By Godfrey Pereira
Today, the 11th of November is Veterans Day.
At Fort Hood Texas, they are mourning the murdered. Major Nadal Malik Hasan, a licensed psychiatrist and drug and rehab. specialist in The US Army murdered Thirteen people and an Unborn child. That is Fourteen lives extinguished. He screamed "Allahu Akbar," before he commenced the slaughter. There is no doubt that Islamic beliefs provoked his actions. It is stated that he did not want to go to Afghanistan because of the possibility of killing other Muslims.
If for arguments sake, Afghanistan was a Christian country, would that have been alright with Major Nadal Malik Hasan? You can bet your last Terrorist Riyal that Major Hasan would have gone to Afghanistan to fight The Infidels.
Political Correctness states that Islam Is A Religion Of Peace.
Insult my Prophet or God and I will kill you, seems to be the universal Islamic norm.
Here are just two examples.
Mohammed Bouyeri murdered Theodoor "Theo" van Gogh in the early morning of 2 November 2004, in Amsterdam. Why? Van Gogh’s film Submission, analyzed the treatment of women in Islam. Theodoor was the great-grandson of Theo Van Gogh, who was the brother of artist Vincent van Gogh.
Salman Rushdie published The Satanic Verses in September 1988.
On 14 February 1989, a fatwā requiring Rushdie's execution was proclaimed on Radio Tehran by Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, the spiritual leader of Iran at the time. The Islamic world believed that the novel sketched an irreverent depiction of the prophet Muhammad.
And of course, there are the thousands of suicide bombers.
What kind of God seeks MURDER as an appeasement; whatever be the insult or injury? If all this is un-Islamic and against Koranic teachings, why are the Great Mullahs and Grand Ayatollahs all over the World silent? Why are The Majority of so called peaceful Muslims silent? Why are all the Islamic Republics of the world silent?
And Finally: What kind of God offers Virgins for murder?
For once, Karl Marx is right: "Die Religion ... ist das Opium des Volkes"
Prologue:
The Islamic World does not like America. We are aware of that.
America is not a perfect country, we Americans know that.
“A Holy War” is an Oxymoron. The Islamic World, it seem, is unaware of that glaring contradiction. That is the reason, Islam spawns Major terrorists like Nadal Malik Hasan.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Rosemary’s Baby, Coming Home
By Godfrey Pereira
Roman Polanski Wanted and Desired By The United States Justice System.
In 1977, a Polish-French man, Roman Polanski, aged 44; drugged and raped Samantha Gailey aged 13.
The man performed oral sex, intercourse and sodomy on the child. The man was arrested. He plea bargained his way to a lesser charge of engaging in Unlawful Sexual Intercourse with a Minor. He could have gone to jail.
February 1, 1978 the man fled to London and then moved to France. Now finally, he has been arrested in Switzerland after 32 years.
I don’t know what they say in Poland, Polanski but here in America we say, “You do the crime, you do the time.”
A Message From Your Mother:
“You don’t remember. I am your mother Rosemary. Baby, I want you to come home to America. I am waiting for you in New York City, at 'The Bramford’ on the Seventh Floor in apartment 7E.Come in through the West 72nd Street entrance. You know the way. That is where you are going to be incarcerated. This is no dream, this is really happening. We will celebrate your arrival with Champagne and Quaaludes.”
Roman Polanski Wanted and Desired By The United States Justice System.
In 1977, a Polish-French man, Roman Polanski, aged 44; drugged and raped Samantha Gailey aged 13.
The man performed oral sex, intercourse and sodomy on the child. The man was arrested. He plea bargained his way to a lesser charge of engaging in Unlawful Sexual Intercourse with a Minor. He could have gone to jail.
February 1, 1978 the man fled to London and then moved to France. Now finally, he has been arrested in Switzerland after 32 years.
I don’t know what they say in Poland, Polanski but here in America we say, “You do the crime, you do the time.”
A Message From Your Mother:
“You don’t remember. I am your mother Rosemary. Baby, I want you to come home to America. I am waiting for you in New York City, at 'The Bramford’ on the Seventh Floor in apartment 7E.Come in through the West 72nd Street entrance. You know the way. That is where you are going to be incarcerated. This is no dream, this is really happening. We will celebrate your arrival with Champagne and Quaaludes.”
