. Don’t ask me why there was only one. One is reticent to characterize the updated base lines improvement as
“drowning.” ............ Please excuse me. Simultaneous re-consideration has raised the possibility that I might have crossed the line toward that which might be too easily
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interpreted as seriousness by the low IQ ninnies. One must always be cognizant of current considerations; ninniehood the denied domain of the “impassioned-relevant-with-overwhelming-issues” “artistes” of no recognition, proudly so, on their inevitable path toward Joani Mitchell’s early seventies concept, finally stated in clarity, of virginity going to the grave.
Apologies, my most dear and patient mind reader. It is only my sincerely based inadequacy which results in a penchant to address the inconsequential whiners; my resultant failure to properly convey what I’d like to; the simplest of intended entertainments, now no more of a pre-pre-antiquarian ideal once wrongly seen as manifested in Roosevelt’s teddy bear. I guess that one has been heard many times before; but with continued apologies most profuse, I don’t think that Alice has; and that’s at the top of my priorities list. I’d be willing to wager a moderate sum that only one of us has previously been subjected to an encounter with a money grabbing immigrant, most skilled in an ability to “no speeka da yinglish” at moments most convenient to any perceived entrée into a discussion of their bullshit.
Sorry, strangers. Not. Required to say that. Hehehe. With likely self-aggrandizement intended, I digress into a realm not of my humble origin. That circumstance a momentary diversion easily
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well-manipulated; I was with my wonderful lady; both my immediate and long-term trust in Alice.
The screen showed and in fact further bellowed in a prepared audio, which seemingly was all too consistent with that which that the commentators were still doing their needed attempt at a best of their space-filling bit, more or less, with a penchant toward a myriad of chosen antecedents supposedly like what will soon come; like the many book reviewers who show their brilliance through portraying the current effort as one which is a mix of prior this, prior that, and even prior that; ostensibly thinking they have thereby demonstrated a superior knowledge of the subject from somewhere above, while producing a document of no use to a potential reader.
“Mr. Vice President, Allahu akbar, Mr. Spokesman, Allahu akbar, Ayatollahs, Allahu akbar, Imams, Allahu akbar, other dignitaries, Allahu akbar, welcomed immigrants, Allahu akbar, black brothers, Allahu akbar, my fellow Muslims, Allahu akbar, and rich white devils; kol khara. Our movement has always been about replacing a failed and corrupt political establishment with a new government controlled by you, the corrupt Muslims of
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this Delphic Islamic Squealing State of the United States; of course with welcomed input from Muslims throughout the world.
There is nothing that the Trump and Trump Jr. led, political establishment would not do, and no lie they would not tell, to hold on to their prestige, money, and power at your expense.
The Washington establishment, and the financial and media corporations that fund it, existed for only one reason: to protect and enrich itself. I’m here to tell you that it is now our turn. Thank you. Thank you.
The establishment had trillions of dollars at stake. As an example, just one single trade deal they’d have liked to pass, involved trillions of dollars controlled by many countries, corporations through their crooked lobbyists.
For those who control the levers of power in Washington, and for the global special interests they partner with, our turnaround mission represents an existential threat.
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This is not simply another rephrased rehash of prior failed policies. In consistency with that thought we boldly propose some conciliatory changes in law, with which I’m most proud to say with ‘Crackers DISSUS Ayatollah Council’ majority approval; no mean feat. That is not meant to preclude the possibility of errant, rebellious, minority, relevance alleging fatwahs. Hear this people! We will end incarceration for being a rich white devil; much like we have come to accept the legitimacy of rich brown, yellow, and black devils. We are not racists. In place we suggest only the imposition of hefty fines for the first three detected offenses. Come on people. Rather than severed heads, we get money. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thought that you would understand subsequent to my having stated the obvious.
Thank you.
This is a crossroads in the history of our civilization that will determine whether or not we, the righteous Muslim people reclaim control over our world.
