NAKED LUNCH: Blow daddy

Nadeem F. Paracha

Daddy?
Yes, son.
Are we going to have a war with India?
Perhaps.
Oh, goody. We will thrash them, right? Like we did in 1857!
It wasn’t in 1857, son.
Oh, okay. But whom did we thrash in 1857?
The British, son…
And the Hindus too, right?
Well…
Did Quaid-i-Azam fight in that war along with Muhammad bin Qasim and Imran Khan?
No, son. The Quaid and Imran were born much later and Muhammad bin Qasim died many years before.
Then who ruled Pakistan in those days?
There was no Pakistan in those days, son.
But there was always a Pakistan! It has been there for 5,000 years!
Who have you been talking to, son?
No one. I’ve just been watching TV.
It figures.
Daddy, why are all these people against us Arabs?
Arabs? But we aren’t Arabs, son.
Of course we are because our ancestors were Arabs!
No, son. Our ancestors were of the subcontinental stock.
Sub-what?
Never mind.You seem to like wars, son.
Yes. I like to watch them on TV.
But real wars are fought outside the TV, son.
Really? How is that possible? What sort of a war is that?
Never mind.
Daddy, you look worried.
Of course, I am, you little warmongering punk!
Daddy! Why are you scolding me?
Because TV is talking rot and so are you!
Daddy, are you supporting Hindus?
No!
Daddy, have you become a kafir?
Keep quiet! No more TV for you! Go watch a movie on DVD or listen to a CD.
Can’t do that.
But we have so many DVDs and CDs, son.
Not any more.
What do you mean?
I burned them all.
What?!
I burned them all.
I heard that! But why?
They spread obscenity.
Oh, God. Son, go do your homework. What happened to that science project you were working on?
It’s almost complete.
Good boy. What are you making?
A bomb.
What?!
A bomb.
I heard that! But why?
Because I am a true Muslim who hates America.
But only last week you wanted to go to Disney Land.
That’s different.
How come?
Mickey Mouse is Muslim.
No, he isn’t.
Is so. He converted when he heard azaan on the moon.
On the moon?
Yes. Because the earth is flat and…
What??
The earth is…
I heard that!
Daddy, do you want to see my science project, or not?
Gosh, that bomb? But your science teacher will fail you.
No, she wont.
Really?
Yes. I plan to blow her up as well.
God, what is wrong with you? Go call your mother!
She can’t come.
Why not?
I’ve locked her in the kitchen.
But what for?
A woman’s place is in the kitchen. I will not let her out until she covers herself up peoperly!
But she’s your mother!
She’s also a woman!
So?
So she should be hidden.
Hidden from whom?
The whole world and Tony.
Tony?
Yes, Tony.
But Tony’s a cat.
Yes. But he’s male.
Son, have you gone mad?
No. By the way, I’ve made sure Kitto starts covering up as well.
Kitto?
Yes, Kittto.
But Kitto’s a cat!
Yes. But a female cat.
But she’ll suffocate.
Oh, she’s already dead.
What?
She’s already dead.
I heard that! But how?
I buried her alive.
You what?
Yes. To avenge Tony’s honour. But now I will behead Tony.
But why?
To save mom’s honour!
Oh, God!
Don’t say that. Always say Allah.
What’s the difference?
Daddy, do you want to be beheaded too?
No!
Do you want to be stoned to death?
No!
Do you want to be flogged?
No!
Do you want to get your arms chopped off?
No!
Then stop asking silly questions. By the way, I won’t call you daddy anymore.
What will you call me then?
Whatever that is Arabic for daddy.
I don’t know any Arabic, son.
That’s because you are a kafir.
Who the heck are you to tell me who I am, you little fascist twit!
What’s a fascist?
An irrational, violent, self-righteous mad man!
W... aaaaaaa...
Why are you crying?
You scolded me.
Okay, I’m sorry. You have to be tolerant and rational, son. Now be a good boy and go read a book instead of watching TV.
I have no books.
Of course, you do. I bought you so many books.
I burned them.
What?
I burned them.
But why?
They were all in English.
So?
It’s a non-Muslim language!
But we are speaking English, aren’t we?
W... aaaaaaa…
What now?
Zionists made me forget my Arabic.
But you never knew any Arabic, son.
W... aaaa… yes, I did until you and mommy gave me the polio drops… aaaaa…
Okay, tell me, can you do me a favour?
Sure, dad.
Can you blow up something for me?
Oh, goody! Of course, dad. What should I blow? A CD shop, a hotel, a school...?
No, no, something a lot more sinister.
Mom?
No, no…
What then?
The TV set!
What?
Blow the TV set.
I heard that! But why?
Just do it!
I see. Dad?
Yes.
You’re so unconstitutional

WEEDby nadeem F paracha

A colleague of mine — a funny, upbeat office joker — has this habit of cracking faith-based jokes. He’ll tell you Sikh jokes, he’ll crack Christian jokes, Hindu jokes, Jewish jokes, even some Zoroastrian and Buddhist jokes.

