On Breaking up and Such Part II

Hapless trio lie in their muddled beds, cheeks dotted with haphazard stubble. They peer through the shuttered windows, where blinks of dispersed light are seeping through. Their bodies feel alien and heavy with the intake of unnamable, addictive substances (No I don’t have any, go away now, what you trying to do get me deported in less than 90 days?). They contemplate the thought of going to school, college or work for less than a blink of an eye.

Trio: Naaaaaah (flips the blanket over his head, curls into a teary, human ball)

They put on the same tape or CD they’ve been listening to for the last 3 weeks, usually which is a mix of Hani Shaker for Arab lovers, peppered with Hamada Hilal and his infamous smash hit “Dayman domoo3” (Literally translated to “Always tears”) and other western songs such as “How could an angel break my heart”

Never mind the cultural, geographical, racial, and social differences, all the musical playlists will merge magically to the albums of a one, notorious band..

Linkin Park

I TRIED SO HARD AND GOT SO FAR BUT IN THE END IT DOESN’T REALLY MATTER !!

You can’t go wrong with such lyrics.

Their parents are resigned to the notion that the broken-up with dudes’ are converted Satanists. They start looking in the yellow pages for psychiatric help.

The phone rings. Trio jump out of their beds hoping that it would be Heartless Bitch, sorry and regretful for the wrong she has done, but the cell phone clearly displays "Female Colleague".

Female Colleague is ever-supportive, you talk about your ex (without mentioning names), the racy things you did together with little embellishment. You contemplate the thought of rebounding with her, then you recall the snorting sound she makes when she laughs and dispose of the idea totally and completely.

Female Colleague: Where were you today? Why didn’t you come?
Trio: We’re tired, we didn’t feel like coming
FC: Guess who I saw yesterday in the café? That girl you took a course with, walked with (note she will never come out and openly say “That girl you dated”, Hell no!)
Trio: Is she the girl I dated?
FC(irked): I don't know the girl you dated. How would I know the girl you dated?

FC proceeds to do a funny “Oooooooooooooops!” face with her unseen face

Silence
Trio: Who was she with? What was she doing? What was she wearing?
FC: She was with some guy
Trio (panicking): Who is he? What was he doing? What was he wearing?
Trio (gulping): Was he touching her?
FC: I don’t know
Trio: Are you sure it's my ex-girl?
FC: Yeah the girl you dated

FC does real “Oooooooooooooops!” face with her face

Trio: You just said you didn’t know we dated.
FC: Ummmmm. Did I say that? Well, technically, maybe if we consider the fact..
Trio: I have to go. Bye
FC: Wait!
Click

They speed-dial Best Friend’s number and propose the plan they’ve been formulating meticulously over the past 3 weeks

The plan’s name is “Revenge of the Miserably Broken Hearted”

Just as they are about to inquire where they can get some good shovels from.

Trio: Hey man, did you know that my girl was going out with some guy?
Best Friend: Ummmmmmmmmm.Errrrrr…Well,,,,mmmmmm….no
Silence
Trio: What’s with all stalling? Swear on your mother’s honor that you did not now.
Best Friend: Ok I knew.
Trio: FUCK YOU @#$#@ *beep* *beep* KUSS UKHT SHIKLAK *further beep beeps*
click

Whatever progress marked in those 3 weeks, will go unmarked. The pain and anguish resurfaces as if you broke up 5 minutes ago.

Then they realize another sorry reality.

It wasn’t her, it was them all along.

Breaking up is tough. But they’ll be fine. Just like many people before them, and after them will be fine.

As long as they keep that plan tucked in the deepest, darkest depths of their minds, and conjure it every once in a while with an evil smirk on their faces. Or they’ll end up sharing a cell with a big, black dude named Bubba, who we will not say what he likes to do when it gets dark.

On Breaking-up and Such

Breaking-up is tough.

And even though every being is a “unique snowflake” (or so they claim), but the breaking up process is essentially and universally the same.

