The Further Adventures of Dr Rusher
The Further Adventures of Dr Rusher
The quest for giving stud`nts marks for nothing at all goes on apace. Firmly ensconced with the Jizzy Ra International Academy of Riyald, Pseudi Yarubeer, the candidates greeted the good doctor with the legend on framed vellum parchment ten feet high that management is 'Dully authorized to provide training in English language learning and award Certificates and Diplomas on behalf of Oxfudge Collage Briton.'
Britt Ekland was the Swedish porn star that made the mainstream, The Wicker Man (1973), in which she’s seen from behind naked. Slapping the palms of her hands against the walls, her character Willow gyrates, and sings a song to get a Briton, actor Edward Woodward, who’s aroused behind his room’s door. In the film about witchcraft, Woodward’s character, Neil Howie, is burned alive inside a wicker cage, symbolically, because women ride their own cocks, and men don’t want them to be a broom to sweep away their ashes, which is why he’s a policeman, so there aren’t any women’s cocks in the picture to disturb the Briti censor: ‘How a maid can milk a bull! And every stroke a bucketful.’1 What isn’t explicit is that Britt is presented in her nude scene as bum on a spit for a BBQ, which is what the censor is for. To prevent the subliminal message about animal husbandry, and ‘woman’s seed’ as meat for the slaughter, emerging into full consciousness amongst the sheep of the audience, before their being harvested by the alien enslaver in its wars against the ‘remnant’ of the human race upon the Earth, Britt has to be presented as sexually interested in the censor, whose approval rating corresponds to the butcher’s meat stamp of acceptable quality: ‘The dragon was wroth with the woman and went to make war upon the remnant of her seed.’ (Rev: 12. 17)
After they brighten up and learn to spell, the stud’nts’ circling around the central issue of writing in English, which they resist like a fetish, and have developed into something resembling a fine art, stops. As it is in Buttapes, ‘WHERE THE BUTTS ARE ALL TAPED’, so it is in the Kondom’s Jizz, where English Diplomas are at stake. The concern is with bums on seats, and the stud`nts receive 20% of their final grade merely for attending, and leaving their `phones with the sim(eon) cards at the front during the exams. The great secret of working in language skulls is that the teacher is there solely to keep the stud`nts diverted from their onerous task. Language learning is not the main goal. Time to put the clown suit on, then? No, it isn`t necessary for the teacher to consciously inject humor into the humdrum world of participles and gerunds. Witness this usual display of incomprehension and incoherence between educator and pupil:
Dr Rush: 'Yes.'
Dr Rush: 'I don't see the equivalence. I am not a washbasin.'
Stud: 'I go.'
Dr Rush: 'Where?'
Stud: Teacher! Go bathroom!'
Dr Rush: 'I refuse to go.'
Stud: 'Bathroom. Go.'
Dr Rush: 'I am not aware of the bathroom's capacity for movement.'
Stud: 'Can I go?'
Dr Rush: 'There is the door. There is no escape from the window.'
Stud: 'I can go bathroom?'
Dr Rush: 'You can go blue if you wish. I will not stop you. You are now at large within this institution.'
The point, of course, is that, laughter aside, these are mainly company-paid customers for whom attendance means spending as much of the time as possible washing their hands; faces, and any other extremities they can find in the bathroom (feet in the hand basin is not a taboo). A teacher lurks outside the classrooms, when he has a spare minute or two, and collars my stud`nts emerging therefrom after being told they can go to the Ceramic Palace; as all winners of what I call the Eau De Toilette Bowl do: 'I caught this one leaving,' he berates me, 'get back in there!' he fumes, and the full-bladdered miscreant returns stoically to his seat, which of course is counterproductive from the Jizzy Ra Academy's point of view. The customer pays, and the customer should be able to leave the premises as - and when - he chooses. If not, he may stop paying and putting his bum on the seat (whether that of the WC, or that of the classroom). He may even, God forbid, begin to consider the concept of 20% for sitting on his bum as anathema to the learning concept, and demand that a final exam be the determiner of his standing in English language usage. What they're really paying for is the opportunity to take an examination. I, personally, only ever sent a head chuck occasional e-mail registering for the final three hours. And what an exam is in store for the Academy clientele! One stud`nt, when asked by a friend to explain what he learned in our hallowed halls, said he was being taught to draw a circle, 'The teacher says that, if I practice hard enough, one day I'll be able to make both ends meat,' he told him. A sample question will quickly allow us to clear up any obfuscation over this point:
Circle the correct answer
What time is it?
