Little Red Riding Iraqi
“Blood? Hey! You’re
not Aunt Zeinab. Those aren’t her dentures.”
July 23, 2004
iranian.com
Once upon a time there was a girl called Little Red Riding Iraqi.
She was on the way to visit her Aunt Zeinab when a US helicopter
circled her in the forest and started shouting instructions in
Arabic through a loudspeaker.
“I don’t speak Arabic you jerks. I’m from
a well-to-do secular family in Washington. I’m going to see
my aunt.”
“What’s with the hejab?” yelled a marine. “You
look Muslim.”
“It’s a hood! Ever heard of Red Riding hejab!”
Seeing she had a point, the chopper dipped its nose, swerved,
and flew off to destroy a village just like in those Vietnam movies,
only no one was wearing a pointy hat.
“Bastards!” said the girl. Ditching her red hood
for a green one, there and then she decided to become a Shia rebel.
She walked for hours and hours deeper and deeper into the woods.
She was accosted by several Cambridge graduates trying to become
journalists. Finally, she reached Aunt Zeinab’s cottage.
She knocked on the door. “Come in,” said a voice.
“You got a cough auntie?” said the girl. She walked
in and saw a big bad Wolfovitz sitting in her aunt’s bed. “Oh.
Aunt Zeinab. What big eyes you have,” she said.
“All the better to see you with my dear,” said the
wolf. “Only I forgot my contacts so come closer, there’s
a good girl.”
“My, auntie, what weight you’ve put on,” she
said.
“All the better to sit on your oil reserves with,” said
the wolf.
“And, my, what big ears you have!”
“All the better to pick up Al-Jazeera with,” said
the wolf.
“But what’s with the fangs?”
“All the better to suck the blood out of your country
with.”
“Blood? Hey! You’re not Aunt Zeinab. Those aren’t
her dentures.”
“Okay, you got me. I’m a big bad wolf. But could
I interest you in joining the Governing Council at all?”
“At my age?” said the girl.
“Age is no matter. Got any convictions?”
“Sure, freedom and justice for all.”
“I meant criminal convictions.”
“Of course not.”
“You don’t? Darn. Never stole candy even?”
“Nope.”
“Money from your parents?”
“No!”
“ Wouldn’t be a Baathist by any chance?”
“Why?”
The wolf sounded dejected: “Look. We could use a high-profile
person like you, even if you’re not a crook.”
“No way, buster,” she said. “Where’s
my auntie?”
She pulled one of his ears. The wolf made to grab her, but she
ran away, trusting Allah to deliver her to safety, even though
her aunt had just got eaten. The wolf jumped out of bed and chased
her into the forest. But he stepped on a landmine and was liquidized.
Little Green Riding Hood, meanwhile, skipped ahead gaily until
she found an opening -- in Muqtada Al-Sadr’s Mahdi Army.
And they all lived unhappily ever after.
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