Mahmoud Ahmadinejad walked out of the bathroom of his hotel suite at the UN Plaza Hotel across from the United Nations. He wore a white terry cloth bathrobe. Mahmoud read the digits on the cable box clock: 9:08. The evening lights of Manhattan speckled through the floor to ceiling windows. The air conditioning was on, creating a consistent white noise that pleased Mahmoud. He had had an eventful few days in New York. Speaking at Columbia, where he made the University’s President seem like an ingrate. He was a tad irritated that his Farsi was misinterpreted. he had said that Iran did not have as many gay people as America, not that there were no gays in Iran. But this was not a problem. Americans were just primed to catch him in a verbal slip, even if they have to make it up. His speech at the UN was well received as far as he was concerned. So the trip, he thought of it as a vacation, was successful. Mahmoud thought that he would like to explore more of America at some point, but knew that if this was going to happen, it would probably happen only during his tenure as President of Iran.
Ahmad walked into the bedroom.
“She is here,” said Ahmad.
“She is early,” said Mahmoud.
“Should I send her in?” asked Ahmad.
“Yes,” said Mahmoud.
Ahmad walked out of the bedroom. Mahmoud felt his beard and opened his bathrobe a touch to give it a more relaxed appearance. And then she walked in.
“Hello your excellency,” said Ann Hart Coulter, wearing a simple black dress cut to above her knees, with a white pearl necklace and white pearl bracelet. Her very long pale legs were supported by black high heels just short of being stilettos.
“Please, call me Mahmoud.”
“Yes, of course. And you can call me Ann.”
“I understand you have expressed the opinion that Christians are perfected Jews. I agree with this,” said Mahmoud.
“Yes. The New Testament is a more highly evolved document than the Old Testament, a perfecting of the Hebrew Bible,” said Ann.
“Yes. And I might add that the Koran is a more highly evolved document than the New Testament,” said Mahmoud.
“Ahhh, Muslims are perfected Christians?” asked Ann with a smile on her face.
“Let us not dwell on our differences. Let us enjoy each other’s commonalities,” said Mahmoud.
Ann was surprised that Mahmoud’s English was so good. It had been an international secret that Mahmoud was fluent in spoken English, though he had difficulty reading it.
“The planet would be more perfect without Jews,” said Ann.
“I never said that. It is you who concentrate on the superiority of one religion over another,” said Mahmoud.
“So what are our commonalities, Mahmoud,” asked Ann.
“I understand you wish to make love with me,” said Mahmoud.
“What? I am offended. I am here to talk. To learn. Whatever made you think that I would want to make love with you?” said Ann.
“I am very sorry if I misunderstood your intentions,” said Mahmoud.
“You would not have sex with me anyway. You are a married man. And I am not a Muslim. So the point is moot,” said Ann.
“You do not know the Koran, a book that governs every aspect of my life. But there are varying interpretations as to the applicability of some laws when a Muslim man stands on non-Muslim ground,” said Mahmoud.
“Really. Like what?” asked Ann.
“I am permitted to have sexual intercourse with you in this bedroom right now,” said Mahmoud.
“Right now? You mean there is like a Koranic time loophole that has opened this evening,” asked Ann.
“Time and place,” said Mahmoud. “Please, remove your clothing. I would like to see your body,” said Mahmoud.
“I do not think so. This is totally ridiculous. I would never…”
“Please, please. You are very attractive. Iranian women do not have such blond long hair as you. I wish to see more of it. I wish to touch it. Consider it a place where our civilizations can come together. Do not be so prudish,” said Mahmoud.
“I am not a prude,” protested Ann.
“You are very thin. Your skin is very taught. Your eyes are big. And your voice quivers. May I touch your breasts?” asked Mahmoud.
“No. Absolutely…OK, look, you can touch my hair. You want to touch my hair?” asked Ann.
