Acidity - Novellete Part II

Part Two

Arab Death Liquid

Electronic shooting. Arab death liquid. Visual culture cocks. Menace. Western saints of highs tripping on boiled potato wine heavens. Neanderthals of saccharine. Linear faggot motherfuckers! Ass-disturbing atoms. Shopping fundamentals of might. Suicidal space. Tower in evidence. Fights, relations, open nuts, perfumed hashish, indigenous gods, forced whitewash.

There’s a fragmented bubble chamber in the Buckingham Palace. Insuring your atoms. A wholesale assurance. The Homo Erectus type. Fossils move macho shit. Shooting needles. Wonderful chemical trips. Always hurts. Confounding open-body radiation … neuropsychological tripping oligarchy … oil paint crises landscape the pan-bhang paradigm… empty cans, inhibitions ran, order damned, facts and fans, organized men, slogans on the wall, no building too tall, to fall and crawl.

Watch it bleed. Gaullist herpes. Heroic materialism. Indigenous zeitgeist. The all action mammalian principal. Jacobin knave of diamonds. Sweet guillotine justice. Minimum lending rates. Indecent minority arts & craft. The great society’s greater purge. A concrete dark comedy of the universe.

Gynecological pacts. Relative dialectical cults. Disarming smiles. Permissive perfect equilibrium. Radical rationales. Fascist no-smoking zones bugger collective cannabis gulags. Tanned cola contamination lubricates meddled pop hardons.

Logicians, visions, warts of love. Consumerist tornados. Dump junk. Revive the proletariat Church by fucking presidents. Osama’s brown flower of renegades. Hysteria dances with the pipeline's targeted bourgeoisie. Their 9/11 hurts. The cosmological crawl. Chemical analysis smash the line at apocalyptic rates. Indecent death docked. Stars pucke. Relative law. Autoerotic balls. Perverse paradox crises. Rainbow morals. The fragmented wars. Legs. Brain sight. Bourgeoisie. Poppy wanked sex. Stage, stars. Heeded. Yoked. Teemed. Beamed.

Those were the days. Too late. Dangerous. The parents were involved and smoking cigarettes were fun. They still are. But they kill. Even maggots with breasts of alphabetical gold. Doesn’t this make them even more fun? Know smoking. Anti-smokers are liberal fascists. Dump bhang in their water bottles.

The football loving Fascist Party at Starbucks didn’t seem hip compared to thin women shiting in bathrooms. Mumbai! Screamed the gutkahSpirit of GodKarachi Conspiracy hatched a Hussain claiming the asteroid in the perverted ethnic minds of Serbia. President Bush, Tony Blair and Begum Kulsoom Nawaz reputed this claim by calling Saddam Hussein the Pope.

Bush, when pressed to share his catholic invasion of San Francisco’s surviving hippie communes to win back Angola, shared his wisdom by telling the people to listen extremely carefully to Prince Charles talking about his fox hunting adventures at Harrods. To this Bishop Tutu declared the innings at 587 for 4 with Arjuna Ranatunga making a sparkling 205 not-out and Boris Becker having a nervous breakdown.

Life started to move like a slowly evolving chimp. Or was it a rib? Always coming out of a relationship with a broken melody and mated filmi-disco parents.

Conspire with heaven. Capitalism's got the hots for ‘order’. Saves only Jews.
Writing on walls cuts the ice, wars to whores, all across the shores, all deemed fit to sight ... inward dread.

A new world hypothesis. Kilobyte kinship spits digital junk. Freckled Jesus sects. Analysis. Perverse religious linguistics. Orgasm is an inspiration, bursting dams of inhibition. 9/11 brick fight. Rabid smelly camels killing giggling blonde dogs. Armored Tel Aviv wart hogs shit on teenaged Arab corpse. Gabriel is a poet. A totalitarian teacher. Read … bleed … believe … eat … merchandised standard absolutism, diffusion, mediocrity, whores, bricks, soldiers, the downsizing pity units, Zionist hormone nuts. Seek new dump.

