Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Zardari, why'd you steal my dog?

Never have I experienced a more fervent anti-state up-roaring by the elitists. For all the vehement, simple-minded, cute Facebookers, bloggers and stand-up comedians, let me tell you this; you'd only get 'Facebook Likes' by writing an article that starts off with "Mr. President, first of all, fuck you" and then goes on to continue it as a venomous, spiteful Zaradari-biography. Some stand-up comedians follow suit and write a badgering research paper-length article on a seven word sentence uttered by the president. Perhaps, these are your biggest guns against the great Zardari.
I'd have to agree though. These Facebook petitions and fuck-you-articles about him possess great entertainment value. The petitions inviting your entire friends list to unite against, sometimes, his exorbitant spending trips amidst floods and sometimes his habitual corruption, wouldn't change the situation slightly, not even an inch. If anything, it's going to make you a bigger Facebook whore, more interestingly, this time, a Zardari-loathing whore.

These are the people that are taken aback every fucking time, at every news item associating Zardari with evil, as though he spent the first fifty-five years of his life as a fucking saint. And now, a saint gone bad. Come on. It's been two decades now, since his first claim to fame and exactly two years as our leader. And still , a nation with a president like ours, we wonder why Mohammad Amir and Asif are so expensive when it comes to bowling no-balls. Funny. Now, you dare not flinch in surprise if Scotland Yard find those same series pound-notes at the Zardari Villa. Amir and Asif wouldn't have survived this day, had they not given Zardari his legit share.

Mohammad Amir boards the team coach as Pakistan leave for their tour match against Somerset, London, August 30, 2010
Mohammad Amir is in the eye of the storm after the weekend revelations

As a nation, we have indeed learnt the art of making great punching-bags. Our penchant for the popular Pakistani blame-game has led us into buying a handful of cheap, sastay punching-bags, usually called 'Zardari', and other times, could take the name as innocent as 'Meera'. The Sialkot culprits, the jahil-online Amir Liaqat, Mohammad Amir, and the green-lipped Akmal lie somewhere along the bag punching, hate-level continuum. These have actually done us some good. These have helped us distract ourselves from the ugly man in the mirror, the hideous looking fuck that we choose to ignore.

A Zardari lives inside me, a lynching Sialkoti lives inside you, a breathing caricature of Amir lives inside each on of us. It came on to the surface last week when I shook hands with a traffic 'tulla' and gave him two red notes for taking a wrong u-turn. It comes on to the surface every time somebody gets his/her driving license made in an hour, every time we go to the beach on the election holiday. We have upheld the punching bag tradition brilliantly for the past six decades. Not a thing has changed, except the names of these punching bags. It's about time that we stop accusing Zardari of stealing our candy.