Gal: I need to talk to you.
Nice Guy: Sure! (Hoping Gal wants to profess her innermost feelings)
Nice Guy with Slightly Naughty Intentions: Sure! (Hoping Gal wants to profess her innermost feelings that will lead to a making out session)
Naughty Guy: Sure! (Hoping Gal wants to profess her innermost feelings, that will lead to wild, animalistic sex)
Gal: I’m breaking up with you.
Nice Guy, Nice Guy with Slightly Naughty intentions, Naughty Guy: WHAT???

Never mind the fact that the Gal hasn’t called them for the last 3 weeks, and all the calls that were initiated by them ended abruptly with the same lame excuse of sleepiness, and all messages sent were replied to after 3 days with “i just saw ur msg”, but all men’s typical reactions will be identical; utter shock and disbelief.

Gal: I have to go now. I have a [Insert according to age group: class/lecture/ meeting/ airplane to catch]
Nice Guy, Nice Guy with Slightly Naughty intentions, Naughty Guy: Wait!
Gal: Bye, I’ll call you..
Nice Guy, Nice Guy with Slightly Naughty intentions, Naughty Guy: ok
The Gal has already disappeared by now.
Nice Guy, Nice Guy with Slightly Naughty intentions, Naughty Guy: Please?

Unknowingly to the unfortunate trio, this will be the first of many “Please” s to come, that will be met with icy unpleasingness.

After going back home, the three stooges check their mobile phone every 5 minutes, make sure that it’s not turned off or put on silent. When it rings, they jump onto it, only to find it’s a wrong number or their best friends

Best Friend: Hey man, what’s up? Let’s hang out at the same place we hang out at everyday and do the same thing we do everyday?
Trio: I’m tired man, maybe some other day
Best Friend: We’ll have ice-cream
Trio(thinking to themselves): you know ice-cream would be helpful for my spirits!
Trio: Ok sure! Come pick me up.

Best Friend and The Three Blind Mice meet lots of old and new friends. The atmosphere is vivacious and filled with mirthful laughter and good times. The second that the About-To-Be- Officially-Broken-up-With guys begin to enjoy their time and forget about that nagging feeling in the back of their heads that their blissful existence as they know it is about to be eternally shattered..

The phone rings..

Trio (jumping out of their seats): Heeyyyy. Thanks for calling I thought that you’d never…listen, I was thinking, maybe we can work this out, please?
Gal: I’m sorry Trio, this isn’t working out for me, I need my space, I’m at a phase in my life where I need to be focused on [insert according to age group: studies, career, boyfriend (note this offer is valid only for Naughty Guy], children (note this offer is valid only for VERY Naughty Guy with Demented Directions], it’s just that I’m not sure about what I want in life.. yadda yadda…please don’t get hurt…I’m not worth it…it’s not you, it’s me.. blah blah blah..you deserve better than me..etc. etc.]
Trio: ummm, please?
Gal Demoted to Heartless Bitch: I need to go now. I’m sleepy. Bye
Click

2 to 9 ignored SMS’s later containing lots of ‘plz’s that eventually derail to ‘fuk u bitch!’s and ‘am srry, tht msg wznt meant 4 u plz it wz 4 my cuzn’ they realize the sad reality of the situation as it is;

It’s over.

They excuse themselves and go to the bathroom.

Nice guy weeps in the locked toilet.
Nice guy with slightly Naughty Intentions stares at the sink.
Naughty guy smashes the mirror.

Breaking up is tough, everyone will tell you that. But what no one will tell you is that we are all, essentially and universally, part of the same big snowflake.

To be continued.

On Dating, Alter-Egos, Rebirths and Such

I arrive at the café 15 minutes early as most dating coaches and clinically sane people would advise you. I go through the list of things I would say, the jokes I would make.

Blank.

Shit, wasn’t there a list of topics on the agenda tonight to be discussed? Are cheat sheets allowed on dates?