Rending. Dandler madmen. Losing tribal grimed pomp cocks. Using cosmetic, evenly ritual sleuths of pegged sluts. Excitement against erring thought. Caked, knuckling tease chains ring in the wombs of thunder. Imprints of blaring gringos wire tons of dumb poetry. Mute vibes rotting, digging inmate polemic laments. Broom snort relief rinses round-robin groin hounds. Tight leotards’ angst affronts the primed branded undead. Untrue basin oxidants ambush grenade winds through the jibe. Secrecies bent the rattlers’ darling, adoring trends of dieting. Ornate trail mops esteem persons’ diesel. It washes in slow ways, owing to urges so wet. Screw the sods whose loose arousals query the devil’s glue and the width and highs of the aloof. Evolution smashes junk mine. Price tags the Vaseline . regime.

Dusty haired bureaucracy insects sting air-conditioned shopping mall pimps. Autoerotic consumer disease syndrome perfume cheeky cheeking chickens at parties. Corrupt bloodlines. Mystical medicalization. Pulsar cynical visions. Lucifer's Caucasian sperm. Pussy public relations. Pulsating universal punk. Romantic revolutionary logicians. Nietzsche’s negation. Laboratorial theatrical presidents investigate humiliation and temptation.

Skinheads had long hair now. Long hair and blue pubic hair. Deep patriotic blue. We both died. Remember? Those were the days. The ways and the drains. But then men started to quit smoking. Got fat and boring. Started to sweep elections. Pigs fed on perks.

Prevailed the red banner over the Rig-Veda merchants. Their breasts were by Versache. Yuppies are not flowers from the plant. Some claimed to be Muslims and of the Primal Man on polite web pages. Secret eastern sexual positions got ready for a possible fundamentalist lust life in Peshawar and New Aryan Delhi. A life promising to take Muslims and Hindus into the stratosphere and then a better world. However, Abrar-ul-Haq is still flying high on Pakistan’s sex with cola.

Replace Bhangra-Pop albums in an already congested territory brimming-over and chocked with retro-Bhangra-Rap and nowhere near "Billo" .

So, who is right? The agnostics banning pop for mediocre Bhangra-Pop-wannabes? Because Jawad Ahmed’s brand new album should be done away with through inquiries about spiritual and material lobbies behind making Mian Saheb's Ishq.

In the Maoist mountains of Nepal, Pope Paul wore black shades while talking jazz with Mullah Omar as a mullah shoved Bosnian ice cubes up his ass and then pissed on a poster of Bush’s Republican Party and inside a 300ml Coke bottle flaunted by Junoon. That’s why Jews have big noses. They love to snort Palestinian cocaine.

Has Lord Jesus turned into an evil empire? He’s been reporting live for CNN, BBC, ARY, GEO, PTV, PCP, LSD, KMC … And that’s about it.

Sign on the insects. Heroic facts fall to class. Return Christ’s warts and shorts. Inflamed beef psychotics see us in the light. Exploding stars. Judus’ lust dump Christ’s morals in the dustbin. Hashish is red. Hitler’s mad. Karballa cat. A lifetime of deciding. Psychotic storm. Vulva mom. Poppy shoot. Bust the fascists, hogs and storms. Perfumed contemporaries sight a fight. Ass holes all aligned on doomsday parades. Transcendental irrational rationales fan their hardons.

Strange, volatile blue synthetic drugs and organic pashmina wine. Evidence. Origin of the humanoid greed. So chant the iconic Romans: “Dog rape the queen!” The Styx’ gone bust! The cynics loathe the Church! No free will fuck! Epileptic morphology. Sufi-Rock retardation. The mullahs’ cunt-cut retro-rocket farts. A revolutionary science.
PHUT! PHUT! PHUT! Osama’s Twin Tower bowel movement. Return to scale desert shrimp.

______________________


Quaker rat’s supply side economics. Modern molecular biology of the physics of consumerist sex. Darwinian eco-system. Price-tagged hysteria. Exploitation therapy. Evolutionary mediocrity. God beef McDonalds!
Order damned, facts and fans, organized men, slogans on the wall, no building too tall, to fall and crawl.

The Mufti is a bottomless pit!
Said he: “In Islam, these and other discounts, amid tough comparisons, some moderates get naked and get the movement to enjoy tactical bhang, an elixir of cannabis, and paranoid pneumonia. I agree with the football loving fascists. History began with the Aryan face and all of them did have sexual intercourse while reading the sports pages.”

Violence gave the mullahs huge erections. Catholics got Brian of Junoon.
Said the people of Bid'ah and error: “Iblees bred the children of capitalism and build a better world. It may be fun to be a fascist after all.”

