Ramadan, the Hot Month

His Magnificence, Generalissimo Sobhy, hoping he’ll never have to ever fight a real war against Israel

Here’s the latest from the sandy lands of Arabia….

As Cairo wilts under a heat wave on the eve of Ramadan, President Peepee’s much decorated Minister of Defense, one Sedki Sobhy, has just spent quality time earlier this week in Vlad Land with his Russian counterpart, Sergei Shoygu.

Because of what is going on in the Middle East, pleaded the Generalissimo, who seems to have forgotten how effective SAMs and other Ruskie military paraphernalia were during the 6-Day war, we Egyptians are wetting our beds nightly because we don’t have enough machine guns, enough tanks, enough helicopters, or even enough spyware to monitor and arrest protect Internet and mobile users in Egypt.

Said Sobhy: We could be shot in the dick at any moment by that ragtag bunch of desert vermin lurking in the caves of Northern Sinai, whom we have already completely vanquished in the latest anti terrorist operation of course, but still… they could return at any time, with the bloodlust of holy vengeance, if we don’t have the latest takh takh at the ready!

Meanwhile in America, many got boners at the sight of Jared and beautiful Ivanka attending the heart warming ceremonies for the opening of the US embassy in Jerusalem, because that means The Lord is coming any day now.

It’s the fault of the left-wing media that the children of Gaza are suffering today, scoffed David Friedman, a lovely human being if ever there was one, as images of unarmed protesters being mowed down by the Israeli army were beamed around the world.

Back in Egypt, President Peepee is in a quandary.  What to do?  After last month’s sham Presidential election, his position is still shaky.  What if his best friend, the Orange One, is removed from office?  What then?  While it’s true that things are going well on the Morsi front (the only legitimately elected President of Egypt is slowly dying in prison, which is such great news!), Peepee knows things can turn on a dime.

So he sends the Generalissimo to play footsie with the Russians, because what Egypt needs now above all else is a stronger army to enslave defend the Egyptian people, who should know better than to oppose a strong, noble and handsome man such as himself.

In Gouna, on the Red Sea, where I just spent 7 months, the mandarins of Abu Tig marina continue to relax, uneasily, under the broiling sun — their houses and yachts secure (for now), as tuc-tuc drivers sweat it out for a pittance.  Soon these pseudo Egyptians will be retiring to their chalets in Switzerland and Northern Italy and villas in the South of France for the summer, though many will party in Knightsbridge, or their love nests in, say, Romania, one of the enlightened EU countries that is joining the US in relocating its embassy to Jerusalem.

“We will only destroy a few filthy Arabii huts in East Jerusalem for this Christian project,” said a high Romanian official, who spoke to Haaretz on condition of anonymity.

With all these latest developments, Jews everywhere are rejoicing.

They have won. Bibi has won. The Big Lie that is at the heart of America’s support of Israel’s right to “self defense” has won.

what the people want

Not only have the vast majority of Egyptians been turned into geldings vis-à-vis the Sahyouni project, but endless war prevails in the Middle East, which is of course a very good thing for the only Democracy in the region, still so unjustly misunderstood.

President Peepee, though, readily grasps the current global situation and acquiesces daily to the glory of the Zionist entity: he has in fact become Bibi’s second bestest Arabitch friend.  They talk on the phone all the time, joking about how easy it is to hoodwink gullible Americans with The Coming Rapture jive, or starve and kill Palis, who are nothing but untrustworthy goat fuckers anyway.

Wonders are many, but none more than how Peepee allowed Israel to celebrate its founding at a recent soirée at the former Nile Hilton — with Nasser no doubt rattling in his nearby mausoleum, but with few of Cairo’s current crop of ruthless effendis seeing a real problem with it, or the latest Israeli-Egypto gas deal. Alas, the venerable Ros el Youssef did not see fit to  let this welcome Israeli diplomatic event pass without publishing a deeply troubling cartoon.

And so Ramadan arrives, bringing peace and joy everywhere to the Muslim world.

The House of Saud, too, has lately been hot on Bibi — isn’t that marvelous?! how more Guardians of Mecca can you get?! — as is their new good friend Peepee, who was nice enough to gift Mohammad Bin Salman a few Egyptian islands in the Red Sea, in return for a trifle of baksheesh, and of course that mega project in the South Sinai.

