December One-Liners

Bloft, whenever she says something entirely idiotic or factually inaccurate and is speaking to me: Shhhh! Don't tell Eureka! She doesn't know!

Doolittle: Interject always makes me think of ejaculate. Imagine if sperm had eyes.

Eureka: I love being referred to as the infidel. It excuses so much. For example, whenever someone declares that I have crossed the line, and says "she can't do/say/write that!", someone will pat the objector on the back and say "it's ok, she doesn't know any better. she's an (whispered) infidel."Then the objector totally gets it and nods "oohhh, ok.'

Torture Techniques: USA v. Nazis

The USA is naughtier than the Nazis. Surprised?

http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/the_daily_dish/2007/12/best-of-the-d-2.html

Good read, so finish it.

Orientalist Gripes

I like being a working woman. I really do. I like the cash in my bank account. I like not having to take my work home with me, or pulling all-nighters to cram for a final or write a paper.

I don't like that question that haunts my every public move after graduation though. That evil, loaded question that is ubiquitous in this region of the world.

That question even haunted me in the middle of Christmas appetizers.

There I am, enjoying my perfectly chilled champagne, when my uncle's French wife calls me over to sit by her "parce-que je veux te gronder un peu" (because I want to scold you a little).

Frog: Eureka, comment est ta vie amoureuse? (Eureka, how is your love life?)
Eureka, visibly cringing as she anticipates that question: Ça va, tante grenouille. (It's alright, aunt Frog). Eureka clamps shut, refusing to elaborate further.

Frog, completely ambivilous to Eureka's visible loathing of the conversation, and of Frog, continues jabbering in rapid French.

Frog: Oh, but you know, I have such strong misgivings about you ever finding a suitable boy in this country. It is so difficult to form a relationship with Egyptians that goes beyond the superficial hellos and how are you's of social functions. When I was studying and travelling around the world because I am so liberal and cultured and so much better than everyone else, I made many many friends, but in all my years in Egypt, my only friends have been foreigners like myself, I could never make friends with Egyptians. It is so difficult meeting people here because they are confined to their little cliques, one cannot feel welcome. I must start setting you up on dates with boys I find suitable, because Lord knows you won't ever be married at this rate. How can you meet people here? C'est impossible, vraiment...

On and on and on she went, for a good 15 minutes of repeating herself, verbatim. All Eureka could do was nod in fake agreement because one really cannot argue with a psychotic French woman.

When Frog paused to catch her breath, awaiting Eureka's tearful gratitude for Frog offering to save her marital future, Eureka grabs the opportunity to cut her off saying she doesn't like being set up, and rushes to the kitchen muttering something about helping with the turkey.

In the kitchen, Eureka threw a tantrum, munched on semi-prepared food, and downed three glasses of champagne. Eureka spend the rest of the evening blissfully befriending a couple of bottles of wine in a last ditch effort to drown out the Frog's continuing lecture about meeting the right man and not waiting too long.

Yes this is what the world is coming to. Egypt's ardent desire to marry women off is so overbearing, that it has attacked and successfully indoctrinated unstable French minds as well.

Ho, ho, fucking French ho.

Merry Christmas!

Introducing the FSE's (Imperial Dictionary entries #s5-13)

FSE (εf εs i:) , abbrev. for Faithful Subjects of the Empire: official title bestowed upon the founding members of the Hendika (see Hendika) Empire.

These are:

Bambi (bæm’bi:), n.: 1. daughter of Co-Empress Erika-Marie of the Empire of Hendika (see Hendika). 2. Queen of the Airheads of Hendika. 3. Useless heiress to the Hendika throne. –ness.

Birdie (bз:di:), n.: 1. official message relater of the Empire of Hendika (see Hendika). 2. imaginary bird of flight used to distract oneself and others from disastrous predicament at hand ~n.

DFS (di: εf εs), abbrev. for Dolly ‘Folly’ Shahine: 1. The Empire of Hendika’s (see Hendika) First Ministress of Entertainment and Inspiration (MoEI). Noted for her notorious whirlwind relationship with Nidal (see Nidal). 2. the Empire of Hendika’s best FSE (see FSE). 3. provider of daily jokes (see jokes) to the FSE’s of the Empire of Hendika.