I fidget. My hand needs to play with something. I take a bag of sugar and wrap it open for no particular or logical reason. The pebbles of sugar spill inevitably on the wooden table carved with initials and ‘woz ‘ere’ s and faded love hearts.

The Voice Inside My Head aka Sami: Great man..what are you trying to do? Show her what a freak show you really are on your first date?

Luckily, I manage to wipe away the sugar in time for the grand entrance of my date. She doesn’t look right nor left, I stand up, wave stupidly and shake her hand.

She looks exquisite.

I crack some joke of me knowing all the stories of the people sitting in the café by now.

Me: This guy thinks his girlfriend is too possessive, while she says that his ex has no right to call him, but he says that they’re only good friends, what do you think?

She smiles, suppressing a chuckle, I hope she doesn’t think I’m hinting that she's late.

Sami: Wow man, she is a looker. Want me to take over?
Me: No, I want to do it the right way..
Sami: Right way my ass. You know I’m much better with the LAY-DEE-Z, (doing an animalistic humping movement) ask your exes
Me: I know but I want her to like me for me.. not some silly alter ego I created..
Silence
Sami: HA HA HA HA! You’ve been watching too many Oprah Winfrey episodes my friend
Me: No I haven’t..you know that..
Sami: I think she’s staring at you..

It was the waiter and her staring at me evenly.

Waiter: What would you like to have, sir?
Being the gentleman I am, I gesture to my date to go ahead.

She orders some mocka-cuppo-fettucini thing. I order minted tea.

So much for sophistication.

We talk some little about work and troubles we’re facing in life. We find we have a lot in common; our fondness for foreign movies and desire for World Peace.

Speaking of which.

Halfway through the date, Sami pops out with a smoking, white suit and a matching hat in a foggy club, spotlights centered on him.

Sami (singing): Babyyyyyy, When I get that feeling I want seck-choo-wal healing..seck-choo-wal..When I get that feeling..
Me: I am aware of that, thank you very much for your kind contribution.. go back to alter-ego land where you meet other imaginary hot chicks and have sex all the time
Sami: I’m tired of them, they’re all so…fake! Listen, I can get her to put out in 20 minutes
Me: Shut up
Sami: Ok that’s an exaggeration, give me two weeks
Me: Go away
Sami: Okie

Sami picks a hot blonde in a night dress from the front seats, sweeps her off her feet in one quick motion, and plants a passionate kiss on her lips. Her fingers curl around his suit, and her manicured toes similarly in her sandals.

Back to boring reality world.

We called the waiter in a variety of names. Man, sir, gundoo, idiot, Sayyed, Hajj.

I pray he trips and falls and breaks his damn neck, and while we’re at it an apocalyptic, nuclear war is waged outside where human race perishes and we are forced to form a primitive community to guarantee the continuation and evolution of human species.

Nothing of that sort happens.

Sami: Tell her she’s fat..
Me: WHAT? She’s not fat..
Sami: You are gonna blow it anyway, might as well have fun with it.
Me: Go away man.
Sami: I give it 2 weeks.
Me: No, I feel this is it. Really, she’s the one.
Sami: Blech! (Does some silly The Matrix movements)

He was right. All it took was 2 weeks.

That’s when the old me died, and I became Sami, the silly alter-ego I created.

On Random Misadventure No. 2: The One Where I Get Beat Up by the Police in a Demonstration Part III

After my brief encounter with the Grim Reaper, who in my version turns out to be none other than the pedophile, effeminate Michael Jackson I woke up, to an unchanged scene where people were still running, screaming and flailing their arms wildly, like Smurfs attacked by Gargamel (Sharshabeel in the Arabic version). Sharp pangs of pain shot everywhere from my lower body, where most shoes and clubs landed-thankfully. An undressing session later (no I won't describe that, naughty you!) revealed patches of blue, green and red. I gave my bruises names; Masoud, Khaled and Imam.

A new pissed policeman was now standing right in front of me.

