On SIMs and Simpletons

Posted: January 29, 2013 in MiB Hates Us All

Some time ago I promised to reveal the story of how I received my Matric results, which is not a good story because of the distinctions I achieved but rather because I was finally able to answer the age-old question of just who the stupidest people that inhabit our lovely blue planet are, which I personally believe is an infinitely more noteworthy achievement. I can now say with certainty that Lebanese men are the dumbest, stupidest and probably the oiliest members of our species that I have ever had the displeasure of laying retinas upon.  But first, some context – you see, whilst most Matrics were fervently and frantically waiting in their homes or outside their local newspaper offices for that fateful SMS, I was not. I wasn’t even in the same country, or even the same continent. Where I was, was standing with a group of six other young travellers outside what we thought was a blazing nightclub but in fact turned out to be a seafood restaurant in a small Lebanese town called Ashrafiyah. Also, my phone had been stolen that self-same night. Also, we were lost.

But let me be kind and rewind back to the scene of the crime, a small, charming yet modern coffee shop in the heart of Beirut, where our posse had decided to sample some of Lebanon’s famous coffee-shop culture. Halfway through ordering, some of the group decided that instead of doing as the Lebanese do in Lebanon they would rather go to Pizza Hut, because some of the group were clinically retarded. The rest of us stayed just where we were, drinking Lebanese coffee and smoking Lebanese hookah and eyeing what we thought were Lebanese lesbians. Life was as about as good as it could possibly get.

At some point, I left to go to the bathroom. Now if you know me, you know that I and my leather jacket are inseparable. On this particular occasion, however, with the Lebanese coffee working on my bladder and the Lebanese lesbians working on other parts, I made a dash for the bathroom, leaving my jacket behind and informing the group that I would catch up with them. After relieving myself, I returned to the table and picked up my jacket, only to find that some supercilious fuck had relieved me of my cellphone.

That’s when the adrenaline started coursing through my veins. For you see, the only way that I could learn of my results was from my parents back here in sunny SA. And here I was, phoneless in a far-off country, which is the third worst thing to be in a foreign land after passportless and dickless. I made a beeline for the closest waiter whose skin was so oily that it looked like something America would invade by midnight.

Sometimes, in one’s life, one needs to make decisions on the spur of the moment. I decided then and there, whilst staring into the sebaceous glands of the waiter in front of me that I would under no circumstances inform anyone about my lost phone. The other group members were under the (correct) impression that I was a genius, which directly countered the fact that if you allow your phone to be stolen from you in a region that is renowned for chopping hands off those people who steal things, then you are a special kind of stupid.

The waiter was no help whatsoever. I bid him good night and advised him to stay away from any trans-national corporations lest they begin fracking his face.  Then I ran back to the hotel, having given up the phone for good. My only concern now was to find some means of communication with my parents in order to be able to get my final Matric results – you know, the results that I had basically been working towards since I was nailing A’s at nap time in Grade 0. I approached a Lebanese man named Dawud standing behind the reception counter in order to ask him about any cellphone shops close by. What followed was one of the most ludicrous conversations I’ve ever had the insanity of experiencing.

MiB: Salaam. Could you please tell me if there are any cellphone shops close to the hotel?

Dawud: Hello.

MiB: Hello. I need to know if there are any cellphone shops close by so that I can buy a SIM card.

Dawud: SIM card?

MiB: Yes, SIM card.

Dawud: Cella-phone?

MiB: Yes, cellphone.

Dawud: Why you needa cellphone?

MiB: My cellphone was stol- why the hell am I explaining to you what happened to my phone? Just tell me if there are any phone shops around here.

Dawud: Here-a is a telephone.

[He hands me the reception phone]

MiB: No, you [expletive]. I need a [expletive] phone with a [expletive] SIM card so that I can make calls when I’m away from the hotel.

Dawud: SIM card?