Everyone is waiting for the next adventure: the bombing of Iran — as once called for by the now dying but already canonized McCain — for that should be great fun!

More money for everybody at the American taxpayer’s expense, and more opportunity for all those kids who are stuck scraping by at Walmart and Jimmy Ds to join the army, kill some camel jockeys, then retire before they are forty with full pension and en-surance bennies for life.

Sweet deal!

And it’s not even the oh so aptly-named Ramadan yet.


leaving america

Moteur Kharban


Moteur Kharban is a common expression in Arabic; it means broken motor, and is a metaphor for the world around us.

The Florida pigs on my street have gone full tilt boogie into some maxo Anti-Arab ethno-gaga mode since yesterday, but, as I described in my previous post, their motors are broken.

Yesterday, the Orange Turd greatly increased the chance of nuclear or conventional war in the ME, but then again everyone knows Uncle Sam is just a client state of Israel, now, you know, because of the coming Rapture, and that if we’re going to be honest about it, it’s been the pits since Vietnam.

Me, I take care of the car.

I keep the motor humming and in tip-top shape: I may need it one day as a getaway, if this summer turns real hot, and the balawis of unresolvable discontent burn down everything.

Yesterday I drove to Lowe’s to buy some brackets for the screen door I’m fixing, and found myself behind a plus size SUV that had two moronic decals — an American speciality! — plastered on its hatch. The  vehicle was of course being driven by an angry-faced, overweight middle-aged fuck with wraparound Operation Iraq shades that were meant to be intimidating. Don’t fuck with me! seemed to be the general idea.

One read: “”the real problem is …. overbreeding.”

The other:

“This is my country. If you don’t respect my flag, leave America.”

His flag, no less.

Well, he can keep it.

I changed lanes and moved on. Sometimes the bridge is open.

Other times it’s up.

I can’t fix the broken motors around here. A wrecking ball has descended on our planet since the towers fell, and all the right-wing snakes in this country think about is how to make even more off the backs of those who jumped.

The calm voices are unheard or drowned out.  The thirsty SUVs lurch on cracked highways, and no one dares look sideways at anyone else on the road.

Meanwhile — have you checked this shit out? — Europe has trotted out the kneepads to service the Irn-Bru phobic Orange Turd like a slut in some back alley off the Reeperbahn, but even that’s not good enough.

in bru bottle

The orange motor won’t start anymore, no matter how much they lick and suck and moan. It’s all about the crazy chaos and hate now, now that America can’t get it up anymore, as the blind continue to dance to the madman’s tune.

Despite everything, Theresa and Macron and Angela continue to powder their noses and paint their faces like the cheap whores they’ve become, all for that deal, that special dispensation, that promise of continued protection, some backstop guarantee, against the this or that, this year at least.

At least there’s that, they hope,

And so on their knees they fall, and suck hard like the trembling-with-fear sluts they’ve become, and some even dangle the promise of a regal State visit with full regalia and even the Queen can be humiliated if that’s what it takes, even the Queen is for sale nowadays, even her.

O England, country of my birth, O once mighty England now paying obeisance to a racist, misogynist thief.

Me, I no longer give a fuck.

I care more about why the Blue Sky A-19 Smart Bulb won’t pair up with my Samsung 8.  At least the new Charge 3 I just bought did, and I’m grooving to a Cairokee playlist on Soundcloud as I write this, deep into the racist American night and dream already of where I will be in a year or two.

I met a friend of mine yesterday.

Things have not been going well, at work  and his wife got cancer, even though she’s young. He packed on the LBs since I last saw him 7 months ago, before I left for Gouna, where the latest overhyped Let’s-Pretend-We’re-Americans bogus event is currently taking place.

He remarked, as several have already since my return, at how completely different I look. how much thinner and healthier-looking I now am.

Here’s the deal.

I don’t give a shit if America’s motor’s broken.

What I do care about is losing the next 30 lbs, getting fast on my bike so no girlee girl or old man ever passes me by again on the road.

I care a thousand times more about taking my SUP board out this weekend to the Loxahatchee river and paddling away.

My motor ain’t broken any more — although for sure it once was, big time — and that’s that really matters.

Detoxing from right-wing pablum, and seizing whatever remains of my days — not just surviving, like before: we’re way past that now.



leaving america