Monday, September 21, 2009
Recession Over, Definitely, Maybe…
By Godfrey Pereira
The Village Idiot was reading The Wall Street Journal for Real Dummies. American politicians and Financial Experts stated that the Recession in The United States was over.
Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke was quoted as saying that the Recession was
"Very Likely Over.”
The Village idiot smiled, waved Old Glory and went looking for a job at the Federal Reserve.
They told him, “Yes, there are many jobs, very likely, definitely, maybe… come back next year, Idiot.”
The Village Idiot scratched his empty pocket and went back to his Village.
"He’s just an Idiot," Financial Experts at the Federal Reserve stated, "What does he know?"
The Village Idiot was reading The Wall Street Journal for Real Dummies. American politicians and Financial Experts stated that the Recession in The United States was over.
Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke was quoted as saying that the Recession was
"Very Likely Over.”
The Village idiot smiled, waved Old Glory and went looking for a job at the Federal Reserve.
They told him, “Yes, there are many jobs, very likely, definitely, maybe… come back next year, Idiot.”
The Village Idiot scratched his empty pocket and went back to his Village.
"He’s just an Idiot," Financial Experts at the Federal Reserve stated, "What does he know?"
Thursday, September 10, 2009
A Meal With Mohan
By Godfrey Pereira
President Barack Obama recently stated, given a chance he would like to travel back in time and have dinner with Mahatma Gandhi, whom he considered a real hero.
Obama expressed his desire in response to a question from a student Lilly during his discussion with 9th graders at Wakefield High School in Arlington Virginia.
When the C.I.A. heard this, they contacted the I.S.I. who contacted R.A.W. who contacted MOSSAD, who contacted… you get the picture.
And so, it came to pass, the twain met.
Obama brought his donkey Blue Dog, for food care advice; Mohan brought his goat, Third Class, for fresh milk.
A neutral country was thought to be the best location.
Mohan and Barack picked a Vegetarian restaurant in Singh Dale, Brampton, Canada.
Mohan said, “Looks like home, smells like home, could be home, eh! eh!! I think we can make this home, eh!”
Barack said “No, we can’t.”
Outside the restaurant, a row of red elephants, with listening devices attached to their trunks, stood disguised as Bhangra dancers.
Mohan said, “I always travel Third Class, good for the image, you know.” The Valet parked Blue Dog and Third Class in the Untouchable Free zone and deposited Mohan’s walking sticks Manu and Abha in the “Ladies Only” closet.
The two sat down to eat without further fanfare.
Mohan ordered half an almond, a fresh grape, half a glass of lemon juice and an enema. Barack said he’d stick to water and the smell of turban in the air.
“So Mohan,” Barack said smiling, “I do admire your non violent philosophy.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mohan, “Enemas once a day, preferably at night. Also massages with pure coconut oil.”
“And what do you think about all this outsourcing, you know, American jobs going to India and all that.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mohan, “Mud Packs are the best solution. They are an ancient remedy for almost anything, including outsourcing.”
“You answer is there somewhere in your words but I cannot figure it out,” said Barack.
“I am an attorney disguised as a half naked fakir, disguised as a politician,” said Mohan smiling. “Experiment with the truth. Give up sex. Practice controlled starvation.”
The meal was over.
Barack turned to Mohan and pitched the question he had been waiting to ask.
“Mohan, what do you think about Universal Health Care in America.” Mohan’s eyes twinkled. He stood up, adjusted his dhoti and said, “Brother Barack, I think it’s a very good idea. Take some Western Civilization, always with a dash of salt, for taste. Mix and serve to the people. Remember, disguise the taste. I think it’s a very good idea.”
Mohan then called for Third Class and his walking sticks, and rode out with a million dollar Pakistani secret service detail discretely shadowing him.
That night in the White House, Barack told his wife Michelle he did not really understand Mahatma Gandhi.
His wife said, “I think it’s a very good idea.”
President Barack Obama recently stated, given a chance he would like to travel back in time and have dinner with Mahatma Gandhi, whom he considered a real hero.
