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But this morning we entered a luxurious bathroom and brushed Assad's teeth with colgate. Super-shiny. Then we flossed. We got dressed, and tied his tie in a windsor knot. On our way out of the bedroom his wife Asma said something in Arabic which we could not understand. We made him nod, and she seemed satisfied. We knew somehow that we were destined for a meeting with military leaders. But it seemed that despite being put in an Arabic-speaker's body, we could not comprehend the language. This might be, we realized simultaneously, a difficult day.
It's tough times in Syria. Like, there's some crazy shit happening: grenades hitting buildings, and doctors getting beaten to a bloody pulp for trying to help wounded protestors. And worse things than that. Much much worse. It might be all-out civil war soon. The US is involved. And Europe. Everyone's watching. It's no fun here.
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"What will we do?" Sinners asked the rest of us telepathically.
"I dunno," replied Namers, "but they're waiting for him to say something."
"Screw it," Bleeders said with a shrug, "let's have fun."
The generals were waiting patiently. We made our man rise to his feet. He is very tall. We used his left hand to stroke his moustache. And then, with long, exaggerated steps, we carried Assad's body to a computer in the corner of the room, made him load up this video online, and directed him to sing along at the top of his lungs.
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3 comments:
I think I will raise my lips into a smile, though this is one of the saddest posts I've read.
I like this stuff, I wonder if you woke up as him again the next day? Or maybe just someone else.
The next day we were the contorting girl on the cover of the Vagina Vangi EP. Namers made her eat doughnuts and gain four pounds.
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