b) a lemon
c) 3 o'clock
We are, indeed, circling around the bugbear of writing. The answer here, naturally, is usually assessed as being 'sometimes'; as it’s almost never 3 o'clock when the stud`nt is sitting his exam. Although one stud`nt, taking an exam at 9.00 am refused to budge from his seat until 3.00 pm in order to answer this very question and was rewarded with extra marks for his studiousness by the Academy's Main Branch Supervisor (AMBS).
Stud`nts may be able to obtain 25% of their final grade for this nonsense, and everyone pretends it to be a matter of great moment, so let's pass swiftly on with little remark other than to observe that, with 20% for sitting and 25% for circling, the stud`nt can obtain 45% without writing a single word in English thus far; or, indeed, opening any books either. I often have to demonstrate how to open a book to a stud`nt, who replies with a look of surprise on his countenance that is positively rewarding, and makes all those long tedious hours of putting on make up and the clown's suit with the red nose and big shoes worthwhile.
Incidentally, one of the more bizarre things they do in Yarubeer is tell the stud`nts to call you by your first name prefixed by 'Mister'. Your family name is then redundant: it's like becoming an orphan. They then prefix the whole thing with 'teacher'. Upon being introduced to someone like former Briti Prime Minister Tommy Blur, I can only imagine the Pseudi Ambassador to England saying, 'Pleased to meet you Mister Tommy,' like some downtrodden character on the Tara estate in Margaret Mitchell's Gone With The Wind (1936). Teacher Mister Rusher, courtesy of Roger Hargreaves, who of course has the copyright on Mister (Mister Rush, etc.), likes to explain a few things; especially to those who’re under the illusion that, if they go to England, Queen Lizard Birth III - and others - will speak to them in the supermarket. 'I never speak when I'm in England,' I tell them. 'I read; write; listen to music on my mp3; use the internet; watch tv, and play video and computer games.' They laugh good naturedly, but I explain, 'I know where the supermarket is, and all I do in England is pay at the till and say "Thank you", which you never say by the way,' I say, 'it would probably take you half a day to get on the right bus for the post office.' I, in my turn, smile good naturedly, 'For you it's all about information but, when you know where the stop for the number 26 is, and you finally have the right change after being told by the driver to get off, because he won't change a tenner, and the shop proprietor won't either, unless you buy some tic-tacs, who's going to talk with you about past present continuous?'
At Jizzy Ra we attempted to resolve this problem of communication with the project, which carries 20% of the final grade, and requires the stud`nt to talk for five minutes (in practice two) using PowerPoint images; whiteboards; smart boards; projectors; OHPs; handouts; cutouts (from magazines/newspapers); hand-painted miniatures; water colors; oil paintings, and all other multimedia applications; packages, and miracles of technology that they may feel is essential in order to illustrate the subject of their lengthy discourse, which is usually Taif (a city thereabouts), and requires neither communication nor a listener. Communication requires an interlocutor, and the only person paying attention is the examiner, who isn't listening for information, or interest, but only to hear if the material presented is coherent and understandable, which it never is. I often give my stud`nts the example of one of their number at a supermarket in England who, having mastered the art of interrogation, by the simple expedient of interrogating the teacher for twelve months, asks someone, 'Where are the biscuits?' Later he is himself asked, 'Where is the milk?' 'I am from Taif,' he explains patiently, and with the seemingly mandatory preternaturally black liquid eyes, 'Taif is a beautiful city ...'
