tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41644056120383147752024-03-04T21:21:26.169-08:00Bengali Girls Don't*** Author L.A. Sherman ***Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.comBlogger99125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-65322923880468819642012-02-13T11:16:00.000-08:002012-02-13T11:20:43.106-08:00The Origins Of Valentine's Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So it’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow and if you have a significant other you’re in for a real treat. Rest assured, you’re husband, wife, girlfriend, or boyfriend or fiancé <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">— or </span>your EVERY SATURDAY NIGHT for that matter <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">—</span> will be bringing over heart-shaped boxes of candy, sweet smelling flowers, and a disposition that, in the words of Marvin Gaye, SCREAMS, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s Get It On.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Isn’t Valentine’s Day fun?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, not as fun as it used to be… “Like in the old days,” as some old guy would say. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You see, back in the old days, when holidays were coordinated by people like Nicki Minaj and Janet Jackson’s boob, the priests of the town would gather together and slaughter goats and dogs, then the men of the town would cut the meat into long strips, dip them in blood, and use them to slap the women with, in the same way that Ike Turner used to slap Tina Turner. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Whaaap!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Only in the nude.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Which, I guess, was very acceptable back then. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Apparently, the whole “slapping your meat against a woman’s body” thing was meant to make the women more fertile, and so in the coming year, or so the theory goes, the women would have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mucho grandes</i> children. In other words, they’d have a shitload. Instead of a litter, they’d have a Duggar (like 20 and counting). Then after the slapfest was over and done with, all the women who had gotten slapped and bloodied would put their name on a piece of paper, put the paper in a hat, and then run all horny to the man who chose their name out of the hat to be his bed-buddy for an entire year.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJ1I5eyzOpWRxvjukoO3lumOf_sygScxgevHPYpaXe6orhZ_SQEH5XZEzdOyv_53ZE_Yk3C0LGlNWgeVPERcWvjYy-Mq_EWPCoPWCIi-6Fg-Owk8Nm0N_0x2x9alk3jqPzBSG5l8C0RY/s1600/lupercalia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJ1I5eyzOpWRxvjukoO3lumOf_sygScxgevHPYpaXe6orhZ_SQEH5XZEzdOyv_53ZE_Yk3C0LGlNWgeVPERcWvjYy-Mq_EWPCoPWCIi-6Fg-Owk8Nm0N_0x2x9alk3jqPzBSG5l8C0RY/s320/lupercalia.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Men slapping women with their meat on Valentine's Day</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Which makes you wonder how that whole “Hey, how did you meet your wife?” conversation thing go at the annual office party.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Hey Bob, how did you meet your wife?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh, I slapped the shit outta her with my bloody meat fully naked and then I won the rights to her in a lottery. What about you?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I found her on Craigslist.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In other news, I'm promoting Robert Stanek's new silly colors and shapes picture book, </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Turtle-Babies-Colors-Picture-ebook/dp/B006NQDD36/"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mamma Sea Turtle Lost Her Babies</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">, which I bought the other day on Amazon. It's pretty cool, so check it out.</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Turtle-Babies-Colors-Picture-ebook/dp/B006NQDD36/" target="_blank"><img border="0" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw8wYZyz2KqAx-ntihog7oMd369mxIvOAmEOjgR_WM54qZ3zyGBjGaPY9gN2wuJDlXa8nkrx9IRfbeCBvsQB7sI2xyKmopNkr-OXJ7gBfBzx5BTdXi05jB4RAMdxHBPCWFCGYhHfrmcDE/s1600/turtle+book.jpg" /></a></div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-26850226880004931952012-02-09T09:41:00.000-08:002012-02-09T09:46:33.896-08:00Making New Friends<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Meet my new friend and fellow UK writer <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Kristina-Jackson/e/B004SLQ6OQ/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0">Kristina Jackson</a>. Kristina's the Author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tales-from-the-Beyond-ebook/dp/B0058DIGXW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1328805883&sr=8-1">Tales From The Beyond</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Fools-Journey-ebook/dp/B006OCOSNI/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2">The Fool's Journey</a>. