Serious in Syria

12/02/2012 11:57

Serious in Syria

 

Noticeable to an EFL teacher in Syria in 2003 was the ubiquitous mien of President Bashar Al Assad. It`s an ambivalent ambiguous depiction of the country`s head of government that gazes down upon you at every turn. From giant billboards overlooking highways and pedestrian walkways; to smaller scale giant framed versions bedecking any and every public place. From washrooms and carwashes to restaurants; libraries; supermarkets, and yes language skulls. It`s a sad sight in many ways, a not despotic; dictatorial or menacing look. World-weariness, rather, at having to have had to pose for such a portrait; knowing the strange usage it would be put to: the quelling of enthusiasm. It`s reminiscent of Frans Hals` The Laughing Cavalier (1624); for some reason the eyes in the painting follow you about the room: but not jovially. Mr Assad aims for grey neutrality. However, the same strangeness pervades the sandy and verdant scenery of Syria`s towns and cities; a feeling of being followed about the room by eyes that seek to know all about you: without joviality.

 

 

 Charmed by the strangeness of the new initially, in Western countries the cult of the personality isn`t elevated to such an art form. We have stars; the East has politicians. We have Britney Spears, and Shakira; they had Lech Walesa, the Polish revolutionary, and Rumonion dictator, Nicolae Ceausescu. Conned for a while, the omnipresent face of the local god bestows an air of adoration, if not affection, familiar from Janet Jackson tour flyers, and Cher concert posters. However, it also comes to mind that this is not necessarily a bad thing. Living in Buttapes, it`s batten down the hatches time when the next big rock monster act comes to town. What will they want? What will be the damage? Can the insatiable cravings for the new and grotesque that will be demanded by stars like Madonna, or Beyoncé Knowles and her entourage, be satisfued? These are the questions posed by Western freedoms in the cities of the West.

 

 

 Syria, on the other hand, has no such dilemma. It`s unlikely that Madonna (the Great Whore of the West in the eyes of so many in the East) will ever tour there; because President Assad has absolute control. He`s the star; albeit a grey one. So there`s no damage to speak of; he won`t allow it. That makes for many grey days following after many other grey days, and superseded by many more grey days; but secure ones: systems win. If there are no grey men in position to maintain a system that protects, then it can`t preserve for the good of all. Certainly they`re grey people, which is what one notices as a teacher. Muzzlem stud`nts in Syria, as elsewhere, are dull to the point of beyond ordinariness. They don`t seem interested in life, or the living of it, which is noticeable throughout peaceful musicless Yarubeer. They pray a lot. However, there`s precious little jigging about by the side of pools with wet T-shirt competition. Gospel churches in New Orleans are winners when it comes to expressing jubilation. However, for absolute disinterest it`s devoutly the `Slammer. The drabness of lives lived in the Muddle East suggest that, if joy is what they`re praying for, God`s taken home his balls.

 

 

 In almost all of the discourse I had with stud`nts, the subject of food was highest on the agenda, and not all of them advocated a fatwah upon the teacher, `What is good to eat and drink?` An entire semester might pass while the obese discourse gathered momentum. Congraulating each other on how they`d been able to scope out that milk was better than coca cola, conversation classes could go on for eight hours a day, and dialogue was not on the menu, `Grid Balls energy drink. Very bad.` Required to speak, while they gleaned information, and picked the teacher`s brains of any material thought useful, I always liked: `Are you married?` As it was Yarubeer, a marid is a djinn, so it was evident that the teacher was expected to accept that he was marid. When they asked about offspring, I`d announce in the style of Aminanabra that the progeny of my marid years were, `as numberless as the sands in the deserts and the stars in the heavens`, while the stud`nts revealed how well versed they weren`t in culture by gawping nonplussed before asking, `Is that more than tow?`

 

 

 Syria`s Terrosaur was so polluted two stars were visible throughout the whole of the night sky on any given evening, `Where is GCHQ?` The question was always dodged; even when it came as a surprise: it`s too obvious. The lamest, and most enthused over topic, because it was universally enjoyed amongst the dull, who worship repetition, was `What`s your favorite food?` The answer is `Kapsa.` As always, because it`s chicken and rice, and everyone without exception consumes it by the bucketful every day. The answer is always, `Kapsa.` In fact it`s a conceivably exotic dish, because it`s any meat and rice. The local delicacy is dab, a lizard, which the Yarubeans go into the desert to shoot and kill specifically for variety in their meals. Eddy Izzard could be sitting next to you on the plate. I failed any written sentence containing kapsa, because it wasn`t English, and felt better for it.

