Tag Archives: writing

Bravo’s Latest: The Real Housewives of Saudi Arabia

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As the banks in Cyprus enforce the Eurozone’s insistence that Cypriots contribute to the recapitalization of the country, as the US reaches a point of critical mass in its quest to secure global hegemony, Bravo brings true reality to the world with its newest Housewives franchise, the Real Housewives of Saudi Arabia.

The ensemble this time around, though, a much easier one to bring together. Having been casted out of one household, Yasmine, Dalia, Fatima, Amira, and Bahiga are the wives of Mohamed bin Mohamed bin Mohamed bin Mohamed bin Abdul Mohamed, more affectionately known as ‘Mojo’.

Though the initial assumption would be an atmosphere of competitive female cattiness, these women get along just fine, viewing the sharing of a husband as an advantage.

‘As long as his wallet is open 24/7, I love the fact that my legs are only once a week,’ Amira, Mojo’s first wife, jokes. ‘Western women are so hypocritical. They spend 99% of their time trying to avoid having sex with their husband, but they think monogamy is the best thing since slice falafel. Puh-leez.’

‘Totally agree– most of them are willing to be a mistress, but think being a second or third or seventh wife is uncivil. He-ll-o, I might have to hide under a veil, but I don’t have to hide who’s under it with me!’ Yasmine, Mojo’s second wife says.

The women spend their day taking care of their children, which between the wives is a staggering 20. ‘You know,  ‘My Mommies Love Me’ t-shirts are very popular here in Saudi. Lesbians, multiple wives.. akh, tomatoe, tomato…’ thinks Dalia, who is Mojo’s third and fourth wife, having been born with conjoint bodies.

‘Believe it or not, it makes life a lot more open and honest. It let’s you mean what you say and say what you mean. Just like when my children say, ‘my brotha from another motha’… they aren’t just being facetious!’ exclaims Amira.

‘Feminists complain that this female discrimination, but let me tell you, this works for women not against them. In reality, I suffer the most,’ says Mojo. ‘You know what it is like to have to remember THREE anniversaries AND FOUR birthdays?’

Though Dalia is conjoint, Mojo married her Siamese body a week after his nuptials to Dalia due to the waxing salon’s inability to schedule it in before the wedding.

Bahiga, the one the other wives consider the ‘pretty one’ doesn’t get an preferential treatment despite her wicked bod. ‘When you are one of many wives, pretty isn’t part of the equation– at the end of the day, you’re expected to deliver the same as the others. This is why an allegiance with the other wives is crucial. If you all agree to lower the standards, then you all have to deliver less. If I won’t go down on Mojo, we all won’t go down on Mojo. Without them, I’d be powerless.’

‘Amen to that, sista!’ Amira retorts loudly.

Stay tuned for the season premier, rumored to start in April 2013. If these girls can walk it like they talk it, we can only imagine how the story will unveil…

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Trading Places: Standing Up

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Being of the female gender,  one would be certifiably insane as to not appreciate ‘the woman.’ Having been endowed with an anatomy revered, celebrated and iconized by artists and perverts alike, the female gender is truly special.

However, having said that, there is one asset a man has, an asset to be envied, an asset most practical, comforting and oh-so-kick-ass…

Upright urination, aka ‘pee standing up’.

Though a woman can strategically position herself to do the same thing, it is not the same as having the equipment strategically designed to do that.

Case in point: the drunken stupor night.

According to no scientific study, under the influence, women must exercise five times the focus to control their spatial sense of navigation in order to strategically achieve upright urination.

Given the Parietal Lobe’s incapacitated function under such intoxication, this renders the task nearly impossible, ranking only second to the actual feat of Denzel Washington horizontally flipping the plane in Flight.

And if you haven’t watched Flight, you should.

Now, let us observe the male of the species. With an anatomical device already designed to enable upright urination, very little mental exhaustion is required, leaving the male mind to focus on more pressing matters such as the re-rack of the testicles, ball frolicking and the gender-popular, ‘borborymic pastime’, which for some reason is best enjoyed during the suffocation of a significant other under the bedsheets.

There is also a very economical edge to upright urination, that being the ‘wiggle and zip’. Whereas women consume thousands and thousands of plies of toilet paper, men need only shake left-right, right-left, finishing their business without having contributed to the endangerment of a single tree.