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3j3S9OzLZhyphenhypheno1oS6BE1IXDs0XxL9Cnygbz4BYpXU44MHbbpZJCenInIZ8zxhtdMWVPmZX-Vdgq9hAoG5IlsO5nq-LSn3BVKRPFHVxLAeN_BLoaEowdDzxQpfW7LhtHdvLlhEPLjlphdo/s1600/eeb9f343a8b60ac1d188c7_L__V141855898_SX200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3j3S9OzLZhyphenhypheno1oS6BE1IXDs0XxL9Cnygbz4BYpXU44MHbbpZJCenInIZ8zxhtdMWVPmZX-Vdgq9hAoG5IlsO5nq-LSn3BVKRPFHVxLAeN_BLoaEowdDzxQpfW7LhtHdvLlhEPLjlphdo/s1600/eeb9f343a8b60ac1d188c7_L__V141855898_SX200_.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">UK Author Kristina Jackson</td></tr>
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I actually met Kristina on Facebook in a top secret group we belong to called <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/277234835650463/338290679544878//">MasterKoda.com</a> (Well, I guess it's not so secret anymore), a group of writers who save the planet one kick-ass word at a time. And I knew from the second she baked those wonderful brownies, so moist and gooey on the inside, and took a picture of them and posted the picture of them to facebook and tagged me in it, tempting me like Eve did to Adam, making my mouth water and giving me the feeling of craving something dark and yummy in a lower region of my atmosphere (I'm talking about my tummy), I knew she had to be a great person! <br />
<br />
Because who does that to another fellow human?<br />
<br />
Anyway, take a peek at these puppies baked by Kristina.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHaWTM1cFJBqEQ_wFvpjX8g2xrTttMcQGJwrx3qJ7BEDt4Q9GJEYQqfSPVjCaYXUueWfRBNOC2_p6s5zSR6VQv2PdWMZ43-dhhO6kGn4DQ5GxoZs_fVyzzXqJ7Cs3dzFNAJrNBH0iSWWA/s1600/brownies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHaWTM1cFJBqEQ_wFvpjX8g2xrTttMcQGJwrx3qJ7BEDt4Q9GJEYQqfSPVjCaYXUueWfRBNOC2_p6s5zSR6VQv2PdWMZ43-dhhO6kGn4DQ5GxoZs_fVyzzXqJ7Cs3dzFNAJrNBH0iSWWA/s320/brownies.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kristina's brownies. Now one can only imagine what Adam felt like after seeing that apple.</td></tr>
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Now what was I saying? Oh, yes, Kristina. In addition to keeping up with her own site <a href="http://kristina-jackson.blogspot.com/">Kristina Jackson</a> and helping to spread the word on other fantastic writers out there on <a href="http://inspiringindies.blogspot.com/">Inspiring Indies</a>, she is a wife, mother of two, owner of one dog and slave to two cats. Everyone who knows Kristina says she has a wicked sense of humor, is fun, happy, but best of all is dity minded. Hahaha.<br />
<br />
That's my Kristina.<br />
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So find her on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/#!/wyndwitch">Facebook</a> or on another of her sites and give her a shoutout. If you're a writer, or someone she can seduce with her brownies (What's in those things anyway?), she may even give you an interveiw. <br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tales-from-the-Beyond-ebook/dp/B0058DIGXW/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1" target="_blank"><img border="0" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfAxkWwRpNrC98rh-VQb5lxK-Zpjy-sAZb2Q5DsRR-iH3Ccqb9bwrzUPSiUaYWRmIwkK6c2XD5JszNVka0heOfeOfskeoXNbv-O-lVNzWwPwWeNiCxePO8DSrSntWw-PudoBalO19ZnCo/s1600/tales.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Fools-Journey-ebook/dp/B006OCOSNI/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2" target="_blank"><img border="0" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglN-phZX2E5p4rtTyNmRQdnvSUZiy1MzqDXrllfbYuxyNJbUJS6A17HC3zQahhRaj8DfcYMYFMTazRvsaHE95BhFPHAXoR6sKCpGFc1tSAVfFNxY11PUqo3ozrd7J7RNZcBQUXxI89asA/s1600/fools.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-43337096430208251122012-02-07T17:50:00.000-08:002012-02-07T17:50:11.990-08:00FREE Ebooks -- February 8th & 9th<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b></b><br />
<center><b>Former Muslim Child Bride To Give Away FREE Copies Of Her Memoir, BENGALI GIRLS DON'T, February 8, 9</b></center><center><b><br /></b></center><span style="text-align: left;">Yes, that's right. For two days only Bangladeshi Author L.A. Sherman's Memoir, </span><a href="http://amzn.to/Bengali-Girls-Dont" style="text-align: left;">Bengali Girls Don't</a><span style="text-align: left;">, the true story of her forced marriage and her winning the visa lottery for America, will be FREE to anyone who has an Amazon account. Read it on your iphone, android, blackberry, Kindle, tablet (ipad, etc.), or computer. All that's needed is the free Kindle app. And since everything's FREE, you really don't have any excuse!</span><div>