I don’t know what it is about me that sends policemen over the edge.

Picture this, me limping with one shoe off (remember it just dissipated away) half-blinded after my specs were smashed irredeemably to the ground, and my hair disheveled like a lion’s mane from the whole lying on the ground, getting beat up thing. I ran to a patch of ground, where green, lush grass would grow in better, sunny seasons where birds chirp and butterflies float.

It was winter.

I ran for a good 10 minutes in the mud all the time looking behind me trying to shake the policeman off. He was a persistent motherfucker, and he refuesd be shaken off. Then, suddenly, I heard deafening boom boom sounds. The policeman disappeared to thin air, just like he appeared. This was it. They’re shooting at us now.

I started to cry.

Me: Weird, I don’t feel sad or anything, why am I crying? Could there be a touchy-feely, sensitive guy inside me who actually cares for World Peace and all that shit?

Turns out the police were firing tear gas bombs into the university now.

Things quieted down. All you can hear was the whimpering of injured students or students in shock, all you can see was the tear-gas fog masking the unseen sniffling. I sat on a bench, still bawling, wiping off my tears, gasping for air and producing all sorts of unknown-before-to-me fluids from unknown-before-to-me orifices in my face.

Ahmad, what happened to Ahmad?

Close to the main gate, where the police and all their goons were stationed, a figure appeared, shuffling around, back heavily hunched, his denim bag slanted behind his back, in an Eeyore-like demeanor.

AHMAD!!

The tear gas, what about the tear gas, he can’t be too lazy to be immune to tear gas?

The gas was actually being blown away from him and the area he wandered safely and untouched was a hollow vacuum devoid from gases and shit.

The image caused me to experience an emotion only an elite, blessed few will experience in their entire lifetimes; crying and laughing at the same time.

Me: Hehehe, mmmmm, waaaa, sniff sniff, HA HA HA, mmmmm, ehe2 ehe2!

After the fiasco was over with, a few students hurt, a couple imprisoned, glasses smashed, clothing ripped(no big deal) I caught up with him and asked him what the hell was he doing close to the main gate and the frenzied police?

Ahmad: I was looking for my cap, man.

The soundtrack for The Trilogy of the One Where I Get Beat Up by the Police featuring the smash hit single ‘Pissed Policeman’ and ‘H.T.M.L.’ is now available in a store near you. Buy your copy now and receive a new special, bonus track ‘Fuck Da Poliz’ by the back-from-the-dead-to-release-a-new-record Tupac Shakur.

On Random Misadventure No. 2: The One Where I Get Beat Up by the Police in a Demonstration Part II

Due to the incessant pleading of my legions of die-hard, over-zealous fans who are now performing unprecedented, pagan rituals of mounting hamster heads on pikes in attempt to entice me to post the rest of the story a day earlier, I have decided to post the rest of the story a day earlier.

Ah, who am I kidding I’m bored out of my skull at work. And stapling my hand isn’t fun after the second time anymore and just sheer craziness, if you ask me.

Back to the story at hand. If you’re too lazy (like Ahmad) and haven’t read Part 1 of the story please do, so you are familiar with the course of events taking place. Don’t be like most people I know:

Most People I Know: I’ll just skip to episode 21 of (Lost/ Prison Break/ Desperate Housewives) and I’ll figure what happened before.

It doesn’t work that way.

I promise if you don’t chuckle at least once you can apply for my “No Chuckles Refund Policy” of a free click of the red “X” button in the right corner and never visit this blog again.

And so the story goes...

What was presumably a 5-minute walk from our faculty to the main gate took a good 15 minutes with 3 stops where I had to look back and urge Ahmad on.

Ahmad: Why are you in such a hurry, man? The demonstration isn’t going anywhere..(Chuckles)
Me: Oh dear God!

Nothing could’ve prepared us for the scene that was about to meet us. Emotions were running high, simmering gradually on a slow, warm pot of anger. People packed in groups of threes, fours and fives like those documentaries of wild life in Africa trying to earn a false sense of security. Rows of fully-clad policemen lined against the main gate, tugging their batons, like cowboys in an old Western movie.