Obama expressed his desire in response to a question from a student Lilly during his discussion with 9th graders at Wakefield High School in Arlington Virginia.
When the C.I.A. heard this, they contacted the I.S.I. who contacted R.A.W. who contacted MOSSAD, who contacted… you get the picture.
And so, it came to pass, the twain met.
Obama brought his donkey Blue Dog, for food care advice; Mohan brought his goat, Third Class, for fresh milk.
A neutral country was thought to be the best location.
Mohan and Barack picked a Vegetarian restaurant in Singh Dale, Brampton, Canada.
Mohan said, “Looks like home, smells like home, could be home, eh! eh!! I think we can make this home, eh!”
Barack said “No, we can’t.”
Outside the restaurant, a row of red elephants, with listening devices attached to their trunks, stood disguised as Bhangra dancers.
Mohan said, “I always travel Third Class, good for the image, you know.” The Valet parked Blue Dog and Third Class in the Untouchable Free zone and deposited Mohan’s walking sticks Manu and Abha in the “Ladies Only” closet.
The two sat down to eat without further fanfare.
Mohan ordered half an almond, a fresh grape, half a glass of lemon juice and an enema. Barack said he’d stick to water and the smell of turban in the air.
“So Mohan,” Barack said smiling, “I do admire your non violent philosophy.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mohan, “Enemas once a day, preferably at night. Also massages with pure coconut oil.”
“And what do you think about all this outsourcing, you know, American jobs going to India and all that.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mohan, “Mud Packs are the best solution. They are an ancient remedy for almost anything, including outsourcing.”
“You answer is there somewhere in your words but I cannot figure it out,” said Barack.
“I am an attorney disguised as a half naked fakir, disguised as a politician,” said Mohan smiling. “Experiment with the truth. Give up sex. Practice controlled starvation.”
The meal was over.
Barack turned to Mohan and pitched the question he had been waiting to ask.
“Mohan, what do you think about Universal Health Care in America.” Mohan’s eyes twinkled. He stood up, adjusted his dhoti and said, “Brother Barack, I think it’s a very good idea. Take some Western Civilization, always with a dash of salt, for taste. Mix and serve to the people. Remember, disguise the taste. I think it’s a very good idea.”
Mohan then called for Third Class and his walking sticks, and rode out with a million dollar Pakistani secret service detail discretely shadowing him.
That night in the White House, Barack told his wife Michelle he did not really understand Mahatma Gandhi.
His wife said, “I think it’s a very good idea.”
Friday, August 28, 2009
Mad Dogs And New Jersey
By Joseph Youngblood Jr., The Heights, Jersey
Col Muammar Gaddafi is expected to set up his Bedouin-style tent on Libyan Embassy-owned land in the town of Englewood, New Jersey when he attends the U.N. General Assembly next month in New York.
REACTIONS FROM THE GARDEN STATE:
Our Governor, Jon Corzine does not want you here.
The dogs of New Jersey do not want your Camels here.
The Cats of New Jersey don’t want your armed female body guards here.
The residents of New Jersey do not like you, or your stinking Bedouin tent.
It’s the collective voice of “We The People.”
We call it Democracy.
We hope that your mind can comprehend this? No apologies, but we do not speak your ‘bomb in a radio cassette player’ language.
We do not need your Three Volume Green Book on “Solutions To The Problem Of Democracy.” Feed that to your mindless, suppressed, brainwashed camels and stallions.
You are not welcome in New Jersey.
Your Libyan Intelligence Services can find you a Scottish Safe House or Pub.
Beware, they sell alcohol.Mmmmm...Haram!
And one final thought.
Unlike you, Muammar, the people of New Jersey do not walk a mile for a camel.
Col Muammar Gaddafi is expected to set up his Bedouin-style tent on Libyan Embassy-owned land in the town of Englewood, New Jersey when he attends the U.N. General Assembly next month in New York.
REACTIONS FROM THE GARDEN STATE:
Our Governor, Jon Corzine does not want you here.
The dogs of New Jersey do not want your Camels here.
The Cats of New Jersey don’t want your armed female body guards here.
