Tag Archives: funny

Aug 28 2011
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Anecdotes, Fiction

Grizzly One Pant Man

The beloved vessel

There is an interesting character that I see daily as I walk  to the metro. All I know about him is that he owns one pair of pants and a car. It is not clear what he does when he’s not washing his car, opening all its doors and playing music loudly , or sleeping in the trunk with the trunk door open. In short, he’s a bit of a mystery.

Recently he’s taken to talking to friend and I when we walk by him, always starting out with a warm “Thank-you. How are you?” To which I respond in Arabic “Very well” and then he says in English, “You speak Arabic. Very good.” To which I say in Arabic, “Thank you.”

Apparently this conversation never gets old, since it has literally occurred 20 times. There’s something reassuring in the fact I only need to walk past him in order to earn a “thank you.” If only I could earn a paycheck by passing people while trying to ignore them as well. At any rate, I thought I’d made an online dating profile for him since he seems like an interesting guy with dreams and a set of wheels.

okcupid.com profile for “Grizzly, one pant man. With car”

My self-summary: I may seem like a pretty simple guy, especially since I only speak extremely broken English with foreigners. The reality is that I set out years ago on a journey to live a nomadic lifestyle with nothing but my one pair of pants and my car in order to break free and discover truth.  But I fell in love with a girl and followed her to Medan Messaha, trying to woo her with thank yous and how are yous. I lost her when she went inside the Pizza Hut. I waited for her for ages, but either she never came back out or she sneaked out while I was napping in my car. So I’ve been here for the last twenty years, not learning any more English and cleaning my car compulsively.

What I’m doing with my life: Eventually I dream of moving my car to the other side of the square. Until then I want to figure out how to do laundry and wash my car at the same time.

I’m really good at: speaking broken English with foreigners, sleeping in semi-open spaces, moving my car from one side of the street to the other, washing my car, arranging the knick knacks in my car, yelling occasionally, rolling up the cuffs of my pants, etc.

The first things people usually notice about me: I resemble the Santa Claus hanging in my car, except for I look crazier, have slightly darker skin, am thinner, and role up my pants. I guess it’s mostly just the beard that causes the connection. People also notice the huge gaps in my teeth and my bizarre stare.

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food: I had a Twix bar once and that was pretty good. I kept the wrapper and used it to decorate my car.

The six things things I could never do without: the sponge I use to wash my car, my car, my pair of pants, my community of people who are equally busily unemployed, buckets, beauty

On a typical Friday night I’m out: on Friday nights I like to turn the music up in my car and open all the windows and doors and just make sure everyone around me knows that I have a car with loud music.

The most private thing I’m willing to admit: I once watched someone choke to death and didn’t help them since I was in the middle of getting a spot out of my car upholstery and had just applied the fabric cleaner.

I’m looking for: someone kind of like my car, but a woman. And a newer model.

You should message me if: you’re willing to help me clean my car, you agree to never touch my car with your bare flesh, you will find somewhere else besides my car for accommodation, you’re okay with always being second in my life, and you are equally skilled at speaking broken English at foreigners.

Thank you! How are you!

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Aug 27 2011
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Best blog posts, Humorous

New Pile of Dirt on the Block

I literally thought, “That pile of dirt is gold.”

Tonight, on my way to another lung-blackening adventure in Cairo, I noticed a new pile of dirt on my street. I thought to myself, “Huh, that’s a new pile of dirt.” In spite of the Ramadan craziness that ensued in the Hussein area of Cairo (think: Rockefeller center at Christmas but without squishy coats) and throughout the hours of sheesha-sitting, I couldn’t stop thinking about the pile of dirt. Something about it resonated with me.“This,” I thought, “Is what true inspiration feels like.” As the night passed, I kept reminding myself that I must take a picture of it, to keep and to hold.

Hours later I arrived back at my apartment, switched the air conditioning on, threw off half my clothes and suddenly realized I hadn’t taken a picture of the pile of dirt. My innards began to swim in turmoil. Do I let the moment pass, or do I try to seize the pile of dirt handful by handful (so to speak) and leave my apartment at 2 am in the morning to capture it on film? I think we all know what happened. The pile of dirt inspired the following.