On a sociological scale, women, if naturally enabled to achieve upright urination, could put to use their mastery at multitasking, saving many couples from traumatic fights. By simply placing a urinal directly under the mirror, women would thus primp and pee simultaneously, therefore allowing men quicker morning access to the lavatory.

In short, upright urination is a brilliant function of which the female will never know short of an assisting device. Alas, how terribly sad… perhaps had she been able to achieve upright urination on her own, Gloria Steinem standing up would not have been so obtrusively painful.

She Don’t Cry

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I never cry

Because they don’t see me crying;

And I don’t hurt-

My pain ain’t physical,

So it don’t count.

 

Then there is the hour,

When I hug my bedroom-

Weeping on the pillow’s shoulder,

Talking with the molecules of air floating

In the dark.

 

But, the room can’t hug me back-

And the pillow’s shoulder sags,

Weighted down with tears.

The air’s too busy to even echo my ache.

 

When?

Is it out there?

No, is HE out there?

Is anyone out there?

God is-

But sometimes too out there it seems.

 

It’s quiet around me,

The silent entrance of too-lateness

Seeps under the door—

An odorless monoxide of despair.

 

What is it that I am waiting for?

Has it already ended?

Why does everyone else know—

Except me?

 

It still hurts,

Even after I ate the anesthetic—

You know, the chocolate novocain

And sugar injections.

 

Tell me,

Like everyone else did when I was a kid,

That Santa Claus’s zip code is in the North Pole,

That the tooth fairy is not my mother,

That happiness is not the Lochness monster, (seen by only the insane).

 

Accept it,

Like everyone else did when I was a kid,

That I throw myself on the floor and shout,

That even then, I can blackmail you to still love me,

That my tantrums are colorful cartwheels of rational thought.

 

But, you can’t just do that—

I know.

That’s why I don’t wear my inside out.

That’s why you don’t see me hurt,

Cry,

Feel.

 

That’s why I embrace the walls,

Lean on flimsy linen shoulders,

Converse with voiceless gases.

 

Because they cannot love me,

And they cannot not love me.

Top 10 Responses by Stars Asked to Become the Face of Arab Celebrity Activism

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Darfur has George Clooney; Tibet, Richard Gere. With the people’s call for democracy, which celebrity could best serve as the Arabs’ star ambassador?

10. Paris Hilton, “Um, ya- like, anything, like, to help the Mausoleums.”

9. Victoria Beckham, “Do saline implants evaporate in extreme desert heat?”

8. Brad Pitt, “And adopt an Arab?”

7. Tiger Woods, “Can you sleep with ALL four wives at the same time?”

6. Justin Bieber, “Uh, underage boy in the Gulf? Let me get back to you.”

5. Tom Cruise, “If I get to play myself in the movie version & the sequel.”

4. Jessica Simpson, “I’d love to! I’ve never been to Mexico!”

3. Sarah Jessica Parker, “Sorry, busy writing ‘Sex & the City III: It’s Getting Almost as  Old as Us’.”

2. The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, “Hmmm…depends on how my name translates in Arabic.”

1. Lady Gaga, “Why not? It’s not like my meat dress is made of pork.”

 

Daily Prompt Challenge: Mad Max (Mara)

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Men think we women get all gussied up to impress them.

Alas, though they’d like to believe it’s all about Steve, hate to break it to you, guys…

We love you, but we’re in the middle of a serious game.

The players: other women.

The finish line: it doesn’t finish.

The goal: envy.

Fashion doesn’t clothe, it guises. Every outfit is a role, corresponding to a play, each play with its own actresses. Many times, these plays do overlap, are staged simultaneous and the characters collide.

Think about it– men, due to their neurological makeup, are better at recognizing color and shape. Common male phrases, hence, such as, ‘the one in the tight dress’, ‘with short hair’, or ‘red dress’, are the summation of describing women.

If we were only taking one for the boys, we wouldn’t need our Chanels, Diors, Max Maras, or 15 pairs of black heels, the difference between each one unnoticed by the average male. We wouldn’t need a mocha, a light brown, a camel AND a dirty beige belt.

BROWN, is BROWN.

We need it, cause they’re our weapons. We maim self-esteems, decapitate egos, slaughter securities, kill confidences.

SO THE OTHER WOMEN BOW DOWN TO US.

