Bahrain Getaway pt 2 – The Brothel Incident

I arrived at the airport before the rest of the group by four hours. Bahrain International Airport was small and hassle free. In a few minutes I got my passport stamped, my luggage picked up and scanned, and I headed to Costa to pamper myself.

I bought 7 books from Dubai Airport (and I bought another 7 the day before). One of the books was for Sophie Kinsella but I didn’t feel particularly blond that day, so I ended up reading The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People. It’s a good book, and from the few chapters I read it appeared to be a more elaborate take on my social psychology course and the other book I read last month entitled You Can Be Happy No Matter What.

The clock ticked by slowly, but it eventually was time to greet the new arrivals.

We went to the hotel reservations section where one of the guys did the booking. Murphy’s Laws – all of them – applied since then.

Idiot: Sorry sir the hotel canceled your reservation
Friend: *#*@%!^&&#(#^!

While my friend argued and raised his voice (almost loud enough to get the security’s attention), I went to have a seat to just think my options through. My stress and fatigue got the worst of me and I suggested to my friend that I would book back to Dubai. He ignored me because he knew I wouldn’t do it.


We gave up on the reservation and took matters to our own hands. We headed out onto the streets of Manama.

Hours later of not finding a hotel (and we were all tired and I was particularly sleepy), we ended up in probably the only place thay can accommodate us on short notice: A brothel (بيت دعارة).

KJ: Are you INSANE?! I am NOT sleeping in a BROTHEL!
Friend: 3andak 7al tani!
Other Friend: It’s just one night…
KJ: IT’S A BROTHEL! I am NOT sleeping there!

We slept there.

It’s probably mandatory that every man be exposed to such a place. The brothel had no doors, per se, except for plastic flaps that you usually find in supermarkets separating the staff entrance of the meat and poultry section from the rest. On the right was one long bar lined up with at least 15 or so “entertainers”. They were watching us as we checked in.

The room was a different story. The carpet smelled of fungus. I was too worried about the bed and decided to sleep on the chair, but given my own fetishes I thought that the bed was the safer option. There was no mattress. None. The beds were bare-bone, structural beds with covers. I guess wood-banging is part of the experience. The sheets looked “clean” enough, though, but I wouldn’t place any bets.

The loo was a drama, something out of a horror movie. Cobwebs all over (and in the room too)… the toilet didn’t seem to have been cleaned for ages. The bathtub is composed of a never-heard-of-before incurable viral outbreak. You can almost see it pulsating with former bodily fluids, rust, spots, and all sorts of microscopic heathens.

The only clean aspects of the room were our own luggage and the soap and shampoo as they arrived in sealed unopened containers.

We thought it best to sleep as little as possible there. While we changed our clothes to go for an all-nighter dinner, someone knocked on the door. Expecting our friends from the adjacent room, I called them in. The door didn’t open. My friend went to open the door. Note that he’s a conservative Palestinian from Hebron.

An “entertainer” stood before him, smiling.

It took us a whole minute to register the scene.

My friend’s face turned all sorts of colors, all quite visible in the abnormally dark room. The poor woman felt her life was ending right there and then. She probably remembered the first day she joined the world of brothelhood. She remembered the day she sacrificed her virginity to send money back to her parents. She remembered her boyfriend, upset somewhere halfway across the world at his inability to support her, for having her to go all through this. He must have been dying of jealousy. She remembered the good old days when she used to go out with her friends, on their “day off”, to be normal human beings. She wondered, right there and then, if any of this might have been different; if the door she knocked on then was answered by her husband or boyfriend, instead of a stranger for a quick buck.

My friend almost pushed her away and avoided her like the plague, and he shut the door on her reality.

KJ: shu metwaqqe3 yan3i :P

We went out for dinner and didn’t come back till dawn. I don’t know how I slept. In the morning I removed the filthy shower nozzle, wore my slippers and showered outside the bathtub, doing my absolute best not to touch anything but my own slippers.

We checked out of the brothel, and continued hotel hunting.

You thought it’s over? Oh noes… see you in part three!

Oddball of a World vol.9 – On Tuna, Staples, PC, Lottery, Jail Food and Workaholics


Psychology is critical, but have you ever thought of how Tuna feels when it gets caught by fishermen? Well, some researchers are, and they will be coming up with fishing mechanisms to reduce the stress levels in Tuna… so that they taste better.


