The Scariest Muslim Ghost Story Never Told

A perfect looking Persian girl from Iran got married off to a baby faced, Opium Farmer from Afghanistan that was considered a highflying, up and coming player like Benny Bronco from the Bronx except this heroin hustler was way tougher, way meaner and got way better stuff considering that he was a fifth generation Opium Farmer that knew the ins and outs of his land better than the ins and outs of dead Russians that bled commie red all over this landmine littered land.

The Opium crazed, double pita chip dipping, dope dishing Afghani, otherwise known as Brown Sugar strutted like a wannabe Tony Montana through the local Farmers Market in downtown Kabul that sells Birkenstocks for half the price it costs in Germany except these sandals lack that fresh box sandal smell due to the cramped Taxi cab size of the market.

Behind Brown Sugar is his Persian wife turned, Muslim mad maid, making sure to look down at the ground as she walks like she’s on landmine detail. The full length burka wearing, mummy covered, loyal lost wife watches her husband buy a vanilla ice cream cone. Sprinkles are considered too western and too perky for these parts. Brown Sugar gives the vanilla ice cream cone to his wife which seems like a nice gesture but she’s just stuck holding it looking like the most confused, blanketed woman on the planet thinking: What am I supposed to do with this? Watch it melt like I do under these resin black burkas all life long.

Of course, she doesn’t dare uttering such extreme agitation because married Muslim woman in Afghanistan have their personality circumcised and their sexuality neutered the moment they step out of the house or womb, take your pick. The wife would love to yell at her husband for torturing her with the image of an unlickable ice cream cone while stuck in the desolate, unrelenting desert heat that is making her sweat more than an American who got arrested for smuggling hash out of Turkey who just realized that the judge from Midnight Express is still residing.

She can’t frown, sigh or express any displeasure in her joyless, man always has the right to beat her to death existence. If she really wanted to show her displeasure, she’d roll her eyes which he’d have no problem seeing, but then she’d be stomped on like a human Persian rug. It’s this nagging fear that prevents Afghani woman from ever stepping out of their pre-ordained, colorless, chat-less character that make Storm Troopers seem chirpy.

But when you’ve had enough, you’ve had enough . Every dog has its day and even Muslim woman that live in constant fear of retaliation can strike back. As the wife watches the vanilla ice cream drip down her cone onto her burka covered hand, she decides that its her time to strike back and that the best way for her to do so is to give that already half way melted scoop of vanilla one mean licking for the entire market to see. This one licking in front of all of those oppressive, domineering eyes would be her independence day. She could savor the taste of freedom on the tip of her censored tongue that had no place to discern taste, express itself or seek out pleasure under female right canceling, Sharia Law.

As she psyches herself up for the most daring, death defying move of her life, Brown Sugar asks her what time it is realizing that he has a poppy farmer growing conference to attend later that morning where he is a distinguished speaker, apparently all of the heavy hashish smoking at the new Oxygen Bar opening last night has made him more groggy than usual. Now, the wife gently lifts up her burka slightly above her wrist to get the time for her husband which shows off a spec of skin which is a big no, no in these parts and looked down upon with vengeful scorn even though no man in the history of mankind has been recorded to experience a surging blood rush to the penis when this happens. Now, she looks down at her black swatch, exposing the slightest parcel of skin and says 10:30 with zero inflection. Brown Sugar's eyes overfill with rage as he becomes consumed with her exposed wrist in the middle of the Farmer’s Market in downtown Kabul. In a hate filled rage he swipes the ice cream from her quivering hand that trembles from his sentencing stare: I bet you think you deserve one last lick before you get stoned to death and I’m not talking about overdosing from a Speed Ball either.

Brown Sugar extends the ice cream cone back to her but then pulls it back and in a mischievous tone, blurts out: Sike. From there a burly, chest hair exposed, Afghani cop grabs her arm from the back: Say goodbye to this world, were taking you down under. There is no trial or judge sentencing her to a planned stoning, just a cop and an unloving husband sentencing her to death because she exposed her wrist in order to give him the time as requested.

At this moment the wife pulls down her veil, spits in Brown Sugar’s face and takes the ice cream and shoves the entire cone into her mouth in the most provocative way possible which causes an explosion of vanilla to dribble all down her mouth. The crackling crunch of the cone went down as the ballsy bite heard around the Muslim World. As the melted vanilla comes trickling down her creamy stained burka, she spits it all out over his face, John Belushi style: This is just a taste for things to come. Your terrorizing days are done.

The details are gory so I’ll spare you the play by play but in the end, she got stoned to death as the entire village did their best Marv Albert impersonation and let out a collective, overly exorbitant yessss. But now the ghost story only begins.