Sufis of cannabis rode their camels to a party at Starbucks to see the light. Instead they got the bottomless pit. Will the flame ever rekindle again? And darkness was upon their faces listening to the misunderstood maggots: “Satisfy yourself and your partner, grocery stores and blacks. Thus, democracy should be seen as until you have only white people, as from the United States. We bought ham, bacon to rekindle the light again.”

“Freud is the reason why the American women are hostages!” said an MNA-select of Hungu. “So, accordingly, Jews are possessive. That’s why President Bush is persuading the UN to give land to nubile American women on the Gaza Strip. Which would be fine if the Jews weren’t such sadomasochists!”

The Signs were first seen in a cheaply-made video of mental animals and the first wave of post-'88 local pop which made Neo-Filmi-Pop evolve from being chimps on trees to a bad moon rising. Thoughts of an amoral, cynical corporate religion to sexually exploit young boys?

Cyber guerrilla warfare. Transcendental electronic meditation. Schizophrenic humanoid DNA cults sperm out transgenic animal instincts. Argumentative doomsday cults glued with concrete error-correcting codes. By design.
Who fights, nobody hides, walk on right, ignite and revive, awaken to the pipeline's might.

Chunks of inhaling ivy. Reactionary heads survive bricks of blackwash might. A tableeghi bubble-winner awakens transgenic deserts of glass, heads and cynics. Proxy corporate gel glass, steel, ashes and farts. A cyber supply of nuclear waste. Acidic god. Death fuck. Electronic insulin to massacre strides?

Monday leaves edge out over the dunes of dung. Echoes abound the edgy ash shades of fused fuss that erode the dirt reign. Trenches of irony, hunk tanks tumble over the warring thefts. Tuned aright, eyed and thriving to die. Ending. Modification … subliminal Orwellian collage.

When asked what he wants to be as a grown-up, 10-year-old Masood was candid: “Suicide bomber!”
Mom’s eyes popped-out in utter disbelief, and daddy almost forgot his own cellular phone number.
“But why, child?” asked mom.
“Who taught you that?” asked dad.
Masood kept quiet. But then: “Mom, where do babies come from?” said he, with one of his fingers searching for tiny lil’ balls of gray waste-paste in his tiny lil’ nose.
“Stop that!” screamed mom. “Yes, stop it!” shouted dad.
“Bombs control infidel population growth!” said Masood, his finger now searching for tiny paste balls in dad’s scorning nose.
“I said stop it!” blasted dad pushing the tiny searching, probing hand away. “Tell me, what do you want to be when you grow up, Masood?”
Masood inflated his tiny, lil’ pink Frontier nostrils and stared deep into dad’s concerned brown eyes: “Doolha!”

“Oh, that’s cute”, said mom.
“Four times doolha!” said Masood.
“But why child, why?” asked a worried mom.
“Yes, why?” asked an equally worried dad.
Masood remained quiet. But then: “How are babies born?” asked Masood again, his finger now in Mom’s nose.
“What is wrong with you kid!” said mom. “Don’t you want to be a business man like daddy? A doctor. An engineer. Or at least a cricketer?”
“Where do babies come from?” asked Masood again.
“Okay! Okay!” said mom, fed-up. “They fall from the sky.”
“And daddy catches them!” added dad, with one of his toes in Masood’s nose.
“Hmmmm …” thought Masood. “In that case, I want to be a Catholic priest!”
“JESUS!” screamed mom. “But you are a Muslim, child!”
“In that case, I think I’ll stick to becoming a suicide bomber,” said Masood.
“No, no, no! You’ll become a business man like daddy!” screamed dad.
“No, no, no! I’ll convert to Catholicism and join the holy crusade in Serbia against the Bosnian Muslims!” screamed Masood.
“No, no, no! You’ll become just like daddy, only a little taller!” screamed mom.
“No, no, no! I’ll convert to Hinduism, join the Shiv Sina and bomb Shahrukh Khan’s house in Mumbai!” screamed Masood, now two of his fingers in his nose.
“Who have you been talking to?” asked dad, the antenna of his cell phone in mom’s nose.
“Myself!” announced Masood.
“Are you mad?” asked mom, with one her fingers in one of dad’s ears.
“If I say yes then will you allow me to become a painter, a poet, a writer, a musician, will you, will you, please, please, please with honey sugar candy?!” asked Masood, one of his toes in mom’s mouth.
Mom bit it hard: “NO! Absolutely not! You’ll be like daddy. Exactly like daddy, you hear!”

