Death Threats and Flowers (or, How I Dialed Murder for Love)

Am I being wildly ethnocentric, or is this a strange way of trying to seduce girls: “I kill your boyfriend for you, yes? And then we eat.”

I’ve run across incidents like this before, but what reminds me of my own story is something I read recently at Patreesha.com, where a happenin’ Asian-American college student reports her daily trials and tribulations. In an entry entitled, “When Things Go Quickly From Bad to Worse,” she tells the tale of a New York City cab ride gone weird:

It's midnight on a Friday night, and I'm in a cab with a friend Harry going home from some terrible, ritzy club in Chelsea.... Harry got out of the cab before I did, leaving me alone and very visibly drunk with a young male Egyptian cab driver. Shortly after Harry exited and the cab door slammed behind him, I heard the small, throaty, mucus-filled sound of the driver clearing his throat: "AH-CHALAAHMM"

It gave me a short, quick, nervous chill down my spine, similar to the effect of when Hispanic construction workers bellow chittering animal noises at me from the sidewalk (this happened Wednesday); or when wrinkly-faced, very obviously single old Chinese immigrant men (whilst eating dinner in the same restaurant in which they work as short-order chefs) start talking in a dialect that sounds like shattering glass (jing! jong! xiang!) while slyly pointing at me with their chopsticks as fried rice comes flying out from their gaping mouths (this happened today); or when old white guys with their remaining thinning hair shaped carefully into a mullet follow me down the street in their vans with their headlights off in the middle of the night (this happened last night); or when an old dirty Mexican man with acid-wash, elastic leg jeans and a matching denim elasticated cap grabs my ass going down the steps to the subway station and runs away cackling (this happened Friday). I digress, however -- The cab driver locked eyes with mine in the reflection in the rearview mirror and began to speak:

"Hallo I am Mohammed. What is your name?"
"Trisha."
"Your boyfriend is very lucky man."
"Oh, that's not my boyfriend. He's just some stupid asshole."
"Oh really? Lady you are most beautiful woman in world. I see you when you get in cab with your friend and I say to myself, 'Wow. Wowie. She is beautiful woman in world. I am lucky to have her in cab even though some asshole greasy young man with her. I am lucky.' -- That is what I think to myself."
"Ha ha, thank you --"
"And I say to myself, 'For that kind of woman, wow, I would kill a boyfriend like that man for her. For you I mean. I would kill with my own hands because you so beautiful.'"
"-- Uuuuuhhhh..."
"Oh do not be afraid. That is not my way. I am kind man. Okay? You like Egyptian food? You call me anytime, I take break from work since I get off 5am, we get Egyptian food to eat, together. We will do that? Let me give you phone number."

Patreesha’s story goes on in hilarious fashion, forcing me to recall when I was bartending part-time at a NYC restaurant a few years back. I was living with a waitress and a coat-check girl from the same restaurant, and they were both cute, cool chicks and thus were hit on a lot, but it was the Spanish (mostly Mexican) and Middle Eastern (mostly Bangladeshi) busboys and kitchen-staff guys who were really pushy about it. Actually, the Spanish guys were usually very copasetic, and would just drop the occasional perv comment or bad pick-up line that any guy might after being stuck changing in the co-ed dressing room with the hot waitresses and coat-check girls for the 100th time; the white waiters and kitchen guys were just as likely to attempt a game of grab-ass as anyone.

Perhaps it was the more open chauvinism of the foreign fellows that was really notable, and not their flirtatious advances. (Two of the classy French waiters were the skeeviest of them all, but that’s another story; involving, I kid you not, talk of killing goats in the context of an orgy proposition.) But man, the Middle Eastern guys, especially some of the Bangladeshi guys, were the only ones who brought up murder on a regular basis.

This was pre-9/11, mind you. Mid-2000. The strange thing was that I got along great with all these guys, but then my coat-check-girl roommate told them that I was her boyfriend, hoping to get them off her back, because they were always much worse with the single women. And my waitress roommate told them that a friend of mine was her boyfriend. The next thing the girls know, they're being told by a small group of the Bangladeshi guys that they're so beautiful they're worth killing for, and would they like to have their boyfriends killed? And if my friend and I ever treated the girls badly, the Bangladeshi guys told the waitress and coat check, they would kill us in seconds. And where did we all live, by the way?

