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    Яαgιи Яαvєи
    Cairo, Egypt
    Wanting people to listen, you can't just tap them on the shoulder anymore. You have to hit them with a sledgehammer, and then you'll notice you've got their strict attention.
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Tapping at my chamber door

Friday, June 30, 2006

Deep vicinity of absolute bullshit

When I was sixteen, the age of naturally self-inflicted stupidity, I was obsessed with the idea of liberty. I raved about it everywhere, saying that I'm too good for all of this, that I'm worth much, much more. I was young then, I was stupid. I had dreams of becoming this and that. I had what I've later come to define as pseudo ambition. All things change in due time, or so they say, or so I've come to believe, sadly.

They call it their bill of rights. Look deeper and there it is, their first amendment.

'Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.'

Years passed. I've grown. I'm a man now. I've wasted away my youth rebelling against my life and standing up for fake ideas and magazine covers. I thought I was defending a good cause, holding that bill in my right hand and holding tight to my sword in my left, but I was wrong. I forgot to read the bill through, that bill that I run through its pages today only to find that it's an S&M porn magazine. I was young. I was stupid. I try to fool myself into believing that I held on to that magazine in purpose, that I enjoyed holding on porn since I was a teenager, but one can't fool himself too much.

For one to be great you have to stand up for your reality, not for your dream. This is how you achieve your true greatness. My dream was to run away from my life, to run to some fantasy I've chased for so long and now have started to believe that it might all be figments of my own imagination, my own creation. They lied to me.

They told me that I could have any name, but they'd reject my visa application if Mohamed was found there or if I forget to shave off my beard. They told me that religion doesn't matter, but now they shove their fingers into my face, reject my job application, invade my country, and call me names. They do those things hiding behind their first amendment. They're providing pseudo freedom to their multi racial drugged population. They kill my kind believing that it's for a good cause. They're banishing terrorists. They're bringing liberty and freedom to the world. Well, guess what ol' champ? I don't feel free. You hold your banner up high and march the world towards us. How free should I be? How safe am I supposed to be? Should I run, hide in some underground cave, leave home and my own personal bill of rights? Would you promise me freedom if I carried that star spangled pirate flag for you? Would you promise me salvation if I accepted your proposal, if I agreed to be your human shield against the perilous fight? Would you promise me sovereignty if I exercised my right to shut the fuck up, if I let you walk over my dead body while you march towards my home, my family? Would you promise me liberty fries?

Your star spangled banner doesn't mean anything to me anymore. I gave up on it; I gave up on you, years ago. I am no longer young and I'm no longer stupid.

Wake up and smell the time bomb you're creating. Your definition of the word freedom has flaws in it. Your 9/11 is self induced. Saddam is of your own creation. He's your excuse for an invasion. You are your own nuclear war threat. Osama doesn't even exist. Your justified notion of freedom is but a wound that's self inflicted. You are the terrorist whom I fear. You are the warlord, only you've made it sound officially UN-viable.

I hear tapping at my door now. I hear soldiers marching on towards my room. I feel their presence, their guns surrounding me. I feel their chains shackling me up, their dark holes, their free, free world.

Shut me up… Shut me up now. Throw me into your hole where no one can see the truth. Throw me into the deep vicinity of your alleged freedom. Throw me there where I can mourn.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

I went reminiscing. I found you there.

If I ever hired an accountant and asked him to sketch me a balance sheet of mySelf, I imagine that my liabilities side to be too heavy for me to try and balance out, too heavy that even the words wouldn't read horizontally. It would probably be listed with items such as pain, anguish, dreams that stayed there just to torture me. All the unbearable shit stored... just.. for.. me. Toys'R'Us for adults is more like it. My asset side would probably include only a few of my real possessions. My cash and car, my worthless and pointless blogs, my DVDs, and poetry that I've written sometime in the middle years of the teenage era, and friends who came along the years and at some point couldn't take it anymore and decided to leave me there to carry all these unbearable liabilities by myself.

I woke up today, June 28, 2006, and I wore my glasses for the first time. The vertical world I've been complaining about isn't vertical anymore. It all makes sense now… at least to me. It's at such times, when you declare absolute bankruptcy, that's when you realize that someone out there saved you some for a rainy day.

I went reminiscing… and I remembered…

I remembered the Saving Private Ryan burnt out CD and the Jumbo Jet game we never got to finish. I remembered the Tom and Basal day and I remembered the days we went Dreaming. I remembered my phone calls to your angry Xs. I remembered the proposal auditions and the non-existent picture of the naked maid, our forever imaginary friend. I remembered the plans we had of becoming movie stars, professional writers, serious boring accountants, and internet geeks. I remembered my emule failures and how you'd at least try and back me up by finding resources over torrent files. I remembered our fuckups… and I remembered our laughs. My moments of clarity, when everything seemed alright, when I thought that life couldn't get any better.

I remember my room filled with smoke… when my mom couldn't see us. We were invisible friends, brother. I believe we still are and would probably remain so forever.

The smoke's cleared out now. I can't see you anymore. I miss having you here.