Dinamite (‘daιn,maιt), n.: 1. renegade princess of the Empire of Hendika (see Hendika) constantly plotting a coup of some sorts in an attempt to rebel against the Empresses for over-pampering her. 2. official but useless First Notary of the Empire of Hendika. [C?: from DINA + ‘M’ + ITE]

Fairy (‘fεrι), n.: a tiny creature in the Empire of Hendika (see Hendika) meant to grant the Empresses and FSE’s (see FSE) all their wishes. Does not function/work in times of official vacation. Known to wear cute dresses and hold a magic wand. Word has it she can even fly.

GMSL (di: εm εs εl), abbrev. for Grand Master and Spiritual Leader: 1. FSE (see FSE) entrusted with the job of advising and guiding the Co-Empresses of Hendika (see Hendika) in the direction of righteousness. 2. see Scvaxx.

Pink Suede Elephants (pιηk sweιd ‘εlιfnt), n.: The three official imaginary friends of the First Co-Empress of Hendika (see Hendika), Eureka.

Scvaxx (∫’væks), n.: 1. first GMSL (see GMSL) of the Empire of Hendika (see Hendika). [C21: from ACJ sessions Scvaxx kaleidoscope of Sabuna Island and Safingaland]

Nosebleeds? That's a New One

Apparently, the common euphemism in Japanese anime (and even Disney cartoons inspired by the artform) for sexual arousal is a nosebleed.

This is because of the nerve links between the genital and nasal tissues. For all the scientific/medical explanation your little heart desires, click on the link.

As used in anime, the amount of blood erupting from the man or woman's nostrils is directly linked to the extent of arousal, with enormous amounts representing ejaculation.

Who knew the Japanese could be so crude?

Your Friendly Neighbourhood News Round-up

Dear Egypt,

I regret to inform you that you are not as inventive in your law-enforcement techniques as you would like - and have led your populace and the rest of the world - to believe.

Yes, yes, I know. Don't look at me like that. It shook me to my very core, too. I'm so sorry to have to be the one to break it to you.

But no, you are not the pioneering mind behind mass arrests.

Once again, you have been thwarted from that honourable position of eminence by our team's QB, the good ol' US of A. Damn Yankees...

Don't look so glum, though! There's some good news! You're still leading in that other race you're in!

YES! You're in the running for gold!

16 more people have perished in yet another ferry accident, totalling about 30 this holiday season.

Feels good to be number one, doesn't it. Don't blush and scuff your shoe on the ground like that, you know you deserve it. Modesty doesn't become you, dear.

Now don't you fret about the whole mass arrest thing. Look on the bright side, Hoover suggested it in 1950, and didn't even go through with it.

So, I guess you still win on a technicality. You're still at it, 57 years later.

You go, girl!

Yours,

Eureka.

P.S. I'd look into setting up a YouTube channel if I were you. Can't have QEII all hip and you still admiring your picture in the newspaper. Get with the times, love.

Drivers and Robbers and Pavements, Oh My!

Once upon a time,
Not so long ago,
A city named Cairo
Was ruled by Big Boss Pharaoh.
Being mighty and smart,
And – sigh – yes, a half-god,
Pharaoh began to wonder
What was in store for his city yonder?

So off he went, back to the future,
Where the world was not ruled by Pharaoh, but by the computer.
Shaken but not stirred, Pharaoh explored
What he was told was Cairo, but where –
Strangely enough – mighty Pharaoh was (GASP!) ignored!
No royal barrage for him, no siree,
Instead the street he roamed,
In a strange contraption called a taxi.

Around downtown Pharaoh commanded his steed,
Caring little of where this unusual stallion may lead.
All of a sudden, Pharaoh yelled “STOP!”
A beautiful vision had just made his heart drop.
A large grey building towered above,
But all he could see were gorgeous women; he was in love!
He asked his slave (the driver), “what is this place of pleasure?”
His slave/driver replied, “AUC, Master.”

Pharaoh smiled in delight and said to himself,
“I shall build one back home, all to myself!”
Pharaoh, being astute, noticed that most
Had a strange symbol manifested on her purse.
Pharaoh asked his driver what this symbol meant,
And driver responded “that her daddy has spent
All the money in my bank, and 7 more,
Which is why he’s fled to Paris, London, or Singapore.”

