Dear Supreme Leader,
My mom tells me you’re a jerk, a tyrant like my father, but holier than dad with a big nose and a high position in Islam, like her boss at the pub but less religious. Dear Supreme Leader, mom says watch out for men. “They’re all ayatollahs,” she says. “Sons of bitches.” I watch out for men and ayatollahs but to tell you the truth I watch out for bigger things instead, like the promise of Persepolis and rabies. I tell her I’ll watch out but I’m afraid you’re rhetoric is making her paranoid. She hasn’t had enough sex.
Dear S. L., please stop your fuzzy math. Your beard is funny looking and full of breadcrumbs. Stop drooling on television. Do you like sex?
Mom’s popped a few of those happy pills, the ones with z and x, to soothe her nerves. I tell her to stop watching television but she’s addicted to radiation and thumbprints. For fun I’ve pooped and didn’t flush. It always gets her mind off of things—non-sequiturs always work. I tell her to stop dreaming. I tell her that love is just a dream. I think she’s afraid she’ll die at the hand of God, or at the hands of one of His fellows on Earth, but she just works in a pub. It’s not like she’s a solider or an abortion doctor. Do you believe in God?
Dear S.L., I don’t usually believe mom however I believe the news. I’ve seen blood in the eyes of average girls like me, girls with horns and girls without horns, worshipped and shot by burly men in dirty negligees. I don’t believe in God but I believe there is something bigger than you, a giant goat perhaps or God.
Dear Supreme Leader, if I had your attention I’d snip your beard and toss it to the wind. I’d laugh in your face and snip your robe and toss it to the wind. I’d scream allãhu akbar (الله أكبر) in your face but I’m sure you wouldn’t understand. I’d also kiss a girl just to make you cringe.
You may need your testes in the coming days as girls begin to testify in the face of teargas and faith. They say you’ve lost your aura but I think you’ve lost your erection—at least that’s what my mom says about dad when he’s pissed off. By they I mean the sheep.
“God is not great!” mom shouts, sarcastic bitch, then slumps into bed. She’s a freak, yellow teeth, bad breath. “Death to the dick!” she mumble-snorts. She forgot the tator, Dear Supreme Leader, but you know what she means.