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<b>Kindle versions</b></div>
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<a href="http://amzn.to/Bengali-Girls-Dont">Bengali Girls Don't (US)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B005D1HQ4O">Bengali Girls Don't (UK)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.de/gp/product/B005D1HQ4O">Bengali Girls Don't (Germany)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.it/gp/product/B005D1HQ4O">Bengali Girls Don't (Italy)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.es/gp/product/B005D1HQ4O">Bengali Girls Don't (Spain)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.fr/Bengali-Girls-Dont-ebook/dp/B005D1HQ4O">Bengali Girls Don't (France)</a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6GzltJlgcvTUpuyNK4rJcD6LLvLgyrfM5h9uEkxtK7oXsQuNO0k8y8Eh3_hvzzTU6dIBySPahzmb5yco0XvJn4swYZ4YDyuwZL3jEZ4i5p7U96BhB04_zlLGyjrW57H_R22a7FoqMXg/s1600/LBS3506lupesmpa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB6GzltJlgcvTUpuyNK4rJcD6LLvLgyrfM5h9uEkxtK7oXsQuNO0k8y8Eh3_hvzzTU6dIBySPahzmb5yco0XvJn4swYZ4YDyuwZL3jEZ4i5p7U96BhB04_zlLGyjrW57H_R22a7FoqMXg/s320/LBS3506lupesmpa.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bangladeshi Author L.A. Sherman</td></tr>
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<b>BENGALI GIRLS DON'T</b><br />
A modern day Cinderella story about the author Luky and her incredible journey from her birth during Bangladesh's liberation war to the present. Her desperation to be a 'normal teenager' turned into a nightmare when she was betrayed by her parents and forced into an arranged marriage with an older man at age 15. My heart ached when I read what horrendous conditions she endured. Her descriptive writing had me visualizing everything she suffered through. I was amazed at Luky's strength and determination she used to survive each day in the hope of one day being home again. This is one story that will forever be etched in my mind and heart. --Maureen Ruehl<br />
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"Despite all the struggles she went through in life, she still managed out strong! My god, she metamorphosed into a fabulous individual."<br />
-- Rajesh Unnithan <br />
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"Her story will break your heart and at the same time you'll be thankful for the life you've had."<br />
-- Rick Willard <br />
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"Really shows the other side and view of things that many people take for granted."<br />
-- Alamin Hahs, lawyers without borders<br />
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"You are in for a journey of emotions."<br />
-- Heather Smith, freelance writer<br />
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"Would make a great movie."<br />
-- Jlynn Evol <br />
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"The most courageous women in the world!"<br />
-- James Faulk<br />
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And if anyone has any questions, let me know. :)<br />
lukyshermangmail.com
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<a href="http://amzn.to/Bengali-Girls-Dont">Bengali Girls Don't (US)</a><br />
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<b>ABOUT THE AUTHOR</b><br />
L.A. Sherman grew up in Bradford, England in a strict Muslim family where she learned how to sneak out of the house without making the door creak. At the age of fifteen, she was tricked into going to Bangladesh by her parents and forced to marry a man as old as her father. After four years there with a wicked mother-in-law, she won the visa lottery for America and moved to the Big Apple. Now hard at work on her second book, she lives in Tampa, Florida with her family near a pond full of gators and spends her time doing all the things that Bengali girls don’t.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005D1HQ4O/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=bengirdont-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=B005D1HQ4O%22" target="_blank"><img border="0" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv6qZaz93KaKDRlLhq7mtUYRJK457YLEysTgD88EYj52ED-4SThrFmzoc1OyXgjTUzVqN-GaXLwn5HpgbWjH3qpOK1Lk3SAQmDWMwqOJN15gWiNHRcSFwCORYe_5cNPIMfKj5pyUJ27rA/s1600/51Ae7jJC-eL__BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA300_SH20_AA278_PIkin4,BottomRight,-48,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-55442950234216913312012-02-06T12:57:00.000-08:002012-02-06T13:46:18.709-08:00The Bucket List<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bucket List</td></tr>