Chuckling at the thought of someone being so stupid,
Pharaoh said to the driver, “thank you for a ride so fluid!”
Then out Pharaoh stepped, giving the driver a tip;
The tip of his finger that is,
For that was how Pharaoh blessed
His loving servants – they liked this finger best.
The driver however, was far from amused;
Oh poor Pharaoh, how he was abused!

Bruised but unfettered,
Pharaoh continued on foot,
But little did he know…
Oh, the danger he withstood!
Walking between those confounded coloured (and ugly) camels,
He did so with clout;
Until one almost hit him,
It was then that even Pharaoh started to shout.

Being Big Boss Pharaoh, we know he is clever,
So when he looked around, he noticed a feather.
It was lying on the ground, but that wasn’t the attraction.
The blocks it lay on were black and white,
Was that yet another contraption?
With a quick calculation, he figured the stones were high
Enough to keep his feet safe
From those zooming creatures that made him fly.

So if Pharaoh from 7000 years ago
Could work out the following:
That the pavement is for people,
And the streets for vehicles with wheels ever-turning,
Then why can’t our populace
80 million strong,
Understand a simple concept,
What could be so wrong?

2007 US Patents: Groundbreaking

I love NYTimes Magazine, they come up with the most random articles. Here are some of this year's patents, and what Alexandra Horowitz believes inspired them:



Some of these are priceless.

Eureka v. Egyptian

All rise, Honourable Justice Etiquette presiding.

Thank you, you may be seated.

Case No. 3983/2007-B, Plaintiff Eureka is suing Defendant Egyptian for psychological and emotional distress, lost income, and punitive damages caused by Egyptian's disruption of Eureka's day-to-day life.

Your Honour, I shall not bore you with the usual introductory appeals to your empathy. I shall merely list Egyptian's transgressions, from which you will certainly understand my distress.

Having lived with and around Egyptian for the majority of my life, I have had to endure:

1) Abhorrent disregard of Egyptian's surroundings, whereby he finds it acceptable to dispose of phlegm, gum, urine, faeces, vomit, and other such excrements and/or trash on the pavement I am thus habitually forced to endure soiled shoes and trouser bottoms, nausea, and visual and environmental pollution.

2) Deafening noise pollution. Egyptian has consistently and unapologetically engaged in the use of his outdoor voice, indoors. This has hindered my concentration, thus resulting in the loss of valuable working hours, thereby resulting in lost income. It has further led to damage to my auditory system, causing physical and emotional distress due to skyrocketing medical and psychological bills.

3) Complete flout of the fundamentals of personal hygiene, thereby forcing me to endure the sickening mélange of sweat and cheap perfume.

4) Egyptian finds it acceptable to publicly scratch, expose, or pleasure his male member in my and other women's presence, causing irreparable emotional and psychological damage and assault.

5) Egyptian persistently displays condescension of any and all education, refusing to read anything while assuming he knows everything. Thus, he insists on disseminating false information, directions, and the like, with complete indifference to the consequences of this misinformation, thus resulting in my wasting countless hours lost in Maadi, Mohandesin, and other incomprehensible areas of Cairo.

6) Egyptian finds it unnecessary to consider those around him when eating, thereby forcing me to endure his loud, open-mouthed chewing, his dripping of food all over his shirt, his smacking, and spitting out food when he speaks. He also insists on placing his fork, knife, and glass on the wrong sides of his plate, and using his wine glass as his water glass. This has forced me to leave many a meal uneaten due to exasperation and disgust, leading to malnutrition, and economic difficulties due to meals paid for while unenjoyed.

7) Egyptian is convinced of a deep-rooted Zionist conspiracy against him, where the smallest problem, like lack of parking in Cairo, is Israel's fault, and part of Israel's plan to destroy Egypt. This has created innumerable headaches for me because of my need to bang my head against a brick wall to numb the exasperation felt by such nonsense.

8) Egyptian assumes the West is a perverted hedonistic culture, when he is the exact same way, but feebly attempts to hide it by claiming that issues such as the influence of Western clothing in Egypt is an attack on Egyptian civilization and culture, while really he finds it necessary to take said clothing in Egypt at face value, requiring the most fashionable Western designers available to dress him. This has once again caused me to bang my head against Valentino's boutique wall, forcing me to pay for the hole caused by said action, and thus causing me physical, psychological, and monetary harm.