So you’re in court, about to receive a life sentence (or death sentence) for your homicide atrocities, when you notice that the staple on your court documents is missing. Since all documents are required to be stapled – by law – you have the chance to appeal because, well, you might have been “framed”. Talk about luck, OJ Simpson!


Have you ever been sooooooooooo upset from your PC you felt like throwing it out the window? Well this man did, and the neighbors called the cops on him. Throw out the neighbors I say!


If those staple murderers are lucky, these two are even luckier. They not only won the lottery ONCE, but they won the SAME LOTTERY TWICE, thanks to two tickets!


I actually considered doing this on multiple occasions. This guy here, binges in fancy restaurants then pulls off a great escape scene and doesn’t pay for the food. He has been caught and jailed, went on probation – and now he is back for the same crime! I hope jail food is good!


Do you have a workaholic in the office? One who works day and night, 297118763/7? Researchers found out that a good percentage of said workaholics are using their jobs as a diversion from their unfulfilled sex life! Now which country has the highest number of workaholics…

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Oddball of a World vol.5 – On Odd Men

Alright, since the previous Oddball hit a cord with the ladies, it is not time for REVENGE.

Yes you got that right, now is time for the Odd Men version… so ladies DON’T HOLD BACK!!! Make mincemeat out of us… this is your LEGITIMATE chance!

Click on the titles (they’re links if you are color blind so you may not see a diff in color)


You don’t like your family members and friends, so you devise a once-and-for-all solution. Invite them all to dinner, tricking them that you want to apologize, then blow them all up. Sweet.


Are you an uptight and conservative father? Is your daughter causing you trouble? Hire a private detective to check out her sexual endeavours… but beware, the results may not always please you…


Meat lovers beware: Men from abroad are now shipping sausages stuffed with various questionable objects. If your veal feels rubbery, maybe you should send it to the nearest lab.


Finally, after all your hard work, the police finally issue you your driving license. You are so excited to go pick it up that you steal a bus to drive there and get it.


A lot of men smell. We love our stench… we think it is manly and all this horrible peach and rose shower gels are for you women. But this man has taken pride in his natural smell a bit too far… so far in fact that the neighbors thought there is a corpse in the house and the police raided the fellow’s place, only to find out it is just his feet.


Remember the ladies in the previous oddball who preserved their dead family members in the house? Men do it too, it seems. This guy didn’t want to “disturb” his mama so he kept her in her armchair for a couple of years. Talk about mamma’s boy.

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Sarah Looked Hot All Wet part 2

“Come on chicken legs!” she said.

I didn’t listen. I embraced the rain. It was cold, cold rain, and the sky had become a darker hue of purple. We had to rush home, but I didn’t want to go home. I loved the rain.

She pedaled ahead of me, and I had to follow suit otherwise I would have lost my way back to the house. The rain was pouring hard enough to even cloud my vision. And the fact that I wore eye glasses did not help my perception of my surroundings in the least bit.

Remember the movie “Singing in the Rain”? I actually never got to watch it until three weeks ago. It was a brilliant movie. I loved the acting, the singing, the atmsophere. The love story was intense. The best part was close to the end where the two were on the stairs of the stage, the lady looking ethereal with her long, free, angelic gown and the surreal atmosphere. I also love the fact this has nothing to do with my post.

Not now anyway.

The road dragged on. A lightning blade sliced through the ominous clouds above, thundering the air. The rain hit hard my face and body. I could no longer ride with enough speed to follow Sarah. I told her to go easy a little bit.

“If you tilt sideways the rain won’t hit your face in the front,” she instructed. Of course, why would it? It didn’t occur to me. I had to swerve left and right as I biked.

But I enjoyed the rain. I was drenched far beyond drying. My gray shorts and white shirt turned darker as they soaked. I became heavier. The bike became heavier.

“Wait up!” I shouted. She didn’t listen; she kept forcing her way through the heavy rain. I put some effort to up my speed, but, with all the water on my glasses, I didn’t see the end of the pavement. I clumsily stumbled but steadied the bike; my glasses, however, just fell off. Not being able to stop to find them, I just carried on without them.

I should have lazik eye surgery sometime soon. It is a completely different feeling.

We eventually rounded up around the house, discarded our bikes in the backyard and headed to the warm inside. Or, maybe, it just seemed warm relative to the freezing rain and wind.