A few weeks later, while working, one of the Bangladeshi guys casually mentioned to me that he had "just happened to find your address. I know your neighborhood well. You live on the first floor with the girls? Would you like a biscuit from the kitchen?" And he stood there waiting for me to finish eating the biscuit ("Eat! Eat!") as I kept thinking "Is this poisoned?" But it was a good biscuit and we had a nice chat.

The next day he brought the coat-check girl a flower and gave it to her while I wasn't around. He once again offered to kill me, but she said she didn't need me killed at the moment.... It was very odd. The sly seduction of the coat-check girl and the feeding me of biscuits routine went on for at least a few weeks, until the drama slowly tapered off.

Now, I’ve met a lot of awesome Middle Eastern people and some hyper-cool Bangladeshis, so don’t get me wrong: this was an isolated incident involving a select few individuals. And at the time I took it as being mostly a joke, since I got along with the guys pretty well, although they were extremely, umm, intense gentlemen (the biscuits, flowers, and murder offering busboy who wouldn't give up on the coat-check girl was often referred to as "wild eyed," but he was also a chess champion and very kind, so go figure).

However, when I hear stories like Patreesha’s, with the Egyptian cabdriver offering to kill her boyfriend (or at least the guy he thinks might be her boyfriend), forcing his phone number upon her, figuring out how to get her phone number without her permission, calling her numerous times, knowing where she lives (because he dropped her off at her apartment) ... the hairs on my disgustingly hirsute back stand on end. It’s crazy. Especially in this post-9/11 atmosphere where people are much more likely to take threats like this seriously, where a single complaint of this nature could cost a cabdriver his license, where tensions toward accented Middle Easterners are still on edge. What was the cabdriver thinking? What were the busboys thinking?

Well, they were probably cerebrating the same flustered, overheated, hormonally charged thoughts all men think when confronted with an attractive female. But they really need to get the “I will kill your boyfriend” routine out of their systems and go straight to the “Do you like Middle Eastern food” bit. Yes, Middle Eastern food is delightful. Death threats? Not so much.

The Mayor of Diversity

And now a word from the honorable Bruno “Paca” Dicermelt:

Hello, Mr. Brachish. As my spokesman informed you, I’d like to tell your readers a bit about myself and how my political innovations are setting new trends for the future of the world.

I’m the mayor of Caramie, a small town whose population is comprised of individuals ranging in “identity” from wealthy African-Americans, middleclass intellectual lesbians, working-class white males, aging Chicanos and every other racial, ethnic, and sexual combination imaginable. My job is to maintain a harmonious atmosphere amidst all this diversity, so I’ve developed a few ideas to encourage tolerance and the respect of differences in such a multicultural environment.

My first construct addressed the issues of gender and sexuality—for the sake of survival and equality I’ve assumed the responsibility of equalizing the entire population of my city. Forthwith, I ordered up the mass castration of all males.

No longer do we heterosexual men have to summon up an ugly mental image of male-on-male anal sex every time we see a gay man, because males in our society are no longer capable of using their penises for anything other than urination. (This also solves the bulk of rape crimes; damn I'm good.) All impregnation is done through artificial insemination, and the sperm used is scientifically manufactured based on permutations of my own personal sperm. (Thus everyone receives a taste of my greatness in their children, while the genetic permutations engineered by skilled lab technicians prevent the drawbacks of inbreeding that would normally occur from continually using one man’s sperm to fertilize an entire society). It’s a comforting thought knowing that even after my death my spermatozoon will continuously be manufactured and used to conceive countless children.

I’ve also implemented a historic mandatory Health Law that guarantees free healthcare (free to the extent that it’s paid for with peoples’ taxes). The healthcare system has one catch: it demands cosmetic surgery for one and all, lessening the pessimistic effect ugly people have on themselves and others. The law also enforces rigorous self-care (healthy diet, daily exercise, balanced vitamin intake) and punishes those who disobey. Obviously, these laws not only make for a healthier society, but a more beautiful one as well.

I’m mad, you say? I think not. My laws are all based on the core belief of equalization. Let me reiterate for the simple minded: If everyone looks beautiful and healthy, no one will be discriminated against for being unattractive or sickly. Some people argue that race, sex, and gender are at the root of discrimination, but any gimp with half a brain knows it’s really the ugly and lame that have been pissed on throughout the history of time. Also, it’s much easier to accept minorities as equals when they’re ass-smackingly gorgeous.