Happy birthday

Friday, June 16, 2006

I was a celebrity, that night in Europe, when I was five

It's 2006 and I'm young enough to explore the world. It's one of the things I wish I could do before I lock myself up amidst the M word and "settle down". My first plan is to cruise through Europe… I did once with my family, I was five then I think... and here's what I remember…


My parents tell me that it looks a lot like Egypt, but that was like in the 80s. I don't think it'd be the same since they're trying so hard to belong to Europe and shit. Well, before we landed there, a friend of my father's who's the son of the president of the UAE, called the Turkish council and told them that some sort of ambassador from the UAE is going to visit. He gave them the flight number and everything. And before we know it they were there waiting for us at the airport. We had the red carpet routine, the Emirates national anthem, even though we're Egyptians, the maid was from Srilanka I think... everything. I loved feeling important, even though I was only four back then. I guess it's something you're born with.

The next thing I know is that we got invited to a big dinner. Even the fucking maid had her own table. They cooked for us, danced for us. We were celebrities that night in Turkey. The next day they sent a tour guide along with us, he drove us around for a while, and he invited us to his house for dinner with his family. Great culture, great people. They lived on top of some hill, as I barely recall. The next thing I remember is that I walked into a room and locked myself in. I was too young to realize how stupid that act of… err… stupidity was. My mother kept crying. They tried unlocking the door, but alas… I owned the moment. They would have jumped through the window if only there had been a small piece of land in front of it. The window overlooked some ocean or something and there was no way anybody would have gone through except through that door that I had locked myself. Eventually, like a negotiator talking out a hostage situation, they talked me into rotating the key and I was free again. The Turkish family felt bad and they kept apologizing to my parents all day, even though it wasn't their fault. They didn't raise me, my parents did. :D

Oh well, that's all I remember about Turkey.


I can't personally remember anything about Greece, except that my parents were used to booking rooms in motels or hotels after we'd land in the country. They wouldn't make any reservations before leaving home. I guess they didn't have the Internet back then. Anyways, they booked two rooms in a motel which, apparently so we've learned; that that motel was one of those places where men would take their mistresses or hookers to screw before returning home to their wives. My father tells me how the receptionist was so delighted about our stay in his shithole that he kept referring to us as "Good family, good family". I just hope he didn't think we were into family orgies or anything. I wish I was old enough to find us some place nicer to stay. I wish I was old enough to point at my family and laugh.

One more thing that I remember about Greece was the CROWDS, where my father was standing in the middle of, and then out of no where a little kid grabbed my father's walled. When my father grabbed him to take it back, suddenly, the entire crowd that apparently turned out to be one big tourist gang or something, started punching and kicking my father to let go of the kid. Hmmm... My parents tell me that we managed fine and that my father returned home… with his wallet, but I don't know why I think they'd be able to see a little disbelief in my eyes.


I think I was four when we went to France… and I can't remember anything about it. My father says that I spent the entire trip sleeping on his shoulder as he carried me. My father also tells me that all French women used to dig me and play with my cheeks or whatever every time they encounter the four year old sexy little boy that I was. I think this is also something you get born with.

And the answer to your question is NO. I don't remember the Eiffel tower or the Seine River. I don't wish I'd remember any of that. I only wish I had been old enough to experience the French chick movement against my cheek.


I can't remember anything either, but I do remember that chicks dug me there too. Hmmm… Dug? Digged? Whatever man, I was da bomb.

Oh and I also remember their Prater… you know the one with the big wheel. Even though I never got on that. I think I was too young and too scared of heights or something. The whole Prater thing was excellent. They had those little statue like things that looked so fucking cool. Hats off to the Austrians!

Oh and I just remembered that we were on one of those… err… trains? And I was sitting there staring through the window when the train got hit by a bus. My father hurt his hand during. I remember looking at it as it came closer and closer. I remember I kept referring to it as the great encounter between Tarzan and Superman. Silly, I know, but I was five, man, so go boil an egg and leave me alone.


I remember the bull fights, vaguely. I remember it was a very, very sunny day. My father bought me a hat that was colored in yellow and red and had all sorts of Spanish art sewn all over it. I loved that hat. I lost that hat. I was 10 then and I was on a school trip in the UAE, we went to pray, and there was a crucifix sewn on top so I took it off and put it next to me until I was done praying and all. When I was done praying to the Al Mighty God, I picked up my bag, and I walked away for like five seconds, and when I went back for my hat, it was gone.

Maybe God had something to do with it, since I'm not Christian and all. I dunno. I loved that hate and now some SOB has it. I wish it brings him baldness.


And by Yugoslavia I mean, Slovenia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Serbia-Montenegro, and the current Yugoslavia.

I remember the caves. One of them had an inside train that takes you through the whole thing. I've recently learned that it's in Slovenia. I remember I bought a clip-doll thingie in the form of that Alf character. Remember that? It was a big thing back in the 80s I think. But the one thing that I really really remember is Snoopy, a food cart in the middle of Zagreb where they sold French fries. I used to cry and nag about going there everyday until my parents would eventually take me there. It was a BLAST!! They probably regret ever going to Yugoslavia, but to me, Yugoslavia happened to be the one trip I would love forever. Everyday I'd go to Snoopy, order two fries and… well… feed one of them to the pigeons. I guess I've always had some heart huh. Maybe not for my parents, but pigeons seemed to deserve my sympathy… and my taste for fries.