Dear Piles of Dirt International, Inc.:

I see you delivered the pile of dirt I requested. I appreciate your patience with my order since my fax machine was broken for some time and kept on sending all of my piles of dirt requests to Toys “R” Us headquarters in Wayne, New Jersey. Apparently there is a hot new toy for city kids called “Pile O’Dirt” so there was quite a bit of confusion on both ends. I am glad to see that one request finally made it through to you, though I do have a few notes on your manner and timing of delivery.

First of all, I requested this pile of dirt almost two months ago. It was supposed to be a belated engagement present for my sister since she is in Physician’s Assistant school and one of her activities is “reconnecting with sterilized nature indoors.”  Through practice, the future P.A.s learn how to simultaneously sympathize with and look down upon people visiting their Wal-mart Clinics who are involved in agriculture. The dirt she is required to purchase and then sit in can be very expensive, so I thought I would shoulder some of the financial burden by providing it for her at a reduced cost. I just want her marriage to succeed. This brings me to my next point.

She is not studying to become a Physician’s Assistant in Doqqi, Cairo. She is in Oklahoma, USA. In fact, she lives a five minute walk away from your main office. I am puzzled, therefore, as to why the pile of dirt has arrived in here in Egypt. The form clearly stated the recipient of the dirt and her location. I even specified that it was to be carefully placed in the newly installed dirt-holding hut at her home. I don’t even recall writing my address or location on the form, though I was experimenting with a different kind of Egyptian peanut butter that night so it’s difficult to remember exactly what happened. Perhaps that has something to do with all the “Pile O’Dirts” I’ve gotten as well. Moving on.

Even had I wanted the pile of dirt for myself, the style of delivery was completely unacceptable. Your workers, supposedly the best in the field, had apparently indulged in Egyptian liquor before the requested midnight delivery. By the way, the one thing your company got correct was the surreptitious delivery at a bizarre time. Nevertheless, because their stupor or extreme ineptitude, they mistakenly deposited the entire pile of dirt outside a coffee shop where anyone could just up and take it. Not only will your workers likely be afflicted by blindness because of the Egyptian alcohol, but the pile of dirt is blocking a total of two cars, the owners of which are likely blinded by rage.

The last and perhaps most important point is that the sterility of the pile of dirt is completely ruined. That is actual litter in the photo. God knows what else has crept into it by now. Even were my sister be present, it would be completely useless for her exercise unless she wanted to better understand feral animals. Needless to say, I would like the pile of dirt removed and placed in front of our landlord’s car, a full refund, and a voucher for two free piles of dirt in the future.

Thank you for your time,

Emily

P.S. I will be writing an unfavorable review for you on Angie’s List, noting that there were sizable rocks included in the pile of dirt when I specifically requested only small to medium pebbles.

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Aug 26 2011
2 Comments
Anecdotes, Humorous, Three minute read

Why Can’t We Bite Ankle Biters Back?

Not an actual photo from the nursery

Here I will attempt to speak of something unspeakable, to describe something indescribable, to eff something ineffable. I saw into the depths of horror itself two days ago, and only now have mustered the courage to force it into words.  That may have been too dramatic. Judge for yourselves:

Out of our copious amount of free time and the goodwill of our hearts, my friend and I decided to hunt for volunteer work in this city. A month after baiting our line and casting out, we had a catch!  On Tuesday, August 23rd, we visited a volunteer site where we learned we are going to use our political science, diplomacy, and academic research skills in a preschool whose twenty kids range from 6 months to 8 years old. An impossible task? Not yet. Our coordinator described the preschool as a nursery where the kids get a good education so they can be ready for government-run schools. A screaming den of anti-learning would have been closer to the mark.

“Is this hell?”

This was my first thought when we entered the preschool. Our goal for the day was to see how it was and identify areas for improvement. After observing it, however, it’s hard to imagine how it could get worse, barring natural, biological, or extraterrestrial disaster.

One ankle biter was stomping around the back of the classroom and uttering sounds like a maniac. Another child was asleep on his desk. The big eyed girl next to me, maybe four years old, was wearing a scandalous shirt that revealed half her chest and spent most of her time staring at me or at the pictures I drew for her in my notebook. Barely contained in their chairs, the rest of the children were squirming like my dog does when my family makes it wear sweaters. It was a picture of loosely controlled chaos.

