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Satire

Sex, lies and shish kebob
Part 2: The games Iranian girls play: always acting, always dramatic, always cunning; it never ends
Parts (1) (2) (3)

February 11, 2005
iranian.com

"No. I'm pretty big myself."

"Yeah, right."

"No, really, I'm big."

"Well, congratulations."

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"Hey, it's okay."

"I'm serious; let's go in the back, I'll show you," I said.

The girl bounced up from her chair like a loaded spring and smacked me in the head with her purse. I hit the floor like a lump of raw meat. I couldn't believe it. I was bitch-slapped by a girl. Not exactly what you would call a shinny narcissistic moment!

It took me a few seconds to get my composure back and get back on my feet. As I turned around, I found my father and the headwaiter approaching.

"What did you do to her?" My father yelled.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I did nothing. She was ..."

"Shut up and listen for one second," my father said. "Here is the first rule of business: you piss-off customers after -- I repeat -- AFTER they pay. What the hell is the matter with you? Can you do anything right? I swear to God if you ever show me you can do one thing right -- only one thing -- I'll go back to that kitchen and die a happy man."

"Dad, I just asked her to look at my ..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Sorry, it won't happen again."

"Get back to your table and earn your living."

"Yes, sir."

I got back to my table and found a Mansour look-alike sitting there by his lonesome. Thank God, I thought to myself. I couldn't handle another Iranian woman tonight.

"What can I get you?" I asked the Mansour look-alike.

"Zahr (poison). Get me the strongest zahr you got in the back. Better yet, get me a loaded gun."

"Huh?"

"Screw this life. I wanna end it all right here, right now."

"You okay?"

"Do I look okay? Huh? I had it, man. I had it with these Iranian women. Get me a freakin' gun, man."

This is not happening. This must be the worst night of my life.

"Listen, dude. This is a shish kabob joint, not a therapy session. Order something or get out."

"You don't understand. I'm suicidal, man. And it's all because of these pretentious Iranian women. They make you wanna hang yourself. It's all a game, brother. It's all a conceited, shallow game."

"I hear you. I just got my butt handed to me by one them," I said.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. Aren't they arrogant or what? The only thing that matters to them is money. From the day they are born they're trained to sniff out money. Doesn't matter if you are brilliant or creative or have a good heart, hell no, it doesn't matter at all."

"I feel you, man."

"And games they play -- always acting, always dramatic, always cunning; it never ends," the guy said.

"Yeah, amen."

"First they find out what you do for a living. If you generate less than six digits, forget about it, they won't even recognize you. If you drive a German camel, they'll be all over you. But you drive a German camel light or Japanese, they treat you like you got a contagious disease."

"German camel light?"

"Yeah, that's a German car that costs less than sixty grand," the guy said.

"Oh, yeah. I hate those."

"Yeah, me too. Anyways, if by some act of faith you get her attention, then help you God because your life will turn into a livin' hell. Let the games begin. Even though she is supposedly with you, at the same time, she has her eyes on a couple of doctors and bankers, just in case things go south. And then she implements her conniving plans to cut you off from your family. You wake up one day and your mom and your sisters don't talk to you anymore. You don't even know what happened."

The guy started crying. I handed him a napkin.

"Then she moves on to the next stage," the guy continued, "which is to completely remove you from any contact with your friends. Anytime you wanna go out with your buddies, she'll cook up some drama and make you rush to her rescue. Before you know it, you've lost all contacts with your friends."

This dude knew his stuff. I pulled a chair and sat at his table.

"And then what happens?" I asked, listening attentively to master Yuda.

"Then, you find yourself lonely and isolated, spending all your time with her friends -- day and night, somehow you always end up hangin' around with her best friends. And then the crying game starts, 'oh, look at Laleh's fifty-carat diamond, her boyfriend just bought it for her; wish I had one of those.' Or 'Oh my God, my sister's husband just bought her a brand new Mercedes, how come you never buy me anything.'"

"That sucks, dude."

"Sure does. And then comes the grand finale."

"What's that?"

"The Iranian women's infamous words: 'I'm a nice Iranian girl and we nice Iranian girls don't date. So if you wanna see me, you have to come and talk to my dad.'

"Oh, that's cold," I said.

"It's all a ploy to get you in. You sit in front of her dad, askin' him to let you date his daughter, not knowing that they're ordering the wedding dress in the other room. You are screwed and you don't even know it."

"Uh, man. They trap you. I heard about that stuff," I said.

"That's not even the worst part."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, dude. One day you wake up and you find yourself in bed next to her with a ring in your finger and you don't know how you got there. It's like, you have no recollection of how that ring ended up in your finger. They put something in your food, dude. And then her parents run your miserable life. You might as well cut off your balls, put 'em in a jar and hand 'em to her parents as a wedding gift."

"Uh, dude, I feel your pain."

The guy looked up and froze. His face turned white like he had seen ghost. He knocked the table over and dove to the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked the dude.

"She's here... my girlfriend... she's here. Help me, please."

I looked up and saw the UCLA Persian Barbie Club moving to our table in decisive strides. I shit my pants. The girls were coming to whoop some serious butt.

"Get up. You're leaving," the girlfriend said to the guy.

"Help me," the guy said, trembling. >>> Part (3)
Parts (1) (2) (3)

About
Siamack Baniameri is the author of The Iranican Dream, (Virtualbookworm.com Publishing, December 2004). Also see Iranican-Dream.com.

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