Lettuce

        So, another friend of a close friend of mine is the actual reason why I'm writing this new blog post. I'm finding myself less interested in writing for the sake of writing, but then again, I've always found bloggers silly, because, well, if I write a blog which no one is likely to read, or want to, then I'm technically writing for myself, and while I think myself is a very interesting, charming and downright eye-popping-sexy, I happen to be able to read every idea that ever crosses his head. It's a sort of personal connection me and him have had since, well, we were born. I was born first. No, I'm not schizophrenic, which isn't saying much because no neurotic patient ever doubts that the flying 18 year old images of Tina Fey floating around, quietly seducing him -yes, those that everyone else is oblivious to- may not be real. I hear what you're saying, anonymous reader. don't give me that look. Yes, that look. I know you're giving me that look because you're still reading this. Let;s talk Schroedinger's cat and Quantum. Do the words exist if no one's reading them, or are certain particles gravitating together to form them as soon as the future is set into course when you first decided to read this and keep on reading even when I told you to stop giving me that look. so, stop.

        18 year old girls. Why, god, why?

       Bossypants is a really good book which I'd recommend to everyone who thinks I'm not funny and would like to read something that I think is funny. I'd like to point out a paradox, however, seeing as how if you don't think I'm funny but trust my taste to define what I might consider funny for you, this either means I'm not very funny, or you have very distinctive taste between what you think a funny piece of writing should be like, and what you would like to recommend to people as a funny piece of writing.

        I'm blabbing, which often means I'm tired, or under the influence of drugs, alcohol or microwave popcorn in quantities between 1.2 and 1.7 big bowls' fill, so good night, dear anonymous reader.

  "Did anyone notice that quantities has tit in it?" - Me exactly 2 minutes 12 seconds after writing the word.

Balloons

          So, my thirtieth post. I suppose I should write something that's so totally exciting, new, hip, rad, cool, and psyched it'll make everyone's eyeballs cook and burst like eggs in the microwave that is their skull as it is heated by the radioactive energy my words shall pump into the neurons of the optic nerve, and as everyone who's been through third grade physics knows, as the resistance of a wire increases so does the amount of heat produced by an electrical current passing through it (i think) and it follows suit, seeing as how no one has ever managed to boil heads with sheer wordpower before, that I should win the 2012 Nobel prize this year, it's either that or I'll get a shitload of cold hard cash from governments and terrorist cells alike, both interested in the literary weapon I created. Only problem is, how can I be awarded the Nobel prize if the judges' eyes get microwaved? Anyway, so this would've been my usual course of action to celebrate my thirtieth post, but seeing as how I am not in the mood for awesome writing/weapons design, I'll just skip that part and pretend it's just another random post - i.e: I'll just moan and whine about whichever string of words that comes to mind.

         I hate my phone. Why? It's the fact that it keeps on reminding that it has a low battery. It's not that point that annoys me, but, it's that irksome little feature called "make-ur-phone's-low-battery-alert-so-loud-it's-clearly-audible-3-metres-away-and-make-it-sound-like-a-monkey-whore-in-heat", which I really didn't want installed on my phone but apparently it's not an extra, and it's free. I've always been fascinated by the Arabic proverb "3asforeen b 7agar wa7ed, walla kanet zalata wa7eda?" because i really couldn't imagine the physics of it all as a child. I was a very literal child and as a result I kept trying to imagine projectiles that can hit one bird then bounce off to hit another without losing any momentum. I also kept wondering about the Robin Hood who would be able to calculate the angle at which the stone, rock, pebble, whatever, would hit the bird so that it would bounce to hit another bird, that is to say, until I concluded that throwing rocks at birds is wrong anyway. This particular proverb comes to mind because, well, the furry footmat I like to call my cat purrs like a diesel engine, so i was considering shoving the phone down his cute little throat. I'd still be able to hear the low battery alert, I reckon.