That's all I can remember from my days in the beautiful European continent. Nope, I didn't go to
Italy or England. I'm definitely checking out Italy and the Netherlands when I commit to re-living the experience next year. Pizza, drugs, and girls- the perfect bachelor recipe. Too bad I don't own a scanner. I bet European girls would like to see how I looked like as a four year old. But don't worry ladies and… err… ladies, I'll be there in no time.

I hope.

My involuntary Elsewhere

Breathing… is defined as the process of absorbing the required component of Oxygen needed by the body to continue "functioning"… followed by kicking out carbon dioxide along with all the stress, pressure, tension, hatred, and pain that the body tends to endure. Breathing… is, simply, inhale and exhale. Recently, I've picked on a habit of inhaling and packing it all in. I've become an owner of one of those hall mart chain stores storing all consumer goods in, products that nobody wants to buy. I've been needing to sell out. I've been needing to exhale.

There comes a time in the middle of my day where I wish I could just shut my eyes and dream away, off to the magical and free Elsewhere I once seemed to have. The Elsewhere I could function properly in, where I could simply breathe like other living things. But like all living organisms, I have matured. I have evolved, or maybe I have learned to adapt. When shit happens you either fight or adapt. This process that happens in our day to day lives is called survival. I closed my eyes, I dreamed away, and off I went…

A dream is defined as a series of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations occurring involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. And when they included the word involuntarily there, they sincerely meant it. It's when you allow full control to the other party causing that dream. It's when you totally feel free to experience whatever images and emotions and feelings that come along. It's when you totally give in. It's when you totally… give up.

And so I dreamed away… and I landed here. Beautiful scenery, wild forest strawberry flavor, non-stop music, my all-natural high. But what good will this bring if someday I wake up and fade it all out? I've become addicted, a junkie… needing more, needing out. Locking myself up in my room, excluding myself away from all there is. Injecting myself for hours with this pure cocaine shot that I find myself favoring over everything else. My savior… My Elsewhere.

Darwin, you were right. I've matured and evolved. I've come to realize that every dream has its price. At one point I thought that the constant need, the addiction, was the price I'd pay… but no. I've never been so wrong. The price I'd have to pay is knowing that, someday, this will all be over; that someday, I'm going to have to force my eyes open from this fantasy; that someday, I'm going to have to pull the needle out of my arm, my head, my heart. Have that ecstasy pill extracted out of my all. Burn down my Elsewhere village and throw myself in its rising flames.

I keep telling myself that I'll be fine, I'll manage, and I'll mature again. I'll find my way. I'll just adapt back to my real world and live on wondering where my dreams will be taking me next.

I'll accept all consequences… no matter what the results are.

I've already exhaled.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Booboo za medicine man

Me name is Booboo. Me do magik. Me worship long wood sing. Long wood sing has many faces. A face wiz a bird. A face wiz a monkey. A face wiz a weird sing. Me not like weird sing. Me talk for monkey head. Me talk for bird head. Me love zem. Me wear mask of tiger. Me do magik to heal poor pepul. u call me preest. I call me Booboo.

Me head no like you. u talk funny. u talk shoo polishiks. You bring one and one and one chief. u talk funny for one and one and one and one our. And zen you start srowing sings on ze azar. u savage creetshurs. Me no like.

Me go to Diznyland. Many small pepul. In island, big pepul eat small pepul. Me wear tiger mask. Me talk to monkey. Me talk to bird. Small pepul saloot Booboo. Small pepul want otogograf. What is ototograf? Wachuti voodoo? Me see white light from gods. Me scared now. Me hold fetish. Me talk to bird. Me talk to monkey. Monkey say Booboo must eat small pepul. Big pepul attack from far. Big pepul call Booboo "terrorist".

Me go home. Big pepul like Booboo. Booboo want no outside. Me like home. Me like big pepul. Big pepul sick? Booboo talk to monkey. Me talk to bird. Me heal big pepul. Booboo and pepul make fire in one and one and one and one day. Booboo and pepul srow long wood sing in fire.

Booboo and pepul make long wood sing day after now.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Excuse my French

There's a song that goes something like 'Everyday I wake I die a little… Everyday I fucking wonder why a little… Everyday we say goodbye'. Was the singer referring to some bitch that dumped him? Did she deserve those sweet, pathetic words? No one does. Humans are shallow and weak and fragile. It's in our nature to cry and sob over some poor bitch or some asshole who wouldn't answer back our calls or if someone we'd die for forgot our birthday. Sometimes it's even in our nature to try and hide our sensitivity and affection by pretending to be the absolute asshole who doesn't give two shits about life and romance and… well, fuck it.

