I was standing on the second floor of my office building, at a shop, buying something to eat. Suddenly a guy came rushing up the stairs towards me and asked:
“Which floor is this? The second?”
“Yes”, both me and the shop keeper replied.
“The third is above it, right?”, the guy remarked and rushed up the stairs.
My facial expression was like, “Is he for real?”
“No, it’s down below”, the shopkeeper replied after a long funny pause.
Q: What is your date of birth?
A: July fifteenth.
Q: What year?
A: Every year.
Q: This myasthenia gravis – does it affect your memory at all?
A: Yes.
Q: And in what ways does it affect your memory?
A: I forget.
Q: You forget. Can you give us an example of something that you’ve forgotten?
Q: All your responses must be oral, okay? What school did you go to?
A: Oral.
Q: How old is your son – the one living with you.
A: Thirty-eight or thirty-five, I can’t remember which.
Q: How long has he lived with you?
A: Forty-five years.
Q: What was the first thing your husband said to you when he woke that morning?
A: He said, “Where am I, Cathy?”
Q: And why did that upset you?
A: My name is Susan.
Q: Do you know if your daughter has ever been involved in the voodoo occult?
A: We both do.
Q: Voodoo?
A: We do.
Q: You do?
A: Yes, voodoo.
Q: Now doctor, isn’t it true that when a person dies in his sleep, he doesn’t know about it until the next morning?
Q: The youngest son, the twenty-year old, how old is he?
Q: Were you present when your picture was taken? Q: Was it you or your younger brother who was killed in the war?
Q: Did he kill you?
Q: How far apart were the vehicles at the time of the collision?
Q: You were there until the time you left, is that true?
Q: How many times have you committed suicide?
Q: So the date of conception (of the baby) was August 8th?
A: Yes.
Q: And what were you doing at that time?
Q: She had three children, right?
A: Yes.
Q: How many were boys?
A: None.
Q: Were there any girls?
Q: You say the stairs went down to the basement?
A: Yes.
Q: And these stairs, did they go up also?
Q: How was your first marriage terminated?
A: By death.
Q: And by whose death was it terminated?
Q: Can you describe the individual?
A: He was about medium height and had a beard.
Q: Was this a male, or a female?
Q: Doctor, how many autopsies have you performed on dead people?
A: All my autopsies are performed on dead people.
Q: Do you recall the time that you examined the body?
A: The autopsy started around 8:30 p.m.
Q: And Mr. Dennington was dead at the time?
A: No, he was sitting on the table wondering why I was doing an autopsy.
Below is an article or whatever published in the IMAGES section of the Pakistani newspaper DAWN, written by Nadeem F. Paracha. It’s also available on the DAWN website but the cartoon there is almost invisible so I have posted the entire article here with a scan of the cartoon from the newspaper.
BORN TO BOMB
When asked what he wants to be as a grown-up, 10-year-old Masood was candid: “Suicide bomber!”
Mom’s eyes popped-out in utter disbelief, and daddy almost forgot his own cell phone number.
“But why, child?” asked mom.
“Who taught you that?”, asked dad.
Masood kept quiet. But then, “Mom, where do babies come from?”, he asked, with one of his fingers in his tiny lil’ nose.
“Stop that!”, screamed mom. “Yes, stop it!” shouted dad.
“Bombs control infidel growth!”, said Masood, his finger now in dad’s scorning nose.
“I said stop it”, blasted dad, pushing the tiny searching, probing hand away. “Tell me, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
Masood inflated his tiny, lil’ pink nostrils and stared deep into dad’s concerned brown eyes: “Doolha!”
”Oh, that’s cute”, said mom.
“Four times doolha!”, said Masood.
“But why child, why?”, asked a worried mom.
Masood remained quiet. But then asked: “How are babies born?”, his finger now in mom’s nose.
“What is wrong with you, child?”, said mom. “Don’t you want to be a businessman like daddy? A doctor? An engineer? Or at least a cricketer?”