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You remember the movie, <em>The Bucket List,</em> where Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson don't have much time to live, and so they create a "bucket list" -- a list of things they'd like to do/accomplish before they die. You might have your own bucket list lying at home somewhere, tucked safely in your underwear drawer, or maybe even hidden away in one of your favorite books. You might even have things on it like "skydiving out of an airplane naked while eating celery sticks and peanut butter dipped in bleu cheese," or "riding a bike in a tutu in the rain while flipping pancakes and singing three blind mice." Mine says "to pee standing up while not getting my legs wet." <br />
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I'm kidding.<br />
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Anyway, over in Montana. One guy's list of things to do before he dies included "high speed police chase with cops." <br />
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No lie.<br />
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Can you believe it? And to top it all off he wasn't even drinking or guilty of any crime. "I just always wanted to do that," the man said, according to the police reports. He also said he was having a bad (probably hair) day and wanted to go for a drive.<br />
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I wonder if his list also included "getting felt up by a big biker dude in jail named Bertha"? <br />
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L.A. Sherman is the author of <a href="http://amzn.to/Bengali-Girls-Dont">Bengali Girls Don't</a>, the true story of her forced marriage and her winning the visa lottery for America. <br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005D1HQ4O/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=bengirdont-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=B005D1HQ4O%22" target="_blank" ><img border="0" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv6qZaz93KaKDRlLhq7mtUYRJK457YLEysTgD88EYj52ED-4SThrFmzoc1OyXgjTUzVqN-GaXLwn5HpgbWjH3qpOK1Lk3SAQmDWMwqOJN15gWiNHRcSFwCORYe_5cNPIMfKj5pyUJ27rA/s1600/51Ae7jJC-eL__BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA300_SH20_AA278_PIkin4,BottomRight,-48,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-75145970671425549182012-02-03T07:00:00.000-08:002012-02-03T07:01:38.684-08:00Single People Are From Mars, Married People Are From Venus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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After much scientific study, we've come to the conclusion that the first image should be labeled "This Is Your Brain," while the second image should be classified as "This Is Your Brain On Drugs."<br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-30081302665986977432012-02-02T11:29:00.000-08:002012-02-02T11:29:54.750-08:00Don't Mess With Bruce<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So what if you can do 1, 2, 3, or 4 things better than sombody else. That doesn't make you better than them. So what if you can dunk a basketball over <strong>Bruce Lee,</strong> the basketball going through the hoop, the basketball hitting Bruce Lee's face, Bruce Lee slamming into the floor and your fat ass landing on top of him, crushing him against a cameraman. Who cares that you just b-otched Bruce Lee in the red paint in front of thousands and thousands, and on the telly no less. Does that make you better than him? Hell no it doesn't!! Try messing with him and his family in an awful manner, or picking a fight with him in a steel cage match. Then we'll see what happens. He'll karate chop your crying place to siberia and send your butt cheeks packing to your mamma's. <br />
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Of course, that scenario all depends on it happening before July 20, 1973, because that's the day Bruce Lee passed away, effectively guaranteeing that he wouldn't kung fu your ass to smithereens. But anyway, you get the picture. Just because you can do a few things better than someone else doesn't mean they can't woop your fanny. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFmrFyIhrntn0gE6YAEeIE_X-002JgyB4M2CONS1NoaezUTJfYKWSUzSUvbUz0rE33mhV3MRr-weUOVT0w_QYO9gSs-SnIySydth40kN3XrP3UOT8PFjxiORA6y54Ax3O5U9PCipEFOPg/s1600/dunk+over+bruce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFmrFyIhrntn0gE6YAEeIE_X-002JgyB4M2CONS1NoaezUTJfYKWSUzSUvbUz0rE33mhV3MRr-weUOVT0w_QYO9gSs-SnIySydth40kN3XrP3UOT8PFjxiORA6y54Ax3O5U9PCipEFOPg/s320/dunk+over+bruce.jpg" width="203" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>You </strong>slamming it down on Bruce Lee's gobhole.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JoS8B3rZvNFqB0MndDYv_7XzBk_Woiwq31G2sA_iGqObNDOSdnk6I9O_CdyXtwZNFSYNTV7jvw3fltke74sjSco2I6c7VgHSRV73qQv6uQSWXJlz8VfnjKlhbDttygKGvUoPBLtzDzQ/s1600/bruce-lee-kareem-flying-kick-dragon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" sda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JoS8B3rZvNFqB0MndDYv_7XzBk_Woiwq31G2sA_iGqObNDOSdnk6I9O_CdyXtwZNFSYNTV7jvw3fltke74sjSco2I6c7VgHSRV73qQv6uQSWXJlz8VfnjKlhbDttygKGvUoPBLtzDzQ/s320/bruce-lee-kareem-flying-kick-dragon.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><strong>Bruce Lee </strong>opening a can of whoop ass.</td></tr>