There are no class issues in Caramie. I put an end to them years ago with an idea now referred to as The Class Equalization Equalization Enactment (CEEE). In the speech I gave introducing the plan I accidentally said the word “Equalization” twice, and the mindless horde that call themselves “journalists” misunderstood and began reporting the project as The Class Equalization Equalization Enactment, instead of just The Class Equalization Enactment. My advisors think this actually aided in the vast embracement of the idea because the community found it too grandiose-sounding to understand, and narcissistic news anchors enjoyed rolling the phrase off their well-paid tongues.

Basically, the CEEE taxed the rich and gave to the poor. The rich who complained were called in to receive a refund and instead received my patented Blasto © treatment (a chemical brain injection that causes migraines but solves all tax complaints). Soon the poor were middleclass, the rich were middleclass, and the middleclass were middleclass (and I had plenty of tax money to fund my health plan).

Mass beautification, mass-beatification, mass taxation, and mass castration—it all goes together like creamy white sauce on biscuits. The beautification portion of my health plan, as previously explained, alleviates the issue of race because now people are not “black” or “white” or “Hispanic” or “Republican” or “Jewish” so much as “Just Damn Good Looking,” solving cultural problems that continue to pop up in other diverse towns like poison ivy in unkempt woods.

My castration initiative plays into this as well: No longer do members of any race or creed have to instinctively/subconsciously/ethnocentrically fear that members of other ethnicities will breed within their social circle, because men can no longer breed at all. Sexual competition, as everyone knows, is at the core of most hostility—solve the fear of your wife/daughter/mother getting interbred with somebody of a different race, and you solve 70% of war, crime, and hate itself. No ligers, tigons, mules, or mutts in Caramie. No. Just hot-ass kids with my brains and their mother’s surgically enhanced good looks.

But wait! I’ve been struck by another brilliant concept. I’ll prosaically call it Diversity Month, for now. Diversity Month will force citizens of Caramie to have new and diverse multicultural experiences that will open up minds and solidify social understanding. During Diversity Month everyone in Caramie over the age of 16 must have at least four sexual relationships with people outside of their race and sexuality. At least two of these encounters will be homosexual in nature, and at least two more will be with a member of another race. At least one of these four liaisons must involve both of the above factors at once. During Diversity Month I also plan to enact Diversity Day, a keystone of Diversity Month during which the entire town will be whipped into a frenzy of untamed orgiastic delights and undaunted debauchery. Diversity Day will bring all aspects of our community together for 24 hours of sexual thanksgiving.

I know what you’re thinking: “How can males have sex during Diversity Month when they’ve all had their balls lopped off like bad little doggies?” Well, sex with the penis is not the only form sex, my friends. You have to let your imagination run wild to experience the joys of sex in Caramie. Yes! That is correct! Another benefit of the Castration Constitution in the Health Laws is that it actually stimulates imagination in the minds of Caramiens—minds that until now were stagnant, wiped clean by television, the mass media, and other forms of corporate-produced mind washing. Ah! But from my ideas hope springs eternal and benefits abound!

Religion? It’s been difficult, but slowly people are agreeing to my request for everyone to join the Baptist church. We chose the Baptist form of Christianity as our town faith by picking a card out of a bingo machine filled with religions. My reasoning was this: If there is a God, he’ll make sure we pick the right card out of the machine. If God is a Muslim, he’ll guide our hand to the Muslim card, etc. As it turns out, God is a Baptist. But even if he’s not, at least we no longer have to deal with people of one religious stripe thinking that people of all other religions are going to hell, etc., because we’re all Baptists and that’s that. I’m also considering the destruction of all science books, because science keeps leading back to evolution and that just gets Baptists worked up like all hell.

Problems? Where there are problems I see only solutions. My town is diverse, beautiful, healthy, imaginative, open-minded, inventive, equal, and soon to be filled with hundreds of my children… The only thing we have to fear is the jealous national governments of this sordid, wonderful world of ours. Governments hoping to crack Caramie open like a can of cherished smoked oysters. But these too will be overcome, even if I have to Blasto © them all myself.

File under: Satire