The residents of New Jersey do not like you, or your stinking Bedouin tent.
It’s the collective voice of “We The People.”
We call it Democracy.
We hope that your mind can comprehend this? No apologies, but we do not speak your ‘bomb in a radio cassette player’ language.
We do not need your Three Volume Green Book on “Solutions To The Problem Of Democracy.” Feed that to your mindless, suppressed, brainwashed camels and stallions.
You are not welcome in New Jersey.
Your Libyan Intelligence Services can find you a Scottish Safe House or Pub.
Beware, they sell alcohol.Mmmmm...Haram!
And one final thought.
Unlike you, Muammar, the people of New Jersey do not walk a mile for a camel.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The Prostrate Pardon, A Cancer That Should Not Spread
By Godfrey Pereira
Dear Brave Hearts, Assorted Infidels,
And
KENNY MACASKILL, SCOTTISH JUSTICE MINISTER
"Numpty"
Please Note:
The American Definition of COMPASSION Is:
It’s alright sometimes, to turn the other cheek, but please, please don’t bend over and willingly ask them to bugger your arse.
Sir William Wallace would have agreed.
And that is what has happened.
A dinna kin! Why?
A Pardon for Monster Abdelbaset Ali Mohmed Al Megrahi.
A dinna kin! Why?
December 21, 1988, Pan Am flight 103, a 747, left Heathrow in
At 35,000 feet The Monster’s bomb, hidden in a suitcase, exploded over Lockerbie blowing human flesh and internal organs to small bloody pieces.
270 fatalities (259 on the plane, 11 in Lockerbie, Sherwood Cresent) were citizens of 21 nations.
Abdelbaset Ali Mohmed Al Megrahi was arrested, prosecuted and sentenced to life in prison.
Then the Prostrate Pardon.
A dinna kin!
Colonel Muammar Abu Minyar al-Gaddafi’s private jet escorted the Monster to
Did you see all this Numpty Macaskill?
If The Monster was dying of Prostrate Cancer, his 95 year old mother, Hajja Fatma Ali al-Araibi, his wife Aisha and five children could have been ferried to Greenock prison in
That’s one compromise on the slimy oil and political canvas.
So now what? The compassion must continue.
On March 13, 1996, in an unprovoked outbreak of rage lasting three minutes, Thomas Watt Hamilton killed or injured all but one of a class of 29. The children, who were murdered in cold blood, were five- and six-year-olds, along with their teacher Gwen Mayor at
In total, 17 people were murdered, 16 young children and their teacher.
Yes, why not show some compassion for
Why not pass a compassionate bill in the Holyrood. All 129 members must vote.
The relatives of Thomas Watt Hamilton, {who have been feeling poorly since he put a gun into his mouth after the Dunblane massacre} must be compensated for the fourteen years of shame the family has had to wrongfully endure because of Thomas Hamilton.
What say you, MACASKILL?
Or, Is this another
Or as, Lord Chancellor Lord Irvine of Lairg said in 1998:
“The best answer to the question was to stop asking it.”
Meanwhile back in the Great Socialist People's Libyan Arab Jamahiriya,
The Monster Abdelbaset Ali Mohmed Al Megrahi must be sitting in an air conditioned Bedouin tent Number 103. The temperature in the desert outside is a killing 270 degrees Fahrenheit. The monster does not care. He is an ease, where he now sits. He and his near and dear loved ones are nibbling at spit roasted wild desert goat.
They are laughing hysterically, desperately trying to pronounce the Scottish word, "Numpties"
So, Guid cheerio the nou!
I have nothing more left to say.
Ah, one more thing, one more time, Oh! Compassionate ones from
It’s alright sometimes, to turn the other cheek, but please, please don’t bend over and willingly ask them to bugger your arse.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The King And I
By Godfrey Pereira
New Jersey is a state across the tracks from New York City. They call it the Garden State. Don’t know why. Jersey is poor neighbour to The Big Apple. There are bright spots within the rubble though. There is Six Flags in Jackson, poor cousin to Disneyworld in Florida. Then there is Atlantic City, poor hooker to Las Vegas, and of course, Albert Einstein’s house and the famous college at Princeton, poor cousins to nobody.