Fuck everything that's great about you. Fuck those people you need to survive. Fuck your pain cos we've all got our own, so fucking deal with it. Fuck those who think you're just as shallow as the rest of the flock. Fuck those girls whom you feel you need to impress just so you can feel all manly and normal like the rest of the herd. Fuck you and your spilled milk that you seem to have trouble cleaning up without your "supposedly funny" pointless comments. Fuck all blogs that seem to say shit about us that others don't get but seem to need to quote and applaud like they've witnessed a miracle when it's been nothing but total bullshit of the mind. Fuck all the pointless conversations that people have in order to fucking share the need… Get some reality check, babe. Open your fucking eyes. See the hints and clues cos they're everywhere like fucking moth to a fucking flame up your ass. Fuck everything that seems beautiful but turns out to be as hollowed inside as a fucking bitch that's been screwed a million times over by the same fucking "pimp". Fuck our generation and its political regimes and emotional stress of all kinds. Fuck the Middle East problem. Fuck the oil and fuck all corporate slaves. Fuck those who think I'm special and fuck those who think I'm not. Fuck my tarnished halo which I seem to have misplaced somewhere. Fuck you if you don't own a mirror cos you don't know what shit you've been missing. Take a good look at yourself cos you're as much of a fucking scam as the very next person on my fucking black list. Fuck my black list and every name involved. Fuck you if you think you deserve to be on it and fuck you if you think you're lucky you're not cos every dog gets its day. Fuck your school principal who wouldn't get you admitted cos you've spent the entire admission interview quietly sitting there, judging. Fuck those bullies in school who thought they were too cool to let you join their football team. Fuck Cambridge University for giving you a C in English and an A in Arabic. Fuck the Egyptian high education council for not considering the Cambridge university Arabic degree as certifiable. Fuck the Gypo college accounting professor for not giving two shits about some poor guy who's father was paralyzed and not letting him pass until his father dropped in and kissed his hand. Fuck all Godfathers out there. It's not the looks that make you all powerful and multi-colored brilliant. It's a character thing and you don't have it. Fuck those who can't freeze their emotions when they seriously have to. Fuck you for not knowing how hard it is to be nice to someone as fucked up as you are. Fuck you for not seeing who the asshole is and who's not. Fuck your parents for not buying you that guitar when you were 13. Fuck the doctor who said that your father needed open-heart surgery when you just got a new job and had saved a few thousands for your euro trip. Fuck you and your euro trip. Fuck you and your certified bullshit certificates. Fuck education and fuck ignorance. Fuck the poor souls who are reading this piece of crap. Fuck you and your thank you notes. Fuck satellite channel subscriptions for asking you to pay to watch the 2006 world cup tournament in Germany. There was a time when football was free. Is air next in line at the cashier lineup? Fuck air and, while we're at it, fuck the cashier too. Fuck western movie producers who land me the role of playing the villain. Fuck you and your cowboy hat. Take it off and let's see how heroic you are underneath. Make me proud, you fucking piece of shit. Fuck parking lots that charge you for parking at the end of the alley. Fuck you and your feeling of betrayal. No one deserves so much. Fuck you for making me repress all of this fucking anger. It is but rage that runs my engine. Fuck my headaches. Fuck my blocks. Fuck you for feeling guilty about the Middle East problem. In fact, fuck you for making me feel guilty about all of the above.

Fuck you for bringing me tears I never thought I had.

Blog inspired by Spike Lee's 25th hour

Friday, June 09, 2006

And then the summer was over...

I tell everybody including myself to live their lives with no regrets. Well, I wish I could tell you that I've been totally honest about that, but I haven't. I regret education. I learned about chemistry and all that I can remember right now is that water is H2O. I hated biology but all that I can remember is that all living things are categorized according to the King Phillip Come Out For God's Sake theory... and... well, I picked that line up from a movie so it basically had nothing to do with schooling. I also remember most of the chapter that had to deal with human reproduction. I was 12 when we did that at school, I think, and I still remember mostly everything there is to know about it. I guess the human mind is a dangerous tool. When someone says physics, all I can remember is that some dude had his head hit by an apply decades ago, I think biology had something to do with his bleeding head, not physics. I wouldn't know. Grammar was kinda boring, I thought. I was surprisingly good at it at some point, but now I'm glad if I could remember whether my name is actually a verb or proverb. My high school teacher just hit me with a frying pan telling me that it's neither, so I guess I'm back to my old and easy ABCs now. That's like twelve years down the drain I think. Then came four more years of college, which I seem to have learned more in school than there in that large auditorium. What a shameful waste!!

So have I learned anything from school? Well, I learned that bullies can be rather mean to you if you're small in size and have no friends. I learned that being nice and quiet doesn't serve you any good if you're too nice to the teacher who keeps using you to set examples about how a student can be punished even if he hasn't really done anything worth punishment. I learned that no matter how hard you work, how hard you study, and how late you stay up, you're always gonna be the potential scapegoat and you're gonna grow up into being the same old piece of shit you would have grown up to be without education at all. Ignorance is bliss!!

I would have had more time to play football which might have resulted into me going professional with that. I would have had more time to hang out with cool drug addicts, become all rich and famous. I would have spent more time playing video games. I was really good with that Street Fighter arcade. I even tried some of the moves, but I hurt my ankle and had to stay home for two days from school. I owe the arcades. With more practice, who knows, I may have been able to become a real street fighter. Kawabangaaaaa!!