“Oh God, no.”

Unfortunately, we had arrived just in time for English class. The instructor, Madonna, tepidly manned the front of the classroom, clearly holding back the fear of losing complete control over the children and alternatively sweet talking or threatening them. She thrust forward a red card and shouted, “Whatiszeecolor?” Or in English “What color is this?” And the children yelled, “Ahmarred!” Or in English “Red!” This traumatizing process was repeated for all the colors and other various words.

In a flash of unwitting innovation, all colors became compound Arabic-English words. Ahmar means red in Arabic, and thus fire trucks are “ahmarred,” chocolate is “bonniebrowen,” and cotton candy is “bambibink.” At the end of the session, I finally understood that success was measured not by possible ability to communicate with English speakers, but by the volume  and speed with which one could shout the compound Arabic/English color.

“When will this end?”

I had shivers when I imagined how many times they’d performed this exercise, and I nearly vomited when I contemplated the idea it would never end. Though the poor pronunciation of the teacher and the clear lack of learning on the part of the pupils were both painful, the shouting was the most egregious offence. Unlike most “inside voice” classrooms I’ve attended, Madonna would demand the students say the compound color as loud as possible, until some of them were literally screaming “AHMARRED!” while others continued to shriek, gurgle, or chitter in personal monologues or side conversations.

“Please rescue me.”

As pleasant as children’s laughter is, a child’s scream is what is scientifically described as “unbearable.” My patience was rapidly wearing. The kids, despite the satisfaction some of them got from yelling, were just as eager as I to be released from this prison. Furthermore, the idea the pupils would soon be given whistles as a reward for their good screaming behavior was equally nausea inducing.

I wished to flutter out the window and be a sheet hanging on the rows of clotheslines I could see from my cell, since they at least lacked the ability to hear or feel intense hopelessness. Finally, after lunch when the kids were all given sugary suckers for God knows what reason, play time came and we decided we had seen enough and made our escape, the sound of screaming children following us from behind the door. At the very least, it will be hard to make the place worse. At best, the children won’t learn anything but we will have fun and not want to be sheets.

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Aug 25 2011
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Anecdotes, The Cairo Metro

I Am the Enemy

I’m the one wearing the country-style abaya

A normal scene at the Sadat metro stop.  The train pulls up. Humid air leaks through the windows. The crowd waiting on the platform agitates and swells against the side of the train even before it comes to a halt. Anxiety levels within the train also rise, the crowd knowing it must push through the thick membrane of commuters to safety.

Waiting for the people on the train to exit is out of the question. They cannot be trusted to move quickly enough before the doors clamp shut. They are suspicious people who are not nice to their mothers. Those leaving the train view the boarders with disgust, since they are clearly people with no resemblance of courtesy or decency.

What results from the rampant mistrust and inexplicable hurry is a quasi-brawl. Were the two groups of people large air masses, the result would be thunder and lighting, followed by a brief torrential downpour. Were the people silly putty and a LiveStrong bracelet, the two would be stuck together for eternity since silly putty, as it is made of silicon, sticks to the LiveStrong bracelets. I’m sure limbs and teeth have both been lost in the rapid exchange of bodies that takes place at each entry point once the doors open.

My preferred method of entry is a steady shove followed by small, quick steps, though sometimes I drift, like a professional biker, behind a larger woman ploughing through the mass. Usually I try to avoid shoving and elbowing too much because I find it distasteful to my delicate senses.

However, today was different. I was waiting in the blob of people about to board a train that had just arrived. The doors were open nary a second when a girl no older than 16, came barreling on my left side and knocked me out of the way, only to continue waiting one foot in front of me.

For a brief minute I lost all sense of reason.  I became the embodiment of Justice herself and thought there was no way this young hussy was going to board the train before I did. So I pushed back. And just as my elbow made contact with some other lady’s body I caught myself and became instantly ashamed.