So, 65% of the final grade can be had, without either writing words in English; or demonstrating any skill whatsoever in communication. The stud`nt will also get 5% for homework, and 5% for participation, a boon for the intelligent teacher, who doesn't ask for either because he knows that, if he gives homework, the terrified stud`nt will not be seen the following day and, if asked to participate, the mortified stud`nt will similarly cease to place his buttocks on the chair: but isn't that the beauty of the attendance regulations? If the stud`nt doesn't attend, he can't participate; or do homework. We're onto a winner! We can deduct marks, and not have to justify our Machiavellian evil. The stud`nt will protest that he did all the homework, and participation required for the one hour out of sixty he was present, but the teacher can legitimately ignore his pleas and, going against the customary grain, award no marks at all; for doing nothing at all. I, of course, aware of the economic situation, and the precariousness of my position, always award 5% for homework, and 5% for participation. Snoring counts with me as participation farting too. Finding the classroom each day also weighs much with me. Clearly the stud`nt has done his homework. He has scoped out his daily route to excellence, and we have arrived at the magic 75% possible of attainment; without writing any words in English: the pass mark being 65%.
Not listening to the teacher is, of course, one of the great weapons in the armory of the clever stud`nt, and I can only assume that it is this that enables the candidates to successfully navigate the listening exam, and obtain a further 5% towards their final grade. No longer having to filter out the hated voice of their tormentor, their ears are drawn like magic and magnets to the sounds of the almost impenetrable Scottish burrs, and American twangings that I find incomprehensible. In fact, I spent almost three hours once trying to decipher what 'Indian earing' meant in the mouth of a South African. After giving up, I discovered five years later - with the help of a South African and a dictionary - that the man on the tape wasn't talking, as I had previously thought, about indigenous North American jewelry, but 'engineering'. Although credit where it's due! Any stud`nt able to pass their listening exam roundly deserves their 5%, and I can honestly say that it's the only 5%, out of the entire possible 80% so far attainable, that qualifies as legitimate. Here's a sample:
1. Where is John going? Listen.
Not John: 'Hi John. Are you going to the bus station?'
John: 'Hi, I'm going to the bus station.'
Not John: 'You're going to the bus station, huh?'
John: 'Yes, I'm going to the bus station. Do you know where the bus station is? Can you tell me the way to the bus station? I'm trying to find my way to the bus station. It's where I'm going. The BUS STATION?'
Not John: 'The bus station is right over there! There's the bus station. It's right there. The BUS STATION!'
John: 'Thanks. That's where I'm going. The bus station.'
Now circle the correct answer.
a) Harry Potter and the Magnanimous Gerbil
b) a large tree
c) the bus station
I had a stud`nt who was convinced that John was going to Listen; but didn't know where that was. I myself often have had to get up at 5.00 am in the morning in Riyald; to be taken to some godforsaken spot that no one knows the whereabouts of except our driver. It amazes me when I look at the huge automobiles around us made by GMC. In this land of the gas guzzling SUBURBAN, where everyone can have four wives, and a car the size of a bus to drive them and the kids to the local Gallery. Yes, I was enthused at the plethora of such; until I discovered that here a gallery is another giant shopping mall, and not the Kondom's equivalence of the Tate Modern. The joke here is that, as we, far too far from merrily along in the stream of traffic congestion, go bouncing, jouncing and sweating in the sandstorms and 70 degree heat, the Jizzy Ra Academy is about to purchase even smaller vehicles, because the teachers don't arrive at their destination properly cooked. It fills me with positive amazement that our Academy provides us with cars that were clearly built circa 1934, for the munchkins in The Wizard of Oz, and that three of us teachers are supposed to bear them no ill will for making us share a back seat for upwards of two hours a day.
It's akin in mystery to the pen shared by the three stud`nts. Unlike the one eye held in common ownership by the three Graeae of Greek mythology, and held hostage by the hero Perseus in exchange for disclosure of the whereabouts of the Gorgon, whose head he was to cut off in order for its petrifying properties to adorn the shield of the goddess Pallas Athene, it's obviously a plausible hypothesis that two more pens could be purchased. Perhaps it's a cultural thing. I told one stud`nt to go and get a pen, when he didn't have one, and proposed to share. I went off to do some photocopying, and found him and a classmate in the corridor. I could only assume that the classmate was there to carry him, and/or the pen, should he falter in his Herculean task. 'I'll send someone else to carry the pen,' I told them and went back to take the register.
