I’m sure he decided, Ganesh descended and proclaimed it to be, on page 132 of Sky Mall. It was stumbling through the tchotchkes and deviously devised gadgets that refined and honed his sense of rage, his utter unbelonging in a world beset by modernity, chiding him to disassemble his electric toothbrush and bring his yet unrealized plan to its operational beginnings, my burgeoning awareness of his intended action, concurrent with the arrival of my $4.50 G&T, paralyzing me with fear until, post-quaff, I set my course to you, full of shaking and trembling. I mean, after all, this is the guy who stole my complimentary pillow and blanket—only one set per row—my complimentary pillow and blanket gone, behind his back, his lumbar supported and mine crying in the vacuum and the subsequent confrontation: when I confronted him about his thievery, politely: ‘Dude, you jacked my pillow!’ aware of the cultural difference between our two peoples: ‘Dude, why’d you jack my pillow?’ and the guttural yelping thing that came from his throat in response; its meaning, whatever it was, weaseling into my auditory canals and exploding like a suicide bomber in a Tel Aviv discotheque. The maddening weight of generations of oppression encompassed in this sound, and I fully taken aback, wanting to be like, ‘Dude, I’m not even Anglo. Gandhi was cool with me, you savvy brother?’ but his snaky eyes and his skin’s mocha hue restrained my tongue—guilt Jane, fucking guilt—from forming any defense and I sat back down like an asshole sans pillow or blanket, defenseless, drowning in an inconsolable opinion of myself: that my life, up to this point and however much time remains, our ETA and previous time elapsed—who knows how long now?—has been an irredeemable failure, and the explosion, melting concrete as the plane shifts in, girders shuffled like playing cards, is for nothing and I am going to die without ever having belonged either: me and Paramjeet are brothers. But then Jane, I conceived a mental image Jane, the power of positive thinking regained its tenuous grip, and I shook off that evil feeling; I thought of my country and my life and I heard a song Jane: Old Glory ragged in the gunpowder breeze, staring down upon the pitched battle and the words came, ‘Play Ball!’ and I was proud and I realized I had known happiness and that I would know it again and I blamed Suliman Ibn Falafel for my decent into unwarranted despair and vowed revenge against he and his people for shaking my confidence in the good ol’ U. S. of A.; the gifts that are mine to have and bestow on my fellow man both. I thought of Junior Varsity Football Jane, and I thought of the Student Body Government Elections in 11th Grade when I was chosen to serve my classmates in the office of Student Body Treasurer—a telling duty in light of my present employ Jane—and I thought of Sigma Alpha Epsilon and I scolded myself for I have had nothing if not fraternity; I am an avid fan of the National Football League Jane, my brothers there too, in the persons of fans of the 1968 Super Bowl Champion New York Jets—the multitude brothers I have of Green & White coloring are legion! These, my people, and he building a detonator out of an electric toothbrush! I felt pity for the poor confused man Jane and I wondered if I had been the one forced into his dark circumstance would I have turned out differently and I then felt empathy: the dirty rapings and fondlings of secret police and taxi drivers, an inability to perform simple arithmetic, wearing a silly dress on the mean streets of Calcutta: his dirty bloomers, if I had been forced to endure these things would it have been me who decided—with the notable assistance of Ganesh—that the only way to regain balance in the universe and upon this temporal Earth would be by performing such a dastardly act as destroying a large airplane, full of screaming innocents, with a crudely devised bomb composed of the aforementioned electric toothbrush and shoe soles of rubberized napalm or some such other mutable flammable liquid hardened to plastic in a dusty Mumbai laboratory; would it be ME doing it instead of HIM; he sitting next to me, eyes full of fury and hate, wild like Kali, feet beating a jittery percussive war dance, a funereal dirge for us: the rhythm what will come to signify our death, the gruesome death of us and everyone else aboard this winged cigarillo and the inhabitants of whatever building we kiss, dead; he to Ganesh and we to Christian heaven—though they may be one in the same, I’m open to that Jane, I really am—where everyone is wearing Banana Republic and smells of Lavender Hibiscus Handcream and I, in the interest of preventing this grievous catastrophe, I became determined to get the stewardess—namely you Jane—to give him a blow job.