9) Egyptian insists that he descendant and son of the land of civilization, where the Ancient Egyptians were the first and best doctors, scribes, lawyers, politicians, rulers, architects, engineers, blah, blah, blah… While remaining in this dream world of his past, Egyptian has managed to render his country in complete backwardness and disarray. This has caused me irrevocable harm, as it has hindered and reduced my quality of life in Egypt.

10) Finally, your Honour, Egyptian is just plain annoying, aggravating, and asinine, and I should not be forced to deal with him on a daily basis.

Judge Etiquette looks at Eureka, and then looks at Egyptian, who is busy using his pinky finger's elongated nail to pick wax out of his ear, while playing with his toes, with his shoes emanating an awful stench.

Judge Etiquette rules in favour of Eureka, and sentences Egyptian to life in etiquette class.

I only wish it were that simple.

Santa, Baby

A list of dares to try out on your local Santa, from Vanity Fair:

One-Point Dares

1. After your child has finished itemizing everything he or she wants for Christmas, press a dollar into Santa’s hand and say, “For your trouble.”
2. Tell a mother and child waiting behind you that Santa’s throne is made of Blitzen.
3. Rehearse your child so that when Santa asks what the tyke wants, he or she bursts into tears and says, “I just want Mommy and Daddy to be married again!”
4. Using both hands, foist a squirmy toddler upon Santa while saying in an Eastern European peasant accent, “I bake just for you … I bake just for you … ”
5. Wearing an airport-security badge and holding a Rubbermaid tub, stand at the head of the line and announce, “Nobody gets to see Santa unless they take off their shoes, take out their laptops, and dispose of all liquids that aren’t in three-ounce bottles!” Repeat every 30 seconds.

Three-Point Dares

1. Scrutinize Santa up and down, then ask witheringly, “Why do you have to dress like such a whore?”
2. Show up in a rented red suit and false beard and announce to Santa, “You’re out, fatso. Manager’s making a little change.”
3. Show up in a rented elf suit, pass Santa a résumé, and plead, “I really need this gig.”
4. Get on both knees and snort the fake snow.
5. Hold up a copy of Paula Deen’s memoir, It Ain’t All About the Cookin’, and say, “Don’t get me wrong, Santa, I admire you, but you did some bad shit to Mrs. Claus.”

Five-Point Dares

1. Tug down on Santa’s false beard, point at him in alarm, and scream, “Megan’s Law! Megan’s Law!”
2. Sidle up to Santa and say conspiratorially, “Hey, I got the stuff.” Then drop a dime bag in his lap.
3. Bow your head, perform a sign of the cross, address Santa as “Father Christmas,” and confess to having impure thoughts about someone within earshot.
4. Dressed as a character from Pasolini’s 120 Days of Sodom, step up to Santa and announce, “I’ve brought the children, Master Claus, just as you requested.”
5. Tell the gathered children that Rudolph is dead—his nose turned red because Putin poisoned him with polonium.

Guess Who

Noma Bar's new book Guess Who is genius. He creates images of famous personalities using symbols and lines.

Check out http://www.creativereview.co.uk/crblog/guess-who for more.

FMF, in a Nutshell

As I have spent a good portion of my life explaining the inanities of FMF, here, once and for all, is allyouwouldeverwanttoknowbutaretoolazytoGoogle about one of biology's more pointless disorders, whose sole purpose is to drive its sufferers to the brink of suicide, hallucinations, and the fourth dimension, but never pushes the poor sufferer over the brink. Yes, not only is it tortuous, it is a total tease, too (check out that alliteration. I'm so good I amaze myself).

Thinking caps on? All the medical jargon learnt from Scrubs, Grey's Anatomy and the like in check? Good. Moving swiftly on.

Familial Mediterranean Fever is a genetic mutation (and thus hereditary, d'oh) affecting ethnicities originating from the Mediterranean Basin (hence, the name. Doctors can be so original). It is prominent in Armenians, Turks, Arabs, and Sephardic Jews (and just so they don't feel left out, Ashkenazi's are also susceptible, but to a lesser extent).

Now that we know who gets it, what exactly is it?

There are seven types of attacks, all causing immense pain and fevers, which in my case tend to be high. Yours truly tends to get the first three.