I have two Mohammad Alis in B3 at the Further Institute for Pottery Maintenance (FIPM). 'Mohammad Ali,' I poise with my pen over the register at stud`nt #4. 'Present,' he says. I pause. 'And who are you fighting next?' I ask to general hilarity. A minute later I come to stud`nt #15. 'Mohammad Ali,' I say. 'Present,' he says. I pause. 'When are you fighting Joe Frazier again?' I ask. It always brings my house down.
It's at the FIPM that the Japanese 'technical advisers', in somewhat Bridge Over The River Kwai mode, and led by a kommandant who looks inauspiciously like the Emperor Hirohito, force the stud`nts to stand in the sun at the beginning of the day (7.15 am) and do karate exercises. Japan's fascination with gizmos has certainly caught the stud`nts’ imagination; even if learning to shoot your fist into the air, and scream 'Ha-yah!' in the mornings, doesn't. I spend most of my time in the classroom, holding my hands in front of my face to protect me from the sim(eon) cardholders; waving their hidden cameras in their mobile phones: amateur snuff movie makers. 'First money, then photographs!' I shout.
We're told, of course, to be culturally sensitive when we come into the Kondom, which is why there is no usage of s/he. There are no female stud`nts with male teachers. All of the English language teaching books cover up the faces of the cartoon women (in case the stud`nts get excited) with what are supposed to be headscarves; but that look like someone has dumped yellow and pink candy floss on them. It's particularly useful when the text is asking, ‘What color hair do Marie and Liz have? Clearly the correct answer is 'peach and meringue'. However, in a way it’s preparation for seeing the stud`nts walk up to you hand-in-hand and say, ‘We are going to the bathroom together.’ Women do not work in Pseudi Yarubeer and, like Scheherezade, after shopping, are never visible. They wear a one-piece black coverall, like a sack, with a slit for the eyes. I guess going to the bathroom hand-in-hand with a man is a major culturally sensitive event in anyone's language, and even Soupçon Boil (please don't let them put her picture on the album sleeve) would look good to a young man; if she were visible. I just wave on the hand-holding young men in the direction of the door, and the toilet cubicles. Sometimes I only have three or four stud`nts in the classroom; out of around thirty. The rest are in the Ceramic Palace listening to Britney Spears’ half-time at the Bowl perfume ads - shaving their legs in the hand basins, and tweezing their eyebrows perhaps. I have no comment to make. Cultural sensitivity - like feminism, and being politically correct in the West - is a must in the Muddle East. They pay my wages; have all the oil, and declare fatwahs on writers. What more can I say? Lots:
`I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living;
So different now from what it seemed.
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.`1
Stud`nts of the Academy can obtain 25% towards their final grade by taking an exam in reading and, wait for it, writing. It's possible to attain to 87.5% without doing any writing, which is what the stud`nts do - or rather don't. They do do the reading, however; here's a sample:
Dingo the jimblegrobbit spongled doobledly, jimming on his jignoodle while spongjobbling ettwarbly. 'Jinglespoonfully!' said Thrognardle the fnoor. 'Hibble becktwarts!' The djarbungle threeg jongled bagnorbally. 'Hobbly doof! Threep spardlejung. Hooble goofunt.' Jeeble snarfung grebt thrubwardle.
And more of the same. Here's a sample question.
How did the djarbungle threeg jongle?
a) the square of the hypotenuse
b) tight end
The example is extreme; but the essence has been preserved. I have seen stud`nts, who are unable to read a syllable, pass a reading exam at the Academy. It's only about recognition; see the word: know the answer. We don't need to know what a jarbungle threeg is, or understand how to conjugate the verb 'to jongle'. We only have to recognize that bagnorbally is in the text, and is adjectival.
