KarmaMole The View From Here..

My Version of Sultan’s Speech


To avoid all suspense – The last page reads: Superman is actually Clark Kent.

Now, onwards:

We sailed the storms, and we defeated fire-breathing hell-spawn! We battled mythical monsters and corrupt politicians! We got wet. Twice.

We endured thunder, rain, sleet, and hail. We grew cold in winter, smelly in summer. We had a cough. We sneezed. I myself had a cold. Nasty.

We endured boredom, and we had to suck Tantawi’s cock. We masturbated without porn, and we had to eat corned beef. Our underwear was tight.

We put on weight, lost weight. We picked our noses, and then we picked each other’s noses. There were buggers all around. We endured. Survived.

We laughed, we cried. Then we got drunk. Somebody told a dirty joke. We laughed. Then we cried. Then we got drunk again. It was horrible.

Our souls were overwrought with responsibility. Our backs burdened by accountability. Our dandruff came back. We were assailed on all sides.

We held hands. We prayed. We looked up to the sky and asked why God has forsaken us. We got no reply. We asked again. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

We held each other for warmth, then gave ourselves hourly group hugs. We scheduled therapy sessions and called for a Swedish masseuse.

We slept under our beds, used nite-lights. We refused to be intimidated by darkness and waited for the dawn to come. It was late, smelly.

Our hair fell off. Our bladder control was entirely lost. We had chapped lips and sweaty palms. We all got athletes’ feet. Watched Shaft.

We had movie marathons. We got bored. We watched Home Alone. We watched The View. We fell in love with Whoopie Goldberg. We came undone.

We tried to make fire, hunted for small prey. We tried to grow fruits. We built small huts out of animal carcasses. We forgot our alphabets.

We ordered delivery food. They got the order wrong. We refused to eat it. Demanded they fix it. They argued. We stood our ground. Victors.

We consulted our calculators. We concluded that 1 + 1 is usually, but not always, 2. We looked at multiplication tables. They’re confusing.

We held back tears, wrestled with Bengal tigers. They had sharp claws. We didn’t care. They were dark. We were brave. We brushed our teeth.

We gave ourselves occasional pats on the back. Tally ho, old chap. We’d say. Then we’d have a swig of scotch, and cry, cry again.

We lost count. Then watched tv. Then tried to count again, but it was really boring. My son called. His dick got caught in his zipper. Pain.

We looked at ballots. They looked weird. We had a joint. Boiled the ballots in water and drank that. It didn’t get us high. Good times.

We tried watching a football game. Couldn’t remember if Ahly wore red or white. Cheered anyway. Somebody got a goal, we think. Good times.

We jerked each other off. Then swapped photos of our wives. Then regretted it. We called SCAF and asked them what to do. Shehab, they said.

We tried to remember what we were doing here. How long we had been here. I could barely remember my name. It was grueling. War is hell.

We hit our heads against the walls. Then against each other’s heads. That was less painful and felt much more intimate. We got close. Love.

Finally, we found out that really – all you need is love. Lennon or that other guy, whoever wrote that. He was right. God bless Egypt. Etc.

And then we were found, and it turned out that we had never been lost. Amen. Life really is a bitch.

Oh, and – 

Clark Kent is Superman.

About the author


KarmaMole is a nickname for Omar Kamel. He is a writer, musician, photographer, director, and producer. He makes things out of words and sounds and images. He spent three years of his life in a futile fight for a better future in Tahrir Square and has more opinions than any mortal man should be allowed. Some of them are on this blog.

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