Basically, it wasn't books that made me the way I am. I wasn't born smart either. Come to think about it, am I even smart? Hmmm... I keep benchmarking my friends on a dumbest to smartest scale... and, by the law of averages, I think I'm pretty smart considering the fact that e=mc2 or whatever. Some people find me intimidating, even though I may have waved goodbye to educations four years-to-the-date ago. I'm not a certified accountant. I don't have an advanced degree in medicine and I don't give two shits about law. But I do know that life's taught me things you can't read about in books. Life's taught me that I can brag about being illiterate if I want to, just as long as I don't get bullied anymore. Life's taught me that my nightmares are my subconscious playing arcades in the middle of my sleep and that I shouldn't even bother. Life's taught me that dreams don't have to come true for those who achieve higher education. Life's taught me that the definition of a dream is that thing you wanted to be when you were ten. Money does not realize dreams, my friend. Sacrificing your twenty year old dream for another doesn't make you wiser, but only makes it easier for you to sell anything and anybody out, even yourself. That is, if you even had a dream when you were a stupid little thing.

Bottom line, screw your post graduate degree, screw your BS in BS, screw your school, and I know I wish I could screw my English language teacher since she was a babe. You're thinking of saving up to send your kids off to college? Well...


I thought you were educated enough to figure the answer out for yourself, but hey... education doesn't make men and it doesn't perform miracles.

You're just that stupid... so deal with it!!

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Dearest of all my friends,

Ding, Ding, Ding...

Most of the people in this room know that I always prefer starting my sentences with the ever magnificent English appetizer...


I'm tired of chasing you away. It just hurts to have it come from the very person I'd like to speak my mind out loud to. I'm done. Fuck it!!

It's always been a hobby of mine to try and find new words to express my fears, my regrets, my redemption, my prayers, my sins, my hopes. It's been a hobby to try and come up with new and improved different vocabulary to use on my vast collection of suicide notes, notes that I disguise amidst my poetry and BLOGS! Words that could further explain why is it that I really need you there with me on this dark, scary road. But today, dearest of all my friends, I'm lost of words. I need you to lend me some. I look down your backpack for As and Ds and words and songs and friends and cries, only to find that everything down there was actually mine. You're no use to me anymore. Farewell and goodbye, dearest of all my friends.

I need words. I want to claim back my mind. I want my feelings to be real. I want to sound like my old self again. Where the fuck are you, o tarnished halo? I seriously… need words. I need words that could help me describe this indescribable sickness that I'm having right now. I am lost for them. I need to sit laid back on my ever huge throne and stare at that glass of piss sitting at the edge of the arm of the throne that still gets questioned whether it's half full or half empty. I guess it's my call to make. If it's half full, or half empty for all that matters, then have I been drinking it? Or have you been sipping from my glass, sucking my own blood? One sip after another… until there's no more piss to drink.

Well, dearest of all my friends, I need my piss to survive. It's the one thing that kept me alive in the desert. That wasn't holy water that rained down on me from heaven. That was pure piss that you've misread.

In the end, if you still need to follow my shadow, feel free to do so. But it won't be my shadow that you'll be following, dearest of all my friends. It will be the blood trail that I leave behind, leaking from the wound you've created inside my heart.

Cheers, mate.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Shit Ho, Hit Show

It's Saturday night. I have nothing to do really. My cyber "friends" are all offline. At least the ones I could talk to. The rest are probably blocked or I just pretend I'm not there. I can't block the latter since they already have my password. Yeah tell me about it. One of the biggest mistakes I've made. It's like giving someone the key to your apartment, and you can't change the locks or else it's bye bye birdie. My offline friends seem boring enough to try and avoid. My girlfriend keeps calling and calling in a fast edit mode production of a horror/romance film to be released in 2006 under the title of "The Passion of the Christ 2: The Crucification of the Boyfriend". I don't feel like exercising. I don't feel like listening to music or watching a new film, and of those I have so many. I don't feel like chatting and I don't feel like eating. Masturbation is an option, but I need something that could last more than just fifteen minutes. Well, I can't think of anything, so I decide to exit my space shit and go check out what's happening in the real world. TV!!

I give life to the televised box set and start clicking the remote control buttons, trying to find something interesting to watch on one of the 500 channels that I've paid a monthly subscription for in order to feel part of civilization as we know it. MTV, Discovery Channel, Cartoon Network, Movie Channel, Paramount, CNN… Remind me again, why do I pay for this shit? Yeah that's right. Civilization and all that! And then it hits my screen… Who wants to be a Millionaire? Well, fuck it, I DO. It's one of those shows where they make people pay a lot of money to make a million phone calls just so the producers can afford choosing the chosen few who get to sit on the throne and have their chance-of-a-life-time at winning the big bux.
Ha ha ha… Natural Selection? Fuck you, Darwin.

That's when I get hit again, but this time right in the middle of my creativity spot that exists and hides inside my brain. That's the only spot I think still operates in there. The remaining brain cells are either damaged or burned out or just tend to sit there trying to help keep my blood flow good and running. Or at least that's what I fool myself to believe.