And so to the writing! We are nothing; if not ambitious. Stud`nts constitutionally unable to use either the definite, or indefinite article, are routinely asked to write paragraphs of at least ten sentences about their family; where they work, or the excitements of Taif. 'I am stud`nt' they will begin. It's almost Shakespearian isn't it? Reminiscent of Herman Melville's opener in Moby Dick (1851) 'Call me `E`smale.' Alas, we deteriorate from here on in, and it's a rare stud`nt that amasses more than three marks out of a possible fifteen in his writing component. But they’re processed at Jizzy Ra on twelve monthly - or 'termly' as the Academy would have us say - certificated levels. Until, at level twelve, they again fail their writing exam, and obtain a Oxfudge Collage Briton Diploma with 87.5% and an ‘A’.
Failure is deservedly blamed on the teacher. One of the supervisors took me to task one day for not using the Smart Board technology in a sparkly enough way. With a sweeping movement of the electronic pen, he demonstrated how one could fill the stud`nts with awe and amazement by producing veritable constellations of colored stars to highlight words and phrases. 'Now I am a magician!' he said. 'Well, if that's your fantasy,' I yawned. I call it, The Sound And The Fury Approach To Language Teaching. It's all about mesmerizing the stud`nt with loud discourses that are difficult to ignore, while covering the board in seemingly scientific formulas, and other indecipherable hieroglyphics that appear to communicate much; but actually signify nothing. The stud`nts applaud the magnificent performance of the suit at the board; but, when asked, have no idea what the lesson was about. I liken it to being a kid at skull who, when asked if he saw Star Wars, says 'Yeah. Wow!' Loves it, but has no idea of the plot (not that that matters in director George Lucas’ '77 space opera). It's the Zap! Whiz! Bang! skull of language imparting: cousin to Streetfighter II and with about as much relevance.
On the other hand, it's not about failure. It's not possible to fail; as you've doubtless guessed: it's about satisfaction. A lot of the satisfaction derived by the stud`nts is from getting what they want. Or, as we in the trade understand it, getting the teacher where they want him. In Riyald, for example, a teacher has the same general status as the Philippino houseboy, which takes a professional teacher some time to get used to. He is used to being civil with stud`nts, and fails to understand that he`s expected to be servile. Bowing to an old beard, who was monitoring to make sure no one involved in the fatherly interactions smiled incontinently, I reverently intoned, 'My respects to your father.' Mentioning the older old boy, the younger old boy positively gleamed with incontinence; having encountered that thing he was there for: satisfaction. The humble teacher bolstering his job tenure by suggesting he might also moonlight as a masseur.
Of course, it isn’t possible to ignore the socio-political aspects of being a teacher of Muzzlems, but relating a single anecdote will convey an impression of what’s encountered. Giving a conversation class to a group of stud`nts from the Foog and Droog Ministry (FDM), the talk turned to drinks and, after roundly condemning alcohol, and the drinkers thereof, in the strongest possible terms in order to continue depositing riyals in my bank account, this irreligious infidel began to talk about soft drinks; Spurt meaning something like 'djinn', and Grid Balls getting it's name from the drug taurine (bullocks) that is found in it: and so on. Then I asked about Cock Cola, 'What does Cock Cola mean in Yarupric? How does it translate?' 'It means there is no God,' was the reply In a nutshell! Muzzlems don`t hesitate to muzzle. Cock Cola is an American company, and so a branch of Satanism. The stud`nt probably believes it as an article of faith. It's a part of the popular myth that muzzles all other opinion.
