Mustafa's Tea

"Oh, dO pLeAsE sit down, Miss Rahlia! Would you quite like some tEa?"

I sat down in the large, winged armchair, stroking my mustache in a contemplative manner, wondering if I, indeed, would quite like some tEa.

"Why yes, Mister Mustafa, I would quite like some TeA."

Mister Mustafa frowned, his tiny silver teapot frozen in mid-air. "I said, 'Would you like some tEa, NOT 'Would you like some TeA?' Those are two entirely different beverages, you insolent American!" Reaching inside of his paisley coat, he removed a mutant, overly large sardine and smacked me in the face with it. I could taste its shiny, nasty, fishy silver fish scales all up in mah grill, and made a mental note never to mispronounce tEa ever again, or visit the Italian island of Sardegna, for that matter.

"Give me some goddamn tEa, ya old geezer," I said, rubbing the side of my face where the fish had slapped, wincing as I felt the rawness of it.

The old geezer smiled, his own magnificent mustache twitching. "That's more like it," he guffawed, and proceeded to pour the tEa right onto my elbow, where I proceeded to lap it up like some people lap up honey, and like others lap other runners as they run laps on a track.

After I'd finished lapping up my tEa, and after Mustafa was done lapping his up as well, I looked at the man right in the eye and said, "Why did you call me? Surely, it wasn't just to drink some tEa, though I'm certain that was your secondary motive."

Mustafa sighed, laying his elbow on a saucer and stirring it with a spoon. He looked so old all of a sudden, older than he had looked just a few seconds ago, but then I realized that his Malaysian servant, Musa, was swinging precariously from the large crystal chandelier directly over our intimate conversation and shooting his master with an aging gun that he had surely developed in the bowels of the palace, or some other such dodgy place. This explained the sudden oldness of Mustafa, and I nodded appreciatively at Musa. Those Malaysians, always so ingenious!

He, in turn, made an, "URGH," face and swung down to earth from his swinging chandelier, shouting something about bananas in the drying machine.

I paid him no mind, as my host had now returned to his regularly scheduled programming and was about to reveal to me the reason for his sudden summons.

"Well, Miss Rahlia, I am getting along in age now - "

I interrupted. "No you're not, that was just because Musa was testing his new aging gun on you, which is apparently not permanent, as all your deep wrinkles have returned to slightly less deep but still incredibly noticeable wrinkles."

Mustafa glared at me. "That's enough, stupid! Anyway, as I was saying," he said, his voice returning to the sad, wilting tone he'd started to use after his first sigh, "I'm getting old, and soon I'm going to die. Actually, not really, I'm only going to pretend to be dead so I can go on an extended vacation to the Bahamas without anyone asking any ridiculous questions. I was wondering..."

"Yes?" I was getting frustrated with him. He's annoying and semi-retarded. No, I'm not saying that just to be mean. He really is semi-retarded.

"I was wondering if..." He paused again, throwing his flaccid hand over his tiny eyes, his fez and monocle falling slightly out of place. "Oh, but I can't do it!" he cried, standing up and pushing me out of my seat and smacking me with his fish again. He then walked over to his desk, crowded with erotic items from his explorer days, and slid everything off the floor, breaking several glass unidentifiable erotic objects.

"Don't you see!" he cried, grabbing me by the lapels and shooting old man spit in my face. My face was frozen in an expression of, "OMGWHUT." I had a feeling the old man had gone insane, was having an episode, had lost his left foot, ruined the American economy, or stolen a beanie baby from Sears.

He threw me into the fireplace and fell to his knees, his noticeably wrinkly face in his hands. "I can't ask you to do anything for me because you're way too cool!" Mustafa bawled like a child.

I growled. I'd only travelled here all the way from New Brunswick, hoping I'd be a getting some sort of inheritance or maybe a daughter of Mustafa's to marry. Unfortunately, it was just another repeat episode of Mustafa being semi-retarded and probably bipolar and maybe even malignant. I grabbed his fish and slapped him across the face with it, and then I punched him in the gut, and then I made him dance a lively polka to a completely un-polka-ish song.