The wicked political establishment which was trying everything to stop us; has done what they do best; failed. Western wastes of a weinie. This is the same group responsible for our
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disastrous capitalistic economic policies which have bled this country dry in favor of a few handfuls of untaxed wolves, barely above one percent. It’s a clandestine global power structure that is responsible for the decisions which deny rights to immigrants in search of work and new drug markets. It is hereby decreed that all residents of DISSUS shall be deemed citizens thereof; except the rich white devils, sometimes referred to as oceanic wetbacks; with full rights to vote, receive welfare, and like it or not, will be Illuminilibtardi protected from any verbal inconvenience foisted upon them by the rich white devils under the promise of swift and sure application of the spiked rack. Thank you. Thank you. Yes. Yes. Yes, indeed. We have country. Another country. Thank you. Yes.
And this Islamophobia! Damn this Islamaphobia! We Muslims are more reasonable than our detractors. We offer non-Muslims many options. They can convert, leave, or be killed. The choice is entirely theirs. But, no; the devils have established fortified sanctuary cities. Why just today, the big news of the day was of a suicide bombing at the southern entrance to Tokeneke, an obscenely rich white enclave within the obscenely rich white sanctuary city of Darien, Connecticut. Among other slingers of fake news, the Wall-Street-Journal-in-exile reported it to have
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been a ‘failure,’ as the bomb was most likely set off at the entrance gates by the programming which is normally activated through a battery operated clicker; injuring only the metal gates, a few bushes, and the patriotic Muslim in the vest.
Failure? Failure? There is no failure in dying for your principles. Thank you. Thank you. There is only honor and the fear it places in the hearts of the wicked.
Consistent with the rich, white devil’s disregard for workers, the previous gate attendant was long gone as the residents thought it best not to have low income people in the vicinity.
The heroic bomber’s fragmented and spread out corpse once
belonged to one Ibrahim Salih Mohammed Al-Yacoub, known as Sammy to many, according to both DNA and facial recognition tests performed upon the severed head. Many of you might not be aware that the explosion of chest level bombs go outward; often making spaghetti of the body, but leaving the head intact. Allegations have been made of the homeowner’s association having inserted algorithms capable of triggering home-made bombs, and are under investigation.
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But, hear me. Hear me. In honor of Ibrahim Salih Mohammed Al-
Yacoub, we have proposed the ‘Sammy’ law. Are you ready? Are you ready? The thwarting of a suicide bombing which results in the death or dismemberment of the bomber will hereafter be punishable by death. This was no simple achievement, as when the result of an Ayatollah fatwah, it was politically necessary to differentiate the word from the deed. The issuer of the fatwah, if any, is not to be held responsible for any subsequent actions of nutcases, desperate for a meaning to their so called life.
The separation from our formerly guaranteed freedom of religion and the state decreed form of it the major complication. But no matter the boring legal details. Let’s hear it for Sammy.
............. Thank you. I’m sure Sammy is watching and thanking all of you too.
With devil control over our government at stake, with trillions of dollars on the line, the Sanctuary Honky Chateaus and their disgusting minions are determined to achieve the destruction of our righteous campaign, which has now become a movement the likes of which no country has ever seen before, outside of a fleeting German attempt a century ago. And don’t worry folks.
We’re not going to let them do it. Nope. No fucking way. Thank you. Thank you. We’re going to isolate the devils that we don’t
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dispose of. Yes. There will be no more northern reinforcements to bolster their sad ranks, as we’re going to build a wall on the Canadian border. No longer will the Drybacks be allowed to rape and pillage with impunity. No longer will the nuck devils be allowed to mingle amongst our good Muslim people spreading disease. No longer will our open northern border be crossed by violent members of the Canadian Mafia and MS-13. No longer will the Canuckleheads steal Muslim jobs. No longer. No longer. Thank you. Thank you.
And Canada’s going to pay the full cost. I’ve already met with Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and he agrees that since his people are creating the problems his country will bear the financial burden. You can bet your sweet hijab on that.
From this day forward hockey is banned in DISSUS. That racist, so called ‘sport’ is nothing more than the devil’s display of cheered stupidity and toothless snow monkeys skating around like little girls.