Thus my wild gesticulation, thus my Amstel Light—thank you for that Jane, it really hits the spot—sending cascades shimmering in the dry fake air, weightless drops aloft and floating at 35,000 feet. These darkies, ahem I mean terroristas, err foreigners, are all quite repressed Jane; this is my reasoning. Jane, Jane, are you listening to me Jane? Your eyes are wandering, listen up, this is crucial, critical to not only our survival but the generalized continuance of our blessed way of life. The millions, those down below, will be swept into the socio-political maelstrom of our actions today, Jane. It is your charming mouth that hangs in the balance. Do you want them to win Jane? The terrorists? By not blowing Rajiv, you would only be helping them, helping the terrorists. Is that what you want? Now listen to me, my thinking on the matter, and I’ve given it some thought standing back here by the head, is that Suliman’s repression will be the key to foiling his malicious enterprise: the grisly end he has in mind for you and me Jane. That by taking him in the lavatory and pleasuring him orally to a full and veritably Niagara-like release, you will be doing your duty as a patriot and moreover as a member of this flight crew. By offering him just one small morsel of the joys of upright Western living from your copious sexual pleasure chest—don’t play coy with me Jane, you’ve obviously been around the block a few times—his mission and the operation thereof will be effectively thwarted by his orgasmic bliss and maybe, just maybe, he’ll think we’re not so bad after all; he will deign not to kill us, riding bareback to our doom on this erectile instrument of death. His destructive impulse will be rendered flaccid! Tables turned, so to speak. It is ordained! This is your sacrifice Jane, you do this for your people. For all of us Jane! You are the loving Earth Mother; you give yourself to save us. It has been broadcast and I have seen. You’ll be a martyr Jane. There will be Good Morning America, Jane. There will be a book deal. An anchor spot on Entertainment Tonight. 32A, yes, with the turban. No no, I’m sure he’s circumcised, they’re very clean, it’s part of the religion. Stick a finger up his butt, get freaky with that prostate. Wait! No, don’t, I’d forgotten his uncle in Bangalore—he’d a difficult childhood Jane, unspeakable acts committed in the name in of Krishna—his repressed memories of that awful steaming day in the market, the smell of cardamom and saffron, the rough carpet scratching away at his cheek, the sobs between clenched teeth, all this may well return with your digit’s insertion. Yes, he’ll have to deal with those feelings at some point of course, it’s just that today may not be the most opportune moment in terms of our survival. I feel for poor Sahib, I really do! You see Jane, this is a predicament, I’m really of two minds about the whole violent disarming thing, I’ve tried to put myself in his sandals you see, I mean, like if a tsunami destroyed my fishing village and I’d been force fed the Upanishads from birth, I mean, maybe I’d be a crazy turbaned darkie too. I mean c’mon Jane, he worships an Elephant God for chrissakes! I know, I know, we’re supposed to cherish our differences, but you have to admit that’s pretty out there. I tried Jane, I really did! When I sat down and saw him there brimming with his hatred of the other, I wanted to offer him a Slim Jim, but I had no Slim Jims Jane, not one juicy meaty stick. Damn how I’d wished for a Slim Jim! Oh Lord God, why have I no Slim Jims! I mouthed in quiet lamentation. No Slim Jim just magically appeared Jane. I admit it, I was going to chance it, you know, bluff him Jane: Hey buddy, how ‘bout a Slim Jim? The tangy flavor explosion will surely make you feel better about having your hands and feet amputated for stealing a pack of chewing gum and the whole talking like you’ve got a big wad of snot lodged in your throat thing. I was about to say it Jane, damn close, and then I realized not only that there were likely no Slim Jims aboard this rocketing phallus of doom, but wait, I said to myself—I’m like recounting my thought process now Jane—wait, I said, is a Slim Jim made of beef or pork or some unholy mix of the two? Furthermore, is it cows or pigs these characters don’t like?—don’t ask me Jane, something about being unclean—and then, in an unpredicted and totally abrupt change of tact, I was glad I didn’t have any Slim Jims. That momentary questioning of my actual possession of Slim Jims presently on hand, the ensuing calm and reflection necessitated by this egregious—on my part Jane—lack of Slim Jims giving me time to gauge the logic of offering PK Rammalammadingdong a Slim Jim in the first place and my subsequent eureka moment of deft cultural sensibility likely saving us all from our fiery and untimely doom. Thank the Lord I had no Slim Jims! There are brands of these people Jane. Sun Tzu said something about it. I’m paraphrasing of course, but it boils down to the fact that everybody loves Pop Tarts. Damnit Jane, what I’d give for just one Blueberry Frosted!