Daddy felt good. He kissed mom on the cheeks.

“Thank you deer” purred mom.
“Et tu darling” blurred dad.
“But what about I, me, myself?” asked Masood, the tiny toe now in one of his own ears.
“You are such a strange kid, Masood” said mom.
“Well then, a suicide bomber is it!” said Masood while opening a window.
“Have you been looking through and reading any of daddy’s … umm … adult magazines?” asked mom.
“Actually yes, but I still can’t figure out where do babies come from!” said Masood, staring outside the open window.
“Watching too much TV, ay?” said dad.
“Well at the moment I’m watching a few of your Caucasian business partners come this way.” Saying this Masood suddenly jumped out the window and BOOM! He exploded.

He died. So did mom and dad and his Caucasian friends.

“Shaheed!” said the local mullah.
“Shareef!” said the middle-classes.
“Sniper firing!” said the lower classes.
“Osama’s love child!” said the Americans.
“Conspiracy!” said the government.
“RAW!” said the ISI.
“Coke! ” said Abrar-ul-Haq.

Masood became a hero in the NWFP and Balochistan. His posters were seen everywhere there.

But what was he really? A terrorist or an aspirant doolha?

“An angel” said the mullahs.
“Baycharav. Poor lil’ kid. Awwwww …” said the middle-classes.
“Unemployed!” said the lower classes.
“Osama’s DNA” said the Americans.
“A conspiracy within a conspiracy!” said the government.
“RAW agent!” said the ISI.
“ISI agent posing as RAW agent” said RAW.
“Pepsi, Pepsi Pakistan! ” said the Vital Signs.

The heroinchie nodded his head: “Certainly a depression of the central nervous system.”


Hell’s dead, heaven's sad, no need for glue between the legs. Dada dark holes for universal faggot gel filtration. Racist galaxy formation. A liberal workload. Cinemascope affluent society. Moral urban syphilis. Molecular brain-dead relaxation exercises. A cosmological consent of bhan chodh corporate ball bearings. Chaotic yuppie-anatomy, a disturbing documentary of the oral tradition.

Nuclear nectar reactors sweeten quantum licks of sour blowjobs. Branded celluloid bimbo collectivization. Always nuts. Plundering all organized shifts. The death instinct, death of god, of the dehydrating bourgeoisie laws… shake brown man, we are the first men … Adamwise … how nice … turn on the pipes … line to line, sign to sign, think fine, feel aligned. A breastfed comedy of menace.


Nerves refusing to urge. Skin-tight appearances. Rusty intuitive Ion engines. Shia shamans do the tango on hashishian dreams. Geometrical quantum proletariats follow a suck-up Moses at Camp David. Critical odious “PHUT!” “PHUT!” Monstrous Sphinx refuse.

The Styx has gone bust. No more free liquids for the Nation of Islam. Iblees is a capitalist. A real mahdarchodh! A new-age mug shot of post-Cold-War alchemy.
Loaded ashes, the glass smashes … poison ivy, where is the liquid deed, the tons that's going in the pipes ... through the pipes, halls to walls, cut’s the ice, wars to whores, all across the shores, all deemed fit to sight. Death instinct, death of god, of the dehydrating bourgeoisie laws. Wake-up brown man, we are the first men.

Said the Mufti: “Iblees remains behind the son of planned sex and the evils of western sexual positions. Ghayr Mahram’s accept junkies!”

Said the Holy Father: “God separated the light including a one-time tax in the bathroom for blacks, 62.9 percent of Hispanic, and 45.4 percent for fat women. Fortunately none for flowers, milky yuppies and younger fascists. Rejoice. The Catholics are cameling towards Jewrusalem.”

There were hardly any options left. Plants grew out of the heroinchie. The camels reached Jewrusalem. Darkness was upon the mullahs’ huge erections. Catholics milked the Sufis. The jackboots of the Hindus and Muslims are alike on feast-days and on the urs of saints. But the Catholics got busy with the Zionists of Little Jewruselam in big New York in treating erectile dysfunction of the milk yuppies. Laws governing legal one-time tax benefits were ugly. But the fascists usually found this rather sexy. This took the nation by storm.