Crushteen paedophiles do the same, because they`ve accepted the Muzzlem principal. `She`sis saves!` they tell us. `How?` we ask. `Shut up!` they fulminate inexpressibly. It stands to reason, and it won`t sit down until everyone has accepted that it doesn`t need an explanation: it does. She`sis was the child of the Virgin Mary, who was crucified, that is, nailed to a cross of wood by agents of the Rumun Umpire working with the Chewish religious police, the Pharisees, as a `dissident` celibate preacher. She`sis was woman born only, and he taught, `Love your neighbor as you love yourself.` (Mk: 12. 31) A woman anointing She’sis’ feet with the expensive perfume, ‘spikenard’, was discovered by the disciple, Chewedass, whose spy canard was that the perfume should have been sold to raise money. She`sis` response was predictable: `Leave her alone.` (Mk: 14. 6) Chewedass betrayed She`sis for the same reason that the Yarubic terrorist group, Al Qaeda, hijacked civil airliners to crash into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York, because they wanted the smell of the burning buildings andflesh to reach heaven in the fashion of Muzzlem incense burners, Mabkhara, which would reawaken war and silence ‘woman’s seed’. If women didn’t ever reproduce, her perfume would forever be in the nostrils of her alien host womb enslavers, who wage war upon her human race. Chewedass wanted to be a perfume manufacturer, so She’sis, who was ‘woman’s seed’, was taken to the hill of Calvary outside the city of Jerusalem, and crucified as an animal, because that’s men’s opinion of women. For She`sis the woman was a `neighbor`, who was being prevented from sexually reproducing with her own futanarian species of `woman`s seed`, so his feet were nailed together symbolically at the ‘foot’ (futanarian) of the cross where the women had gathered, and so he was vouchsafed Resurrection and Ascension to heaven after his death by God, which is the reason for Crushteenity being able to say, `She`sis saves!` God wants the futanarian human species to resurrect and ascend to heaven through its own sexually reproduced brainpower to develop starships and colonize the planets: `You will crush the head of the serpent with your foot, but he will bruise your heel.` (Gen: 3.15) Woman`s `seed` will escape men`s, rather than that men tower over her testes; like the Colossus of Rhodes making sure the smell doesn’t leave:
‘Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
MOTHER OF EXILES.’2
Ball-snorting, and ‘the statue of Liberty’ aside, ten years ago I was teaching in Pseudi Yarubeer's Dalek, a town most interesting, perhaps, for its curious placing of an ancient Lightning, as well as other Briti Air Force planes like huge plastic painted Airfix model kits, in the middle of traffic roundabouts that also often have captured military vehicles from wars with the Israelis as decorations. As an ELT instructor at the Konk Kalid Military City's North West Legged Forces Hospital (NWLFH) for the noses on wheels that cut off, and run where they can ‘spy tin’ each other’s face, while strolling around in the evening, and taking the air as I waited for the bus after a visit to the recreation center to borrow a few religious instruction videos from the variety available in the library, that is, Muzzlems Muzzle Some More, Sammy And Rosie Get AIDS, and Oral Hygiene With The Cock-Eaters, I was taken to the guard house by soldiers perturbed at my hovering at 7.00 pm outside the closed building where I worked. My abiding memory is of the strangeness of finding, in an environment notorious for its lack of pictorial representations of anything other than the tomb of Amaninabra, a 30×20 poster of the Twin Towers of New York's World Trade Centre stuck to the wall of a training center otherwise bereft of imagery. Strange, because it was still there on 9/11. As was I. Rumors of applause amongst the hospital staff, as they watched the events unfold teevee-wise in the lounge, remained just that for me. However, the poster remains forever in my mind: a reproach for not comprehending the omen:
‘You must take communion. Drink the blood of Christ and eat his flesh. Only if he is within you can you defeat the son of the devil.’3
America's invasion of Iraq is now enshrined in the Yarubean consciousness, a part of their myth of the U.S.A. , ‘The Great Satan’. That they're interested in learning English is also a myth. The male army nurses in Dalek explained that they needed English to work with the Americans after the 1990-1 Golf inspired by ‘Vlad’ Puttin’, who was a podpolkovnik with the KGB until resigning in 1991 to become leader of Rushon. Like his namesake in Eastern Europe`s Wallachia, who was known as `the impaler` for his habit of impaling his enemies on stakes, the Rushon`s `Vlad` Puttin` had a stake in the Golf, because of his repression of Chechnya`s ISIL in the Eastern Caucasus of the formerly So Feared`s Muzzlem states. Wallachia`s Vlad Dracul (1428/31 -1476/7) was the inspiration for the vampire novel, Dracula (1895), by Bram Stoker, a blood-sucking leech, who could only be killed by a stake in the heart. Prince Vlad was a bit of a bugger to deal with too. It was hoped by the Muzzlems that Puttin`s stake in the Golf would prove fatal: `We created man … [as] an alaqah (leech).` - Gran, sura 23, Al Mu`minun, `The Believers`, 12-14. With only `TV` for children, that is, men and women as a single creature wearing each others` clothes as a male brained transvestite, `woman`s seed` remained unseen, and the Muzzlems had indeed created men as leeches; so preventing the human race from being heard.