And then, there is Newark Liberty International Airport where the big jet engines roar.
That is where it all went down.
That is where King Khan was made to feel like an unknown commoner without a denominator. A plaque now marks the exact spot where this happened. Unnamed sources from deep within the Pentagon, state that an eternal flame will be added, after America emerges from its recession.
Our President Obama has commanded that his daily briefing include “The Khan Incident” and it’s social and economic repercussions on the global outsourcing trade industry. The Glorious Democratic Nation of Kazakhstan and the Communist State of China are said to be watching the situation very closely.
Khan’s fans were furious. His friends shook their heads in dismay, and the whole of India let out an audible collective sigh of disgust. They wished they could spray blood red paan spittle all over Newark airport, and of course the Americans. And yes, many Indian politicians, weighed in on the issue. Of course.
Shahrukh Khan, India’s Brad Pitt, was hopping a flight to Chicago and was detained at Newark because his last name “KHAN’ popped up on a computer security search. A “secondary inspection” was conducted and King Khan flew into Chicago. End of story. Not!
His fans at home and anti-American ideologues began frothing at the mouth making rabid statements about U.S. policy. Denouncing American Idol and calling our Brad Pitt an “Inglorious Basterd.” They also swore that they were going to wear black arm bands, shouting Death to America, when they ate at Mac Donald’s or stood in long lines for American tourist visas.
A blitzkrieg followed. The Press went into overdrive. Baying for American blood. Protesters burnt effigies of Coco- Cola and demonstrators chanted “Death to Playboy.”
It all seemed pretty senseless till…
The Indian Federal Information Minister, Ambika Soni, was quoted by The Associated Press as suggesting that India adopt a similar policy toward Americans traveling to India.
“An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.”
Wonder who said that?
I flew into the Chattrapathi Shivaji International Airport last week.
At Customs they asked. “What Nationality?”
“American, I guess,” I said.
The lady at the counter whose tri-colored blinking name tag read Friskin’ Mistry said, “You, yes you, go to Saffron Line, now.”
“Look, I was born here…”I said.
“You, please to be shut-upping. No talking, go…” she barked.
“Where are you going? Why are you here? Who do you know in Amchi Mumbai?
How long do you plan to stay? Swine….Do you have that pig disease in your carry on? Any pornography? How many dollars in your pocket? Does your underwear have stars and stripes, and holes? Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
After listening to my answers, contempt growing on her countenance she said. “Time for the frisking. Hands Up, Spread Legs!” After her wandering, probing fingers were satisfied that the contents of my large intestines did not carry any contraband she pointed to a side door. “You. Time for Secondary Inspection.”
Friskin’ Mistry followed me into an airless room fit for criminals doomed to solitary confinement. “Please assume position, please.”
I bent over.
“Sit down,” she shouted, “back straight, look me in eyes, No talk, please.” She pulled out a questionnaire and machine gunned the questions and answers.
“Straight or Gay?”
I looked at her breasts.
“Straight,” she said
“Married or divorced?”
I moved my eyes lower.
“Divorced,” she said.
“What did your last credit card report state?”
She looked at my designer torn jeans.
“Not Credit worthy,” she said.
“You sure that’s not a gun in your pocket?”
I looked at her heavy breasts again.
“Ahaa,” she said, that’s not a gun, you naughty, naughty boy, you.”
After six hours, Frisken Mistry was completely satisfied. “Welcome to India,” she said and smiled a smile so sweet that I nearly asked for her horoscope chart. Who knows, she could be the one.
I tried humor, just like Shahrukh Khan, saying her name, “Friskin’ Mistry” really fast, five times. She was not amused.
Try it. It gives you a natural High. Might help you get you off that Ganja dependence.
From the corner of my eye, I seen Friskin Mistry bite the head off an Italian tourist. The woman tried to be friendly with Friskin’ Mistry. She just said the wrong thing at the wrong time, in the wrong place and to the wrong person. “I like India,” said the Italian. “I mean your Prime Minister, Sonia Gandhi is Italian, from my home state.”