I knew this was going to happen Jane. I swear I did. The minute, no the second, I got to the airport. Well not exactly then but shortly thereafter! But let me tell you Jane, sit back, relax, have some peanuts: You see, there was this laptop in the X-ray machine and it was just sitting there and no one was coming to collect it and it sat there, sitting, fucking languishing! Who the hell knows what that could be! You can fit a shitload of plastic explosives in a laptop Jane, trust me on that score, I saw a 48 Hours expose on the very subject. That John Quinonas, he’s a crafty bastard, Jane. I assure you of his craftiness. Managed to get a goddamned armory though the security of a Major Metropolitan Airport Jane! It’s those obstructionist assholes in Congress, listen to ‘em bitch Jane, personal privacy my ass. Stap-ons Jane, that’s what it’s all about. Congressional Nancy-boys, Democrats Jane, don’t want there illicit sex toys dumped out in the terminal. A dildo can be fashioned into a deadly weapon Jane, but of course you already know that, uh, from your flight-training I mean… I was standing there and this laptop was in the scanner right, and I’m eyeing it Jane, I’m eyeing that soon-to-be-exploded motherfucker and just waiting for it to tick or shake or something, and the fucking minute it did Jane, the very second, I was fully prepared to throw my body down on that laptop Jane, my prone form saving all the woman and children in line from certain destruction, my body suffocating the cruel darkie blast. Oh yeah, I’d have been torn to shreds Jane, thanks for asking, sure, my legs blown clear across the terminal, but I’m one man Jane, one man, and goddamnit if America’s not more important than that—take one for the team Jane, just like I’m asking you now—so I’m eyeing this fucking thing, waiting, waiting, tense on my toes Jane, waiting for it to shimmy Jane, cause level with me Jane, you know bombs don’t tick right, I mean that shit’s just in the movies, that’s some Hollywood mumbo-jumbo Jane, but still I’m caught up in the moment, right, and I’m waiting for that little exploding fucker to tick or shake or something, waiting on the clicking fuse signaling my death and resurrection in the pages of major news outlets across this wide country of ours Jane—the hellish ignition—and I’m think about my life Jane and I can’t think of anything Jane. Comprendo baby? Like, we’re all gonna fucking die! And I’m about to scream like, ‘We’re all gonna fucking die!’ But the kids Jane, I think of the kids, the children, the babies Jane, all the poor defenseless kids who are gonna grow up and have their toes chopped off for looking at baseball cards. Fucking baseball cards! You know they do that. It’s idolatry Jane. The kids who will have their minds warped by some darkie elephant religion. It’s sick Jane, it’s really fucking sick. Those people Jane, how could God make people that backwards and fucked up? Staring at that goddamn laptop all the while, and then I get upset, I mean downright irate, about to be like, ‘Whose fucking bag man!’ and then this goof in front of me, some total dweeb Jane—The kind of guy that got wedgies in gym class Jane. The kind of guy I gave wedgies in gym class. That kind—is all like, ‘Where’s my laptop?’ and I’m like, ‘You left it on the scanner buddy,’ and he’s like, ‘Oops’ and I’m thinking, getting ready to sock this dumb motherfucker: if it weren’t for dipshits like you there wouldn’t be terrorism in the world. Asshole.
This is it Jane, go time. Time for action, ready to roll. With my future, our future, balanced here: on one side, me, a seat down, him, Khalil Gibran Bin Pita, back here by the head, you and your multilingual talents. Our lives come down to this moment. This is the one. 4th down. Ball on the 3 yard line. Don’t score and we lose. Touchdown and I’m banging cheerleaders all night. The moment I’ve been waiting for. Crazy man! Barking signals. Throwing off the linebackers. Misdirection man. Yeah! That’s it! We’ll run a bootleg. Eight grade. Pop Warner. I wish I’d run a bootleg then. It wasn’t my fault! The coach wanted a QB sneak. It’s not my fault I fumbled! My hands were sweaty. The lights. It was hot. We lost the game. We lost the fucking game because of me. Never again. Coach said, ‘Nice job Butterfingers.’ Asshole. It was hot. My hands were slick and that guy man, he dug that ball out of my gut. He was inhuman. Possessing of inhuman strength for a twelve-year old. He wasn’t twelve though. You just know he wasn’t. He was probably in high school. Bussed in from the city. If you know what I mean. That type. Ripped the ball out of my gut six inches from the goal-line. Nice job Butterfingers. Good one Twinkletoes. It was a stupid play-call. But the humiliation! The tears. I was sobbing like a bitch. Never again. Never again man. I wonder if Saddam Abu Hummus ever felt like that. They play that game with the goat’s head right? Kicking around a goat’s head? I wonder if his coach made a stupid call with the game on the line and the goat’s head was seeping brains and was all slick and Punjabi Ali Baba was trying to kick the goat’s head in the bucket and his foot slipped because of the goat brains and his coach called him a stupid infidel and all the kids laughed and his life at the very moment ended or at least felt like it ended; the pain and humiliation he was suffering so great; his coach called him The Great Satan and threw rocks at him and then chopped off his pinkie because he missed the bucket but like it was totally the goat brains and it wasn’t his fault and goddamnit if it hadn’t been for the goat brains his team would’ve won and he would’ve been the hero and he would’ve have been genitally mutilating cheerleaders all night—Do they have cheerleaders over there, Jane? They must. They probably still have to wear those Hefty bags though. Not like cheerleaders here in the good ol’ U.S. of A.—The guys would’ve carried him around the desert and put him on top of a camel and he would’ve ridden the camel full of glory through the desert and all the cheerleaders would’ve been ovulating or whatever it’s called and he would’ve been a hero. They would’ve called him Salahadeen.