 

 

 Yarubeer is the place where they throw more food away than anywhere else. It would appall workers with the starving in Africa, and getting five or more square meals a day, how huge the amounts of rice received with a piece of meat that looks like a zit on the face of God in comparison to the ocean of rice surrounding it, and is largely disposed of as being surplus to the needs of the diner. That the obese display such dour inconsequentiality in conversations, which consist mainly of exhortations, and perorations, on the advisability of stomaching goat cheese in opposition to chocolate, is laughingly ironic.

 

 

 I had a lengthy serious discussion with a stud`nt who gave me handwritten directions to a supermarket, where it was sure a copious supply of a fruit drink combination that consisted of strawberry and pear was to be obtained. Like it was crystal meths. Milk is all I ever drink, and coffee. However, in a supposedly alcohol free environment (the stud`nts go to Bahrain to reputedly binge drink, while ogling lap dancers), a great deal of thought is given to what`s `delicious` for the jaded palate. Coming out of the desert, where supplies of water and food are sparse, it`s amusing that the Yarubeans close their shops five times a day to pray, while the food and water that they used to pray for in the desert is unattainable. In their cities they`ve rebuilt the desert conditions they left, so as to provide themselves with the sparsity they`ve perversely recreated. Sitting fuming in the mid-day sun for half-an-hour beside the closed doors of the local Othaim supermarket, all you want is a tin of chicken frankfurters (as are the Chews, pork is forbidden as `unclean`, and so is `haraam` or forbidden), which brings it home to you. They`ve reconstructed desert conditions, so that you can`t get water or food when you need it. Sitting outside a bookshop on a Wednesday afternoon waiting expectantly for it to open, and it`s discovered two hours later that you`ve been waiting in the boiling heat for an event that isn`t going to take place until Friday night, isn`t laughable.

 

 

 What passes for serious conversation with a group of stud`nts was on the subject of shopping at the malls. In England it’s going shopping early in the morning; eating breakfast; browsing several shops for the gadget wanted (an mp3 player); listening to the sales` assistant`s pitch; having lunch; taking in an afternoon movie; going to a restaurant after the movie, and a nightclub late on in the evening, before going home at 2.00am or 3.00am, and never once having to consider opening or closing hours. From experience and feedback from the stud`nts, it was deducible that, in the Muddle East if an mp3 player is wanted, dashing to the nearest mall, while hoping it isn`t prayer time, to accept whatever is available, and leaving before being chucked out by the mall guards at the call for prayer, or arrested by the religious dogs, the Muttawah, for possessing a device known to reproduce Western music (mine had ‘Barbie Girl' by Aqua [1997] preprogramed into it (and which is about as anti-`Slammer as can be gotten), is the rule. Hour long taxi trips from a room at Swine Fever hotel to go to the bank, where it`s normally discoverable that busyness can`t proceed, because `the system is down`, so paying another twenty quid to go home again is advisable, proves it.

 

 

 The Yarubean populations are not so much downtrodden as bored senseless with the trivial and meaningless. In a mall that of vast proportions that was a part of a chain of such, asking for the shop where a DVD of Mariah Carey could be bought performing a track, `Touch My Body`, from her album, E=MC2 (2008), the reply was that there wasn`t a single place in the entirety of it that would sell me a Mariah DVD, However, if I took a taxi to another of their malls up the street a few kilometers or so there was a shop there that could satisfy my bizarre request, `In my imagination I'd be all up on you.`1 Taking the taxi and far from optimistically arriving a shopper said that what was wanted was was up that way at some nebulous distance into the future and, after walking nearly four kilometers in a depressed slump, eventually it was time to give up and go home beneath the stars.