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So the moral of the story is... Don't mess around with Bruce. Hell, If I were you I wouldn't even mess around with anyone named Bruce, and that includes Bruce Springsteen (after all, he has bandmates with large instruments), Bruce Almighty (i.e. the part-time God), or Bruce Willis (unless you wanna hear that yippie-kai-ay Mo-Fo line after he just tore you a new A-hole and sent you to the guy with red horns and tail. Oh, and let's not forget Bruce Wayne. Unless you like being tackled by a guy who plays dress up.</div>
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And if I've forgotten any Bruces, real or imaginary, let me know.</div>
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L.A. Sherman is the author of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005D1HQ4O/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=bengirdont-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=B005D1HQ4O">Bengali Girls Don't</a></div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-21651465182666110462011-12-29T20:55:00.000-08:002012-02-03T06:03:37.153-08:00Child Bride Wins Visa Lottery For America. Escapes Arranged Marriage.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<center><strong>CHILD BRIDE WINS VISA LOTTERY FOR AMERICA.</center></strong><center><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005D1HQ4O/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=bengirdont-20&linkCode=as2&camp=217145&creative=399373&creativeASIN=B005D1HQ4O%22"><img alt="" class="aligncenter" height="300" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51Ae7jJC-eL._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA300_SH20_AA278_PIkin4,BottomRight,-48,22_AA300_SH20_OU01_.jpg" width="300" /></a></center><center><strong>ESCAPES HER FORCED MARRIAGE & BECOMES A SUPERMODEL.</strong></center><br />
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<center>By L.A. SHERMAN</center><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
"Bengali Girls Don't" is the uncensored story of the author's life, from being born in a small village in Bangladesh, surviving Bangladesh's liberation war, to winning the visa lottery for America after a forced marriage at 15. Luky's story is a visceral look at what Bengali life was like her, and it doesn't shy away from the terrors of genocide, the atrocities that people commit against each other, and the horror of living a life not of your own choosing.</div>
It's an unforgettable story about heartache and irony. About broken dreams. And how the life we choose is not always the life that chooses us.<br />
"It's like 'The Namesake' on steroids," Sherman says. "Or Cinderella in reverse."<br />
Get your copy today for 99 cents!<br />
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-89084845911948114742011-12-02T12:52:00.001-08:002013-10-10T16:22:03.063-07:00"Here Comes the Bride" feat. L.A. Sherman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Okay. So I thought of a great post today. One where I'd show you all the pictures of me in wedding gowns over the years. Beginning with the ones from when I was fifteen, back when my I had my arranged marriage, to about ten days ago when I did a bridal shoot at Fort Desoto beach, FL. So here goes. Captions will be underneath each photo.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDp2jFzMDcrIfl-lBuvl_YjuE1vkFy-Ed_0V5Ru3UoqYCsM1M6KrtBE1vpqE1qiO-i-uz1ImWtwG7eM9PLyGyZ0SGFtNG9ySFC9wYARGdM1b10FeC8gE0H_HlFRjR3_YvON7bplmasGo4/s1600/011+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDp2jFzMDcrIfl-lBuvl_YjuE1vkFy-Ed_0V5Ru3UoqYCsM1M6KrtBE1vpqE1qiO-i-uz1ImWtwG7eM9PLyGyZ0SGFtNG9ySFC9wYARGdM1b10FeC8gE0H_HlFRjR3_YvON7bplmasGo4/s320/011+12.jpg" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="center" class="MsoCaption">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“Oh my God,” I
thought. “What’s happening to me? What am I gonna do?”</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht15-JWahq1B-O2y0oU3aCm8A1thHbKuaQo6Aptay3oezkn7RlyBYu2KJgqysGpev8VFwp2-A9mghaTTbtTgAwQa3c4meOsrqk6F-l0Kj7p8AmXrONj2MTZ-ldAuq8ByA4vm-u60RYEXg/s1600/37a+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht15-JWahq1B-O2y0oU3aCm8A1thHbKuaQo6Aptay3oezkn7RlyBYu2KJgqysGpev8VFwp2-A9mghaTTbtTgAwQa3c4meOsrqk6F-l0Kj7p8AmXrONj2MTZ-ldAuq8ByA4vm-u60RYEXg/s320/37a+12.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A picture from my second wedding. Now I could look up and