It was then that I realized that Sarah was wet.

It isn’t like I am that mentally handicapped to not think of the obvious, it just did not occur to me that she would get wet (if this sentence doesn’t make sense don’t try to decipher it). Women never get wet. Not when men want them to. But she looked… different.

I was 13.

She wasn’t the perfect figure. But why would a 13 year old care anyway? This is the best chance. Two soaked individuals, one juvenile 13 and the other around 10, in a hot kitchen.

There was only the orange juice bottle and some leftover cereal on the kitchen table. This is going to be really really hot.

I think it was in those few months in the States that I actually felt I have testosterone. After I turned 14 and went back to my regular, boring life, it took me 2 more years to self experiment and 5 years after that to have the greatest dream of all: Banging Angelina Jolie TWICE (once in a void and once on a kitchen table, with no cereal), and satisfy her (and myself) both times.

Nothing sexier than beating Brad in his game.

“Oh my God Sarah, you are wet!” I stupidly highlight the fact to her.

“Well, like, I don’t know Kinan, I think I THINK I was outside in the RAIN. And you KNOW it is made of WATER, so, like, of COURSE I will be WET DUUUUUUUUUH!” She noted that I am stupid, in a plainly American way.

She grabbed a towel and flanked it over her head.

“Well I just think that you’re kinda, I mean, wet,” where the hell was I going with this? Note to women: I am still that stupid.

“Kinaaaaan, ewwwwwwww, you are DISGUSTING! Get a LIFE!” She instructed. Note to women: I am still told to get a life. She stomped upstairs.

Oh, she wants to play hard to get now huh? Well, the bedrooms are upstairs, and so are the bathrooms and showers. It is going to be awesome.

Note to men: I had not seen porn before then.

I followed her upstairs. This is going to be a blast. Of course, I had no idea what sex is, much less how to do it. I don’t even recall I had an erection, and even if I did, it would take me some years to know what to do with it.

I went up anyway. I am sure she would show me the ropes. Even if she were 10, who cares! That idiot Tom/Bob thing had a crush on her… it is either me or him. And I had to take this opportunity.

Of course I am now speaking in retrospective.

I went up.

“It suddenly rained on us!” she said. To whom?

I continued up the stairs. Surely this must be the female way of attracting inseminating men. First by complaining, to draw attention, then by playing victim, to draw sympathy and sex.

Of course. This had to be it. I couldn’t possibly be wrong. She had been giving me hints so many times and I just overlooked them. I played the role of the forbidden fruit. She wanted me and bad. Really bad.

It is all text book.

I reached upstairs.

She was talking to her dad.

And Now It Says I Put It Here…

A few days ago two children in third grade were arrested in one of the schools as they were having sex. Yes, that’s right, third graders are having sex.

I once watched the Oprah show and there was an episode about children having oral sex in school buses, and the driver did nothing to stop them but perhaps was even entertained. I didn’t expect these things would happen in the Arab world, much less the UAE.

But I mean, seriously, how much DO kids know about sex? Probably all the new porn-like music videos, shows and movies do all the brainwashing, not to mention the forever guilty Internet and the sorrowful parents.

But regardless of all that, just HOW are those kids having it? Did they like have an instruction manual?

“So yeah Sarah it says here that I am to my peepee in this place. Can you find it for me?”
“Well gee, I don’t know, I never saw that before. Let’s search for it together.”
“Oh Sarah, yours is so different! I don’t know I am scared!”
“Gee, are you sure you brought the right manual?”
“Yeah I am. I dont know what to do.”
“Ok let’s skip this part.”
“Ok… so then it says I need to take my peepee out again and put it back in.”
“What? How silly! What is the whole point?”
“I don’t know. It says after a while I will feel a rush and I will make milk.”
“But I hate milk.”
“Yeah me too. So do you wanna try it?”
“Well I don’t know it seems like you’re the one who will be having all the fun. It doesn’t say anything about me making milk.”
“Ok let’s just try it and find out.”
“Ok sure.”
“So I’m going to see you naked?”
“I know! It is so scary! Last time I was naked it was with dad!”

I know for a fact that children begin fumbling with themselves at the age when they are consciously aware that they have controllable hands and fingers.

I’m upset because I discovered I can consciously control my hands when I was 17.