 

 

 In Yarubeer the neon lights of the streets compete and win against the stars in the heavens, and those upon the Earth, like Mariah. All the lights are on, and everyone is home but you. The stud`nts listened to a tirade half-apologetically and shrugged helplessly; they understood they nodded: but what could they do? If I`d spent my life there, as they had, I`d know where to go and when. Not having a lifetime to study shopping hours, and the contents of malls, from the West, where everything is available everywhere, searching for what should be freely available isn`t a part of the plan. The Yarubeans warn you when you apply to work there. However, it isn’t preparation for the long hours spent in your room listening to the drone of the air conditioner, because you`re scared to make the mistakes that are going to spoil your day; if you try to perform even the simplest tasks that will make daily living easier. Going out to buy milk, and coming back with four liters of Laban, which tastes a bit like flavorless yoghurt, is just one example of the pitfalls attendant upon thinking you know what you`re about. It comes in the same container as milk, and has similar packaging. However, getting home with a few liters of Laban, when you didn`t want sour coffee, is a regular instance of the mistakes that accumulate to wear you out and make you despondent. Shopping is a chore, and it isn`t fun. When even buying milk has its terrifying aspects, it doesn`t make any kind of sense to do other than limit oneself to the basics, so to avoid prattishness.

 

 

 Asked if religion plays a role in an English teacher`s approach to working in non-Crushteen paedophile environments, praying is a part of what`s needed. Head bowed beside the TV, all is violence and news reports about it, and the daily disasters overtaking the planet. I go to the `Faith Church` in Buttapes, and was born in the spirit of the waters of a formerly Commonest swimming pool in Hungry`s second city, Deepratson, in ‘94. At Easter, 2010, thrown bodily from the service, they would have done the same with the Rushon writer, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, who received a medal from ‘Vlad’ Puttin’ in 2007, long after his book, The Gulag Archipelago (1973), detailing the former So Feared labor camp, resulted in his freedom, but not mine. Despite the fact that I`d been through two electronic checks for knives, and the portable rocket launchers they feel assured known terrorists will attempt to smuggle in inside their windcheaters, it was chucked out time for the writer of May I Torture You Teacher?, Vols I, II, and III. As Kurt Vonnegut`s Tralfalmadoreans, observing the meat packing inanity that`s humanity in his science fiction novel, Slaughterhouse-Five (1969), pithily remark, `So it goes.`

 

 

 In my room in Syria I embraced an ancient practice of sleeping by the light of a white candle in the belief that it would have a positive spiritual effect on my life. It`s an Al Coholicist procedure; particularly during All Hellos Eve. During processions in the streets of European towns to the Commonest mouseoleums, where candles are placed next to the resting places of the diseased. The idea is that, on this night, the worlds of the spirit and that of the material are close together. So it is that one uses a white candle to try to unite one`s spiritual nature with the benevolent powers of the cosmos. In Hungry they call the Holy Spirit by the name of ‘Szent szellem’, and the whiteness of the candle is supposed to have evocative power with regard to the Spirit of the Lord She’sus, who`ll be down the mouseoleum like nobody`s business if there`s a chance of some cheddar. My stud`nts would tell me that, if you believe in the Brafit She’sus, you are a man of the `Slammer. I`m a believer, and I don`t see why any church should have the right to eject the peaceful adherent once it`s clear they`re not carrying a Kalashnikov or hand grenade cluster. Anyway, I`d pray in my room in Terrosaur for peace of mind and strength to carry on my own teaching work - by the power of the Paraclete; if She’sus would be so willing. However, still having to give eight hours of conversation each day, it ruined my speaking voice, while giving me an infection that, after a passing Hungriun suggested it would ultimately result in death, provoked a removal of the uvula, that is, the first line of the body`s immune system, so increasing the weakness of a heart affected due to the inability of some gob parts to absorb toxins.

