My mentor, Ulrich Von der Shtrapp, has always given me the best advice. He said, “Shtrubbel Cack-zee Voorde Poop.”
Concepts were his trade (“Ayy-emm-e-koncepchul-thinkka,” he once said, firmly grabbing and shaking me until I almost had a brain haemorrhage). When I failed to gain admission to Cambridge University (the admissions tutor writing that I was “an uncommonly shallow young man”), I wept and I raged, but Ulrich counselled, “Kek-fe-Khshtruuble van Gangen Klump.”
Would that he were here now, to advise me not to get “mad” when reading the opinions of Lawrence Ershaghi – do you mind if I call you Larry? Larry Ershaghi — Larry “Are-You-For-Real?” Ershaghi, an authentic Persian nationalist, concerned patriot, and friend of the people, currently forced to live in that dreadful United States, with its appalling universities, its alleged “rights and freedoms,” cinemas, restaurants, and a piffling multi-billion-dollar economy that turns decent, idle people into “job-slaves.” Is it any wonder desperate people risk their lives to cross into Mexico?
Who are the beastly people forcing you to waste your precious life in the States, when you could have spent quality time – indeed your entire youth – strolling in the Park-e Mellat, admiring large bill-board portraits of Khalid Islambuli, or dreaming the days away at a marvellous desk job in the ministry of marvels in Tehran (“Aqayeh Doktor Ershaghi, befarmayid daftar-e Herasat Haj Aqa karetun darand… naaa chizi nist, tou oun form chand ta so'al raje'be kharej hast keh por nakardin, ba ki raft-o-aamad mikardin az-in harfha.. farda bare-bacheha-ye hefazati chand daqiqeh sohbat dashtand zemnan, natarsid e'dam nemishid, he, he, he, he.. ajaab.. khob amri, farmeyeshi?” — my, my, what wonderful colleagues you would have, observing you all day, every day, hanging onto your every word, registering your little opinions for later reference, you understand?)
Larry, I know you won't let a little thing like parental hysteria – or tremendous personal inconvenience — prevent you from returning to Iran, to serve your country and admire its lofty values (like, erm, compulsively cheating and lying, or, erm, making a mockery of religion): hence your one-way ticket to Tehran — if only to counter wild accusations of hypocrisy, say, by crazy neo-con monarchists who care nothing for Iran (how could they, many live in AMERICA).
Soon, I shall do my bit to make the world a better place, Inshallah. I hope to provide our Iranian readers with a list of key cafés in Madrid: locations, prices, their newspapers (two have the Herald Tribune), comparative coffee-cake-croissants charts, service: sharp, focused, “ticker-tape” information, bam, bam, bam.. That is the whole point of the Internet: to circulate useful, constructive information: not crowd the airwaves with frivolous articles that say nothing and anything, with a few obscenities thrown in.
But I wish to discuss an important issue now, the news. The news is good. Like good storytelling, it condenses an immense, disparate set of experiences into an essential thread. And like any engaging tale, it triggers tension, anxiety or excitement. For days now, I have followed the narrative of the assassination of Rafiq Hariri, and subsequent recriminations, Syrian denials (criminals never lie, Larry, only Republican administrations), and the simmering wrath of the Lebanese at Syria's depressing presence in their country.
The gist of the story is: a natural yearning for freedom and justice in the Middle East is (thanks to the United States of America) turning to impatience – and some evil folk are getting jittery. The writing is on the wall for Middle Eastern fascism and the ghastly ideologies of the 20th century: Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin, BIG BOY.
Desirous of contributing to this historical process, I solemnly say to Bashar al-Assad and, generally, the Syrian government: “K*ndeh boro b*deh be oun milisha-t…”
Ooh I say, I think the lines got mixed up.
My, my, as I was saying, ladies, when planting begonias, try not to tuck them too firmly into the soil: they wilt. Let them breath, give them space, and, if you can, hum a tune when sprinkling twice a week, no more. My pioneer friend Ulbricht de Zloty used to sing a song when planting daffodils, you know the one: “Uzh-puzh Frishta kishta Shtvuul-shtrunk – hozh fizsh truka-frucka shtaan klunck..” (Push comrades, push them bulbs into the mud like the heads of the bourgeoisie — Push them till your teeth go “Clunk.”)