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Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Touch My Sarcophagus

You know how, sometimes in life, we want irrational things, for no other reason than the inescapable fact that… we want them?

We may very well not understand why we want them, but that motivator, that itch, well, the need to understand what it is or where it came, or how to scratch it, from really quite pales in comparison to the desire—however inane or unfortunate it might be.

If you’ve ever driven past a Honda dealership on your way to purchase an American car, then you know what I’m talking about.

I’m filled to the overgrown eyebrows with unexplainable, frivolous desires. Right now, I’m resisting the urge to go downstairs and wash dishes instead of penning this blog post. Do the dishes absolutely need to be washed right at this moment? No. But that’s why it is an irrational urge. Of course, this blog post doesn’t need to be written right now, either, so there we are.

My latest, most overwhelming desire, my most recent, illogical, frankly disturbing desire, though, has nothing to do with dirty dishes, or blogging, or cars or women. Writhing on goose-down comforters. Touching each other’s butts. Licking… stuff.

No, my latest dubious desire has to do with my readership. A specific subsection of my readership, actually. And, don’t worry; it’s probably not you that I’m talking about. Or, to, as it were.

I’m talking to my Egyptian readership, or, specifically, my lack thereof.

See, according to Blog Tracker stats, which I check, um, (every so) often, here’s how it breaks down, M.C. Hammers:

United States rings in with 60.89% of My Masonic Apron visits. I’m sure most of those are me.
The U.K., with my frequent posts about Gilbert & Sullivan and Monty Python no doubt pushing Englishers up to Second place with 16.63% of visits for the year.
Next, we’ve got my hot female Canadian readers picking up steam on the Brits with 12.40%.
Behind them are readers from a mysterious place known as “Unknown,” which proves all along that I have a steady, if small, following of alien readers.
There’s Australia, Germany, Ireland (that’s you, Harley!), Philippines, India, and Indonesia, no doubt thankful for all those tourism Rupiah my wife and I sank in Bali back in ’06.

Obvs, you will notice that there are no Egyptian readers. Now, being a closeted megalomaniac, I was sitting here in the dark thinking to myself, “Gee, wouldn’t it be awesome if a couple Egyptians, while their country is undergoing some of the worst strife, unrest, and rapid change in hundreds of years, wouldn’t it be just the height of cool if a few Egyptians took time out of all of this momentousness to check out my blog?

I mean, that way, I’d almost be a part of what’s going on over there. I mean, Egyptians would be checking ME OUT! And I like to be checked out. Maybe they’d even be hot Egyptian chicks taking time out of bed writhing and butt touching to slide a goop-covered finger on their laptop keyboards to read my blog.

God, sometimes I even disgust myself. You must be sick to your fucking stomach.

So, I kind of decided to make it my mission to get myself read my some Egyptians today. How would I go about this, though, I wondered. And then I thought about Andy Breckman’s pathetic antifolk folksong, “A Desperate Attempt to Make the Critic’s List of the Ten Best Records They’d Bring to a Desert Island.” All it is are a couple of chords (like all his songs!) and advice about how to make survival gear out of nature’s bounty.

And I thought, well, shit—all I have to do to get read by Egyptians is throw in a bunch of culturally relevant Egyptian terms or words or phrases and, when Egyptians Google shit that’s important to them, I’ll be all up ons their Googs!

Brilliant, right? I did go to college and, *ahem* graduate school.

Okay. Ready? Here we goskee!

So, anyway, this one time, I was all like eating falafel and I ran into my old friend Hosni Mubarak. He and I went and skinny dipping in the Nile and we washed each other with brushed Egyptian cotton towels and then Egyptian girls were writhing around on this bed touching each other’s butts but that’s not important right now because Tutankhamen that boy prince or whatever went all mummy cray-cray on us and he kicked me in the face and Hosni was like, “Yo—you mess with the fire, you get the Hose!” and he pulled the mummy’s head off. And then a war between some of the Egyptian gods broke out. I mean, like, it was Throw-Down Time between Sekhemt, who has the head of a lion or something. And he threw his lion head at Anubis, the God of Embalming. I mean, can you believe there’s a God of Embalming anyway? So, Anubis was arm-wrastling with Bastet, the God of Cats, but Bastet started clawing Anubis and was hissing at him and coughing up furballs at him and it was nasty and then those girls showed up again, all rollin’ around and shit, touchin’ on each other or whatever. And Anubis was like, “Chicks, if you don’t get out of here, I’m gonna spray all my hot embalming fluid in yo faces!” And, at that very instant, the fucking Pyramids exploded and the Sphinx flew away on a goddamn broomstick, dropping huge sand-turds out its ass all over the friggin’ place. By this point, all I could do was consume some Eish Masri, which is a delectable form of glutenous pita bread and, on it, I placed a little Koshari, which is rice-stuffed pigeon. And, if you’re done throwing up after reading that, you could always wash down the extraneous vom with a little bit of qamar ad-din, which I can’t drink because I’m allergic to apricots. But you could drink it and tell me all about how nummy wummy it is. Whilst engaged in a polite discussion of Hellenism, we could leaf through the pages of any decent history of this fine land and learn about some of Egypt’s six thousand years of recorded history. We could draw hieroglyphics on each other’s butts and have them touched by the rolling around hot girls while we say the word, “Coptic,” which is my third favorite word—after “Kom Ombo” and “Amenemhat,” of course. Did you know there are actually some ignoramuses who think that Ptolemy was Greek? Well, he wasn’t. He was Egyptian. And if you’d been to college and, *ahem* graduate school, you’d probably have known that and wouldn’t have lost your virginity at 28! Jesus! It sounds to me like what you need is a little dose of football, Egypt style—featuring the world-renowned soccer clubs El Ahly and El Zamalek. GOOOOAAAAL! After a good game, what’s say we settle back and listen to some decent tunes on either or both of Egypt’s most notable indigenous instruments, the Ney and the Oud. Ah, play me a Mahammed Abdel Wahab song and we’ll just call it a day, gently falling asleep to the melodic tones as we drift lazily to sleep thinking of what’s on top of those goose-down comforters. That’s right: Imhotep, famed engineer, architect and physician. Rollin’ around on there. Um… touchin’ his… butt.

I’ll, uh… let you know how many Egyptians…. check in…. if, you know... they don't shut down the, um, the internet there again.


1 comment:

  1. LMAO! If it makes you feel better, your "unknown" is likely me from Iraq. Which, according to Fox News, has been replaced by Egypt:


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