February 14, 2006
Yo! Mojo u da bomb, dude!
Perhaps a depiction of the Profit Mojo (PBUH - Psst! Be a Upon Him! Make haste I prithee!), in bed with his “seven eleven” year old wife Ayesha, diddler that he reveals himself to be (fact un-refuted even by his most respected followers), in “his” famous work: “the holy quoran”, would have been more appropriate.
Picktall, in his: “The Meaning of the Glorious Koran” Explanatory Translation, Mentor publishing, Chicago, introduction to Surah XXXIII, lets us in on, and surrounds with a rather oedipal-sounding 'plea for normalcy’ excuse for; Mojo’s preferences and saviour-complex justifications. Read on:
The Surah contains further references to the wives of the the Profit, in connection with which it may be mentioned that from the age of 25 till the age of 50 he had only one wife, Khadijah, fifteen years his senior, (emph. on the oedipal, mine) to whom he was devotedly attached and whose memory he cherished till his dying day. With the exception of Ayeshah,… …whom he married at her father’s request when she was still a child (emph. On the diddler, mine), all his later marriages were with widows whose state was pitiable (emphasis on the saviour complex, mine) for one reason or another. (P. 301)Having admitted most of the following himself, & along with many unmentioned but easily, if need suddenly were to arise, referenced, Muslim followers and scholars of many a nation, having agreed on ALL of the following at some point ernother, perhaps a depiction of him as an illiterate, epileptic, schizophrenic dictator (of words, people, of words, here), dictating his epileptic, schizophrenic dreams of Quoranic revelation to an haphazard assemblage of opportunist scribes, would have appeared and disappeared as fast as the fleeting moment of levity that one experiences when reading one’s daily Dilbert or Garfield or BC. And yet again, we turn to: “The Meaning of the Glorious Koran” for support:
The words which came to him when in a state of trance are held sacred by the Muslims and are never confounded with those which he uttered when no physical change was apparent in him (emphasis mine, on the fits of an epileptic nature). The former are the Sacred Book; the latter, the Hadith or Sunnah of the profit (ed. Evidence of two vastly different personalities of the Profit revealed in the comparision of his Sacred book with “the latter”). And because the angel on Mt. Hira bade him “Read!”—insisted on his “Reading” though he was illiterate—the sacred book is known as Al-Qur’an, “The Reading”, the reading of a man who knew not how to read (illiteracy freely admitted by Mojo’s own followers).
Assuming no knowledge of reading, then, within the realm of the definition of literacy, there exist a pretty huge sliver of possibility that he had no knowledge of writing either. It was said here that Mohammed was illiterate – that means he had no knowledge of letters. It means someone else wrote the Quoran for him. So he had scribes then, most probably. Having scribes means the possibility of an introduction of error in transcription. In fact, these Scribes could have written anything they bloody well wanted to, Mojo would not have known, either way – he was illiterate.
How can I say that? I am a scribe by trade and predilection, my dear reader. I know the twists and turns taken by and of and through and under and over things - dictated, then and when transcribed.
In any event, you may wonder what the hell all these recent blogs, or perhaps ANY of these blogs at all have to do with the “unfetteredness” of, or more brazenly so; the "unfettering of" UAE. Well, I too, as author - scribe, wonder daily at the same thing. Perhaps it’s a difference in price per word, only. Their relevance, though, we might bend and twist and turn iron logic a few degrees our way to say, is justified merely because I am here, as temporary resident, and it is from this place that I, a scribe, by trade and predilection, feel compelled to yell these things across my keyboard, and thus convert them into a big digital furuncle.
My very own creation. One humungous, festering in contradiction, virtual butt-boil. Simultaneously fascinating and sickening to look at, an imperialistic, hodgepodge of ego-sroking, "religion of the masses" kind of feruncle. Borne of letters though, eh, not illiteracy.
POP! EW! The ripe feruncle just burst, you see, and Mojo’s 'religion of the masses' robustness oozes on down the leg itself stands on, unfortunately, in the presses’ puss-letting that inevitably follows.
Feeling the itch thereof, we want to scratch that feruncle. We want to poke that feruncle. We want to squeeze that feruncle. Part of us even wants to (come on, face it, adventurer, reader-mine) to…. OK, here it is, to just stick one finger right in the middle of that press-puss flowing down, to wipe it around, disturb it's flow. Watch we then, detached from the finger’s stirring act, & distanced from it too, by shoulder, by upper, and forearm, all. After disturbing the puss, in lewd fascination, we leer in, twisted, and stenchedly close, we want to see just where the disturbed puss-flow will twist to next before it needs to be all wiped away and cleaned.
Following that, getting sick of the whole infected spectacle, we begin to eagerly anticipate the influx of willing, very effective, antiseptics to begin their cleansing - their un-festering reversal as it were, preventing the post-puss-let feruncle, otherwise left un-wiped-un-cleansed; from going viciously gangrenous on our collective focuss, the universal left arse cheek of the "religion of the masses". We too. We know where in this world we are right now....
Byro