It was at this point that I realized that I was conversing with a man who had the brain development of an abortion. I thanked him for being as useful as a hedgehog in a condom factory and decided to go and look around for myself. I think I should also point out that trying to understand a Lebanese man speaking English is on par with deciphering the lyrics of Smells like Teen Spirit. Not that I have anything against the music of Nirvana – we have a love-hate relationship. I would try to explain it, but… Nevermind.

About four blocks east of the hotel I found a tiny phoneshop in one of Beirut’s many alcoves. I walked breathlessly into the store only to have the wind knocked out of me once more. Behind the counter sat yet another Lebanese man staring absent-mindedly (as all Lebanese men do) into the distance. I approached this new specimen cautiously, wary of what idiocy any further interaction might yield. I was not disappointed.

“Hello,” said I.

“Hello,” said he.

This heartened me slightly.

“I need a SIM card,” said I.

“Passport?” he asked.

I sighed, dejected. Then I realized that he required my passport in order to issue a SIM card, and so I gave it to him. He disappeared with it to the back of the shop to make a photocopy. I stood there, thunderstruck. Could it be? Had I actually found the exception to the rule? Could this man’s solitary brain cell possibly have companionship?

Alas, it was not to be, as the man returned twenty minutes later sans both a photocopy and my passport. In fact, he handed me someone else’s passport – a lovely young woman named Alicia from the States – and smiled. I closed my eyes, said “Woosah” very quietly under my breath, then opened them and stared very pointedly at the light fixture on the ceiling, wondering if it would support my weight if I were to hang myself from it.

Then Tyler Durden’s words came into mind: Life could be worse. A woman could cut off your penis while you’re sleeping and toss it out the window of a moving car. There’s always that. Encouraged by this, I spent the next hour convincing the cretin in front of me that I was not a woman named Alicia. Eventually, after much strife and struggle, I received MY passport and bought a SIM card to use in my cousin’s cellphone to contact home.

Anyway, I later received my results as previously stated outside a premium seafood restaurant in the small town of Ashrafiyah. I was ecstatic, elated, excited, enthusiastic, engorged and all those other nice words that start with “e”. We decided to celebrate by feasting on the flesh of fish at the seafood restaurant, but were promptly kicked out after I responded to the bouncer’s question of “Why-a are you here?” with the reply “to be vasectomized”. Sarcasm doesn’t work cross-culturally, apparently. So we celebrated at the donut store across the road. And so ends the strange tale of MiB in Lebanon…

Well, almost.

In conclusion, here is concrete evidence that Lebanese men have the collective intelligence of a toenail. As it turns out, the bastard that stole my cellphone is no Moriarty, based on the fact that after stealing my phone he proceeded to take photos of himself with my phone. Photos which were then uploaded to my Photo Stream.  This guy is on par with Harry and Marv from Home Alone in terms of criminal brilliance, and those guys got their dicks handed to them for an hour by an eight-year old.

Behold! An asshole.

Behold! An asshole.

In light of my discovery and distinctions, I hereby propose that all Lebanese males be immediately eradicated by feeding them to Cthulhu as a kind-of-human-sacrifice-but-not-really-because-we’ll-actually-be-doing-the-world-a-favour. That’s pretty much THE textbook definition of “killing two birds with one stone” – quenching the bloodlust of a Lovecraftian behemoth and raising the collective criminal intelligence of the world, just like in the good old days. Plus, the surplus of Lebanese women can now openly declare their lesbianism, because they obviously weren’t being satisfied by the dickless wonders of their land. Everybody wins. Ah, Lebanese lesbians… now that’s some tongue-twisting I could get used to…

© 2012-2013 mibhatesusall.com All Rights Reserved

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Comments
  1. Khani says:

    Hahahah MiB! That’s seriously what the dude who stole your phone looks like? Wow… nice one exposing him! Oh, liked the Moriarty reference, dude is awesome and I loved that movie. Anyways, cheers =)

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