1. Chest attacks, where the pleural lining (your rib cage muscles) and the pericardium (sac holding the heart) become inflamed. I used to get this one exclusively as a child, until I developed 2 and 3 in my early teens. (Affects 40% of patients)
2. Abdominal attacks, which basically inflate my entire abdomen like a balloon and often can be misdiagnosed as appendicitis. I had mine taken out years ago because of this. But Egyptians who like to pretend to be doctors claim I should get my appendix taken out again. And again. And yet again. (Affects 95% of patients).
3. Joint attacks, where the joints become sore and inflamed to the point where you can't move them. My left knee has attained volleyball proportions. (Affects 75% of patients).
4. Rash.
5. General overall muscle pain (Myalgia).
6. Inflammation of the scrotum (umm, yeah, because I have one of those).
7. Fever without any symptoms.

Now all of these are inconvenient, but totally benign. The real Jaws theme moment is what follows:

Chronic renal failure.

Beethoven's Fifth plays menacingly here.

This is invited by the secretion and buildup of amyloid protein in the kidneys, as well as heart, intestines, etc… caused by AA-Amyloidosis.

So yeah I have solid proteins cementing inside my vital organs. Fun, yeah?

This is where Colchicine works its magic. Colchicine is like a wonderdrug because not only does it prevent amyloidosis from occurring, it also helps reduce the quantity of attacks.

Side affects include hair loss, fetal death (note to self: do not take while pregnant to save child, and suffer nine months of attacks where you will freak out thinking you've gone into labour. When you actual do go into labour, ignore thinking it is an attack and have the child suddenly pop out on the living room couch), abdominal and muscle pain (sound familiar?), etc…

Are there any cures? No. It's a genetic mutation. My best bet is having my genes replaced. Get on it, Dr. Seuss.

Questions? No? Good.

Eureka, MD, at your service.

Imperial Dictionary Entries #3 & 4 (as they are closely related)

Focus (the Diva likes to FUCK US!), n.: 1. to be used in conjunction with hoppa (see hoppa) to encourage one to pay attention to the work the Diva (see Diva) likes to pile on the poor FSEs and Empresses (see Hendika). 2. clever pun actually meaning fuck-us, or as the German-speaking members of the FSEs like to say, foch-us, mainly used whenever the Diva is mentioned.

Hoppa (HOBBA!), adv, Egy. Inf.: 1. outcry, call for immediate action, used in the context of despair and utter zan2a (being stuck). Primarily applied by both Empresses (see Hendika) and the Ministress of Entertainment and Inspiration, DFS (see DFS). 2. heard in football matches in the context of hoppa eh, hoppa ah ... and complemented by:
a) insha2allah haneksab (God willing, we will win)
b) insha2allah hanes2at (God willing, we will fail)
[C?: from Egypt colloquial hobba!]

'Tis the Season to be Jolly?

Firstly, I really must apologize for what Nesticleez so correctly labelled "weak" blogging as of late. However, Nesticleez conveniently neglected to acknowledge the fact that I've continued to succumb to my FMF/IBS drama over the past couple of weeks, which as always have rendered me quite usless. For shame, Nesticleez, for shame.

Now that that's out of the way, let us move on to my favourite time of the year: CHRISTMAS!

The Christmas tree went up on Friday, as did the garland that is placed above the entrance to the kitchen. My mother and I decided to light the tree differently this year (which basically means we wanted to be totally kitsch and add a million and one more lights). Lo and behold, with our new lighting system, we did not have enough to cover more than the bottom two rungs of the tree.

Uh oh...

Rush around Cairo trying to find Christmas lights. Zoom zoom zoom went the Mummy in her gas guzzler, ring ring ring went Eureka's phone to Lord knows how many stores.

EUREKA! (It's Christmas, I can be corny) we found the specific type of lights last night! Where? All the way across town. Typical. So we now need to wait until they are shipped from Mohandeseen to Zamalek (two different districts in Cairo) where a friend will pick them up along with her Christmas shopping.

Ah, the logistical nightmares of the holiday season.

However, it is worth it. I can confidently boast that my house is always one of the best decorated in Cairo. Because we're wicked like that.

As an added bonus during my deathly hours this week, I actually had real live honest to goodness work to do. Perfect timing. I told you Murphy's Law should be named after me.