“Where do babies come from?”, asked Masood again.
“Okay! Okay!”, said mom, fed-up. “They fall from the sky.”
“…And daddy catches them!”, added dad, with one of his toes in Masood’s nose.
“Hmmmm… I think I’ll stick to becoming a suicide bomber”, said Masood.
“No, no, no! You’ll become a businessman like daddy!”, screamed dad.
“No, no, no! I’ll become a suicide bomber!”, screamed Masood.
“No, no, no! You’ll become just like daddy… only a little taller!”, screamed mom.
“No, no, no! If you don’t let me become a suicide bomber, I’ll convert to Hinduism, join the Shiv Sena and bomb Shahrukh Khan’s house in Mumbai!”, screamed Masood, now two of his fingers in his own nose.
“Who have you been talking to?”, asked dad, part of his cell phone in mom’s nose.
“Myself!”, announced Masood.
“Are you mad?”, asked mom, with one of her fingers in one of dad’s ears.
“If I say yes then will you allow me to become a suicide bomber?”, asked Masood, one of his toes in mom’s mouth.
Mom bit it hard: “NO! Absolutely not! You’ll be like daddy. Exactly like daddy, you hear!”
Daddy felt good. He kissed mom on the cheek.
“Thank you dear”, purred mom.
“Fahashi!”, shouted Masood.
“But we are your parents, child”, said mom.
“Nikanama dikhao!”, asked Masood, the tiny toe now in one of his own ears.
“You are becoming such a strange child, Masood”, said mom.
“Well then, a suicide bomber it is!”, said Masood, while opening a window.
“Have you been reading any of daddy’s magazines?”, asked mom.
“Yes, but I still can’t figure out where babies come from!”, said Masood, staring out of the open window.
“Watching Dr Wahid Masood on Peo TV, perhaps?”, said dad.
“Well, at the moment I’m watching a few of your infidel friends come this way”, saying this Masood suddenly jumped out the window and BOOM! He exploded.
He died. So did mom and dad and his friends.
“Shaheed!” said the Jihadis.
“Shareef!” said the middle-class.
“Conspiracy!” said Dr Wahid Masood.
“Osama!” said the Americans.
“RAW!” said the ISI.
“Telhermore Talk Hawk!” said Ali Zafar.
Masood became a hero in Waziristan. His posters were seen everywhere. But what was he really? A terrorist or an aspirant doolha?
“Janatee,” said the Jihadis.
“Baychara,” said the middle-class.
“A conspiracy within a conspiracy!” said Dr Wahid Masood.
“Osama’s love child” said the Americans.
“RAW agent!” said the ISI.
“ISI agent posing as RAW agent” said RAW.
“Tepsi, Tepsi Pakistan!” sang Vital Signs.
But who turned Masood into a suicide bomber?
“Government policies in Waziristan,” said Qazi Hussain Ahmed.
“Waziristan follies in Pakistan,” said President Muharraf.
“Hum bolay hain, woh intelligent agencies keeay hain,” said Benazir Bhutto.
“Aap koh nahi patah, kya zulm ho raha hai Waziristan kay chotay, motay Masoods per!” said Imran Khan.
“Yes, and that’s why I left Pakistan,” said Jamima Khan.
“Don’t talk rot! You left because you got bored,” said Karan Johar.
“Shut up, sissy boy!” said Imran Khan.
“Let’s stay on the topic gentlemen,” said Ghalat Hussain. “Who turned Masood into a suicide bomber?
“Government policies in Waziristan,” said Imran Khan.
“No, I said that first,” said Qazi Hussain Ahmed.
“No, I did!” said Nawaz Sharif.
“You weren’t even here! I said it first,” said Hamid Gul.
“Let’s stay on the topic gentlemen,” said Ghalat Hussain. “Who turned Masood into a suicide bomber?”
“Extra baby fat!” said a newscaster. Understand the difference!
“Okay, that’s a wrap,” said I.
One of my two pets, Andy, sleeping…
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