 

 

 Teaching, inevitably, at a training center run by an oil company, the All Forats, there were tough days. The house I`d been given a room in was a part of a square that contained one of the ubiquitous Meringues you find in any and all the `Slammeric cities. This in Syria`s Terrosaur (built by the French, and most famous for its suspension bridge) woke the neighborhood, as indeed it was designed to do, at 5.00 am each morning; so by 7.00 am I was aboard the company minibus scrunched in like tomatoes in a box, with the colleagues we started with, and those we picked up in the course of our tedious meanderings through the potholed streets of the often rain depressed town. Slaved until around 5.00 pm, there was then a bored and boring half hour for prayers to be said, and drivers to be corralled, before setting off once more on the tedious meanderings that gently emptied our greyed lives into the greyer streets. Until we came to the destination that ten or so hours ago had been our point of departure: as prisoners taken to the quarry to break rocks before returning to their cells.

 

 

 The course book, again almost inevitably, was Headoff Elementary through Pre-Intermediate and as far as Upper Intermediate. My pupils were oilmen in their thirties and forties; though it`s not sure that all of their eyes were mine. The air conditioning was so loud as to drown out any possibilities of actually being heard speaking; unless a megaphone was taken into the classroom, which was a more than serious consideration. Leaving at the end of three months, ill from the pollution from the permanently unreplaced filters of the air conditioners in the training center, almost the whole time in Damascus was spent in the bathroom vomiting into the toilet bowl, while awaiting a flight back to Europe. In fact, on some occasions, the uvulitis was about convincing the life in me to remain concealed there behind the shower curtains.

 

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 Conversations at the training center between stud`nts and staff generally took place in the cafeteria; an area that should also have had `health hazard` clearly marked everywhere in indelible ink. Starving, mad or bored enough, you might risk going in there. Faced with the alternative entertainment afforded by the teachers` room, where a window could be stared out of at a red brick wall some several hundred meters away, or a copy of the several thousand Gran (1810 - 1832 pm) read, which litter litter Yarubean countries like confetti at a wedding, the attractions of the cafeteria were found irresistible. All other books being seemingly banned, and all copies of the Gran being in inscrutable Yarupric, gravitating towards the company eaterie at lunchtime, the inhaling of some gruesome concoction through a mini shisha or water pipe seemed persuasive. The activity itself filled with nausea, and probably led to the bouts of vomiting in Damascus; as well as the weak heart and tonsillectomy. Poisoning of the uvula was, doubtless, the result of some viral, or bacterial, contamination; originating in the snorting of that awful preparation from that disgusting apparatus.

 

 

 A `friend` showed me how to snort, and then offered the snorting contraption. It`s widely believed by the foolish in Western culture that one should indulge in local customs, so endearing oneself to the locals by one`s willingness to experience the richness of the delights they have to offer: bollocks. Eat meat from a tin (cold); take vitamins; drink milk; buy bread; oranges, and clean the teeth regularly. It ensures health and is a prophylactic against local contagions and bowel complaints. Eat most anything else and it’s a  semi-permanent squat over a hole in the ground whimsically labeled, `WC`. Oh, and when you go for number 2s, you`re supposed to scrape the residual shit off your arse with your fingers afterwards; before rinsing them under luke warm water from a communally shared hosepipe.

 

 

 Partaking of local culture is a recipe for disaster, and avoid expat relationships too; that`s just an excuse to binge drink and fulminate against what everyone wants to call `towelheads`. Western culture is all about repression. It hates what it represses, and that`s why the West was so successful in the Crazy Golf War. Don`t call people names, but hate them for the names they won`t let you call them. In Muzzlem Yarubeer affectionate headlines were often about the Muzzlem `Pak` Prime Minister or the `Pak Army` at the Kashmir border. However, if I were to describe anyone as a `Paki` in England I`d be likely to experience public opprobrium; shunning, and even violence. That`s the difference a letter of the alphabet makes; the difference between accepted Yarubean journalese description, and racism. Prince Harry take note; if you`d called your friend a `Pak` instead of a `Paki`2 no one would have blinked.

