Will that be all George?: Pakistani journo pokes fun at shrub

Will that be all, George?
By Mahir Ali


IT was a few days before Christmas and verily a Santa was hauled out of a Wal-Mart, where he had patiently been lending an ear for much of the day to the seasonal demands of brats of all shapes and sizes, and driven away to an undisclosed location in a limousine with dark windows by men in dark suits and dark glasses.

“We have a very special assignment for you,” they told him, and refused to say any more.

The vehicle pulled up outside a very big house that looked as if it had recently been whitewashed. Santa was escorted to an empty room, where his elaborate accoutrements and his sack were subjected to a thorough search, which yielded nothing exceptionally alarming. His beard was checked for anthrax. In another chamber, men in what looked like some sort of space suits tested him from top to toe for traces of radiation.

Once it had been established beyond reasonable doubt that he was no suicide bomber, a visibly disconcerted Santa was conveyed to a big hall groaning with Christmas kitsch, and gently but firmly pushed into a plush chair. He sank into it gratefully as the folk in the room, whispering excitedly, formed a disorderly queue.

One of them elbowed his way to the front of the queue and then strode purposefully, with a distinctively simian gait, towards the man with the beard. No one said a word, although bespectacled Dick, pushed into second place, gave him a look that resembled a sneer. But those who knew Dick were well aware that this was his natural expression: no one had ever seen him come up with a convincing smile.

“Ho, ho, ho, Santa,” demanded his interlocutor. “Say ho, ho, ho!” Santa complied in a weary tone that betrayed little interest in conveying joy to the world. “Sit down, boy,” he continued in the same tone, “and tell me what you’d like to find in your sock on Christmas Day. But before that be polite enough to introduce yourself.”

“My name is George, Santa,” beamed George, “but you can call me W or 43 like everyone else, and the first thing that I want is a Patriot Act. The next thing on my list...”

“Hold on a second, George — and if that’s your name, I think that’s just what I’ll call you. Overfamiliarity is frowned upon by my union after three of its members were accused of being paedophiles last Christmas. Now this Patriot Act, don’t you already have one? Are you being greedy, George?”

“No, Santa.... I mean yes, I do have one, but its batteries are about to run out.”

“Then why not get some new batteries?”

“I swear I tried, Santa, but all those unhelpful people in the Congress superstore said they’d recharge the batteries only for a month. Now that’s not much good, is it? I want a Patriot Act that runs on oil, not batteries. I’ve got plenty of oil. I don’t have to ask anyone for oil. I can just take it whenever I like.”

“Ah, that rings a bell: you must be the George a colleague told me about three years or so ago — the boy who wanted a brand new Ay-Rack.”

“Yes, and I demand you tell me where that colleague can be found. I’d like to wring his neck. Waterboarding’s too good for him. Gitmo’s much too good for him. That gave me a broken Ay-Rack! I didn’t want a broken Ay-Rack — I wanted....”

“Stop pouting and stop shouting, George. Let’s not forget this is supposed to be the season of peace and goodwill. And let’s keep the record straight. My colleague Kofi did not give you a broken Ay-Rack. I’ve heard you smashed it while grabbing it from another boy.”

“That’s so not true! Sad-Damn was a bad boy. Very bad. Truly wicked. He wouldn’t hand it over even after I pointed all my guns at him. What was I to do? Now you must give me mini-nukes, so that it’s easier the next time around. Surgical strikes that produce perfect little mushroom clouds. I’m dying to see a mushroom cloud, Santa, I really am — even just a teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy one, pretty please?”

“Stop jumping up and down, George, before you smash my knee like you smashed Ay-Rack. Now, before I hear any more of your wish list, I need to know whether you’ve been naughty or good this year.”

“I’ve been good, really good, as good as I possibly could. You’ve got to trust me. I’ll tell you who’s been naughty. It’s all those Al-Canada types like.... like.... well, like Sad-Damn, who says I beat him up after taking away Ay-Rack, which isn’t really true, and like Ayman, who keeps releasing all these pirated X-rated videos full of violence and you can’t understand a word, very bad chap, and all the insurgents, they don’t deserve any gifts. And Osama’s probably been naughty, except we don’t know where he is or what he’s been up to. And don’t give anything to Hugo Chavez, who’s been trying to sell oil cheap to poor Americans — I mean, how low can you go? — or to his new friend, Evil Immorales, who I’m told is ingenious, how silly is that? I mean no ingenious person could get anywhere close to power in this country, and that’s what makes America great...” “I think you mean indigenous, George. But never mind. I’m not interested in your opinions about other people, I just wanted to know....”

CONTINUED: http://www.dawn.com/2005/12/28/ed.htm#4