HUMOROUS FICTION

The Jerrycan Plan In Iran

“Bottoms up!” an Iranian police officer shouted to a teenager, and held out the spout of a red plastic container, called a jerrycan, which Iranians use to wash their behinds.

“I can’t drink that crap!” the young man protested. “I could get sick, even die of cholera.”

“You have to drink it,” the policeman insisted. “Your T-shirt has been deemed too Western and therefore un-Islamic.”

“A T-shirt is a T-shirt.”

“Yours is too tight.”

“Oh,” the young man said. “Is there anything in the Koran about tight T-shirts?”

“Do not profane the name of the Prophet!” the police officer advised him, and attempted to push the spout into his mouth.

Then he quoted, without knowing he was doing so, a piece of Western doggerel: “Up to the lip and over the gums; watch out, stomach, here it comes!”

Just then a second police officer dragged another young man up to the lip of the jerrycan. “Here’s another offender,” the second cop proclaimed.

“What’s the charge?” the first officer asked.

“Un-Islamic hair,” he replied, and held out a knot of it. “It’s much too long.”

“Where does the Koran say long hair is sinful?” the young man wanted to know. “I’ll bet even the Prophet had long hair.”

“How about Allah?” the other young man dared to ask. “I never thought of him with a buzz cut.”

“Silence – both of you!” the second officer cautioned them.

Then the first police officer turned back to the young man with the satanic T-shirt. “Drink up or die!”

“Never! Shoot me! Kill me! I can’t drink it!”

“OK,” the police officer said, and drew his pistol. He pointed at the young man’s head and cocked it.

Just then a voice rang out that sounded like none other than the favorite leader of Iranian youths, President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad – regarded by others as the volatile front man behind the crackdown. “Hold it! What’s going on here?”

“Who are you?” the first police officer asked.

“What do you mean, you dimwit? Don’t you recognize me? I’m the President of Iran.”

“I’m sorry, President Ahmadinejad,” the first officer replied. “The black mask I’m wearing, because I know my behavior is so widely approved, was covering my eyes.”

“We’re just following orders, Mr. President,” the second cop added.

“Congratulations! You’re right,” Ahmadinejad replied.

Then he turned to the teenager with the sinful shirt. “Do your duty and drink the toilet water.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President,” the young man dared to reply, “you drink it.”

“Me?” Ahmadinejad asked, aghast.

“Yeah, go on,” the other teenager said. “You drink it first.”

“I don’t have to drink it,” Ahmadinejad replied. “I’m the President. Besides, everything I do is perfectly Islamic.”

“Is it Islamic to beat up the young people of Iran?” the first teenager wanted to know.

“And to make them drink something that, besides not tasting good, could kill them?”

“Anything is allowed to enforce the laws of the Prophet,” Ahmadinejad told the two youths.

“Did the Prophet have a red plastic jerrycan?” one of the young men asked.

“I never read that in the Koran,” the other young man commented.

“I’m sure he had his own version of a jerrycan,” Ahmadinejad countered. “Otherwise, why would we use them?”

“No, no,” the first young man insisted. “If we’re going to be perfectly Islamic, we have to be perfectly accurate. Did he have a red plastic jerrycan?”

“He’s right,” the other young man added. “Where is it written in the Koran that young people should drink out of a red plastic jerrycan if they do anything that the authorities consider un-Islamic?”

Then the excited youth grabbed the jerrycan from the policeman and held it toward Ahmadinejad. “Here, Mr. President. Your turn – for enforcing un-Islamic behavior.”

“Wait a minute,” Ahmadinejad objected. “I’ve got my Koran right here.” He reached into his attaché case and took out a copy of the Holy Koran, knowing he believed in the literal truth of every word that’s in it. “I’m sure it mentions red plastic jerrycans somewhere,” he muttered to himself, flipping through the pages.

“But, sir, with all due respect,” one of the policemen courageously pointed out, “I don’t think they had plastic back when the Prophet was writing the Koran.”

“You don’t?” Ahmadinejad asked.

“No, sir, it’s more recent than that.”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” Ahmadinejad conceded, and snapped the Koran shut. “I have ordered the youth to do something that is not in the Holy Book of Islam. Therefore, I deserve the same punishment I meted out.”

With that, he took the red jerrycan from the policeman and, steeling himself, took a daring gulp. “Hey, not bad,” he said, wiping his lips with his sleeve.

But then he grabbed his stomach, bent over, and threw up.

“Thank you for recognizing that you are not perfectly Islamic,” one young man said, putting his arm consolingly around Ahmadinejad’s shoulders.

“Your admission has rebuilt my faith in you,” the second young man said, and shook the President’s hand.

“Good,” Ahmadinejad replied. “I didn’t realize until this very night that even I am not perfectly Islamic, which, of course, means that nobody else can be.”

Then he turned to the two policemen. “Come on, gentlemen, drink up.”

“Us?” the first cop asked, startled.

“Me?” the second one responded.

“I’m afraid so,” Ahmadinejad told them. “Since my decree was un-Islamic, your enforcement of it is also, I regret to say, un-Islamic. It’s the least we owe the fine young people of Iran.”

The two policemen slowly came to terms with their fate and drank their nauseating punishment.

Curiously, however, neither the fearless President nor the two obedient officers asked for seconds.

By Tom Attea

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