What was I doing? Did it really matter if I got on three milliseconds before this tart? The obvious answer was no, and I walked a little slower after I boarded the train as if to make up for my guilt of being caught up in the heat of the moment. I felt exactly like a parent who just realized they were shaking their baby to make it stop crying. Who is this person I’ve become? Please send responses to lookingforanswers222@hotmail.com. Thanks!

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Jul 29 2011
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Best blog posts, Humorous, Lists, Three minute read

Sowing, Winnowing, and Manuring

Today we went to the Egyptian Museum of Agriculture, a gem that has and will be overlooked by hordes of tourists for

Hands on learning.

years to come. In this context, the word museum is misleading since the Agricultural museum is, in fact, more like a playground. Here are some of the differences between a “normal” museum, and the Egyptian Museum (playground) of Agriculture:

1) A museum has guests.

The Museum of Agriculture does not have guests. From the disbelieving looks on the employees’ faces, we were the first foreigners visiting the museum since the woman or man from Lonely Planet discovered it. The other few museum patrons were there for picnicking or loitering purposes, but certainly not to see the museum itself.

2) A museum requires and undergoes regular upkeep.

The Museum of Agriculture requires but does not undergo regular upkeep. It is set up similar to the National Mall in that the museum is a group of five buildings centered around a green space that has trees and statues in it, but the comparison ends there. The statues are placed without any apparent design and the lawn and trees have been left to their own devices ever since they were planted. The museum employees are hired to be present at the museum but not to do anything to it, in order to preserve the natural deterioration process. Thus, a thick layer of dust and one case bird droppings coat all display cases, broken exhibits remain unrepaired, and all textiles within the museum are in danger of turning into dust at the touch of a finger.

3) Some museum employees are knowledgeable about the museum and its contents. There is a curator.

From what we saw, no museum employee knew anything about Egyptian agriculture or this museum dedicated to its existence aside from its hours of operation. The Agricultural museum employee’s job is this: “Sit or stand near the entrance of the hall. Should anyone walk in, stare at them. Open and close the doors at the appointed time. Avoid dusting or improving the museum in any way.” As for the curator–should he exist– he is either dead or has been on vacation for the past three decades.

The star museum employees assist people in entering the exhibits and taking pictures with the mannequins while sweating on them and gesturing wildly, afterwards demanding extra money for having clearly gone above and beyond his normal call of duty.

4) The museum exhibits are educational.

Are you getting the dusty attic feeling?

In theory, the Museum of Agriculture is filled with educational material, and yet it would be an Olympic feat to actually learn anything from it. Aside from the fact most things are unorganized and poorly labeled, you will be too distracted by the ridiculousness of the place in order to do anything besides contemplate the museum’s existence itself and the thickness of the cobwebs on the windows. The two things I took away from the Horticulture hall, for example, after seeing dusty glass case after dusty glass case of different kinds of wheat stalks and seeds, corn stalks and seeds, bread, fruits, vegetables, stages of growing of wheat, etc, were: “There is a lot of variety in the world” and “This took a long time to assemble.”

5) The museum exhibits are not to be touched so as to preserve them for the next visitors. For this reason, there is surveillance of some kind to prevent the most curious from overstepping their bounds.

In the Museum of Egyptian Agriculture, you are almost completely alone and can do whatever you want. The entire place feels forgotten if not yet abandoned. Climbing into the exhibits and taking pictures is encouraged, as well as exploring blocked off parts of the halls and rifling through anything that isn’t encased in glass.

6) The opportunity to interact with material not yet put on display is minimal.

At the Museum of Egyptian Agriculture, there is a cabinet full of documents and photos as well as bin full of antique cigarettes on the second floor of the Hall of Horticulture in a nook on the landing with some agricultural tools in it. Feel free to look at the photos and guess what they might be. Consider the very slim odds of them every being used or seen by someone who might actually be interested in the information.

7) The only fun to be had is through the joy of learning.

The best part of the agriculture museum experience was being able to run around in it like kids and cause a ruckus, feeling like we were breaking all the rules even though there were no rules to be broken in the first place. Also, the green space within the complex was a real joy, complete with nice trees, cool birds, and two little pergolas. Though using the word paradise might be too strong, it certainly felt like a land preserved outside of time and space, which I suppose is the purpose of a museum though in this case it was achieved accidentally.

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