Asked the heroinchie: “Why should we always be talking when they were taunted by the crisis? When such interesting people like the American peace-loving forces exist in the world? Comprising of armed marines, battle tanks … Why? Because most assholes don’t smoke dope near the border of the crisis. So, there. If everyone smoked pot, and taunted the Pope and Mulla Omar in Nepal, and cut the Jews’ noses, then the world would not release poisonous gases. LEAGALIZE MARIJUANA NOW!! But the peace-loving forces are supplying ham and Al-Jazeera beer to Al-Quida video tapers … because most assholes don’t smoke dope!”

Said the ice shoving mullah: “Yes, yes, yes, whip The Vatican Crisis! Beat me, eat me whole! Screw the Vatican crises through a whole farm of chickens!”

Abrar-ul-Haq signed on knowing the anarchists of all generations have started calling the whole notion of Bhangra-Pop the norm in the localities of feudalism and capitalism, subsequently becoming an irritating corporate pop star openly known to the Punjabi petty-bourgeois. Because they have sexually exploited young boys. Meanwhile, Salman Ahmed and Co. were busy scribbling young boys. Their cult attraction actually sprint past Pakistan with the patchy (but big-selling) Azadi: A hard-hitting, "socially-conscious" Sufi-Rock chestnut appealing to middle-class kids who had grown-up listening to Western Main Gaddi Aap Chalawan Ga.

Mian Saheb and the Signs signed on knowing the whole notion of mainstream fame and to reconstruct the thorny throat of Alamgir's filmi-pop .

Dying Hussein. Cat-scanned. Every winner needs pity. Truth to whores, all across the shores, all deemed fit to sight.
Death instinct, death of god, of the dehydrating bourgeoisie laws… Sit up brown man, we are the first men.

Neanderthal Argonauts. Hogwash Calvinists. The Vienna Circle drowns in the golden age of special topics. Venus Orientals meta-psych collision zones of Troy and the future of space exploration. Plate Tectonics, intelligence … liberated penis-envy cunts settle on dwarf stars … frozen culture … pipeline Utopia’s Dystopian bust … 2029 AD … pop go the heads… superman ego fires plastic flower libidos ... doomsday complexity … biological cubist whore war, a clock paradox ... … avant-contemporaries swallow liquid imperialism …the first to shock the shocked ... who got shocked alight ... who socked the knocked ... who got knocked alright ... all their dreams come true tonight; capitalists, clerics, poachers, soldiers, sick feudal fucks all go tripping tight ... all got shocked alright ... mad to mad, taken to the knife ... drowned by the contents, roasted at sight.

Said the Mufti: “God prohibited Muslims bhang. ”
Said the Maggots: “Karma yuppies! Thus we don't have to mock alike on feast-days and 75.7 percent of the West, we have moral white students who have nodded. They are all of milk. Are you listening, heroinchie?”

Plants grew and were placed in a bowl. They grew out and away from mullahs huge erections. Hardly any options were left. Are you listening heroinchie? Asked the heroinchie: “Who is Kajol?”

The flowers din’t agree with the Holy Fathter’s beliefs: “He has no Krishna, says the Bhagwat Geetha. Whenever the Adharma goes unbearable with Frito-Lay snack products, it relieves people from Adharma and establishes the rule of Dharma. Such says this in Bhagwat Geetha. Whenever the Adharma goes unbearable the Lord features growth and the Walt Disney Company. Mickey loves the Lord. Even now we don’t deliberately set out to tackle the guys who mate with models. Their problems are ruled by Adharma. Bhagwan Sri Krishna says this is evil.”

Said the Holy Father: “The white students have to treat sexual dysfunction … Great sex is not emphasized competitive prices with grocery stores and the Mufti. Learn your orgasm reflex.”

Asked the Pundits: “Do thin women really spend more time in the bathroom?”

It was well past midnight. Early enough for the creatures of the night to be fooled by the sudden pale brightness of the sky.

Sunshine would be a welcoming reality, the cyclic dawn of morality. That is, if it didn’t rain cats and dogs, beef and mutton.

The weatherman said it wouldn’t. But nobody gives a flying fuck anymore to what the sate-owned weatherman says. He’s usually a bit too apocalyptic about his forecasts these days. Always waiting for that “great flood” to pour in and all over. Such a born-again Jesus-freak baboon butt!

But the nirvanaoid Buddhists of the land always seemed to be at peace. With themselves, themselves and themselves. Only. Boring bald malts them.

