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Loveiran | ۹ سال قبل ۲ ۴۰۷
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Loveiran | ۹ سال قبل ۲ ۳۵۱
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خونه عسل خانم
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Loveiran.I don't blame you the unbearable lightness of iroon.com compels one to make such an irrelevant inquiry.
I too voted for sangak
A funeral for a friend, one of the most passionate and painful writings, never featured
as the link above is inactive here is the article by Bahmani
A Funeral for a friend, Eulogy for Iran"
Eulogy, the perennial battle between fighting back tears and trying to strike a meaningful exemplification of the loss of a close dear friend. Ah Iran! I knew her well! We first met in '41, when as a young diaper filled lad, I set a toddler's first foot upon her warm Mehrabad asphalt stepping off a cold Lufthansa at 2 in the morning. As a baby then I screamed, and as a bigger baby today, I am still screaming. On the arm of the Shah, she was by far sexiest. A nimble, optimistic friendly lass, willing to experiment, and try all sorts of positions. While the Shah forced his own kind of twisted love into her obsessively each night, one always felt she would prevail nonetheless. Nevertheless. After 35 years a spent cold and cancerous Shah, done with her ceremony, unceremoniously dumped her and departed and soon after died. It was time for the clergy to take a turn at her now. Blessed as "The People's Revolution". She raised her still pretty head, and for an only brief moment in the Tehran sun, shed the last Shah of Persia's abandoned gilded yoke, finally shaking empire off like a flea, forever. Only to find the thirsty tick of religion now firmly embedded behind her soft ear. Sucking slowly and softly at first. It's bite not as sharp. At first. The next ravaging of our raveshing came on war-horseback from the other West. To win back what little Saddam left standing in Khorramshahr, she had to destroy it's charred remains. And whatever else the mad Iraqi left unburnt. Millions of her children lifeless, limbless, coughing up blood soaked chemicals in the wake of the longest, saddest draw in history. She was the great great great great great granddaughter of a granddaughter of a granddaughter of a long forgotten Queen of Persia. A history so long it cannot be remembered and can only be forgotten slowly. Lost with that subtly suspiciously missing (or was it broken off?) back half of a murder stained Cyrus scroll. That her self-serving defenders now use to advertise with. To sell us whatever goods or bads, service or serve us, and the ever undoubted for-profit 501c(3). No baby, this scroll can mean anything you want it to mean. Or is it merely the first royal contract of property rights? Or nothing more than an ancient income tax form for the always industrious mighty Jews of Babylon? But it never declared any human rights for any of her children. Her men, now balding, and getting shorter with each inbred generation. Viagrously sick with blonde ambition. The barest embers of a once fire in their eyes, now reflex-running away in retreat from the slightest fight. A definite disdain for the slightest risk of the appearance to defend her, or any of her indefensible daughters. Her women, sickened and reluctantly defiant "Pari Hearsts" held down by the sheer weight of the man-terpretation of a now ugly Ghoran. So sweet the moment, so enjoyable the blissful feeling when the Basiji baton stops beating. Now preferring and choosing to wear the pre-required protective head gear. The unquestionable uniform of piety and purity. The black color of phirm phallic dominatrication that Holy Hell surely pleasures. Defined Stockholm Syndromes wrapped up in an always well made up package. That vague Vogue pornstar package of inept beauty. Always far more enticing than any of the awkwardly conflicted big underpanted toys inside. Her children, aloof assholes. Suckily self absorbed and coldly clueless. Masters degreed morons. Intellectually indifferent idiots. Opportunity seeking opportunists. Wanting and wishing and waiting for that one first chance to get the hell out, and acquire the means to only acquire more means. Because they deserve to. Her blue eyed "Guardians", cataracted, pale, old and decrepit festering men with old and decrepit festering skin. Flaking, itching, fidgeting, scratching, and clawing for a thief's moment