Friskin’ Mistry’s eyes burned with white hot flames, she breathed so deep I thought her ample bosom was going to spurt boiling milk at the Italian. “She is not our Prime Minister, maa-damn,” Friskin’ Mistry stated in her best dispassionate diplomatic voice. “The name of our Prime Minister is Manmohan Singh, maa-damn.”
Then the Italian tourist put the foot, that she had just stepped into cow dung with, right into her mouth. “Of course, I know that, silly,” she said, “I know your Prime Minister’s name, that fellow with the glasses and turban. What I mean is, Sonia Gandhi is the one who really pulls all the strings, the one behind the curtain, you know, the real power, you know. I know, that’s how things are done here in India. Everything, kinda under the table. Chai Pani here, pull a string there, tie a knot there…. I know. I understand your culture. It’s cool.”
Friskin Mistry turned the color of a six day old corpse. Someone must have jerked the string attached to her dormant kundalini. I moved away, so as not to attract any shrapnel and pieces of bloody flying human flesh. The last thing I heard was Friskin’ Mistry scream, “SECONDARY INSPECTION.”
I fled as pure funk took over. I could feel my bowels begin to move.
Outside my friends were waiting.
There were no hellos or good to see you. “Who do you people think you are?” said my Rakhee Sister, Sunman Das Gupta. “Insulting our Brad Pitt? You live in New Jersey, so you must shoulder some of the responsibility.” The statement was invalid on so many levels, I let it go. In the car they said that Shahrukh Khan was angry, and when Angelina Jolie came to Mumbai next to adopt a baby, he would like to frisk her really hard. So I said, “Good, then Our Brad Pitt can frisk Queen Gauri Chibba, King Khan’s wife.
And your Brad Pitt can watch.”
They threatened to throw me out of the car, these childhood friends of mine. They threatened to hurt me, in private soft tender places so that I would be incapable of having any future sexual pleasure. They threatened my reproductive organs with violence so ugly, I cannot write about it. They said that it was a good thing I lived in America. That poor broke country which owed billions of dollars to China. I checked my zipper, crossed my legs and maintained a wise silence.
On the way to Pali Hill, Bandra, Sena Supremo, Bal Thackeray was making a speech at Dharavi, the number one tourist spot in Bombay. We stopped the car to listen to the aging tiger. “Maharashtra he roared is for Maharashtrians. Let us throw all the Americans tourists out. Move the American Embassy to Bihar. They have insulted our King Khan. He may be a Muslim but that’s better than being American. I say to you, these Damn Yankees and especially that Ted Nugent should not be allowed on sacred Indian soil. We have to stand by our Muslim brothers; after all, in the end, we are all Indians, from the same mother.” The crowd was tuning in; it was beginning to look like a mob.
We left in a hurry.
In India, I heard angry anti-American talk everywhere. Talking to a crowd at a posh Gymkhana in Mumbai, I heard a universal cry.
Now, when Americans came visiting India they should all be frisked and frisked and frisked. Bill Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, Jay Leno, Brad Pitt, Megan Fox, The Obama Girl, Charles Manson, Son of Sam, Lil Wayne & Young Jeezy, Snoop Dog, Reverend Billy Graham and Rush Limbaugh, just to name a few.
India needs to show the Friskin’ Americans, what it Friskin’ feels like, to be Friskin’ Frisked.
I finally flew out of India, got back to my Newark Liberty International Airport.
“Where you comin’ from?” they asked.
“India,” I said.
“There is a message here for you from an Air India staffer. Someone’s waiting for you.
Air India, Room Ten, first on your left.
Bewildered, I walked into the room.
It was Friskin’, Mistry. There was naked lust in her eyes.
“SECONDARY INSPECTION, NOW,” she said in a throaty voice.
New Jersey is a state across the tracks from New York City. They call it the Garden State. Don’t know why. Jersey is poor neighbour to The Big Apple. There are bright spots within the rubble though. There is Six Flags in Jackson, poor cousin to Disneyworld in Florida. Then there is Atlantic City, poor hooker to Las Vegas, and of course, Albert Einstein’s house and the famous college at Princeton, poor cousins to nobody.
And then, there is Newark Liberty International Airport where the big jet engines roar.
That is where it all went down.