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The most powerful weapon deployed by the Devils is the corporate media. Let’s be clear on one thing: the corporate media in our country is no longer involved in journalism. They are a political special interest, no different than any lobbyist or other financial entity with an agenda. And their agenda is to elect corrupt Devils at any cost, at any price, no matter how many lives they destroy. For them, it is a war, a crusade, and for them, nothing is out of bounds.
This is a struggle for the survival of my father’s ‘new ideas’
for our nation. This is not just conspiracy but reality, and you and I know it.
The Deep Devil establishment and their media enablers wield control over this nation through means that are well known.
Anyone who challenges their control is deemed to be morally deformed. They will attack you. They will slander you. They will seek to destroy your career and reputation. They will remove you from FaceBook and all forms of social media simultaneously in obvious collusion. And they will lie, lie and lie even more.
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People who are capable of such crimes against our nation are capable of anything. But I take all of their slings and arrows for you. I take them for our movement, so that we can set our country on the path of Allah. Our great and ancient civilization, here in DISSUS and across the civilized world, has come upon a moment of reckoning.
We’ve seen it in the United Kingdom, where the Devils voted to remove themselves from global Muslim government, Sharia Law, and global immigration deals that have destroyed their hateful sovereignty.
The central base of White political power is now more dispersed than ever. Here in D.I.S.S.U.S., excepting the Sanctuary Cities, it necessitates costly guerilla battle with cells of terrorists, which work to discredit efforts at radical globalization and promotes the disenfranchisement of the Islamic ruling people; Allah’s good people. Their financial resources are unlimited.
Their political resources are unlimited. Their media resources are unlimited. And, most importantly, the depths of their immorality is unlimited. They have no soul.
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The only thing that can stop the Corrupt White Devils is you.
The only force strong enough to save Islamic infiltration is you.
Let me intersperse a few quotes I like.
‘The best way to persuade someone is not to let them believe that the idea is theirs as dumb as it may sound. The best way to persuade someone is torture.’
‘Morals are the opium of the humble. If you haven’t yet noticed, it’s a humble eat humble world, fazool face.’
‘Rich white Americans are the Devil on earth. Allah blesses you for killing one. Allah blesses you more for killing a few. Allah blesses you with a seat next to Muhammed if you kill 700. The Ayatollah gives you a discount card usable at the mosque gift shop of your choice for killing more than thirty.’
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They have corrupted the former Director of the FBI to the point at which stories are already saying the great men and women who work for the FBI are embarrassed and ashamed of what he’s done to one of our great institutions. The Trumps are guilty of all of the things that the Director said; plus some. And yet he let them off the hook, while others lives are being destroyed for far less.
This is a conspiracy against you, the good people of DISSUS.
This is our moment of reckoning as a society and as a civilization.
I didn’t need to do this. I had a wonderful life living off the benefits of my father having been a man of influence. I could have enjoyed the benefits of years of unbridled pleasure and possessions for myself and my family, instead of going through this absolute horror show of lies, deceptions and malicious
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attacks. I’m doing it because this country has given me so much, and I feel strongly that it was my turn to give something back.
Some people warned me this campaign would be a journey to hell.
But they were wrong; as it is a journey to heaven because we will help so many people and eliminate so many rich white devils. Indeed, the evil forces of the former USA, the infidels, have been entirely removed from our holy lands which had been temporarily viewed as being located between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea that also includes the eastern bank of the Jordan River. I am here to tell you that holy territory expands and expands in throes of shattered decency; the distinction between verbs and adjectives essential. For the heathens and uninformed listening, traditionally ‘the Holy Land’ may be roughly considered as synonymous with both the biblical land now called Israel on a secular basis, while not that of the religiously based Israel, yet to come. Still, Jews, Christians, and Muslims all popularly regard it as holy. I confess to not yet having made my Hajj. I look forward to ending my sacrifice, and experiencing that pleasure when my duties here in D.I.S.S.U.S. end. ............ I sincerely hope that when that fabulous day arrives, there will still be a few Muslims left there.
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The residue of the corrupt D.I.S.S.U.S. establishment knows that we are also an existential threat to their criminal enterprise.
They knew that when our electoral college win showed them how 22% of the people, including the ‘undocumented’ voters could provide the grounds for an effective coup. All praises to Allah.