to fill up their Big Gulps with holy water behind the back of the clerk at the Ali-Baba 24-hour convenience store. Her leader, the genuine unoriginal, the all unnatural, the Supremest Pizza ever made to order, just the way he likes it. No olives, no mushrooms, no sausage, no meat. No peppers, no onions, certainly no sinfully sensual pineapple. Just mounds upon mounds upon mounds of cheese. With extra cheese. And more cheese. On top of yet more cheese. Cheez? Her fiercest online defenders re-circumcised, decapitated, constipated, and completely broke. "I blog, therefore I am". Wails of exactly the same, the exact same broken record. Yodeling into the gully of a mythical hidden randomly changing IP address. Screaming something sounding sort of like "HOSHAH!" Whatever, drowned out by the bored-angry apathy of the West, and their doting campaign contributing Iranian Super-rich. Leaving only ex-pat fatties who simply love every ad-free free-wifi word of it. Proof of "What Good is Love?" Ah, the Iranian Super-rich! Who could have easily saved her, not 3 years into this devolution, who could save her right now, or right now, or right now, or now, if they could only make it past the Bentley dealership for five minutes, and realize the hard power of pure unending cash. But whatever for? "She's fine and dandy as is... Advanced in many ways even... Haven't you been to Iran recently? You really should go. If you do, fly Emirates first class. It's wonderful! And the food and parties back home! And the people are so friendly! Not like here..." Her "Opposition", could have easily saved her too. If they hadn't wasted her youth and their middle age, middle fingering and fighting amongst themselves, jockeying for mere position on the feeding schedule, betting on when the West will finally restart Operation Ajax II: "Return of the Jeddi(migi)?". Pluto panelists orbiting alone way out there. Judges presiding over an empty courtroom. Their plans? Each one the exact same. The outdated variation on a failed theme. Subtle Socialism mixed with Slightly French Parliamentarism, add in plenty of opportunities for institutionalized corruption. Of course "...completely different than what Iran has today..." Her traditional Western oppressors traditionally Western clueless. Ignorant of her non-Arab history, culture, traditions, or customs. Americans speaking their broken Farsi/Dari with oddly German accents. Too lazy to even lift a fat mid-western finger to re-stock the puppeteers with string, to re-oppress or re-colonize her all over again. Her new oppressors from the East, hands stained with soy sauce, greedily stir fry her innards and feed on her annoyingly endless bounty, taking all her classes, studying all the best lessons she has to teach. Her best and brightest, her ex-pat-fatties, suburbanly defend whatever dream state they choose to remember her by. This week. Twisted delusions of Grand Marnier grandeur that never was, magically turned into false beard community organizations, designed to safely self promote the founders as heroes with made up histories, pop culture as culture, and monkeyfied mis-spelled traditions. Always non-political, always non-religious, always with that ugly feigned pride only a comfortable coward would dare profess. Thinking no one will ever find out their made up truths. Defending her without the slightest risk of actually defending her. The cruelest of all acting. So here she sits after all the betrayals, the drunken raped belle left at the ball with a last call look in her mascara streaked eyes. She is all but gone. Still somehow standing, but she is most certainly dying. Tattered and torn, used up, chewed up, worn out and spit out. An old bitter husband-less woman, left with nothing but the distant memory of the Cougar she once was. Irrelevant even in her most irritating irreverence. A nobody non-factor trapped helplessly in an all too Persia-less world. Her name? Iran. Nee Persia. Her curse? A fan-free quintessential non-existent, existential existence. Her legend? Lost somewhere in the far reaches, way, way, way in the back of her own fast fading mind. And yet, still she was the best love. A love affair during the best part of a life. A final farewell finale for the dearest friend I ever knew this well. Too well. Too well to last any longer than it has. It is time to go. It is time to let go. Hala Vaghteh Lala.
با اجازهء مهربان این هم لینک به مقالهء بهمنی:
PS: Sangak forever!