No, I Don’t Want To Buy Any Camels

“I’m sorry, Mr. Carver, but it will be another 30 minutes. All praise to Allah.”

“You must be kidding me,” I replied testily. I was speaking with Fuad Arrokh, a low-level flunky at Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs’ Saudi Arabian sister company, al Fuluus. I’d flown there to go over the worldwide marketing push for one of LCF’s newest products, but seemed to be getting the runaround.

“One thousand pardons,” Fuad said with a deep bow. “Perhaps you would care for some figs while you wait? Or a copy of the Koran to help you pass the time?”

“No, I don’t want any goddamned figs. And if high-grade American religions don’t interest me, then your weird dessert gibberish certainly isn’t going to do the trick.”

Fuad thought about what I’d just said, then grimaced. “I am sure that you do not mean to sound as offensive as you do, Mr. Carver.”

“I’m sure I do! And if you really want to make my wait more pleasant, why don’t you point me in the direction of the nearest brothel and have Prince Ahkmed call me when he’s finally ready to get serious about our shared business interests?”

“We do not share our women with the likes of you, infidel swine,” he spat.

“Who said anything about sharing? I’m not the type who likes to have other men in the room when a prostitute is giving me a rim job, my boy. Wink wink nudge nudge, eh?”

Well, Fuad didn’t care for that in the least and I was soon safely ensconced in the first class section of the next flight back to America, a cold martini in my hand and a gorgeous stewardess ass in my sights. Needless to say, my personal travel advisory for Saudi Arabia is “avoid it at all costs;” here’s hoping that you can learn from my mistakes. Selah.

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Categories: Business, Culture, Dating, Drugs, Food, Idiots

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