Now, its Halloween, 2010 and the ghost of Brown Sugar’s stone dead wife hovers over the smoky, starlight, Afghani, desert sky after just pulling off the biggest freak job since God spoke to Moses through a burning bush.

They don’t celebrate Halloween in Afghanistan yet that doesn’t mean that the dead ghosts don’t come out to play on this freaky night and haunt the men that robbed Afghani woman of their dignity, freedom or chance of happiness in this fanatical, war tattered corner of the universe. On Halloween, the stoned spirits of Afghanistan will freak out Afghani men and instill fear of gods in their hearts like never before. How will these ghosts pull of this impossible task, you ask? More importantly, the larger question at hand is: What scares Afghani men more than finding out that the virgin promise was nothing more than a scam or pyramid scheme? Is it forced Woody Allen viewings in newly installed American History classes? Nope, the biggest fear of Afghani men is Woman’s Lib and Allah ordained, westernization of its woman which was about to occur.

With this life changing, liberating knowledge, Brown Sugar’s ex-wife pulls off the scariest stunt of all time by going back in time to freak out Muhammad and scare him into rewriting Sharia Law so abusive, blood thirsty Muslim men lose the divine right to enslave and brutalize their woman whenever their in the mood for it.

Muhammad was translating the Koran one day and the Ghost appeared in Muhammad's prayer chambers hovering above his desk, wearing a bright pink Burka that says Juicy on it. Her eyes are devil red which literally freaks the shit out of Muhammad as he drops his imported feather English pen in a state of open mouthed, disbelief. Who are you?, he whimpers. The pink ghost speaks: I’m your worst nightmare, I represent pink power. What’s pink power? The power of the vagina stupid? I’m here to tell you that your lack of social suave around woman and the fact that your still a 30 year old virgin is no reason to instill a scripture that turns us into sex slaves and maids that dress like old Italian woman that are always hiding their appearance like were stuck in a witness protection program without the perks of paid for relocation. Whatever urge you have to keep us under your ownership like house broken dogs ends now. Don’t be afraid of the pink power. It creates life and and is the greatest pleasure center for both parties involved. So don’t bury it under the sand and hide it from plain sight, pink power is the most natural expression of life. Just because you can’t always drink up our pink punch whenever you want, it doesn't give you the right to strip, diminish or downplay its pleasure provoking power. So start rewriting Sharia Law Muhammad, unless you want to feel the full wrath of pink power as I turn from pink to herpes red. Muhammad responds: Do you have any idea how long it took me to write this? She responds: I can just haunt your sex life forever and cover you in herpes sores from head to toe. Alright fine, I’ll rewrite the damn thing, I’ll celebrate pink power, I got it. My hand is cramping up big time. Do you think you can give it a rub? Get to work Muhammad, your sexual satisfaction on this earth depends on it. Don’t bank on those willing, can’t say no virgins either in the alleged afterlife.

Now, its Halloween again 2010 and Sharia Law is rewritten which freaks out Afghani men because it was just enacted tonight. Thousands of years of Afghani woman being stepped on like human Persian rugs ends tonight. Tonight, Afghani woman can divorce, have abortions, talk back to their husbands, refuse to clean the dishes and tell their daddy to suck off a camel next time he tires to enforce an arranged marriage.

Tonight, a group of just liberated Afghani woman host a panty party around the pile of rocks that marks the stoning spot where Brown Sugar’s Ex Wife was stoned to death. Her ghost rises from the grave holding a Victoria Secret Bag that holds all the new sexiified souls that these woman will now carry with them forever. All of the Afghani Woman light a bonfire, take off all their burkas and chuck them into the roaring fire as they dance in a circle hands joined together, stark naked, letting their bushy bushes roar with delight outside the rejuvenated, desert dreamscape that they now live to inhabit.

The ghost now known as Pink Power drops their new power panties from the sky. All the bushy Afghani woman jump to grab hold of their newly empowered selves. They all slide on their panties and dance the night away while that very Van Halen song plays on repeat in the background. Tonight belongs to them, but tomorrow they will unleash their unabashed, un-ashamed, undeterred, universal selves on the Farmers Market in downtown Kabul and show up in just their panties to eat ice cream at their own provocative leisurely pace which will give their former abusers the licking of a lifetime. Then, they will taste true freedom that will last. It will go down as the most triumphant day in the lives of Afghani woman and the scariest one for Muslim Men knowing that Sharia Law is overturned and that their power over woman has finally melted away.  

                                                                   The End

Written By

Josh Kornbluth

 

 

Comments

[jz]

THAT LOCAL FARMERS' MARKET IN DOWN TOWN KABUL IS CALLED ... CHICKEN STREET. IT'S WHERE I PICKED UP HEPATITIS ... FOR THE SECOND TIME.