Their power is gone and returned to you. The clouds hanging over our government have been lifted, and replaced with a bright future. But it all depends on whether we let the rich, white devils at BrightBart influence our future; or whether we let the brave and good Muslim jihadist people decide our future.
If this rich white devil campaign of flagrantly provocative secession is allowed to continue, then no other highly successful, Muslim, son of a bitch will ever again run for this office.
I will not lie to you. Their false attacks hurt. To be lied about, to be slandered, to be smeared so publicly and before your family, is painful. The size of one’s hand has no bearing upon the size of one’s woo.
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What the rich white devil machine is doing to me and my family, is egregious beyond words. It is reprehensible beyond description.
But I also know that it’s not about me. It’s about all of you.
It’s about all of us, together, living to the fullest, if male, Islamic, and of color, in Allah’s open frontier of dreams; where they would draw the silly lines of fascist oppression through borders only visible on their gas-station-supplied-folding-maps of limitation.
It’s about the Jihadists who need medical care, the mothers who’ve lost children to white terrorism, crime, and lawlessness, 70% inaccurate Yankee drones. It’s about defeating the Bilderberg Group and appointing Supreme Court justices who will defend Sharia, rather than that hoary, racist, white paper called the Constitution.
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This movement is also about the African-American and Hispanic people, legal or not, whose communities had been plunged into crime, poverty and failing schools merely through the criminalization of drug sales to the rich white devils. They would rob these citizens of their future, and I will give them their hope, jobs and opportunities back. I will deliver. No more minority ghettoes. We will move the ghettoes back where they belong; with the majority. Thank you. Thank you.
We will rise above the lies, the smears, and the ludicrous slanders from ludicrous reporters.
We will vote for the lack of country we want.
We will vote for the future we want.
We will vote for the politics we want.
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We will vote to put this rich, white Deep State, corrupt government cartel out of business. We will remove from our politics the special interests who have taken crumbs to worship at the feet of the evil, rich, white, military industrial complex; betraying our workers, our ideals, our freedoms, our belief in one world, and our Islamic destiny to rule. We will end the politics of profit. We will end the rule of special interests. We will put a stop to the raiding of our land, and the disenfranchisement of our people.
Please join me in taking back our holy land, and creating a bright and glorious new dawn for our Muslim people.
Allahu akbar.”
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Hovel Sweet Hovel
I politely waited for the conclusion of the raucous ending cheers, like those seen by Trump, Sr. on 9-11, forever commemorated in his now infamous, despite PCP deleted, both at the source and comment; “Hey, I watched when the World Trade Center came tumbling down. I know what I saw. I’m a witness. We are all witnesses when we dare to speak a truth now ‘popularly’
reviled. The Illuminilibtardi and their loved Muslims cannot delete our memories; our memories of how we watched the unwashed, Q-Tip beardo heads and their covered, complacent female servants in Jersey City, New Jersey, where thousands and thousands of them were cheering ‘Allahu akbar’ between their incomprehensible din unforgettable as that great, and world occupied building was coming down. Thousands of people were cheering. Cheering. Unable to create anything other than perennial conflict, poverty, and ruins, that destruction is what they desire. Pathetic. Losers. Miscreants. Why are we destined to keep repeating what is obvious? Fuck them, and their foreseeable, following fatwah fart. Or better yet, don’t.”
Their Muslim-supportive endings were once more made tangibly overt through their obscene display of thousands of
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screamingly flatulent, “raised” asses. Surprise, fucking surprise. Barf out! It may be a cultural thing, but Midwest Muslim Asian turn-ons don’t translate well in the rich, white, deviled west.
Backing up into the only part of Obama’s bullshit which didn’t seem an over-the-top-attempt at an anti-amusement born in like 1910 or something even older, of Beckett, I said to Alice;
“Our tenant called himself Sammy, rather than Ibrahim Salih Mohammed Al-Yacoub; his real name. I once saw his mail.”
She said; “Maybe; but those guys often have the same names, as there is only about ten to choose from.”