Me (a little anxious): We could turn back if you want!
Ahmad: But we’re already here, man..
Me: Ok we’ll just say a couple of chants, “Falasteen 3arabieh” “*Beep* ukht Sharon” and whatever and go home (Literally translated to Palestine is Arab, Fuck Sharon (I’m not going into the literal, literal translation for now)

Ahmad didn’t say anything, it was like him to respond to a third of my correspondences.

As soon as I stood to chant, 3 rows of demonstrators closed in behind me, sandwiching me, and squishing me to the point where I could see the lice growing in the hair of the demonstrator in front of me.

Someone said something about going out of the university, and it seemed like everyone else liked the idea. Even the lice..

Someone: Let’s penetrate the hordes of pissed policemen and move this demonstration to the streets
Other Imbecilic Demonstrators with No Mind of their Own: Yeah, yeah, we could do that, yeah yeah, why not! Good idea! Yeah. Yeah, cool!
Lice: Yeah, yeah! (Doing Usher's "Yeah" dance)
Me: Hehe, Ok guys let’s not get too excited here, we proved our point, maybe we should all calm down and have a cup of coffee and discuss this like grown-up adults…

All hell broke loose. The policemen flocked like rabid dogs into the university. They were clearly pissed that their day of lying in their police cars, harassing beggars and squeezing free falafel sandwiches off passerbys was ruined.

The thing about stampedes is that they are real and people do die because of them in Hajj and chasing of the bulls in Spain. I’ll tell you why. The rows in the front push the rows in the back till they tumble like dominoes. And like a domino chip, you can’t get up, because another domino chip is trapping your squirming legs as other dominoes happy that they still retain control over their feet come and squash you to your breathless death.

It’s not a pretty way to go, believe me.

I experienced one of the most painful physical agonies known to mankind.

Being trampled on.

People stepped on me like I was no more than a Door Welcome mat. I saw my left sneaker fly off my foot lost into a sea of unassorted, unclaimed objects like notebooks, shoes, glasses. Speaking of which, my specs flews off too, I eyed them carefully to take a mental note of where they landed to come back and pick them up. At that specific second, some unnamed demonstrator’s heel smashed my specs to the ground.

I make a mental note not to make mental notes.

As I lay on the ground, staring up at the beautiful, azure skies above, dotted with cushiony, white clouds, I saw maniacal policemen whizzing by, throwing their clubs like ogres from Lord of the Rings and screaming, hysterical students running away, stamping me along the way with the patchwork on the soles of their shoes. Every time a blue passed over me, I thanked God silently that he didn’t beat the shit out of me.

Until..

One policeman decided to ruin my vacation, just as much as I ruined his.

Pissed Policeman: GOOM WALAH!! GET UP YOU ..
Me: Please don’t hit me, wait, I can explain this…

I covered my head.

Blackness.

Insert scene of gangster-suit wearing pack of dancers. Dancers proceed to perform a series of perfectly-choreographed dances and moonwalks

Me (screaming in pain): Aaow!!
Dancers (in tune with Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal): Sami are you ok? Won’t you tell us that you’re ok, Sami?
Me (in the highest Michael Jackson pitch I can muster): I don’t know..
Dancers: There’s a mark on your body, that he struck you with a baton, Sami
Me: I don’t know..
Dancers: He came into your university, left bodies on the groundwork,
Me: Wallah, I don’t know..
Dancers: Then you ran to the inside, you were struck down it was your doom, Sami
Dancers: You’ve been hit by, you’ve been struck by, a pissed policeman.

So this is what death must be like? Multi – Michael Jacksons performing 80’s smash hit singles, over and over. I’m not minding this.

To be continued, in its final episode On Random Misadventure Number Two: The One Where I Get Beat Up by the Police in a Demonstration Part III