          Facebook is no longer the social networking website I signed up for. It's mostly a study group (mehayeseen el 2asr el 3einy) / religion-preaching centre / CNN / and twitter posts. Now something that really pisses me off is, why should I give a damn about something you posted on twitter? I  mean, I've avoided creating a twitter account for a reason, and if what you have to say is so damn important, why don't you just post it on facebook instead? Or are yow pickwe littwe fingews too tiwed? so, why do I hate twitter? That's a good question, and, honestly, I find the fact that there are so many people out there with enough mental capacity and time to spare for writing what they think about everything that everyone else finds totally irrelevant and not worth knowing to be overwhelming. Happy people should be against the law, in my opinion.

          Exam stress is not good for your skin. Nor your social connections. When you've been sitting at home for months on end because of your exams, you start getting really strung, like guitars, only more strung. It's like someone's twist-drying your pants while there are a million dollars in the pockets and you're going crazy over these million dollars. A well known fact is, I'm a hazard during my seriously-overstretched-three-months-of-finals. I should not be carrying a gun or anywhere near one, because I tend to think that anyone who is busy travelling or taking happy pictures or something just as annoying and who has the nerve to stick em under my nose deserves to be shot. That simple. Not saying it's rational, bu it sure feels worth it. I'm not usually big on the whole murder thing, but then again I've never been much of a trend-follower. Still, people get alienated, and arguments flare, and the good natured people just don't realise they're being stupid by deciding to sharetheir awsum happy moments with yours truly, because, honestly, sometimes all you care about is for your next exam day to arrive so your family would find an excuse to force you to shave and quit looking like a hobo.

        But on another note, I dropped laughing just last night because I mispronounced the name of a virtuoso as a well-known, highly sought profanity. Totally irrelevant, I know.

        So, that's all for tonight, ladies, and, well, more ladies. I hope you enjoyed whatever sick pleasure you derive from reading these twisted ideas. Bi-Bi


"PS: in case you haven't figured it out yet: the Bi 3 lines ago is a pun on the word bye, which sounds the same as bi, meaning bisexual, so basically this is a dirty line that is perfectly PG-15 if you read it outloud. I have no idea why I just did this, but I do know that, if you got the pun, then, chapeau, my good fellow. If you haven't, then you deserve having to read these extra 4 lines, as punishment, I think"

Chicken Carnival

          This post is, once again, upon the request of a friend of a very good friend of mine, whom I've just been informed is a regular reader of mine, and I just can't say no to one of these folks, they're the best. I really have no idea why she hadn't asked me for a new post personally, but that's not for me to decide - but shout out to everyone out there, I don't bite, especially if you're a lady, who doesn't want my money.

         So while logging in and checking my dashboard, I noticed that a friend of mine had a recent post about Vampires, so I wrote a comment on her post,and quoting myself: "couple of ma3loomat that u might find interesting:

-the myth of vampires started besabab two medical conditions, one that makes your skin extremely sensitive to light, so sensitive, in fact, that mediocre sunlight exposure can cause burns and skin cancer, and a couple of years back, there was a bit of news about a family people attacked here in Egypt because they wouldn't ever go out during day time. they had this condition, it's genetic. The other condition makes your blood hemoglobin count extremely low, so you end up craving foods rich in iron, such as raw liver and, the best source of iron ever, fresh blood.

-Ma3looma tania, did u know that, sicne vampries are always depicted as filthy rich, and somewhat leisurely, their myths have only appeared in historical times and areas that have been in economical abundance, but myths about zombies and ragged, dead corpses in general, have only sprung up in poor areas such as the Caribbean islands. Can you see the connection? " Please excuse the sloppy grammar and language, I was hungry at the time. I'd like to elaborate on that subject, mythology and its roots and cultural implications is a very significant topic in my life and I'd love to do it justice, but maybe not this time, because I'm hungry, so if I find that enough people are interested, it might just make it to the top of my "To Be Blabbed About" list.