What if he had won that game, became conqueror of the evil crusader infidels and reigned over the most glorious days of his people’s history? Would he still be sitting here making a bomb out of his shoes and toothbrush? Had he not been subject to that grievous humiliation would he still be a terrorista? Would he still want to die in a holy righteous rage upon this fiery penile object of the heavens, die in a blessed holy inferno and kill manifold non-elephant-worshipping motherfuckers in the process. Whoah. Those are crazy thoughts man. This whole identifying with the terrorista gig, this attempting to understand the root cause of his suffering is fucking me all kinds of up. I’m losing my resolve man. Resolute, steadfast, that’s what I am. That’s what we have to be. You’re just gonna blow the terrorist, that’s all Jane. V.S. Biriyani, get ready pal. Get ready for a little of the good old American know-how. That’s right buddy, you ain’t gonna be able to walk after Jane here gets through with you, much less violently overthrow the flight crew and send us rocketing into the HQ of Western Imperial Scum. Not gonna happen pal. We may die. I can see death at my door, like proverbially. He’s wearing a top hat and some kooky stars and stripes ensemble. I recognize him. He is Uncle Sam. He is the murderer and betrayer of my people. His hegemonic thirst is quenched with my people’s blood and oil. What? Mon oncle! How could you do it? You were so proud. You sold me a Chevy. Down at the dealership. It was the big President’s Day sale. You told me I wouldn’t get a better price anywhere. You threw in a limited warranty. But the carburetor Uncle, the carburetor. It wasn’t covered. Still, no hard feelings, that Chevy was a wicked ride. Jane! A hummer for a terrorista, it’s a worthy price to pay for the lives of every man, woman, and child aboard this aircraft. You don’t have to let him cum in your mouth, I swear it. Just on your face. Muamar Cous Cous likes that kinda thing. He thinks it’s hot, told me he thinks it’s hot to see you with his sperm on your face, dribbling over your lips. Makes him feel like a man he says. And he is a man Jane. He may have been emasculated by a cruel and repressive regime, but he’s still a man. Uncle Sam took a straight razor to his cojones but he’s my guy Jane. Maybe after this is all over we could get a place together, just the three of us. We could be like one of those sitcom families. The Dude, The Stew, and The Terrorista. They wouldn’t have to show the sex bits Jane. It could be like inferred. We could still be on prime time. After The Apprentice Jane. I don’t see why not. After Saeed Chana Masala gets a load of your tongue whirling around his balls, he’d have to be into it. And you Jane, I bet you make a mean lasagna baby, I’m sure he’d be happy with your lasagna. Can you put goat in your lasagna? I think he really likes goat. It would make him feel more at home. Do it for me Jane. And if that’s not good enough, for your country. America’s calling you baby. Answer America’s call.
This is all very confusing. My feelings for MF Chicken Tikka are once again affecting my resolution. They’re my feelings Jane. What would you have me do? Stifle my feelings? I could Jane, I really could. I could pretend I’d never laid eyes on the man Jane. Go on living as if I’d never awakened to the word of Ganesh as manifest on Earth. But c’mon honey. That wouldn’t be fair to either one of us. I’d be resentful baby. I might not know it, you know, on like a conscious level, but it would be there, like subconsciously. You wouldn’t want that would you Jane? I think if we survive we should sit down and have a real rap session about this. My feelings for Mahmoud. I think honesty is the best policy in this situation. We’ll just lay our cards on the table and maybe it’ll come up all aces. Maybe we can all win Jane. All three of us. This is providing of course we don’t die when the throbbing member we ride upon crashes into a major American metropolis. Or we don’t come crashing at all. Dependent upon how Rajiv Papadum reacts to my offer of oral sex. That’s right babe, I’m sorry Jane, but yeah, it’s going to have to be me. I’ve put some serious thought into this and clearly you’re not up to the task Jane, foiling this malicious enterprise will have to be my job this time. Sorry, next time, I promise. I’m sure you’re good baby, not a doubt in my mind, but I’m a quick study. Sure I ain’t never sucked any dick before, but let me tell you, what I lack in experience, I make up for in enthusiasm.