"Snap out of it, Mustafa! I didn't travel here all the way from New Brunswick, hoping to I'd get some sort of inheritance or maybe a daughter of yours to marry, just to witness a repeat episode of you being semi-retarded and probably bipolar and maybe even malignant. This is why I've grabbed your fish and slapped you across the face with it, and then punched you in the gut, and then made you dance a lively polka to a completely un-polka-ish song. So, either I force you to write me into your will, you write me into your will willingly, or you cough up some daughter for me to marry, or I promise you, there shall be hell to pay! And maybe also the IRS to pay. Wait a minute, they're the same thing, so there'll be HELL TO PAY!"

I removed my portable Manny Pacquiao from my messenger bag and commanded him to beat up Mustafa in Tagalog. Manny speaks some other dialect, but he understand everything, even Eskimo, so there was no problem. He beat him up for me until Mustafa looked like a pile of apple sauce. Suddenly hungry, I told Manny to go make me some apple sauce using only his fists. He nodded, saying that was much easier than using his feet.

"What'll it be, Mustafa?"

Half dead, Mustafa twitched on the floor. He mumbled something. I couldn't hear him, so I grabbed his megaphone from the shelf and laid it on the floor next to his mouth. He mumbled again, but this time I could hear him.

"I... I only wanted you... to-to-to... watch my goose farm while I was 'dead.' I... I just thought you were...too-too-too... cool for the job. Now... now... now I'm still asking you to watch my goose farm, except this time I'll... really be... dead."

Gasping, feeling foolish, and also feeling like I needed to pee, I grabbed his head in my arms and poured tEa into his mouth. "I'm sorry, Mustafa! It's just you're so annoying! Here," I said, raising his broken hand and sticking a pen in it. "I prepared a will just in case something like this should happen. Quick, sign it before you die!"

He complied, probably because of the numerous concussions he'd received from Manny. I smiled, holding Mustafa's head in one hand and licking the will with the other.

"You know, Natalia, you always were my best student," he said, mustering all his strength to be coherent.

I put my finger to his lips. "Shhhhh. You'll ruin this beautiful moment." I continued licking the will, shedding tears of joy onto it.

I felt his body go stiff in my arm, and I dropped it to the floor, knowing that I was now a whole lot more filthy rich than before. "Poor man - he was sort of ok."

Then, looking down at the check in my hands, I giggled and laughed and danced - until I noticed that all the licking and crying I'd done all over it had smeared Mustafa's signature beyond recognition.

"CURSE YOU MUSTAFA!"

----

The purpose of this post was to inform you that I drank tea today, and that I enjoyed it quite a lot. Obviously, there was some sort of mutation or generation of the gene, and I birthed this creature.

American TackleBall

DYOOD I just finished Passage to India! I was so excited, it needed to be written.

And yesterday, I went to my first football game. Deprived? Yes. According to some, I am/was/it doesn't matter. Cause I went and I guess it was interesting. We kept the flag? We beat PD? We don't fail? Ok, cool. I'm happier about the kettlecorn and the brigade than I was about the actual game.

There was also some chick behind where we were sitting and she kept cramping my style, man. She got upset when people booed. IT'S A GAME, LADY. There's this little thing called a rivalry and people tend to get into it. I see nothing wrong with that.

After the third touchdown, somebody shouted, "You can just go home now, Palm Desert!" and people started singing "Goodbye," or whatever the balls it's called and the chick started going, "OMG THAT'S SO UNCLASSY WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN IF THEY COME BACK THAT'LL BE SOOOOOOO EMBARASSING."

STFU. They are obviously not gonna come back and if they do, then we fail. So what. People do crap like this all the time. GET OVER EET.

Meh. I just like being angry at people and that chick thought she was too cool for highschool games. "I IZ CLASSY." This is highschool, ugly pants, and nowhere does it say we have to be classy.

ALSO ALSO: THE BRIGADE = EPIC WIN. Twas pretty indeed.