And it’s going on, right under your nose, everyday. It begins with a woman entering a room. Let me present an example…

Mary walks into a party with Tom, a good looking guy. Notice the first instinct is for the other females to scan Mary north-south, south-north.

This is ‘the size up’– it connotes a very important beginning from which the rest of the game will be determined.

First, ‘is she prettier than me?’

If the answer is yes, the gut response is A. ‘bitch’, followed by B. closer scanning of Mary in hopes of finding a less obvious fatal flaw. If one is not found, the next move is for the other women to approach Mary and manipulating her into fucking up, therefore giving them a flaw.

If the answer is no, the initial reaction is ‘How did she land him?’, immediately eliciting the women in unison to scan Tom. If Tom appears to have no flaws, the women will huddle and implicitly console one another, establishing a bond of commiseration. It would be something more like this:

‘They so don’t look like a couple,’ said Jane.

‘Maybe they’re just friends,’ Gina answers.

‘Of course! FRIENDS!’ they chide in unison.

Going back to the scenario of Mary having no evident flaw upon scan two, the wagons circle. Smiles, over-exaggerated, as if having slept with hangers in their mouths, the women begin cornering Mary.

‘LOVE your dress,’ Anna exclaims.

‘Great figure, you must work out!’ Jane jumps in.

‘Don’t really get a chance to with work and all,’ Mary explains, grabbing a piece of cake.

THIS GESTURE, the cake-grabbing, has now transformed the pack from observing the prey to pouncing on it.

‘You’re so lucky to be able to eat like that and be so thin,’ Lila seethes.

‘So what do you do?’ Anna asks, nudging Mary’s arm, motivated by subconscious hate.

PRESS PAUSE.

At this moment, the pack will move one of two ways- retreat, but only if her job reflects her being an idiot, in which case, she’s ‘just another pretty face’; or…

ANNIHILATE.

PRESS PLAY.

‘I’m a rocket scientist.’ Mary says.

Though it seems the annihilation of Mary is impending, we cannot assume Mary to fall victim, as a very imperative factor should be highlighted…

Mary is very aware, is Mary.

That’s why Mary wins.

You men play to win.

We women, well…

We win to play.

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My soul’s too old

To have Poetry.

The Ink don’t write no more.

Got a dictionary to find meaning,

But ain’t sure how to use the words.

I try to put it down on paper,

End up using the eraser.

But the feeling is still there.

Life gave me a story,

Don’t want to publish it.

It got nothing good enough to sell.

Borrowed my brother’s life,

Threw it in a blender with my papa marrying many wives.

Salted it with Rockwell,

Ain’t nothing misspelled,

Just doesn’t look like the truth.

Ripped it up,

Turned me into third person,

Made HER bio mine,

Spoke to a sage,

He gave me wisdom,

Didn’t listen at all,

Just transcribed.

Another girl,

Another life,

Another philosophy.

Hell,

They’ll buy.

When it’s fiction,

They forgive the lie.

It Doesn’t

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Does it end?

It can’t—

It never begins.

There’s nothing, and it’s all something—

But it’s not everything.

That’s what makes it so sad.

I shed sometime tears,

Between all-the-time smiles.

Every time.

I substitute an inane laugh

For an indispensable cry.

That’s what makes it so sad.

My skin has shrunk—

Or my soul has gotten a little too fat—

I don’t fit into myself anymore.

I feel tight around the chest,

I’m choked up at the neck,

My lids don’t close.

Being barefoot hurts too—

I could wear shoes—

What good would that do?

Covering what’s bare doesn’t make it less bare—

It just makes it barely visible.

I already am.

Someone once told me to just breathe—

(As if he didn’t, I would have not done it on my own).

It’s advice like that which makes for stupid holiday cards.

But it’s not Christmas, and I don’t celebrate Easter—

Don’t bother to tell me to ‘Get Well’—

Cause that’s a really imbecilic prescription.

I won’t ever stop wondering ‘Why?’

Even if I had the answers.

I always look for ‘Where?’

Even if it’s in front of me.

I seem to never get enough of ‘When?’

Even though I don’t have time.

I often think ‘What?’

Even though it replies before I ask.

I am always aware of ‘How?’

Even so—I prefer to kid myself.

It’s a vicious circle, or a pleasant oval—

Maybe an indifferent square, perhaps a careless rectangle.

The shape of it doesn’t matter.

It starts.

It doesn’t begin.

It finishes.

It doesn’t end.