Alright, this game show's boring. It's more horrible to watch if you get to know the answer to the million dollar question that the guest fails to answer correctly, hence falling back to his $64,000 check. Such a waste of human garbage. That's when you feel like you've been wasting your time sitting there, watching. Lurking? Damn, I must give them a call sometime. Maybe I'll get lucky. That's exactly when it hits me again. 'I'm hit! May Day!!' What the hell is May Day anyway? Why the fuck May? It's June, Doggamit!!

Who the hell watches those kinds of shows anyways? Those shows are visually global-wide internationally-aired proofs of how poor and desperate and shallow we are. Hmm… If that's the case, then I refuse to become the guest. I'm going to start my own game show!! Please feel free to call my 900 number and don't feel bad or down or fucked if we don't call you back or if we ask you to answer what is the green colored animal that goes up the hill four-legged and comes back with three. Or what is the height of the Eiffel tower in light-years. Don't feel bad. You can feel pathetic all you want, but please don't hate us. We're just in it for the money. Your money.

So what is my show going to be about? The eternally unanswered question. If Buddha ever was a game show host, his show would probably be about how many Buddhists can remain celibate if they were drunk and locked inside a strip club for two hours. Alright, I'm high and hit again. My show, starring me of course, could be titled 'Who Killed…?'. The idea of the game would be to have eight contestants and ask them to kill a guy named George, for instance. The first contestant who kills a George gets to win a million dollars. Every week we get to pick a random name. Audience mass murder would be allowed, in case you were wondering. The best part is, if I'm rich and connected to the right people, or if I am a member on the board of directors at Showtime, maybe the show wouldn't get banned or categorized as a snuff show.

Yyyakkkh!! Too much blood. Strike that out.

How about a show where you get to ask the contestants to fuck as many women in the audience in less than ten minutes? That would be a show, hah? Hmm… but then families wouldn't allow their kids to watch that, resulting in less airplay, hence less commercials every five minutes. What if we get to air commercials in the middle that are customized for the needs of our ever horny viewers? Naah… If I was horny, I wouldn't have any commercial preferences. Just write me the world naked on sceen and I'm sold!!

Damn it!! Forget I ever said that.

YEAH… there's an idea. A show where you get to ask the contestants to each perform open heart surgery to the game host, take an instant picture of his heart and place it back in carefully. Of course, you win if the game host stays alive after that… and we'll allow excessive use of drugs in order to ease the pain of death. Obviously, that show WON'T be starring me.

Oh don't give me that look. Yes, I know. It won't work. We'll probably get applications, a zillion of them, but not from people who want to be one of the contestants. The only people who would apply for a game like that would be applying in to play the game host… with all applications signed 'Recovering Drug Addict – I so wanna die'.

Here's another idea. It's kind of gross though. Poke out your eyes, both of them, and win a brand new 2006 pair of Ray Bans. Hmm… or maybe a show where each contestant gets to guess the weight of some random person, by only looking at his left ear lobe. I'm pushing it, ain’t I?

Smoke as many cigarettes as you can in less than 30 minutes and win a brand new, 100% silver, beautiful casket. Surgeon General's note at the bottom of the casket is optional. Call now and win a free lifetime membership to the 'Marlboro Club for Very, Very Sick Men'.

Judge me all you want, I'd watch that!!

Give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to a dying chicken. And in order to spice things up a little. THE CHICKEN IS AVIAN FLU INFECTED. Nothing can beat that, huh?

I'll return to the basics and settle for the simplest. "Call now and win something!!"

If ten idiots called per month, I'd be fucking rich.

Too bad I'm not a game show host.

You want me to leave now, don't you? Alright… that's enough. I'm turning off my magic box and I'm going to bed. I've had enough dreams and fantasies for one night and I need some reality check. Sleep tends to do that sometimes.

Before I go let me ask you this…

Can you say 'Shit Ho, Hit Show' fifty times in less than ten minutes… without pausing for breath?

Yeah… you're going to try doing it now aren’t you?

So 'Who Wants To Be Fucked With' now huh?

Darwin, you asshole

You should have stuck to becoming a doctor man. As it turns out, Darwin skipped out of med school because he couldn't stand the sight of blood. He provided the evolution of species theory and natural selection and all that bunch of crap to fuck with the heads of all generations to come. So assuming Chuckie was operating a life risking surgery and fainted at the sight of blood, leading to the death of the poor guy on the table, then at least he wouldn't have discussed his random bullshit ideas out to the public. And the funny thing is… people actually bought that. Then again, maybe it isn't that funny. People tend to fall for anything these days, huh.

His notion basically "assumed" that all life is related and has descended from a common ancestor. A theory that is similar in nature to the Big Bang theory that atheists tend to fall for. I wouldn't judge them though. It's easier to believe that we were all a part of one big star once that exploded to form galaxies and life forms than to go learn about the reason behind the crucification of Christ or study about how and why Islam got spread out through Europe some time in the past or the story behind the Weeping Wall or why Buddha, a man who lived in celibacy and abstained from the fruits of life and renounced demon and food, was as fat as he was. Whether he was meditating or if he simply couldn't move his weight.

Chuck's presumption had something to do with the development of life from non-life and stressed a purely naturalistic "descent with modification". i.e. complex creatures evolve from simpler ancestors naturally over time. Mutations that would aid survival. Natural selection? I can't keep writing where I'm getting at here. The idea freaks me out. Darwin, fuck you.