Mahmoud took a few steps toward Ann, who was six inches taller than the President. The President of Iran extended his right index finger and gently pushed Ann’s golden hair back behind her left ear. He then moved his face toward her and paused about an inch away. Ann’s eyes closed. Mahmoud closed the inch and kissed Ann on the lips. The kiss was long, and Ann responded by opening her mouth. Mahmoud’s arms slowly wrapped around Ann’s javelin frame and he pulled her tight as they merged their mouths as if eating each other. Ann placed her arms around Mahmoud. Mahmoud suddenly pushed her away and backed off. Ann’s eyes shot open.
“Never, never place your arms around me,” said Mahmoud.
“Sorry,” said Ann.
“Now we shall make love. Remove your clothes. Please, Ann. I ask you to share with me your passion,” said Mahmoud, recovering from his minor outburst in an attempt to salvage the possibilities.
Ann screamed and shot up in bed. It was a good scream, the kind that one would have if jogging themselves out of a wet dream, which is what Ann just did in the middle of the night in her bedroom. Wow, Ann thought. What a dream. She was breathing heavily and sweating. She turned to the digital clock on her night table which read 3:36 AM. Ann Hart Coulter let out a lungful of air and did not think she could get back to sleep. Not after that orgasm, which was one of the best ones she has had in a few years, she thought. Fuck it. She had to sleep. Ann was giving a speech tomorrow on the moral degradation of the Democrats and she had to look good and be on top of her game. Anyway, maybe if she was lucky she could return to that dream she was having. Damn that was a good dream. International sex, she thought, between two very intelligent and misunderstood people. Ann closed her eyes and lied back into her pillow and fell rapidly to sleep.
Continued From Yesterday.
Guy Ritchie’s wife wants to go to a mosque. Guy was not sure he heard his wife correctly. Madonna was in a twisted position on the floor of the Presidential Suite of the Westin Excelsior Hotel in Rome on the Via Veneto. The suite was the rounded corner of the famous hotel, which Madonna insisted on, or more accurately assumed she would get. The hotel had to move a Saudi oil minister to another suite to accommodate Madonna’s expectations. Guy was aware of this because the hotel manager was in a tizzy to satisfy the Saudi minister, who was only mollified when offered the Hotel’s Bugatti as a free car to use while in Rome.
“Did you hear me? Guy, I hate when I talk and you don’t respond. It’s so fucking annoying,” said Madonna.
“Yes. I heard you,” said Guy.
Guy had almost had enough of Madonna’s quest to bring the world together, to somehow solve the mess in the Middle East with two gay dancers, one tattooed with a Star of David, the other with a Star and Crescent. Guy thought the two dancers wrapping themselves around an aging pop star whom was writhing and gyrating her body with sexual gestures was not only weak and shallow, but embarrassing. But no one was going to tell his wife that. No one could tell Madonna anything anymore. She knew best about everything. Certainly about how to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict.
“I don’t really want to go to a mosque,” said Guy as he sipped some more of the dreadful soy milk through what Guy sometimes thought of as an infant straw.
“That’s the point. Of course you don’t want to. That is why we will go,” said Madonna as she contorted herself into another yoga pose.
“I am not wearing that shit, and I am not lying on the floor praying to Mecca, or whatever the fuck they do,’ said Guy.
‘You just have no love in your heart, do you. We go to church, we go to synagogue, and now we go to a mosque. You must love the people who hate you. That is the only way. We can bring people together that way,” said Madonna as she started to do one-arm push ups. Guy hated when his wife did one-arm push ups, something he could never do, and as far as he was concerned a feat meant only for men.
Guy thought his wife sounded like an evangelist. But that is what happens when someone starts to believe in the truth of their own shit. Guy hungered for that time when the ambiguities of character inspired him, the people who had turmoil, who wallowed in self doubt but carried on nonetheless. But Guy’s wife, Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone had long ago lost any self doubt. She was everything that Guy thought was totally boring about character. His wife was on a mission she firmly believed in. Guy loved people who were not sure about anything but slogged though the day just to make it to the evening.
“Yes, sweetheart. You are right. I need to get a little more love in my heart. What mosque do you want to go to? I mean, is there a mosque in Rome?” said Guy.
“We need to go shopping for the right clothes. Mosque clothes,” said Madonna.
“You know, I don’t think we can be together in the mosque. Don’t they separate the men from the women?” asked Guy.
