I was being chauffeured home after a long day at the mosque. We turned down a quiet street, a little more than a mile from the ayatollah compound. The soothing sounds of sports-talk radio filled the cabin of my auto-steed. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a shadowy figure lingering at the edge of a brick wall. Without warning, he stepped forward and hurled a softball-sized object at the pugmobile. Father swerved, and then it hit with a thud on the side of the car. Was this an organized plot against the ministry? Somehow, I thought not. The amateurish nature of this brazen attack seemed like the work of teenage hooligans. We stayed in the vicinity for a while, hoping to flag down one of the SUV-driving police officers who roam the streets of our fair suburb in abundance on every night except the one when they are needed. I wanted nothing more than to see these infidels roughed up, cuffed and sent off to Sing Sing. But they escaped with no repercussions.
It is said that "boys will be boys." But boys will also find their kneecaps broken by a band of club-wielding bulldogs if they are caught messing with the wrong ayatollah’s auto-steed. Keep that in mind, young hoodlums. And know that ARF’s bloodhounds are on your trail.
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