not worry about getting a neck ache, or that some old Bengali lady was gonna
tell me to keep my eyes closed.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2e0LWV37mBiWdw_GGR7rPE5bJ6-Wf3w-FEhJAFr5GCIN1JPfFLBL1O9cp4SYbAGVd20KA6wZe7flF5OSxkznCz2kP2A2If_lx2AgYHcu1vVV_qJCX4Xq0qJIqqW4FrTs9C4W7VtJWHU/s1600/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji2e0LWV37mBiWdw_GGR7rPE5bJ6-Wf3w-FEhJAFr5GCIN1JPfFLBL1O9cp4SYbAGVd20KA6wZe7flF5OSxkznCz2kP2A2If_lx2AgYHcu1vVV_qJCX4Xq0qJIqqW4FrTs9C4W7VtJWHU/s320/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+027.jpg" width="251" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Look out! I know Karate.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5j3QwifOVIluGKuGqsgHL3i_vrdNKsqtra9vaeCey1sCl1Vpo08DgW_wtDmuxrG4CUXKi30JsLlIZ9ye5YA8SScvaWo3AeiF4HBuqELCzq44Ai90ku7EeHZ5_rF5SlzpIcuig4TDPjQ/s1600/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5j3QwifOVIluGKuGqsgHL3i_vrdNKsqtra9vaeCey1sCl1Vpo08DgW_wtDmuxrG4CUXKi30JsLlIZ9ye5YA8SScvaWo3AeiF4HBuqELCzq44Ai90ku7EeHZ5_rF5SlzpIcuig4TDPjQ/s320/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+034.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Showing off my trinkets and henna.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGYMGKP7BT3uNSLjrhSdniXwao2cTQC5C1LvIDFHS7oj3akAtVMOdTHIw-4k5Shn7JafNxETIMPbXYNFth0u5eV9j4pfig6RZRJwOrG0gbqstpPkCFMaE0cJeRcoO8VXUnc_T780RvSM/s1600/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGYMGKP7BT3uNSLjrhSdniXwao2cTQC5C1LvIDFHS7oj3akAtVMOdTHIw-4k5Shn7JafNxETIMPbXYNFth0u5eV9j4pfig6RZRJwOrG0gbqstpPkCFMaE0cJeRcoO8VXUnc_T780RvSM/s320/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+049.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Signing my life away. LOL. i.e. the marriage contract.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLOatADdh_vNLmOfkuKZw88giK7_EDPagDBY3PdD4IoCkQ_OojwRlYSEPWbRBeL627BY-IFJVfcjlzCygehDkEB0oybaKU_DwxfmAGlMYyW_rK89zW29ik9tJdRr4hXL834QrK2_j3Xo/s1600/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghLOatADdh_vNLmOfkuKZw88giK7_EDPagDBY3PdD4IoCkQ_OojwRlYSEPWbRBeL627BY-IFJVfcjlzCygehDkEB0oybaKU_DwxfmAGlMYyW_rK89zW29ik9tJdRr4hXL834QrK2_j3Xo/s320/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+068.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Me and the new hubby.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jw_E7BhX1kY/TtlHagHZa0I/AAAAAAAAHtw/42upq_dWqaE/s1600/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+070.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jw_E7BhX1kY/TtlHagHZa0I/AAAAAAAAHtw/42upq_dWqaE/s320/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+070.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The red piece of cloth behind us is covering the telly.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAtfihnyVnv4oYKXzCQqhNq57ynjIzqyTuaI0E0t5oRIlgmF4QbGNLf3Y7HazNBJsf6gJilgXgchhrLDQYHf3x3Cv2JZfjA0Gfr0zQfNvpOyrOVLa8jxECDU8vpQ5CbFGLvdMiw-ezzlI/s1600/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+094.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAtfihnyVnv4oYKXzCQqhNq57ynjIzqyTuaI0E0t5oRIlgmF4QbGNLf3Y7HazNBJsf6gJilgXgchhrLDQYHf3x3Cv2JZfjA0Gfr0zQfNvpOyrOVLa8jxECDU8vpQ5CbFGLvdMiw-ezzlI/s320/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+094.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Finally, a little alone time.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHm1Giqb8kf5UvkXTQHDSjAgWc1C9K_0qorTFID3-wxrap-UWu9F5l_PGQyYjr3bQ8sxu0XxqDyn2w3h8g9Al3cbhzEqWEnnnGEds3OVWtWpMU5EqL14T18EEM_NfGi-HNlKx2i7Lb3DU/s1600/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHm1Giqb8kf5UvkXTQHDSjAgWc1C9K_0qorTFID3-wxrap-UWu9F5l_PGQyYjr3bQ8sxu0XxqDyn2w3h8g9Al3cbhzEqWEnnnGEds3OVWtWpMU5EqL14T18EEM_NfGi-HNlKx2i7Lb3DU/s320/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+114.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">More pictures with the guests.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQ46RSxROokxcPqyXEh5aLvvyKWomjZZBhpmKI2h_R5fJDNFtLdh4ST0S6ZnjZFAgS1Xs0cgexLUpC9fk6zHBm9IE7igmUjSp2tz7E_YaFjoZp21JOlazE4RGlGpRTTWHqorio56byps/s1600/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQ46RSxROokxcPqyXEh5aLvvyKWomjZZBhpmKI2h_R5fJDNFtLdh4ST0S6ZnjZFAgS1Xs0cgexLUpC9fk6zHBm9IE7igmUjSp2tz7E_YaFjoZp21JOlazE4RGlGpRTTWHqorio56byps/s320/Rick+%2526+Luky+nikaah+117.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A portrait of love.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipPnVBfwuesF_ooUDMA5brIIXB3vSX9YPXRDW2tb4LIVp1oXocjUrpmzEeCkajh5sDrPiAkOmh7JfMz_c4MBZXqv8S0FU-d7GjpzvXDp-NBR11hgQv1p2AGiK3sRUs_8ifrDTsPw3NC5k/s1600/luky_art_025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipPnVBfwuesF_ooUDMA5brIIXB3vSX9YPXRDW2tb4LIVp1oXocjUrpmzEeCkajh5sDrPiAkOmh7JfMz_c4MBZXqv8S0FU-d7GjpzvXDp-NBR11hgQv1p2AGiK3sRUs_8ifrDTsPw3NC5k/s320/luky_art_025.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here comes the bride.