“We need to start a reform Islamic movement. Reform Muslims, like Reform Jews. We shall go into a mosque and start to enlighten them,” said Madonna as she finished her one-arm pushups and stood, removing the tie from her pony tail letting the long strawberry hair fall over her marble-like shoulders.
“I think you are dreaming,” said Guy.
“Typical. That is why you are who you are. I’m going shopping. Try to do something useful today, OK,” said Madonna as she removed her running bra and exposed her round but sagging breasts. Madonna wiped the sweat from under each breast with the running bra, lifting each one with one hand as she daubed the bra on the red skin underneath. Guy thought that his wife’s breasts were looking baggy.
Madonna went into the large bathroom and shut the door. Guy Ritchie finished his soy pack and though it on the floor. He was going to do something useful. He was going to find an English pub in Rome and have a few beers. He was going to try to find himself again.
Salty sweat beads formed on Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone’s face and sculpted bare arms as she completed one hundred push ups. Her breasts were held tight by a black running bra, and she was also wearing a black thong. Madonna was as naked as someone could be without being naked. As she finished her last push up, she raised her slightly rippled butt into the air in the yoga pose known as a Down Dog, where her hands and toes were firmly planted on the red mat below, arms and legs straight, and her body forming an inverted “V.”
Madonna’s hair was long and tied into a pony tail, which hung down, its last few inches lying on the mat under her head as she remained in the Down Dog for a count of fifty. Madonna then stood into a sun salutation, raising her hands into the air, stick straight upwards, her palms together in prayer-form. She took a deep breath in and lowered her arms to her side.
Guy Ritchie sat on a bench drinking out of a small straw that was poked into a small soy milk pack. He looked at his wife, at her arms and legs and face. Almost every muscle was visible, all the striations of muscle tissue revealed themselves through Madonna’s aging skin. The blue blood vessels ran up and down Madonna’s arm and legs, not to mention Madonna’s neck. The unstoppable juggernaut of age betrays itself everywhere, from head to chin. Of course, Madonna’s oxygen injections and botox had smoothed out her face, and the strawberry hair and side part gave Madonna a thirty something look. But it appeared to Guy that his wife’s passionate, no, obsessive quest to maintain a lean and mean body had actually resulted in making her look older, not younger.
Of course, everyone was in awe that someone 48 years old could possibly be so trim and obviously fit. But the unmentioned, the unspoken truth was that it aged Madonna, much like the marathon runner who looks older than their years. Guy couldn’t say this. Not to his wife, of course. Madonna would launch into a fury about Guy’s bad habits and poor nutrition. Hence, the soy milk pack Guy was holding in his hand.
Guy hated soy milk. He had given up beer. He had given up whiskey. He didn’t smoke anymore. He was nearly a vegetarian. And there was something about the whole life style change imposed on him by his wife that drained Guy of any creative impulse. He had virtually dropped out of filmmaking. He felt lost and confused and supremely healthy. As if his life force had been sucked out of his libido and his penis and sent to his blood chemistry or liver, or some body part that had nothing to do with cranking out a story or shooting a movie.
“I think we should visit a mosque. It’s the only way,” said Madonna.
Oh Christ, thought Guy. Madonna had lost touch.
The Shia hate the Sunni,
The Sunni hate the Shia,
The Kurds hate the Sunni,
The Sunni hate the Kurds,
The Arabs hate the Iranians,
The Iranians hate the Arabs,
Osama bin Laden hates Mahmoud Ahmadinejad,
Mahmoud Ahmadinejad hates Osama bin Laden.
But things are not so bad,
Because people will come together,
And agree to disagree,
Because there is one thing they,
Can all agree to hate together,
And that is the little Jew.
The Jew is very useful,
As he has always been,
Because the Jew brings people together,
And makes them forget the hate,
They have,
For each other.
The Jew is very useful,
As he will always be,
Because the Jew brings people together,
And makes them have their hate,
The hate they have for each other,
And take it and make it useful,
At the useful little Jew.
And when the little Jew fights back,
And tries to live his life,
This is seen as an over-reaction,
Against the innocent and the oppressed,
And so the little Jew is attacked,
And the little Jew is attacked,
And attacked, and attacked,
And attacked, and attacked,
And the little Jew fights back,
Until the fight is over.