 

 

 In the UK we`re sexually repressed to the extent that interest in the female form is restricted to top shelf newsagents. In Europe porn is available, but it`s viewed on screen; as if prisoners are being watched in a cell. In Pseudi Yarubeer kissing in public is punishable by a prison sentence, and homosexuality is widespread. This is what we are educating ourselves into; repressed hatreds. How many films do we see in which violence towards women is the main feature, and yet we laud the hero who protects one of the women. Until it`s her turn? It`s a con trick. What we`re being told is that sex is disgusting, and no one should be interested in women`s bodies. It`s misogyny that has at its heart the desire to attack or imprison women. As a syndrome, it was studied at ‘Ull Universe City (1980-86) on my ‘Women In Literature` course. Rochester, in Emily Bronte`s Jane Eyre (1847) marries her, while keeping his first wife, Bertha, in the attic, because she’s `mad`.3 Eventually, Bertha burns Rochester`s house down from her eyrie, and he`d placed her there because he was unable to satisfy the full extent of a woman`s sexual needs. Given the fact that the human futanarian species of women have their own `seed`, that is, their own penis` semen, it`s hardly surprising to learn that Rochester couldn`t satisfy his wife. It`s simpler for men to call women `mad`, and imprison them; in top shelf newsagents’ Nuts and Zoo magazines where the women in the zoo can be clearly seen to be in want of some nuts.

 

 

 Inside the flatter, blacker, 21st century `TV` screens, humans are prisoners of truncated expectation, because the `TV` women haven`t got anything to speak of. The `beast` of Revelation, that is, men and women, who`ve manufactured themselves as a single male brained creature wearing each other’s clothes as a transvestite, have invented the `TV` that blinds itself, and so so switches itself off. `TV wars` are its alien racist`s color control, and its flat, black mass media ouput, is its remote operating system. Accusing itself of spying on it, it blinds itself by killing itself, and so its brainpower is reduced to those simian levels of brain dead unconsciousness planned by the remote controller, whose role is that of the alien pogromer seeking to maintain the human race in host womb slavery to a parasitical killer that wants to watch humanity die for its entertainment. Without sexual reproduction between women, human brainpower will be extinguished on `TV live`, and mankind won`t be born among the colonized planets amid the stars of heaven above from `woman`s seed`, because the alien will have switched off the `TV` without humans ever seeing what they look like.

 

 

 In Syria women wear the usual full length, head wrapped with eyes only peeking out, black burkha. It`s a Playboy magazine hidden under the bedclothes. Muzzlem women`s nugatory appearance is a manifestation of misogyny, which has nothing to do with notions of God being masculine. It`s woman hatred, and it`s institutionalized itself behind notions of God and so-called morality that exclude even the basics in understanding adultery, which is that the human futanarian species of `woman`s seed` is adulterated by men born of their fertilization of women, while keeping women`s fertilizing of women taboo. That`s why newspapers, like the February 2009 Arab News` report, `Reconsidering Underage Marriage`, depict Yarubeans` problems with paedophilia, which is effectively a desire by adults to prevent women`s race from progressing. At a court hearing, fears for a young dowried girl in a marriage with a much older man were aired, `… the  judge merely made the old pervert promise not to rape his child bride until she was 18.` Misogyny is a hatred of endeavor per se; of the developing image: a media society disease called pictophilia. Misogynists hate birth; creation, and art. Anything emergent from mother nature is hated. Pop music purveyors Dire Straits` ‘Money for Nothing' (1985) was a #1 misanthropic video tirade instrumental in making Music Television (MTV) hugely successful at a point in time when the company was on the verge of financial ruin:

 

`The little faggot with the earring and the makeup,

Yeah buddy, that's his own hair;

That little faggot got his own jet airplane;

That little faggot he's a millionaire.`4

 

 

 Cartoon images of misanthropes engaging in `queer bashing` boosted audience figures and MTV was a success. According to the Boble, `faggots` are dead wood bound for hellfire, and the term is used as a euphemism for homosexuals. The Dire Straits` lyrics are self-parody. You`re hated if you have long hair, because you look like women to misogynists. However, if men are to be born of `woman`s seed`, hatred for men who are presented as looking like women by misogynists is understandable. Misogynists hate women, and don`t want men to be born. It`s an alien position. Preferable is, `These Dreams` (1986) from Nancy and Ann Wilson`s more human Heart, `Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away.`5 Waking life is a nightmare for women`s species; without imagery to support their species` independence as producers of human brainpower from their own `seed`.

