Archive - May 28, 2008 - Article

My War with the Americans

This begins with a personal story. For eight years now, I have been at war with a few lunatic Americans currently residing in Colorado, California, New Mexico and Kansas, who have been responsible for several years of harassment, slander, libel, stalking, interference with employment and other felonies. These individuals have all received legal warnings and orders per their ongoing activities but as my lawyers have claimed, when dealing with people who are mentally ill, deluded and incapable of understanding what the law means, you can expect them to continue their illegal activities until they land in jail or have every penny they have taken away from them>>>

Lies, damned lies, and statistics

The fastest way to build trust and generosity in someone is to spike her nasal spray with a dose of the hormone oxytocin. But hurry to the point--money, promotion, sex, whatever it is you can't get without cheating; the drug degrades to half its strength in only three minutes. The science article with this info coincidentally comes with a graph that suggests, among 29 nations, Iranians are the fourth least likely people to resort to this sort of deceitfulness. Norwegians stole the gold medal in trustworthiness, Denmark grabbed the silver, and if it hadn't been for the Chinese, Iranians would have come home with the bronze>>>

روان ملی ما

در کشورهای مردم سالار همه مردم قانونا برابرند و در ابراز اندیشه‌ها و احساسات خود آزاد. به همین دلیل در این سرزمینها«ملت» مفهومی‌ست که از هاله‌ی آرمانی درآمده و واقعیتی اجتماعی به خود گرفته است. اما در کشور ما ملت هنوز یک مفهوم آرمانی‌ست، زیرا یک گروه خاص(در گذشته سلطنت طلبان و امروزه ولایت فقیه گرایان) بر شهروندان ایرانی حکومت می‌کنند. تا هنگامی که ما ایرانیان نتوانسته‌ایم در پیشگاه قانون برابر باشیم و آزادانه نمایندگان خود را برای نهادهای تصمیم گیرنده انتخاب کنیم، هنوز ملتی«در خود» هستیم و نه «برای خود». چرا که اجازه نداریم آزادانه در تعیین سرنوشت خود تصمیم بگیریم و مجبوریم فرمانبردار گروهی خاص باشیم. >>>

Love

The carpet on my face is scratchy. It smells like dust and dead spider. I lift it to breathe. I crawl on my back and my head hits the leg of dining table. I drag myself toward the cold teapot. “Once the ceiling is lifted, we could get out of here,” Ahmad says. He is holding the fridge on his chest and its metallic bottom has set visible traces on his skin. “Once the walls are painted, we’ll take a few days off,” I say. “Do you like to have some coffee?” “Without sugar,” he says.>>>