Late last week he approached me early in the morning and said that I must hear his brand new Hindu joke. I said okay and off he went. The joke wasn’t all that funny, so he tried to make up by cracking a new Jewish joke. It made me smile, but as he waited for me to praise his wit, I asked him what would happen if we turned these jokes into Muslim jokes?

“What do you mean?” He inquired, sounding somewhat disappointed.

“Well,” said I, “I believe if the characteristics of these jokes are switched and made Muslim in context, they would still be relevant.”

“What are you talking about?” He asked, all surprised. “Why should I crack Muslim jokes?”

“Why shouldn’t you?” I asked.

“Because I’m a Muslim,” he said, without any hesitation or hint of irony.

“I see,” said I. “So being a Muslim gives you the right to make fun of all other religions?”

“Yaar Nadeem, why do you have to be a party-pooper and bring your Marxism into everything?” He said, irritated but still smiling.

“Marxism? What has Marxism got to do with my question?” I asked. “All I asked was how come you never crack any Muslim jokes?”

“And I told you why,” he said.

“Yes, you did, but that’s such a hypocritical thing to do. Making fun of all other religions but your own,” I said.

“Listen, dude, I don’t know what you’re on, but I promise I won’t be cracking any more faith jokes in front of you, okay,” he said.

“Fine,” I replied. “But have you ever wondered that with these jokes of yours, you are suggesting that your religion gives you the right to exhibit a shallow sense of superiority by making fun of other religions?”

“Okay, forget religion. I’ll tell you a fantastic new Pathan joke instead,” he said.
“Okay,” I said smiling, “but after that I would like to hear a Punjabi joke, a Sindhi joke, a Balochi and a Mohajir joke as well.”

“Never mind,” he said caustically. “I’ll tell you a Sardar-Ji joke instead.”

“How boring,” I announced. “Tell me a Taliban joke first.”

The joke wasn’t all that funny, so he tried to make up by cracking a new Jewish joke. It made me smile, but as he waited for me to praise his wit, I asked him what would happen if we turned these jokes into Muslim jokes?

“What’s a Taliban joke?” He asked, in all earnest.

“Now that’s a joke,” I laughed.

“Ah,” he shot back, sarcastically. “The wonders of Marxist humour.”

“Marxist humour?” I laughed again. “If Marxists had any humour, Groucho Marx would‘ve been hailed as the finest Marxist!”

“Yeah, whatever that means,” he said, still slightly sullen.

“Cheer up, mate,” said I, patting him on the back. “Today’s jesters thrive on predictability, so I shall cheer you up with some predictability too.”

He looked at me, thinking what I was talking about: “predictability?”

“Yes,” I said, opening my gmail account on the computer. “Here. Look at these brand new Zardari jokes that were forwarded to me this morning.”

“Oh, I get it,” he said, giving a cynical sideways smile. “To you, Zardari jokes are equivalent to bad, predictable humour, right?”

“Yes, bad, predictable, reactionary humour, to be precise,” I said.

“Oh, just because you are a PPP sympathiser… ”

“No,” I interrupted. “Just because I’d like to think of myself as a man with a fairly good, accurate and tasteful sense of humour.”“What gibberish,” he said, all worked up. “But you’re full of jokes about Imran Khan, Qazi Hussain Ahmed, TV anchors, mullahs and the jihadis!”

“Yes,” I smiled. “Like I said, I’d like to think myself as a man with a fairly good, accurate and tasteful sense of humour.”

“And you called me a hypocrite?” He said, mockingly.

“No, I called you predictable,” I replied.

“Well, you’re as predictable,” he said.

“Perhaps. But let me tell you a brand new joke, would you like to hear it?”

“I’m sure it’s about Hamid Mir, Osama, Qazi or Imran Khan.”

“No. It’s about Mohammad bin Qasim.”

“Right,” he said, agitated. Mr Paracha cracks a joke about a Muslim leader. How predictable.”

“Okay, I’ll crack another new joke, instead,” I said.

“About whom?” He asked.

“Another Muslim leader,” I announced.

“Sorry, not interested,” he shook his head.

“What? A concerned, patriotic Pakistani Muslim is not interested in a new Zardari joke?” I asked, smiling.

His sullen, half-angry expression returned: “Very funny.”

“Precisely,” I smiled. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

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