That is where King Khan was made to feel like an unknown commoner without a denominator. A plaque now marks the exact spot where this happened. Unnamed sources from deep within the Pentagon, state that an eternal flame will be added, after America emerges from its recession.
Our President Obama has commanded that his daily briefing include “The Khan Incident” and it’s social and economic repercussions on the global outsourcing trade industry. The Glorious Democratic Nation of Kazakhstan and the Communist State of China are said to be watching the situation very closely.
Khan’s fans were furious. His friends shook their heads in dismay, and the whole of India let out an audible collective sigh of disgust. They wished they could spray blood red paan spittle all over Newark airport, and of course the Americans. And yes, many Indian politicians, weighed in on the issue. Of course.
Shahrukh Khan, India’s Brad Pitt, was hopping a flight to Chicago and was detained at Newark because his last name “KHAN’ popped up on a computer security search. A “secondary inspection” was conducted and King Khan flew into Chicago. End of story. Not!
His fans at home and anti-American ideologues began frothing at the mouth making rabid statements about U.S. policy. Denouncing American Idol and calling our Brad Pitt an “Inglorious Basterd.” They also swore that they were going to wear black arm bands, shouting Death to America, when they ate at Mac Donald’s or stood in long lines for American tourist visas.
A blitzkrieg followed. The Press went into overdrive. Baying for American blood. Protesters burnt effigies of Coco- Cola and demonstrators chanted “Death to Playboy.”
It all seemed pretty senseless till…
The Indian Federal Information Minister, Ambika Soni, was quoted by The Associated Press as suggesting that India adopt a similar policy toward Americans traveling to India.
“An eye for an eye only ends up making the whole world blind.”
Wonder who said that?
I flew into the Chattrapathi Shivaji International Airport last week.
At Customs they asked. “What Nationality?”
“American, I guess,” I said.
The lady at the counter whose tri-colored blinking name tag read Friskin’ Mistry said, “You, yes you, go to Saffron Line, now.”
“Look, I was born here…”I said.
“You, please to be shut-upping. No talking, go…” she barked.
“Where are you going? Why are you here? Who do you know in Amchi Mumbai?
How long do you plan to stay? Swine….Do you have that pig disease in your carry on? Any pornography? How many dollars in your pocket? Does your underwear have stars and stripes, and holes? Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
After listening to my answers, contempt growing on her countenance she said. “Time for the frisking. Hands Up, Spread Legs!” After her wandering, probing fingers were satisfied that the contents of my large intestines did not carry any contraband she pointed to a side door. “You. Time for Secondary Inspection.”
Friskin’ Mistry followed me into an airless room fit for criminals doomed to solitary confinement. “Please assume position, please.”
I bent over.
“Sit down,” she shouted, “back straight, look me in eyes, No talk, please.” She pulled out a questionnaire and machine gunned the questions and answers.
“Straight or Gay?”
I looked at her breasts.
“Straight,” she said
“Married or divorced?”
I moved my eyes lower.
“Divorced,” she said.
“What did your last credit card report state?”
She looked at my designer torn jeans.
“Not Credit worthy,” she said.
“You sure that’s not a gun in your pocket?”
I looked at her heavy breasts again.
“Ahaa,” she said, that’s not a gun, you naughty, naughty boy, you.”
After six hours, Frisken Mistry was completely satisfied. “Welcome to India,” she said and smiled a smile so sweet that I nearly asked for her horoscope chart. Who knows, she could be the one.
I tried humor, just like Shahrukh Khan, saying her name, “Friskin’ Mistry” really fast, five times. She was not amused.
Try it. It gives you a natural High. Might help you get you off that Ganja dependence.
From the corner of my eye, I seen Friskin Mistry bite the head off an Italian tourist. The woman tried to be friendly with Friskin’ Mistry. She just said the wrong thing at the wrong time, in the wrong place and to the wrong person. “I like India,” said the Italian. “I mean your Prime Minister, Sonia Gandhi is Italian, from my home state.”
Friskin’ Mistry’s eyes burned with white hot flames, she breathed so deep I thought her ample bosom was going to spurt boiling milk at the Italian. “She is not our Prime Minister, maa-damn,” Friskin’ Mistry stated in her best dispassionate diplomatic voice. “The name of our Prime Minister is Manmohan Singh, maa-damn.”