It's like at the beginning of the ice age that none of us experienced, some animals managed to survive that and some just couldn’t. Come to think about it, haven't people lived for ages and ages near the poles of our mutating planet? Have they managed to grow more hair over the bodies along the decades, generation after the next? Have they grown fur? What about people who live closer to the equatorial line? Have they grown natural Ray Bans and Johnson's sun blocks? Where's your natural selection, Chuckie? Where's your fucking proof? Or is it just another proof-less idea that people need to believe? Another miracle-less religion for our generation to follow?!

I need to stop running Chuck's theory through my head. I need to provoke as much disbelief as I can… because if it's true? Then we're all fucked. It's 2006 now. Every nation hates the other. Global warming is at its prime. Evolving? The ozone gets fucked over and over every day like a worn out hooker. Arabs fear Americans, Americans fear Bush, Europeans fear Americans, Israelis fear Palestinians and vice versa, Arabs fear Arabs, Canadians fear South Park. If I tell people that I'm an Arab then it becomes evident that I'm going to blow myself up any second now. Like there's an invisible timer across my fucking forehead. The French government decided to restrain Muslim women from wearing veils and Jews from wearing their kippots in order to avoid discrimination. It's not a black and white issue anymore. If only things were that clear. It's all colors against the rest. An eye for an eye. One nation for all. WW2 ended with the dropping of the atom bomb. That happened like SIXTY FUCKING YEARS AGO. People have tried to avoid war since then. I can't imagine what kind of armory "they" hold back in "their" secret underground labs, waiting for something to happen. "They" have become the Greek mythological monster that governments hoaxed people with in an attempt to help the emperor lead. The only thing that we have to fear is fear itself. The UN has had its rules and policies. Tariffs, quotas, red tape, yellow tapes, embargo. They walked over Iraq in search for bombs they couldn't find. That's probably when George W. Bush said 'Bummer. I'll try and go look in Iran instead.' Could it be possible that there are no bombs? Could it be that there is no Osama Bin Laden? That perhaps he died of, huh, natural selection, years ago? When will this search for that imaginary white rabbit end? With hurricanes and earthquakes and floods and avian flu and mad cows and wars and hatred, is this natural selection in process? Are we undergoing it as we speak? We stopped eating chicken and eggs and meat. We try to hold our breath when we get held up in traffic jams, striving to avoid pollution. How long do we have to keep holding our breath, fingers crossed, and hoping for the best? Is the future what they tend to show in Hollywood Sci-Fi feature films where people live in space colonies, consuming vitamins and carbohydrate/protein capsules? Are they giving us hints? Are those films supposed to be signs? How rich will we need to become in order to afford such a life? Would this even be called life or should we start calling it survival? Who will get then to "naturally select" those who get to live there and those who get to stay behind on our ever mutating green planet?

Darwin, where are we heading to? If only you were here, I'd ask you to tell me whether I deserve to be naturally selected. Am I good enough? Will my presence affect those who live around me, those who know me? I demand my mutation. If only you were here we'd have given you a pen and a piece of paper and asked you to decide for us who gets to go and who doesn't.

If only you were here, Chuck…

I'd kick your ass!!

Friday, June 02, 2006

All that glitters...

How dare you walk into my chambers and question me? This is my world. Inside my cubicle, I am the man. My clients love me. All of them. They love my honest smile and familiar eyes. They'd trust me with their own family. I bet if I ever asked them to jump off the World Trade Center, they'd do it, even though it doesn't exist anymore. They'd build it all up from scratch just so they can take the leap for me… They'd do it, believing that my motives… are actually honest!!

I wasn't born good at what I do. It comes with practice. Along the years, I have come up with my own style combined with the arts of selling they teach us at the induction session on our first day at work. In order to close a sale, you have to focus on following the six rules of self improvement. Get your pen ready and running, my friend because this will only be said once.

Strangers walk into my cubicle, my world, my domain, everyday. I press NEXT on my client caller ID thingie and sit laid back and relaxed on my throne, waiting for my next potential. I see them walking towards me with the fear that I might be just another salesman. Just another scam. Another suit?! They walk towards my life and I can then hear the bell tolling for thee. It's Showtime!!

Step 1ne: SMILE
Smile like somebody left a hanger in your mouth. Those 17 muscles, the smile that says 'Welcome, sir. My life is yours for the taking for the next fifteen minutes. I'll be your slave, your doorman, your banker, your lawyer, your fucking mistress. Just say it and I'm yours.' Usually, if you smile at someone, they smile back… and once that happens, it becomes the first sale you've closed. I don't mean to be arrogant when I say that… I have excelled at that.

Step 2wo: RESPECT
Respect the SOB like he owns you. Always address them as Sir or Madame. If she's not married, you can always call her by her first name. Unmarried attractive chicks dig that. You become their potential. With your relaxed but firm handshake, your honest smile, your Gucci suit, and your serious professional but friendly voice tone. Older people enjoy the respect you've shined through at them. The respect they lack from their own children. If you can get that noticed, you become the son they've always wanted to have… forever. Right after that they know that you'll make them filthy rich, get them the dream house they've always wanted, or simply become a potential for their single unattractive daughter. Right after that, air becomes a commodity that you can sell.