Picture a doubled-over hobbling girl in a suit and overcoat sitting at a computer working on a presentation. On nothing but painkillers (that really do not deserve to be called anything other than stupid pointless ulcer-causing compressed powder that serves no purpose whatsoever) and tiny, terrified sips of water to avoid complete dehydration.

Saturday through today has been FMF. Monday through Wednesday was IBS. I should be awarded something for my bravery and fortitude. Or maybe someone should do to me what one does to a lame horse. Save us all the trouble.

Computer Wars

Eureka: my computer decided to stick the power thingie in front of my foot to see if i'd kick it dead. It won.

Bubba: computer 1. Eureka 0. I think your computer is staging war.

Eureka: it most definitely is. I don't know why though, it's not like i work hard enough to abuse it.

Insolent Bodily Systems

I believe I am perfectly within my rights as a principled, courteous, thoughtful, and engaging member of the human race to expect my body to do as it is told.

Granted, as with even the most dependable of machines, my body will sometimes break down or need a little rest, but I believe I am perfectly reasonable in expecting reliable performance the majority of my time on this generally lovely place we call Earth.

However, seeing as I am of those accursed individuals suffering under our Almighty Lord's incorrigible and inexplicable humour, I have had no such luck.

I began life as a healthy baby who, as the entire family's firstborn, was pampered, lavished with toys and attention, and essentially spoiled rotten. But soon enough, it became evident that I would be destined to live with this enormous chip on my shoulder, because seriously, this is getting on my last nerve.

I was born with what must be the world's most irresponsible immune system because in my short years, I have probably had just about every non-tropical disease or condition known to man, have had every removable organ removed, and been on more pills on a daily, long-term basis (I average 8-10 a day) than the sickest 90-year-old.

I am the reason you should invest all your money in Pfizer.

I won't bore you with my endless list of problems, but I will indulge my deep desire to complain about one of my less threatening but more annoying issues.

Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the bane of my existence, Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Otherwise known as:

Irrefutably Bitchy Stomach,
Impossibly Bleak Soul-snatcher,
Innocuous Bedan Shitfest, and
I Beg Shooting, among others.

I'm usually pretty good about it. I don't complain endlessly. Instead, I take pride in sucking it up and taking it like a stoic prisoner who is never going to break.

But when I really can't eat ANYTHING anymore without getting violently ill and being paralyzed with pain (and BELIEVE ME, I have a HIGH threshold for pain), then someone needs to start answering some questions.

I really just want to be able to chew without fear. Is that so much to ask?

Career? What Career?

I've been asked many times recently about my career aspirations. What is it that I want to do with my life? What career path do I see myself taking? Where do I see myself in whatever number of years?

Prior to graduation, I had all these questions firmly answered. I wanted to go to law school, to become a judge at the ICJ or another equally powerful court, and eventually, I wanted to write the next ground-breaking legal textbook. I wanted to be a legal scholar. I wanted to make a difference in this world.

Sitting here in a financial office now, I wonder what happened to those lofty dreams. Upon graduation, I realized law wasn't the way to go. I didn't really want to leave Cairo anytime soon, and practicing law here isn't an option for me. I'm not fluent in the language; I am not ready to face the challenges of being a triple minority trying to fight her way up.

I find that my interests lie in fields I do not realistically see myself pursuing. I love literature, and I love editing. But I am disenchanted with the publishing industry in Egypt. I'd love to take my chances in New York City or another publishing hub, but I don't see myself living abroad.

Is it fear that is forcing me to hesitate? Possibly. Am I spoiled? If comfort is a form, then yes. I don't mind hard work if it produces results. I do mind the lack of direction I've been struggling with.

I mind the fact that I have yet to find something I am truly passionate about. Yes law and literature engage me, but what is it that I go to bed and wake up thinking about? Where do my true passions lie? What is my calling?

At this point, I feel that a line from Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk About Kevin describes my status:

"Like most people who did not answer a particular calling from an early age, you placed work beside yourself; any occupation would fill up your day but not your heart."

I hope that is not what I am destined to live with. It would be a shame.

Stoopid 'Puter

Don't you just hate it when your pc decides to suddenly die on you in the middle of work and neglects to auto-recover?

I hate computers.