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ8SkFO0bUxCM7sCA7q_f88E7TxdlkuiDMJbYARCTZ_9hRti1ylRGbNltNfPoZuwTrmVzAvmrZQTQPrX3Rap1Tq7BeADG-WxxQpT8VmcGX60DbO8ubVAv_DG4HNlja3GQXvPY3AWSyhyphenhypheno/s1600/luky_art_026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ8SkFO0bUxCM7sCA7q_f88E7TxdlkuiDMJbYARCTZ_9hRti1ylRGbNltNfPoZuwTrmVzAvmrZQTQPrX3Rap1Tq7BeADG-WxxQpT8VmcGX60DbO8ubVAv_DG4HNlja3GQXvPY3AWSyhyphenhypheno/s320/luky_art_026.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Looking for my prince.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_oFM4vgQlzI7AGuLv9ub-lDA0LrGuaT1UtGAPzSBsarQd1lDMCUxy1P7hSRnq1A4Ei4xEQWdioUPFiKFoEcntWq8SNVvcpezPBGkvs0KMmyEK_fvNoKn062BuuBJawm8_3p4Es8iqk3M/s1600/luky_art_027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_oFM4vgQlzI7AGuLv9ub-lDA0LrGuaT1UtGAPzSBsarQd1lDMCUxy1P7hSRnq1A4Ei4xEQWdioUPFiKFoEcntWq8SNVvcpezPBGkvs0KMmyEK_fvNoKn062BuuBJawm8_3p4Es8iqk3M/s320/luky_art_027.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Trying to look pretty.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Guess I'll go barefeet.</span></td></tr>
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Hope you enjoyed these! And remember, if you want to learn more about me, my life and my memoir, <a href="http://amzn.com/B005D1HQ4O">BENGALI GIRLS DON'T,</a> you can connect with me on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/L.A.ShermanOfficialPage">FACEBOOK,</a> <a href="http://gplus.to/LukyLove">GOOGLE+</a> and <a href="http://twitter.com/lukysherman">TWITTER.</a> Also, come find me on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/lukysherman">YOUTUBE</a> and check out my music videos and booktalks. Thanks!<br />
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<center>
<iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=bengirdont-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=B005D1HQ4O&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe></center>
<br />
<b>About the Author</b>
<br />
L.A. Sherman, model and author of Bengali Girls Don't, grew up in Bradford, England in a strict Muslim family where she learned how to sneak out of the house without making the door creak. At the age of fifteen, she was tricked into going to Bangladesh by her parents and forced to marry a man as old as her father. After four years there with a wicked mother-in-law, she won the visa lottery for America and moved to the Big Apple. Now hard at work on her second book, she lives in Tampa, Florida with her family near a pond full of gators and spends her time doing all the things that Bengali girls don’t.<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-9499415887370001352011-11-20T21:24:00.001-08:002012-02-19T06:21:39.983-08:00Interview with WRHU Radio Hofstra University 88.7 Wednesday 12-12:30pm<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WRHU<br />
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This Wednesday, I'll be doing a recorded interview with <a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=608827848">Kimberly Singh</a> of <a href="http://www.hofstra.edu/Academics/Colleges/SOC/WRHU/index.html">WRHU Radio Hofstra University 88.7</a> from 12-12:30pm. I'll be talking about my book, <b><a href="http://amzn.com/B005D1HQ4O">Bengali Girls Don't</a>,</b> and my life as a former child bride. Once I find out when they'll be playing it on the radio, I'll let you all know. Thanks!<br />
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<b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/BengaliGirlsDont">From the Bengali Girls Don't Fanpage:</a></b><br />
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Born in a remote village during her country's liberation war, a Bangladeshi girl moves to England with her parents and struggles for freedom and identity while growing up in a mixed neighborhood. Caught between the world of her white friends and that of her parents, she scraps her Muslim gear for blue jeans and runs away with her boyfriend.<br />
<br />
But when her father tracks her down and finds her, he tricks her into going to Bangladesh so that he can marry her off.<br />
<br />
In Bangladesh, she is faced with a choice: get married or never go home.<br />
<br />
It's an unforgettable story about heartache and irony. About broken dreams. And how the life we choose is not always the life that chooses us.<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>About the Author:</b><br />
<br />
L.A. Sherman grew up in Bradford, England in a strict Muslim family where she learned how to sneak out of the house without making the door creak. At the age of fifteen, she was tricked into going to Bangladesh by her parents and forced to marry a man as old as her father. After four years there with a wicked mother-in-law, she won the visa lottery for America and moved to the Big Apple. Now hard at work on her second book, she lives in Tampa, Florida with her family near a pond full of gators and spends her time doing all the things that Bengali girls don’t.<br />