“Well, his twenty year old Toyota pickup hasn’t been around. And yesterday’s Tokeneke event was also when I stopped hearing the wailing oud serenade. It’s not as if one has to make much of an effort about these things, as an electrified oud sounds something like a cat dying a slow painful death, and Sammy’s falsetto “Oooohh byyu Allahu ooo ooo” was only an improvement to the extent that it out ooo’d the oud.”
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“Yeah, but you know I was getting accustomed to that stuff.
Ooooooo be doooobie doooooo, dooooo doooooooo dooooooo deeeedum.”
“I think that you might have left out either the Allahu part or the early fifties version of doo-wop.” I got up and knocked on the painted piece of sheetrock which I had put up to separate our living areas. I heard nothing and called out;
“Sammy, you in there?”
I still heard nothing, so I knocked more loudly, yelling out; “Sammy! Fire! Drones!” This didn’t produce any Sammy sound, but it brought James in from the garage, where he had been riding his scooter in circles again.
James said; “Where?” as he reeled in dizziness toward the kitchen counter, regaining an iota of balance at the far end which also hosted the indelibly inked, Satanic graffiti left by the ISIS team of tossers.
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I said; “Uh, hard to explain. Something like trying to raise the dead with a pungent oxymoron. By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you that it’s okay to take the scooter outside; and if that gawking Fincke says anything, show him the super-duper royal bird all the way up to the elbow.
James grinned and said; “Cool. How about that dirty Norton creep?”
“With both hands, kid.” James and Alice cheered and I was more exhilarated than the time I “accidentally” knocked “Siesta Javier” into the water just to see if swimming was one of his natural talents. I got my hammer, pounded on that piece of sheet rock with my fist, and called out; “Sammy, this is your last chance. I’m coming in right NOW or it’s the hammer!”
Expected silence.
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As my hammer smashed away at that sheet rock, Alice and James started to chant; “Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall. Tear down that wall.” The happy sound reverberated around the house like any banal hip-hop repetition.
Perhaps sensing the silly gif possibilities that presented, they switched over to; “No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours. No more renting. This is ours.”
It was like I was starring during the last two minutes of the banned Super Bowl. Small at first, the shards of shattered sheet got chubbier and chubbier as the partition got increasingly detached. Before it was completely gone, still rough at the edges, I got uncontrollably excited at the sight of
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the plugged-in electric oud on the other side; and prematurely went through. James and Alice followed as closely as a jihadist does a crackpot Ayatollah.
The first thing I saw was that the oud was propped against the wall which faced Mecca ........ or vice-versa. I don’t know or care; just figured that the rag-headed bomber might of had such considerations when he was in heavenly bliss.
Instinctively, as if it had a mind of its own, my hammer smashed the oud, leaving it in worse shape than an ISIS detainee.
D.I.S.S.U.S. 2030
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Pre-smash Oud; property of the author.
I flicked on the light switch. With no frets and a short pencil neck, the shattered brown Q-Tip headed instrument looked easier to play than a drum. On a roll, I tried it; unaware of the oud’s having been “tuned” to a previous, now totally demolished number four. The guitar-sitar sound, tending toward a screeching parody of the latter, filled the room through the plucked, electrified, un-connected, and loose four strings, which came amplified through each of the four wall’s speakers in a brief linguistic shade of Simon and Garfunkel. “Homeward bound. I wish I was homeward bound.”
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James must have teased when he said; “Finally! The answer to played out rap. You’re a natural, dad.” Alice’s eyes went somewhere else, like they used to do to The Church’s “Bel-Air.”
As we strode through Sammy’s damage, apparently now unconcerned about brainless and facile gif repetition possibilities, both Alice and James re-commenced chanting. I joined them after the first few bars.
“Take back our hovel. Take back our hovel. Take back our hovel. Take back our hovel. Take back our hovel. Take back our hovel. Take back our hovel. Take back our hovel. Take back our hovel. Take back our hovel. Take back our hovel. Take back our house. Take back our home.”
End
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Feb 2026Toxic capitalism and corporate greed run rampant once more, as the laws long have become lackeys of tyranny, or partners in crime. Still, like her mother befo...
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