Then the Italian tourist put the foot, that she had just stepped into cow dung with, right into her mouth. “Of course, I know that, silly,” she said, “I know your Prime Minister’s name, that fellow with the glasses and turban. What I mean is, Sonia Gandhi is the one who really pulls all the strings, the one behind the curtain, you know, the real power, you know. I know, that’s how things are done here in India. Everything, kinda under the table. Chai Pani here, pull a string there, tie a knot there…. I know. I understand your culture. It’s cool.”
Friskin Mistry turned the color of a six day old corpse. Someone must have jerked the string attached to her dormant kundalini. I moved away, so as not to attract any shrapnel and pieces of bloody flying human flesh. The last thing I heard was Friskin’ Mistry scream, “SECONDARY INSPECTION.”
I fled as pure funk took over. I could feel my bowels begin to move.
Outside my friends were waiting.
There were no hellos or good to see you. “Who do you people think you are?” said my Rakhee Sister, Sunman Das Gupta. “Insulting our Brad Pitt? You live in New Jersey, so you must shoulder some of the responsibility.” The statement was invalid on so many levels, I let it go. In the car they said that Shahrukh Khan was angry, and when Angelina Jolie came to Mumbai next to adopt a baby, he would like to frisk her really hard. So I said, “Good, then Our Brad Pitt can frisk Queen Gauri Chibba, King Khan’s wife.
And your Brad Pitt can watch.”
They threatened to throw me out of the car, these childhood friends of mine. They threatened to hurt me, in private soft tender places so that I would be incapable of having any future sexual pleasure. They threatened my reproductive organs with violence so ugly, I cannot write about it. They said that it was a good thing I lived in America. That poor broke country which owed billions of dollars to China. I checked my zipper, crossed my legs and maintained a wise silence.
On the way to Pali Hill, Bandra, Sena Supremo, Bal Thackeray was making a speech at Dharavi, the number one tourist spot in Bombay. We stopped the car to listen to the aging tiger. “Maharashtra he roared is for Maharashtrians. Let us throw all the Americans tourists out. Move the American Embassy to Bihar. They have insulted our King Khan. He may be a Muslim but that’s better than being American. I say to you, these Damn Yankees and especially that Ted Nugent should not be allowed on sacred Indian soil. We have to stand by our Muslim brothers; after all, in the end, we are all Indians, from the same mother.” The crowd was tuning in; it was beginning to look like a mob.
We left in a hurry.
In India, I heard angry anti-American talk everywhere. Talking to a crowd at a posh Gymkhana in Mumbai, I heard a universal cry.
Now, when Americans came visiting India they should all be frisked and frisked and frisked. Bill Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, Jay Leno, Brad Pitt, Megan Fox, The Obama Girl, Charles Manson, Son of Sam, Lil Wayne & Young Jeezy, Snoop Dog, Reverend Billy Graham and Rush Limbaugh, just to name a few.
India needs to show the Friskin’ Americans, what it Friskin’ feels like, to be Friskin’ Frisked.
I finally flew out of India, got back to my Newark Liberty International Airport.
“Where you comin’ from?” they asked.
“India,” I said.
“There is a message here for you from an Air India staffer. Someone’s waiting for you.
Air India, Room Ten, first on your left.
Bewildered, I walked into the room.
It was Friskin’, Mistry. There was naked lust in her eyes.
“SECONDARY INSPECTION, NOW,” she said in a throaty voice.
There was a muffled cough from the shadows of the room.
It was Shahrukh Khan. “I am going out there,” he whispered, “this security brouhaha was just great hangama, man. International publicity. Hope they arrest me this time. Hope they shoot me. Hope I don’t die. If I do, tell Angelina… no, no, no, tell my wife I love her. Don’t forget to see ‘My Name Is Khan.’
Khan looked at Friskin’ Mistry’s heaving breasts. Friskin’ Mistry looked down at Khan. “Yes, he said sheepishly, “That is a gun in my pocket, really it is. A big dangerous prop for added publicity. There is no business, like show business.”
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