          Now, the reason why I'm hungry, it's called a gym, which I think sounds much better than "gymnasium" which makes guys everywhere sound like a bunch of stretch pants-wearing pansies who love to do somersaults and jumping jacks and this sort of monkey shit. Gym sounds so much better, so much manlier, short, concise, gorilla-like. Very astutely named. I have found your average gym to represent all levels of the masculine society, as smelly and beautifully uncivilized as it is. On the one hand, you find the beefcakes, who usually keep to themselves and other beefcakes, who look intimidating and they know it, so they bask in its power (the equivalent of the dumb blonde, except that, smart people can grow muscles, dumb blondes, dumb brunettes and dumb everything can't grow brains), and on the other you find the skinny carrots, fumbling around with their tiny dumbbells and unloaded barbells like the cute squirrels they are, relatively speaking, and in between the two aforementioned categories you find everything from the weird ass foreigners, the flirters, the homos, the wannabes, and 2arrareen (doesn't have a satisfactory English equivalent, my apologies to my cosmopolitan readers). What does that mean? It means that women definitely do not appreciate how much effort it takes to bench press that loaded barbell, the same way men don't appreciate how much effort it must take chicks to wax, or whatever it is that chicks do. Point is, we do it, so if we ever catch you walking around with a visible moustache, we won't be happy, and I'm addressing a certain group of girls you must have guessed by now if you've heard me whine about that topic enough.

           Moving on to a more interesting topic: the theater. I watched an amateur play very recently, and  I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but for some reason, watching a play is still a complicated deal for me. The script writing for plays is just so, let's face it, mind boggling at time. I mean, what about Shakespeare? Crazy scripts, they just compel you to stop, and try to think about things, and the way the actors just stop between lines, I guess I'm just a movie person, fast paced. However, I've acted in enough plays to realise how much effort needs to be put into a project like the one I've enjoyed, and so I'd like to raise a glass, my hat, and various other objects to all the fabulous ladies who helped make my night, and several others', very enjoyable.

          Aaaaaaaaaaaand it's 1.30 am already. It's funny how time flies, especially if you're writing a blog post while simultaneously checking facebook and msn. It's funny how half my Facebook is suddenly obssessed with Douglas Adams, and it's funny how everyone thought I was a retard when I had my share of his writings. God, I love this guy and all 6 books of his "increasingly inaccurately-called trilogy". Towels, beautiful things. If you haven't read his work, then, I suggest you go read Barney Stinson's The Bro Code, if you're a dude, that'll help cut down on some of the retarded behaviour I get to endure on a daily basis. More and more guys are starting to act like their Y chromosome has gone out to walk the dog and never came back, yes, all 3 trillion versions of their Y chromosomes from all their cells have walked out on them, and this spells a lot of abandonment issues, and red skinny pants. I've also noticed that, the less Y chromosomes a guy's got, the larger are his bicep and dog, and it seems like everyone's walking around with a dog these days, it's so commonplace it's a testimonial to how superficial and shallow women are if they're still running around giving every guy with a cute dog some attention: Newsflash ladies; he couldn't care less about the dog if it didn't get him some hot female, so get over yourselves, and besides, huge slobbering pitbulls with narrow eyes are definitely not cute.

          So I guess that's enough for one post, but for dessert, I'd like to leave y'all with some food for thought:
"What would life look like from the perspective of a bsaketball?"

Corn Beer Stasis

          Of all the stupid things I did today ( the full list comprising such actions as waking up late, sitting next to a full-blown nerd in class and skipping breakfast) I have just committed that stupidest: I started thinking. And what better to think about but the very niceties and happy moments of the past? (Note: for full understanding of that last statement, kindly refer to your sense of sarcasm). rummaging through the ancient contents of my ancient computer (most archaeologists are of the opinion that Zeinhom, my computer, is an illegitimate son of the first computer, Colossus), i found my old chat logs. End of story. so, Unca' Ismail, what have we learned from this eventful story? Let me show you:

• About 50% of the people you used to know are now classified as jerks. this list increases in size in proportion to the time you realise you have spent without talking to them.
• You used to write like ass back then, but without so much cussing.
• You used to be a hippie/loser/mummy's boy/daddy's boy/insert whatever you like here, and this applies to everyone.
• You had a shitty taste in music but you couldn't picture yourself listening to something else.
• The terms Bieber and Friday did not mean anything to you.
• You thought you knew what you were doing, which is the primary reason why, now, you're fucked.
• All your pictures were horrible and you have no idea how you could stand living with that face.
• You thought the PS3 was cool.
• You had a sappy taste in movies.
• You did not, and still do not, read my damn blog.
• You wish you could've gone back there to repair all the damage you've done, which brings me to an important topic I'd love to discuss with myself, and y'all can sit there and watch:

If you could travel back in time and patch your life back up, would/could you?

Now, some people wouldn't like how i assumed you could go back in time, and then asked if you could fix all your problems, but those are the ones who didn't pay attention/did not read enough sci-fi novels. You see, if you have acquired the wisdom, now, to go out there, remember what you've said/done, realise it's wrong, go back, say the right things, and voila everything would be ok again, then you simply have not learned from that situation you messed up, therefore you will not have accumulated enough wisdom through learning from your mistakes, to realise it was a mistake and be able to fix it, unless you've accumulated that wisdom through another mistake, in which case you will still have a mistake and you've done absolutely nothing. Another thing, if you go back in time, will you appear as a second version of yourself, or will you assume your old self's body and mind? Because, if you assume a second version of yourself, this means that, for every second the present spends without you, every moment in the future that depends on those few seconds/minutes/whatever, will depend on you not existing, so basically you will mess the future up. If you assume your older self's mind and body, then, naturally, you assume the same wisdom and will do the same stupid mistake over and over again, and naturally, you will not know you had a time machine so you will have no way of returning to the future except through living it all over again up to the moment when you start the time machine, and that's when you disappear fromt he timeline, so it's like you're dead/disappeared to the world, but you're immortal, stuck in a vicious circle of time travel which can never be broken.

As for whether or not you're LIKE that to happen, well, you wouldn't know, but let me tell you this, she might seem hot and very sensual, but she has the power to make hell sound like your life's baby sister. Trust me on that. If you don't, and you end up getting married, don't forget to invite me to the wedding. I like turkey, beef, and venison. Lay off the pork and that funky rabbit/pigeon meat. And have an open cocktail bar. That's always fun.

So, seriously, was that stupid mistake worth it all? In my case, yes, it would've been, but then again, that might not have been the case. I need to go back in time and learn mind-reading to be able to answer that question satisfactorily.

          Who else thinks Prince Charles of the House of Windsor, Duke of Cornwall and Crown Prince to the British throne, is a total ass? Because it seems like most Brits aren't too fond of my opinion. Prudes ..

          Windsor is such a funny name. Lol.

          I was staring blankly out of my window, and I thought I'd google this and put it in my blog, so there:

I think it looks funky

That's all for today, midgets.
"couraged innovation then, whereas high wages or labor scarcity now simulate the search for technical solutions" - the first one and a half lines of the first page I opened by pure chance, page 250, of the first book I pulled, by chance, from my library, called Guns, Germs and Steel, by Jared Diamond

Of Windowpanes and Penguins

 =--------'[
['






]]]ooo---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------p9
w
/i8ioli8l8l8][8888...iiiiiiiiiiiiiii.llllllll.l"
=`qWBC CWa[=0[;p------n; ,,,, njn bh bnnbhjm  f6666666666666666666t5\ vaf








          That was my kitten's first typing experience. He's a very talented cat; born on the 25th of last January and he's already learning to type and chase after his Cat Chow before he eats it. He talks too much, and by too much I don't mean the cute "aww-his-meows-are-so-adroable" kind of too much, I mean the "STFU YOU FLEA INFESTED B****, WE'RE TRYING TO GET SOME F****** SLEEP!!!!11!!" kind of too much. He also likes teddy bears, ribbons and my hair, all of which provide him with plenty of fun adventures and this sort of kitty stuff. He does not attempt to go for my sister's hair because she bites her own, thank you very much, so I guess everyone's happy.