Pseudis have to have English for their work, but they're about as interested in us as we are in the mating habits of gadfly, which is problematical if you're in the habit of assuming a hegemony of the English language. We're told we should convert to the Muzzlem religion; not talk about politics; accept censorship from the media on sex and its themes, and refrain from listening to music. The Gran was written 600 years after She`sis` Ascension, which means the Muzzlems have had that long to muzzle the West. Crushteenity insists on the Boble as the basis of a morality of adultery, whereas it`s the human futanarian species of `woman`s seed` that`s adulterated, and the Muzzlem women, lying concealed beneath their burkhas throughout the Muddle East, is more indicative of the truth, that is, Crushteenity has been muzzled.
Teachers are actively encouraged not to play the musical intro to the audio material that goes with the New Intochains course books featuring Toby Satan. I have a stud`nt who, no kidding, like a monkey in the 'see no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil' pantheon, sits with his hands over his ears when the funky boogie-woogie vibes of the Intochains audio CD intro comes on. It’s neither rare, nor unusual, that they complain, or even leave upon hearing music, or discussions thereof, which makes it difficult when the hegemonically obsessive West insists on creating course units based on our perceptions of the beauties of jizz and hip-hop. No cherry or mauve headscarves to cover that lot up, eh?
I spent half an hour explaining the United States of America`s `Thanksgiving` to some stud`nts. If you wanted to define the phrase, 'a pointless exercise', that would do it. Without being asked, one explains that Thanksgiving is the fourth Thursday in November, and Independence Day in the U.S.A. is, of course, on the 4th of July. The book then wants us to cross examine our stud`nts on their 'special' days. 'Rubabum' is the inevitable reply. ‘Is it a holiday?’ I prompt. 'No, that's the Eat.' Further interrogation reveals that `the feast of Eat` comes after the fasting month of Rubabum, but it's impossible to say when that will be; because of the peculiarities of calculating by the phases of the moon. In short, the Yarupric peoples have no definite days for holiday time as we do in the West; so explaining ours is a bit like telling them that ham is pig: but that hamburgers originally came from Hamburg and are almost always beef. They don't eat pigs, because they are 'unclean' and forbidden (haraam) by ‘Mohamhed’s Gran, so why would they need to know the etymological derivations of the word 'ham', never mind 'bacon' and 'pork'? That’s their point of view; not the teacher's. ‘Xmas Day?’ I prompt. ‘Now you're not trying to introduce religion: are you?’ ‘No,’ I capitulate, ‘it's just another silly excuse to eat turkey: honest.’ 'Turkey [a man's name in the Mud Eats] does not want to be eaten!' I am reprimanded in harsh tones. 'And what is this problem with swine fever?' they ask gloatingly. The logic is that, because they don't have pigs, they won't have swine fever, and naturally all of us bacons will shortly die horribly. 'Do you know Allah?' they ask. Clearly Allah and swine fever are meant to be two halves of an equation that will kill, or cure. Fortunately, Ala is a girl's name in the ‘game’ of ‘piggy’ in the Muddle East, so I pretend confusion and, explaining that I knew her in Sudan, ask, ‘Can I have Ala’s ‘phone number?’ If no such is forthcoming, I say, ‘Repeat after me, ‘”Can I have Ala’s ‘phone number?”’