Step 3hree: EYE CONTACT
Look the client straight in the eye. Whether you have green eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, or even red eyes. They all say the same. The smile, the handshake, the eyes. The three musketeers, without which your words would mean nothing. If eye contact meant nothing, then the old and original love at first sight don't mean nothing really. If your eyes don't show confidence, then at any point you can very well expect the 'May I speak to your supervisor?' phrase.
Don’t stare though, unless she's hot.

Step 4our: EMPATHY
Empathy is defined as understanding and entering into one person's feelings. Into his wallet. When men tell women that they love them, that they're funny and sweet, that they can provide the needed empathy, the crying shoulder cliché, often all they want is sex. That's basically what they teach us to aim for. Our job is to fuck with every potential wallet. To me, those are not people I'm fucking; they're sex dolls in the form of money bags, with a big ass dollar sign at the bottom.

The idea is to make them feel as if I care. The over used and over dosed first rule in the How-to-get-laid book for dummies. Become a mirror reflection of their vocal and facial expression. 'Your problem is my problem', that's what they taught us to say. Your first handshake should no longer be a greeting gesture and should be used to express understanding. His second handshake should express gratitude. The all invisible thank you note.

I'm throwing pearls at you here.

Save him… or at least pretend that you did. Send emails and faxes. Make inbound and outbound telephone calls. Make him sign as many forms as you can, that should give the impression that you know what you're doing. Of course, after he leaves, official green documents will have left his bank account and signed official white documents will fill up your trash can, the vault of all your secrets. Every once in a while you can go out for a smoke and pretend that you've been discussing that client's problem with top management.

Funny!! Never thought I was that good.

Now that he's satisfied, he's yours for the taking. He becomes your slave, your doorman, your friend, your mistress… your promotion. You two become frozen for fifteen more minutes that you can enjoy bluffing with the deck that you've stacked. Come to think about it, I've reached the experience level of not even having to stack a deck. Not needing a plan B to make a sale. I've reached the level of knowing exactly what to say and when to say it. Full control. He becomes my property to claim, with my flag sticking up his ass. Try to paint him a picture of how his life would look like without the new and improved "tailor-made" insurance/investment plan. Use your paintbrush to add the image of his children lying on their deathbeds, sick, poor, uneducated, and hungry because he couldn't afford sending them to a first class school. Because when he died, all sources of income were cut out of their lives. Because he didn't sign your Life Protection Saving Plan. Tell him that he doesn't even need to go back home to think about it. Tell him that his wife wouldn't know better. Tell him that every day that passes means less income for his family. Those whom he loves most; his wife, his 9 year old son, and his unattractive 23 year old daughter. Your future wife.
And before you can even say 'fuck', he's signing the contract.

After the sale is made, tell him that you'll make sure you have his request done in less time than it should, since you kind of feel for your father-in-law's new established need. The need you've managed to visualize out of thin air. The need you've painted in an animation, in the full feature film to be released in twenty five years after shooting. The need, that little consumption monster whom my job, basically, revolves around creating. The creation of the debts. The polishing of the road that leads to how his life is probably going to look like for the next three decades.

Show's over… I have nothing more to say, at least out loud. If you follow those steps, if you manage to close enough sales, you'll get promoted in no time.

Ladies and gents, that's what I do. But when people ask me about what I do for a living, I take a deep breath that makes my upper body look huge; huge enough to fill my throne, my cubicle, my domain; then I say, well, John Smith, Personal Financial Services Representative.

Before I finish up, there are a few more tips I'd like to offer.

1. Never give out your personal cell phone number – It helps if you return to becoming your old self after you've left work.

2. If you're all about ethics and morals, you're gonna think that this isn’t your line of work. You have to remember though, that we were all babies once… and look how cute we were!

3. Your clothes define you – Your Gucci suit image. Your Hugo Boss scent. They fooled us into thinking that this is how educated young men should look and smell like. We live in a sick, sick world where none of us really matter.

In the end, I'm still there, legs crossed, sitting majestically in my throne. Have we met before? Do you hold a bank account, Sir? How many times have you been scammed by suits like me? My suit, my smile, my handshake, and my lies. The things that I want out of.

It's too late for me to walk out. This is my all morally and ethically acceptable and approved of career. I get appraised and accredited for that. If I ever went to propose to a girl, her parents would definitely love me. I've been locked inside my cubicle for so long I don't think I know how to stop reminding myself of those six golden steps. Those steps… can be applied at anything really. They are my way of life and my religion. If I don't abide, I'd sentence myself back to full unemployment damnation.

We live in a world where people try to take each other's life savings and pension plans wearing a Julia Roberts smile and a Hugo Boss perfume. Your Armani suit makes other young men want to be like you. You become their role model. Their ALL!!

Now, if you walk into my cubicle, my life, my... huh… ever attractive breathtaking domain, and I lay all that bunch of bullshit for you. If I managed to become your dominant sex master… with my charms and my whips…

Tell me…

Would you build me that World Trade Center?

Would you take the jump?!

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