          So the most HHHHHonorable delegate of the People's Republic of China thinks she's nature's sexiest creature or something along these lines. I'm not really sure because I wasn't really listening to a word she was saying. I was too busy picking my nose/knitting a scarf/watching the Weather Channel, all of which suited my taste better.


           So my new passion is checking out Foreca.com and checking the Precipitation chances for the next 10 days. And while this should help me predict when will we be having rainy days in the near future, it's not a very practical hobby - not because it's about 30 degrees Celsius out there at the moment with no forseeable rain, but because, the last time it rained, I didn't have any preparations ready because I was too lazy to check the forecast (I was procrastinating).


          My arms hurt. I think they haven't decided whether I've been a bad enough boy to deserve to have Carpal Tunnel or Tennis Elbow, so it reached a compromise by hurting me in both possible ways. Funny thing is, I have no idea why it's being such a bitch, my arm, because not only do I NOT play tennis but I have also cut down on any activities which might've given me Carpal Tunnel, if you know what I mean.

          I've decided that world deserved this new post when my only reader/agent/favourite midget told me what I heard as "your blog isn't worth two buffalo heads rubbed together" when she was actually telling me a story about her very miserable and violent childhood. Either way, I'm here now and I'm ready to receive ideas for discussion for discussion. Any suggestions? 

-Q 1: Ismail, Ismail, tell us what do you think of Moammar Al-Quaddafi.

- This guy is dope and has got bigger balls than any Elephentiasis patient. It's one thing to be crazy, but to be crazy and loving it, that's art!

-Q 2: Ismail, tell us what you think of the Spanish.

-They have hairy girls. That's that.

-Q 3: Ismail, tell us about the best feeling you've had recently.

-Relief. Talent Show auditions have a way with that, apparently, but not as you might think.

-Q 4: Is there anything you'd like to say to the most honorable delegate of the People's Republic of China? 

-I still think the raisin was there for a reason, and I still think you should be called Sum Buk Lao, and I definitely think I'm a great flirt and if you don't think so then maybe you should start questioning your optometrist, your orientation, or your heat-sensing nerve endings because I be sizzlin' more than a fajita with more chili than meat, served with two smoking latinas and a bottle of Patrón .

Q 5: What is the answer to the brainteaser that you did NOT announce at the beginning of this post?

-I chose a new font, because I'm gangsta like that.

Now I have to decide whether I should kick it in the front seat or just stay in the back seat. Fun.

"I would like to make an ohdah' fo' dah Pick-ahp" - Ownage Pranks

The Cassanova with his AK-47

          So, ladies, and, more ladies, since I'm pretty sure that no guys read this blog, because, honestly, my one regular reader is a female, I think, but anyway, I'll probably keep on typing for as long as she nags or until I get a decent number of regular readers. Probably the former because I'm not 2Pac, this being a reference to me not being able to keep on posting highly popular material from beyond the grave.

          I've been awake for more than is strictly necessary now, and it's given me a nice little spring in my mental toes. It's like LSD, or the recreational drug of your choice, really. It feels good and it's bad for your health. Just like burgers. Or tacos. I love tacos. I love guacamole. I love pie. I love food, and just today, a friend of mine chortled all over my food because we were discussing what fast food cooks can do to you if you insult them. Hint: it involves unwashed hands and restrooms. I was eating coleslaw. I also tried imagining how can I fake being unable to hold a table tennis racquet properly. Problem is, when one does fall near my hands, i hold it like a pro, and, despite not having a reason to pretend I couldn't, I just felt like I needed to learn how to fake it. What would you have done if someone poisoned your salad? Or offered you a golden toilet seat? It would look pretty in your bathroom, wouldn't it?

