October 22, 2007
This only qualifies as a celebrity dream because of a brief cameo by America’s favorite dictator.
I’m at a beach house with two people who are supposed to be my parents, but who bear absolutely no resemblance to my real life parents. The woman sports a blonde beehive hairdo and a polyester blend Hawaiian print shirt.
We are hosting two female visitors from Iraq. Dressed in traditional Muslim garb, their entire bodies are covered save for their eyes. The women are here to learn about America as part of an exchange program.
We are sitting around the living room watching television when George W. Bush appears on the screen to accuse all Americans who disagree with his policies of being unpatriotic traitors.
I take the younger of the two women into my bedroom to get her away from the television and Bush’s poisonous message.
“Why do all Americans engage in pornography?” she asks.
“They don’t, they don’t. It’s just, well, it’s available if people want it,” I tell her.
I show her two black and white pictures of my friends Michael and Tim sitting in a field. She points to Tim and says, “Is he a gay? He looks like he’s a gay.”
“No, no. He’s not gay,” I lie.
“Are you sure? Tell me. I am bound to meet one sometime.”
“Okay, yes, they are a couple.”
She starts screaming and runs to the living room to tell her friend. They are both fairly hysterical, yelling that they want to go back to Iraq right away. I argue with the slightly older woman, I even threaten to hurt her if she doesn’t stop screaming, which of course only makes her scream louder. I apologize for threatening her. They both continue to scream.
My dad and I hustle them down the front stairs, where we pass my beehived mother.
“Where are you going at this hour?” she asks.
“You stay here, we’ll be right back,” my clearly flustered father tells her as we wrestle the screaming women into the back of a car.
Suddenly, my Dad and I are at the airport with the two women. They are much calmer now. As I walk the younger woman to the front of a ticket line, the older woman, who has removed her veil, stands several feet behind us. There is an anxious look in her eye.
I walk over to her and quietly ask, “What is it? Don’t you want to go?”
“No. I want asylum,” she whispers while waving to the younger girl to indicate everything is okay and that she’ll be along in just a moment.
I become aware that there are undercover government officials from both the United States and Iraq surrounding us. The Americans have been alerted to be prepared for the possibility of up to two defectors.
“All you have to do,” I tell the woman, “is yell ‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’”
This only qualifies as a celebrity dream because of a brief cameo by America’s favorite dictator.
I’m at a beach house with two people who are supposed to be my parents, but who bear absolutely no resemblance to my real life parents. The woman sports a blonde beehive hairdo and a polyester blend Hawaiian print shirt.
We are hosting two female visitors from Iraq. Dressed in traditional Muslim garb, their entire bodies are covered save for their eyes. The women are here to learn about America as part of an exchange program.
We are sitting around the living room watching television when George W. Bush appears on the screen to accuse all Americans who disagree with his policies of being unpatriotic traitors.
I take the younger of the two women into my bedroom to get her away from the television and Bush’s poisonous message.
“Why do all Americans engage in pornography?” she asks.
“They don’t, they don’t. It’s just, well, it’s available if people want it,” I tell her.
I show her two black and white pictures of my friends Michael and Tim sitting in a field. She points to Tim and says, “Is he a gay? He looks like he’s a gay.”
“No, no. He’s not gay,” I lie.
“Are you sure? Tell me. I am bound to meet one sometime.”
“Okay, yes, they are a couple.”
She starts screaming and runs to the living room to tell her friend. They are both fairly hysterical, yelling that they want to go back to Iraq right away. I argue with the slightly older woman, I even threaten to hurt her if she doesn’t stop screaming, which of course only makes her scream louder. I apologize for threatening her. They both continue to scream.
My dad and I hustle them down the front stairs, where we pass my beehived mother.
“Where are you going at this hour?” she asks.
“You stay here, we’ll be right back,” my clearly flustered father tells her as we wrestle the screaming women into the back of a car.
Suddenly, my Dad and I are at the airport with the two women. They are much calmer now. As I walk the younger woman to the front of a ticket line, the older woman, who has removed her veil, stands several feet behind us. There is an anxious look in her eye.
I walk over to her and quietly ask, “What is it? Don’t you want to go?”
“No. I want asylum,” she whispers while waving to the younger girl to indicate everything is okay and that she’ll be along in just a moment.
I become aware that there are undercover government officials from both the United States and Iraq surrounding us. The Americans have been alerted to be prepared for the possibility of up to two defectors.
“All you have to do,” I tell the woman, “is yell ‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’”
1 comment:
Oh my god, you think I look gay. I'm devastated. Now buy me cosmo. Tim
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