 

 

 In the Yarubean countries you hear stories of young women being found in rubbish bins, because their families no longer wanted them; or the unborn child (50/50 it`s a girl) they were carrying. In China they throw girls away as soon as they`re born, and in the Indian subcontinent too. It`s an old story. In the Greek myth of Chronos and Rhea, the mother of creation, Rhea, has all of her children devoured by her spouse, Chronos, because he sees them as a threat to his own existence. Though admiring of women`s success, there`re misogynists who don`t. Miley Cyrus` TV character, Hannah Montana, was a pop music sensation. However, Miley was vilified in the press by what were essentially child-molesting journalists, which the song, `Bang Me Box`, indicates adversely affected her personality, `You say it tastes like cake with my lips against your face. I want you to eat it baby.`6 Paedophiles effectively kill stars who`re developing, which is Cyrus` story; either succumb or resist being infantiled.

 

 

 When are we going to be allowed to grow up? As an English language teacher, dealing with the paucity of a genuine desire to learn is par for the course. We`re effectively only training their passport control authorities to ask, `Who are you and where are you going?` Or we`re training our visitors to other countries to recognize the moment when they`re being asked to hand over their passport. Apart from that, it`s `How much?` Hating driving pedal cars, for grown ups sex is what it`s about. Pedaling on the treadmill isn`t productive of brainpower. Put behind cars and ritually slaughtered over a lifetime, sexual reproduction and brainpower would else interfere with the slave traffic kings.

 

 

 Each decade produces `classic` pop phenomena; for example, The Sex Pistols (1975-), a not inapposite name for a band representing the anarchic aspirations of `God Save The Queen`, `… she ain`t no human being.`7 To some it`s self-evident: racism has many forms. Fears are of a race war between men and women. It`s a feature of one of the most popular film series, beginning with the first Scream (1996), that women are murdered alone, while the audience jeer their deaths, and cheer on the murderer, `Ghostface`, who appears wearing what looks like a burkha. The Sex Pistols` name acknowledged the race war.  Misogyny feigns inaction, while women and `woman`s seed` are victimized: it`s a coward`s bastion.

 

 

 Practice diplomacy in the classroom. Politeness is the key to employability. Stud`nts reveal themselves to be representatives of Al Qaeda daily, `What are the British and Americans doing in Jakarta?` I have no idea. I didn`t know there was a Jakarta. Told not to talk politics by the Syrians, all probings extraneous to the learning of grammar and structure are turned aside with the agility of a sword fencer. Every stud`nt project is about the indubitable excellence and virtuousness of President Al Bashar, and one`s knee jerks responsively. However, having to be polite all the time leads to concealed irritation and anger at the ridiculousness of people pretending Sheikhdom on themselves. One is literally expected to treat them as sheikhs of Yarubeer because the fear is that, if not, they`ll stop paying and leave us with empty classrooms. With one`s genuine anger at being made to ingratiate yourself, there`s the fear that shouldn`t be yours: the fear of management. Having had had discussions with managers who see the situation clearly, they call the stud`nts `idiots`, and condemn them outright for an inability to open their ears; or pick up their pens. However, management`s fears communicate themselves to the teacher, who actually doesn`t care, and shouldn`t, because EFL teaching is simple for all parties to the equation; learn. However, anger veiled by politesse is due to feelings of terror in the teacher at the prospect of losing their tenure; if a client doesn`t like the tone you used that morning when explaining, `British isn`t a country.` `No, it`s a vegetable,` replies the always reliable Awag Mumumzed.