          I can see a brown chair, small, Stuart-Little-small, floating around in pixie dust, and on that chair is a cup of tea, the cup of tea smells like Earl Grey but I know for a fact that it contains mint tea, two sugars. I like tio have 6 sugars on my tea. One of the chair legs broke, so a huge ambulance comes over to repair the tiny flying chair, but the ambulance people can't see the tiny chair, so they light a wand made from the fat of hanged murderers, and it lights with a green flame that sends toxic fumes into the room. The fumes are acid pink though. Acids don't usually have colours, so why do they have a whole range of acid colours? Here comes a walking carwash, it wipes the windshield of my eyes clean of the pink fumes, then sprays a lather of tiny kitties into my lap, and tries to make those kitties into a muffin that looked like a chocolate muffin, smelled like a chocolate muffin but tasted like meringue. I don't think they award Nobel prizes over deceptive muffins but everything is possible these days, especially since Napoleon and Bonaparte joined the Cheshire cat and Butch, the dog from Tom&Jerry in a horseback pursuit of happiness and justice embodied in the form of a banana, which you can eat. If you eat the banana of happiness and justice, you will experience sweetness in your mouth, followed by spouting flying flamingos instead of poop. Nice, pink flamingos, which can speak Danish and Indigenous Australian and have traveled back in time to lay oil fields for Texan oil farmers to harvest millions of years later. One problem, they had to lay down forests so that they would change into oil through years of sedimentation, so they harvested some geologists' heads, planted them in soil imbued with sugar, spice and everything nice to reveal a network of Kabbalah books and carrying which are every rabbi's second cousin twice removed. So, why do people ramble on about them pink elephants if I can't see any?

          Male mosquitoes have a moustache-like structure thingie protruding from their head. It's true. I've seen it. Why would any male in the world want to sleep with a female mosquito? Poor male mosquitos. All they want is a good beer, a couple of burgers and good time watching the game with his buddies, but noooooo, the female WANTS to get laid because of the mating season and she needs to lay the eggs  and bla bla bla. They say you can't have too much of a good thing, but now I say, you CAN have too many X chromosomes. One is more than enough. so that is, one in each one of your three trillion body cells. Not counting your red blood cells. Those don't have nuclei. Or half your sperm if you're a dude. This sort of messes up the calculation. Feel free to do the maths if you're some sort of boffin, but I'm gonna go make some salad.

So until next time friends,

"Augustus Gloop, Augustus Gloop, that great big ugly nincompoop" - The Umpa Lumpas, from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl

Cannibalistic Bravado

        Interesting statistic, when I'm typing a new blog post, I'm listening to rap about 98.2% of the time, 33.33% of which are T.I-dedicated. I don't know what is it about T.I. that makes him so creativity-tickling, but why do I care anway?

       After watching, and learning, from the high speed, machine-gun-firing car chase last night, I can proudly say I am now street enough to go sell crack on the streets of the Bronx. Plus, i'll be doing those dealers a favour by introducing Winning Eleven as a new pastime instead of breakdancing and stuff.

        That hospital they've been renovating ever since I moved in certainly does not look any different now than it did 6 years ago. No, wait, they did some digging in front of the main building and now they're doing something to the sewer right in front of the main gate. Viva la revolution.

         You forget your leg is agonisingly sore when you know you have 5 metres to sprint so you can get to watch that lesbian lovemaking scene. Or when there's a party involved, or when there's a party followed by having to sprint 5 metres to ge to watch a lesbian scene.

         You know there's a problem when your iTunes is so laggy it's producing a much nicer chop than you've ever been able to produce with actual turntables.

         Now I'm wondering whether I should end this post short or not.

         Now I've decided to keep on writing for a little longer.

         Now I've just read the last two lines and I think they're funny.

         The previous line proves that I'm losing my IQ faster than I'm losing my cats to graves.

         Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's ass. Ass being donkey, but come to think about it, coveting thy neighbour's other ass is also wrong, unless you're living next to a Victoria's Secret Supermodel, or Tina Fey, then I call dibs.

        I just read the word Blogger as Booger and I think this looks just perfect next to the words Mental and Constipation in the title bar.

        Ok. I'm bored, so that's enough for today.

"I hate having to write something down here,
But I hate having the fear,
Of having the words, but no one to hear"