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 Bridal imports We are dealing with a generation that is a bit shaky upstairs August 20, 2002 The Iranian Most of us Iranian men are at the verge of nervous breakdown. We just don't know it. There is a considerable number of first generation Iranian immigrants in there mid thirties and forties who are mentally unstable. Trust me on that. I'm a lunatic myself and I know a cuckoo when I see one. I'm not suggesting that most Iranian baby boomers that live abroad should check into mental hospitals (that actually might not be a bad idea). But as a whole, we are dealing with a generation that is a bit shaky upstairs. This has nothing to do with our schooling, profession, social status, or intellect. But it has a lot to do with the way we perceive ourselves. It's not really our fault. It's just the way it is. Growing up away from loved ones, in unknown and peculiar cultures, naturally put a damper on one's mental well being. But the real reason for our occasional psychological burps can be summed up in three words, "lack of sex". That's right folks; shortage of sexual activity combined with highly impulsive libido irruptions are responsible for turning us into a bunch of hairy, mental, nutcases. I be the first to admit that I'm completely whacked in the head and I've had my share of nervous break downs. That alone makes me an authority on the subject. What I find most entertaining is how some of us cuckoos embark on a journey to the old country to find ourselves a good old-fashioned, virtuous, virgin wife. Imaging the poor, unsuspecting lady back home, properly trained, highly pampered, innocently naive, awaiting for that one hero on a white horse with shining armor (and off course a Green Card) -- the one man of distinguished valor who has set sail over deserts, mountains, and seas, coming to sweep her off her feet, fight the forces of darkness, save the day, and take her to a far away place where life is so much better. What a bunch of crap! What the poor woman doesn't know is the fact that some of us so-called, wife searching, Green Card carrying, SUV driving, expatriates are whacked in the head. Nothing is more amusing than watching a guy bring a perfectly healthy, beautiful, intelligent woman from the old country into his screwed up life.  I'm sure you have seen the look. You know what I'm
talking about, right? The look of realization on the newly arrived. Women who met
their husbands last month and just discovered what a mess they got themselves into.
We see that look in parties and family gatherings all the time. "She has the look!" "What do you expect? She married Jimmy." "Who?" "Jimmy. You know, Javad Agha." "You're kidding!!!!?" "Kid you not." You see, Javad Agha -- also known laughingly in his gas station as Jimmy -- is a typical Iranian man like you and I. He is short and round with a magnificent nose that can easily sock in 2000 cubic feet of air per second. His hair has migrated from all the right places on his skull to all the ones and he has a temper that only his mama can tolerate.  There is nothing wrong with physical shortcomings so long as the man
is blessed with a pleasant personality, right? Well, let me put it this way: Javad
Agha's 1980 TOYOTA pickup truck has more personality than Javad Agha. Javad Agha -- sexually frustrated and horny like a dog -- repeatedly finds himself humping the bedpost in the middle of the night. There was no doubt that little Jimmy was ready to enter the "adventures of matrimony". After all, forty years of fruitless bachelorhood had taken its toll and lost its fun. Javad Agha soon packed his bags and left port on an expedition to dig himself a mate. After consulting with his mama, he picked up his round-trip ticket from Los Angles to Tehran to Shabdolazim and found himself pleasantly surprised by prospects. "It's so cool over there dude. It's like a big orgy. They're gonna open whorehouses in every street corner. I'm telling you. Young girls everywhere and they are all horny." Women actually acknowledged Javad; they respected him, and talked to him, which was one hell of a change from Los Angles where Iranian women ran out of the room when Javad Agha entered. Javad Agha mingled, socialized, and charmed the prospects while saving himself for the right woman. After all, one has to be patient when it comes to choosing a wife who is submissive and willing to cook, clean, serve... cook, clean, serve... cook, clean, serve...  Javad Agha searched and searched until he -- in two
weeks -- found what he was looking for and the rest is history. Javad and the newly imported wife are now back in Los Angles and while Javad Agha walks around with a smile on his face that runs ear to ear, the wife stares at an infinite point like a zombie. At first the common notion was that the wife was suffering from sever jetlag. But a year later, the argument hardly holds ground. Now, don't get me wrong. I have absolutely nothing against the practice of importing spouse from the old country. As a matter of fact, I would have done the same myself if they would let me out of this damn psychiatric hospital.
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