Alan Gershwin was one of those anal swinger guys. In the heart of the Al-Karolinah Emirate, Ahmir Khafat, the oily vendor from El Cairo, would lay awake at night, counting the cars coming in and coming out. Khafat started an unprecedented six-day campaign to get rid of them swinging dowgs, harkee! Each day, he would sit down to in his luxuriously decorated smoking room, and he’d write one long letter, beautifully illustrated with the help of an unearthly scriptor. Addressed to Iman Gonsalez, the letters would convincingly capture every morbid fantasy that Khafat had created in his black heart for what seemed centuries of resentment. Iman Gonsalez, alerted and troubled by this terrible terrapin for his stint in Al-Karolinah (right when he was about to pull a fast one, too!), rearranged his mind to the intersphere in time for the evening prayer. Capturing the attention of the audience as the world started to face East, he stated insistently –intensely!— that “our folk don’t want none of ‘em Mistah and Missuz Swinger in our decent community, yes?” See, now.
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We don’t want none of ’em Mr and Mrs Swinger in ar own back yaard, see’t here?