Until English text books are devoid of Western culture, you won't find anyone genuinely satisfied in Yarubeer. There is a real hatred for what they perceive as us making them do. I had a stud`nt who, when asked to write a paragraph at level 5 about a painting by John Singleton Copley entitled The Shark (1778), complained that I wasn't helping him. 'Is this a good sentence?' he asked 'The boat water.' 'No,' I told him,'the boat is in the water.' Clearly, he was not impressed, 'The boat water’ is not good?' 'The boat is in the water is good,' I said, emphasizing for good measure. I always have problems with explaining the verb 'to be' ontologically and, as a rule, order them to buy a copy of Descartes, learn Latin, and decode cogito ergo sum. I guessed, from his silent sullenness, that he was happy with his understanding of the present simple in the sentence. Also with the preposition on account of the shark's medium being water, and their not likely to be seen flying above it. However, he hadn't liked my tone, and decided to stall on the definitive article, 'Why isn't it ‘a water’?' he’d decided to goad me beyond bearability. 'We use the definite article when we're clearly talking about something already identified, like the water in the picture.' I said this aloud, while fulminating silently, and juggling in a Prince Henry-esque fashion with the idea of giving sonority to words less carefully chosen, ‘Our little Paki friend.’4 Goading is, of course, one of the great stud`nt entertainments. My favorite is the stud`nt who, when told Unit 15, exercise 7, keeps demanding of you the page number, as if it were a veritable impossibility to find it without a map; compass; team of sherpas, and a guide dog. I could see this ‘rag head’ didn't like my tone again. 'Write it for me,' he said. I duly wrote - 'Water boat is the in' - in his book. 'What is another good sentence?' he said. Clearly, it would go on until I understood I was a peon, and the paragraph was written. I refused, and was replaced in good order in that class by management desperate to keep a customer.
Conversations with management can be quite illuminating. The simulacrum of happiness is at a premium in Yarubeer. After a usual three months’ ‘probationary period’, while it’s decided whether you’ll be a policeman, or imprisoned, an Egypt John teacher noticed my usually taciturn frown melting, 'That's the first time I've seen you smile,' he smiled. You don't understand how insulting that is unless you know that the Gran exhorts the faithful to smile - continuously if possible. Then they can be offended at you for laughing without permission, and kill you, which is why Crushteenity has become a Muzzlem religion. I was being criticized. 'Well, fuck you!' I thought. However, happiness is what management seek to find in their stud`nts. A representative explained to me that he didn't care how many units of the Intochains course book were covered; as long as the stud`nts were smiling inanely. The syllabus was of no importance, 'Just smile. Talk to them about their family. Get them to write a few sentences about their job,' he smiled on presently - and continuously.
Working in Yarubeer is a bit like being gay, and you have to understand the culture to cope with that. It's almost a crime to be single. You're not allowed in the Kondom Tower, a glorified shopping mall, and where presumably they chop ‘em all, if you aren't with a family waving their sim(eon) card `phones. MacDonald’s is split into single male areas, and married burkhas. A family is conditioned to be offended if it isn't. They like to know who they`re eating. So, if you go to Yarubeer, be prepared for the shock that you are expected to share if single. It’s a punishment for not producing any burkhas for MacDonald`s, if you're prejudiced to see it that way. 'Why don't you share?' management wanted to know. I could live in a compound with the rest of the alcohol drinkers, and have a bar with a swimming pool with women to gawp at. So long as I was happy with a man to live with. Insulted? You bet. At the derisory accommodation allowance described as sufficient for 'all my living space and travel needs' for one thing. You don't want to explain that you're not homosexual, and thereby accuse their culture of being so. However, the phrase 'I'm not gay' readily springs to mind if a government in England tries to resolve its housing problem by forcing single males to cohabit. Riyald is split into married areas, and single areas. The stud`nts complain over it being 'hard'. Just how it is can only be guessed at. At least I'm not walking hand-in-hand with a man into the cheap hotel bathroom - or indeed the sunset.
1 Giovanni, Paul ‘Willow’s Song’, Rachel Verney, The Wicker Man soundtrack, Trunk , 1973.
2 Lazarus, Emma ‘The New Colossus’, 1883.
3 Troughton, Patrick as Father Brennan, The Omen, 20th Century Fox, 1976.
4 Dejevsky, Mary ‘Prince Harry called a fellow soldier his 'little Paki friend', Independent, January 11th, 2009, Sunday, 1: 00 am, https://www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/home-news/prince-harry-called-a-fellow-soldier-his-little-paki-friend-1299804.html .