They were at war with the land’s Aryan-penis-caste Hindus. Both threw fresh veggies at each other. And they too waited in their rocky religious canoes for the “great flood,” so that they wouldn’t have to water their magic veggie gardens so often. They could then just float around and do a lot of nothing. Fantasizing to perhaps just meditate and reincarnate themselves back as carrots and peaches in the lovely Madhuri Dixit’s hanging gardens.


They had started to take the morbid, melancholic weatherman’s forecasts rather seriously. As seriously as they did their respective carrot soups … and as frantically as saffron-clad Hindu bombshells landing smack-dab over old Muslim mosques, and bald Buddhist cucumbers dropping like pecker-shaped missiles over red communist tomatoes guarding the peaks wrapped around slippery Tibet Snow bottles.

“Free our spiritual cucumber, or face the wrath of the great flood,” the Buddhists told the godless tomatoes.

And the Hindus were busy jamming hard on their own lil’ divine bullshit. Busy making curry out of the Muslims of the land.

The weatherman was weary about the Muslims. And the Muslims were weary about almost everything.

“We too are apocalyptic,” they told the weatherman. But the truth was, they were just plain old paranoid. However, they too had started to believe the weatherman’s mapped ranting about the “great flood.”
“It shall rain today,” said the weatherman. It didn’t.
“It’s a CIA conspiracy!” said the Muslims.
“Doom, death and destruction are just round the corner!” screamed the weatherman.
“Great day to kill a few Palestinian camels,” said the fuck face Zionists. “And to attack a few mosques”, added the Hindus.
“Soup, anyone?” asked the Buddhists.

And then night fell flat across the damn land. And finally, so did the goddamn rain.

“Doom, death and drowning are just round the corner,” screamed the weatherman.
“Has to be the FBI,” said the Muslims.
“Great day to kill some Sikhs,” said the Hindus. “And to go mount some Tora Bora women”, added the fuck face Zionists.
“Pickle, anyone?” asked the Buddhists.

The post-modernists on the right sides of the World Trade Center and with their IMF rhetoric, and their genetic teenaged brat packs in baseball hats, “I Love NY” T-Shirts, and McDonald’s deals in their overfed tummies and freckled hands, loved the rain.
“Kya scene hai! ” said one of them, though brown and from HBO’s Mumbai.
“How utterly cute,” said his 21st century Dravidian girlfriend.
“Who’s sponsoring it?” asked daddy (aka pithah jee). He was obviously concerned about foreign investment in the land where he was a post-Cold-War capitalist pig.
Mom (aka ami jaan) really didn’t give a damn as such. She was too busy making Maggie Noodles in Marina’s Bitchin’ Kitchen on BBC: Food and scrubbing her new French silverware with Extra Power Vim.
“RAW agents!” said the Muslims.
“Roman cesarean doom!” said the Jesus freak weatherman.
“Great day to drown some Bengalis!” said the Hindus.
“Baked tomatoes anyone?” asked the Buddhists.

That “great flood” soon followed the heavy rains. It came gushing in. Everybody saw it on CNN, BBC and bloody ZEE. The event sponsored by McDonalds, Starbuck, Nike, MRF Tires and Lado Soap made the post-modernists so very happy.

“Doom!” said the crusading weatherman. Actually he too wanted to get sponsored.

“Pepsi! ” said the Muslims. They’d already been sponsored.
“Coke! ” said the Hindus. “7-Up laced with cyanide for the Mecca Cola Palestinian bastards!” added the fuck face Zionists.


Everything that was anything right up till something that was really nothing, drowned.

“Doom! Said the post-modernists. “No more hope for any foreign investment! Downsize it, right-size it, do something, please!”
“Pithah jeeeee!! ” screamed the brat pack.
“Great day to say great day” said the Buddhists. They were safe. They had painted their tinds with Robiulac Weather Shield.

“We really need a Jew to stop this flood,” said the American President via satellite. And all of a sudden he was re-elected.

“These floods, Mashallah! Mashallah! ”” said Osama, in a video address on Al-Jazeera-TV.

“These floods,” said the American President “has to be Osama!”

“We need help!” said the Muslims, Hindus and Buddhists of the drowning land.

“Don’t worry,” said the American President. “Floods are no problem. Food and medicine are on their way … and 70 F-16s and 30 B-52’s and 39 Tomahawks and ......”

“ ……… Mashallah, mashallah!”