 

 

 What to do in your free time? The women are veiled from head to foot in thick black opaque material, so arranging a date is rather more a task for Strategic Air Command (SAC 1 or 2) than a palm with a `phone in it. Local entertainment, where I invariably reside, consists of listening to prayer call five times a day at regularly spaced intervals, and once a week taking my shirts to the nearest laundry. You find yourself veiling your eyes, because the direct gaze of men is troublesome after a while. The absence of women often results in compensating by refusing direct eye contact with males. Remembering the women you`ve have been with is an everyday part of your survival program. Otherwise you lose separateness and individuality; becoming not a man: but rather men. The concept of `brothers` in the `Slammer` is okay; if you can afford a wife. However, it`s a vehicle for homosexuality; misogyny, and race hatred: if you can`t. In a men only society, women are neutralized. A man, Mr Tombe, was caught having sex with someone else`s goat; so the local Muzzlem Sharia court ordered a dowry of $50 to the owner, Mr Alifi,8 while Mr Tombe had to marry the goat. In misogyny and woman hatred, a goat is preferable.

 

 

 Remembering through the love of women is ancient. Amongst the Egypt Johns, there`s the myth of Ra, Osiris, Horus and Isis. Ra is the sun god, and his lifespan is symbolized by the setting of the sun. Osiris is the newly risen sun, and his life cycle is symbolized by the cycle of spring; summer; autumn, and winter. In the myth Osiris is dismembered by the evil god, Set, a metaphor for the `TV set`, who`re men and women that, through the denial of women`s sexual reproduction of human brainpower as a separate species of futanarian `woman`s seed`, manufactured the race as a single male brained creature wearing each other’s clothes as a transvestite for `TV war`. Consequently, the evil god, Set, is depicted throwing the parts of Osiris` body to the four corners of the Earth. However, Isis, the mother-sister-wife goddess, recovers the parts, and breathes life into Osiris` resurrected body through the penis she has made after the irrecoverable loss of his own member: it’s how `woman`s seed` remembers mankind in heaven.

 

 

 When women`s brainpower affords escape from Earth, men will be born among the colonized planets and stars. The Crushteen paedophile parallel is She’sus, who promises eternal life to those who believe in escaping the mousetrap. In Yarubeer, memories of past lives came into focus, and the contemplation of vast expanses of lived-in time. Gazing not at the pupils of men, but inwardly at the eternal woman, she represents freedom from torment; Resurrection through `woman`s seed` and Ascension. Finding time to lie on my back and look up at the stars in heaven, myriads upon myriads of silvery jewels sparkling in midnight blackness; heaven beckons: like a woman. Remembering in Yarubeer, a woman`s eyes are stars in the darkness of her burkha: reflecting a promise of ineffable contentment.

 

1 Mariah Carey `Touch My Body`, E=MC2, Island, 2008.

2 Dejevsky, Mary `Prince Harry Called A Fellow Soldier His 'little Paki friend', Independent, https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/prince-harry-called-a-fellow-soldier-his-little-paki-friend-1299804.html .

3 Gilbert, Sandra, and Susan Gubar Madwoman In The Attic, Yale University Press, 1979.

4 Knopfler, Mark, and Sting `Money For Nothing`, Dire Straits, Brothers In Arms, Vertigo, 1985.

5 Page, Martin, and Bernie Taupin `These Dreams`, Heart, Heart, Capitol, 1986.

6 Cyrus, Miley `Bang Me Box`, Miley Cyrus & Her Dead Petz, RCA, 2015.

7 Cook, Paul Thomas, Stephen Philip Jones, John Lydon, Glen Matlock, and Johnny Rotten ‘God Save The Queen’ The Sex Pistols, Never Mind The Bollocks, Here’s The Sex Pistols, Virgin, 1977.

8 `Sudan Man Forced To `Marry` Goat`, BBC News, Friday, 24 February 2006, 17:37 GMT,  http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/4748292.stm .

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