Until the fight is over…
The Jew is very useful,
Because even though he survives,
The people who all hate each other,
Declare a big victory and cheer,
Because they have fought the little Jew,
And even though the Jew survives,
The people who hate each other,
Still have the Jew to hate,
So the Jew is very useful,
As he has always been,
And always…
Will.
Suukee was eleven years old, the daughter of a Lebanese fisherman. She wore black linen pants, a beige linen shirt and leather sandals and had a black scarf wrapped around her long black hair. Suukee’s linen came from flax grown in northern Spain, fabricated in Ireland, and exported to Beirut where it was sewn into garments. The leather in Suukee’s sandals came from a steer born in Texas, whose hide was cut and exported to Bucherest, Romania where it was fashioned into sandals, which were then exported to Beirut. Suukee held a blue Sharpie nontoxic permanent felt tip marker in her right hand. The Sharpie marker was made by the Sanford Corporation of Bellwood, Illinois. The blue ink in the marker was manufactured in Brazil where it was trucked to Caracas and soaked with the felt-tips of the pens, packed and inserted into plastic blanks, packaged and loaded on a container ship where it was shipped to Southampton, England where it was exported to Beirut.
Suukee was standing next to a Katyusha rocket that was leaning against a cinderblock wall in an alley of the seaside town of Sidon in Southern Lebanon. The steel of the Katyusha was manufactured in Russia, sold to China where it was shipped to North Korea where the rocket was shaped and shipped back to Russia where it was armed. She wrote her name ‘Suukee’ on the tip of the Katyusha rocket. A Shiite man standing next to the rocket smiled. Suukee smiled back. The Shiite man picked up the rocket with the assistance of two other Shiite men, each a member of Hezbollah, and loaded the rocket onto the back of a 2003 green Ford F-150 pickup truck, a truck designed in Deaborn, Michigan and assembled from parts manufactured in Asia and the United States. As the Ford truck pulled away, it kicked up dust from the stone pavement which landed partly on Suukee’s face. The stone came from an old mine in the Golan Heights. Suukee rubbed her eyes, and then picked up the white and blue soccer ball manufactured by Adidas in Indonesia. She walked with the soccer ball to a small courtyard.
Rachel was eleven years old, the daughter of an Israeli fisherman. She wore a pair of Joe’s Jeans which were manufactured in Hong Kong and exported to New York where they were distributed to Tel Aviv. Rachel was wearing sandals that were given to her by her uncle who purchased them in Beirut when he was on a business trip. Rachel’s white t-shirt had a photograph of Madonna on it. Rachel was wearing a baseball cap with the Brazil national soccer team’s insignia embroidered on the front. She held a blue Sharpie nontoxic permanent felt tip marker in her right hand.
Rachel was standing next to a Jericho missile, which was entirely manufactured in the United States, but retro-fitted in Israel. The Jericho missile was supported horizontally by a trailer on wheels and there was a buzz of activity to prepare the missile to be brought to an Israeli submarine to get in on board so the submarine could pull out of Haifa’s naval marina as soon as possible. Rachel wrote her name on the tip of the Jericho missile with the blue Sharpie felt-tip pen. Several Israeli Navy officers smiled at Rachel, but urged her to move away so they could start hauling the missile down the ramp to the submarine. Rachel picked up her red Lands’ End backpack which contained several books and her burgundy leather-bound diary which was exported from New York by Graphic Image. She walked up a hill in Haifa to one of the several Haifa libraries.
An Israeli jet dropped a bomb on the courtyard in the seaside town of Sidon where Suukee was kicking her Adidas soccer ball.
Sukkee’s Katyusha rocket landed on the library in the town of Haifa where Rachel was writing in her burgundy leather-bound diary with a blue Bic pen manufactured by Biro of France.
Suukee and Rachel died within minutes of each other on Sunday morning in the heat of the July sun. The sky was clear, except for the smoke and dust that rose from the blast caused by the rockets. The Israeli submarine made it to safe waters carrying the Jericho missile.
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