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-664659485874735542011-11-01T07:56:00.000-07:002011-11-02T08:09:57.522-07:00Bengali Girls Don't is now only 99 cents!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<center><iframe frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=bengirdont-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=B005D1HQ4O&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="height: 240px; width: 120px;"></iframe></center><center><br /></center><center></center><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px;">Born in a remote village during her country's liberation war, a Bangladeshi girl moves to England with her parents and struggles for freedom and identity while growing up in a mixed neighborhood. Caught between the world of her white friends and that of her parents, she scraps her Muslim gear for blue jeans and runs away with her boyfriend.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">But when her father tracks her down and finds her, he tricks her into going to Bangladesh so that he can marry her off.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">In Bangladesh, she is faced with a choice: get married or never go home.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; text-align: -webkit-auto;">It's an unforgettable true story about heartache and irony. About broken dreams. And how the life we choose is not always the life that chooses us.</span></div><br><br>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-61051934444414760272011-10-23T18:42:00.000-07:002011-10-23T18:42:08.240-07:00Fans of my memoir BENGALI GIRLS DON'T<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSztcWcpp7157DaCQgd3Vfpu-IoG683mpwNGSJZsRVfPNid8y7plaAY7yxrqR3gfqmWmA1E5z-rPbu4q8VrPZ6JaUrthHK6xNElghV3TxGtJ3AlIxUDWKAOedy46hkxnffxXZfKn2TiRk/s1600/John+sullivan+with+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSztcWcpp7157DaCQgd3Vfpu-IoG683mpwNGSJZsRVfPNid8y7plaAY7yxrqR3gfqmWmA1E5z-rPbu4q8VrPZ6JaUrthHK6xNElghV3TxGtJ3AlIxUDWKAOedy46hkxnffxXZfKn2TiRk/s320/John+sullivan+with+book.jpg" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks John Sullivan!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBoOM3LqCKh_9iWwjAKc5bZCM9sEoL2ED6oIQlFI1IXTNnfibVb67-_kXztuF8XKWGw9fuTpWWcazN7_Osqh2fzhTa1bFWfJrvbPkqq4zo9Z1Ngpf-jrvXXr_5FGHE4U7OscC8Z_jssW8/s1600/Lynette+Young+with+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBoOM3LqCKh_9iWwjAKc5bZCM9sEoL2ED6oIQlFI1IXTNnfibVb67-_kXztuF8XKWGw9fuTpWWcazN7_Osqh2fzhTa1bFWfJrvbPkqq4zo9Z1Ngpf-jrvXXr_5FGHE4U7OscC8Z_jssW8/s320/Lynette+Young+with+book.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks Lynette Young!</td></tr>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-55637336962289392122011-10-12T17:39:00.000-07:002012-02-19T06:28:41.474-08:00Update on Book Signing at Midtown Sundries<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On Friday October 7th, I went to <a href="http://midtownsundries.com/">Midtown Sundries</a> in St. Petersburg, Florida to do a book signing for my book, <a href="http://amzn.com/B005D1HQ4O">Bengali Girls Don't</a>. I met some great people, sold some books, had pictures taken with fans, and signed my John Hancock a few times with a green ink-colored pen (yes, I was trying to be different, okay?). Oh, and I did mention there was free wine, right? Yes, that's right, free wine! Of which I had three glasses. :) Along with a chicken Caesar salad, courtesy Midtown Sundries. Thank-you guys!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Enjoying the night with friends</td></tr>
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-38027051955277134482011-10-06T19:34:00.000-07:002012-02-19T06:30:02.912-08:00Author Talk / Book Signing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Author L.A. Sherman will be speaking about her book, <a href="http://amzn.com/B005D1HQ4O">Bengali Girls Don't</a>, as a guest of <a href="http://www.palmettorotary.org/com/content/la-sherman-author-bengali-girls-dont">The Rotary Club of Palmetto, FL</a> at the <a href="http://www.bradentonyachtclub.com/">Bradenton Yacht Club</a> in Palmetto, FL. Be there and meet the author and get your signed copy of the book!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1pHIOw2XH0isk06-4mdiG0Mlba2vmzC3gjiVE_CESeKxkS7ExNRC-2XM5DRkt7gHMA1eu5LooBSH0B8akidXR9KQmtHEuszFkEIP6ff3rZXrnuyAyMSfKrgzFuYIQcqX2eKEVPySv_C0/s1600/rotary+club+of+palmetto.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="45" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1pHIOw2XH0isk06-4mdiG0Mlba2vmzC3gjiVE_CESeKxkS7ExNRC-2XM5DRkt7gHMA1eu5LooBSH0B8akidXR9KQmtHEuszFkEIP6ff3rZXrnuyAyMSfKrgzFuYIQcqX2eKEVPySv_C0/s320/rotary+club+of+palmetto.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhwQl63izmHkFBxg40hMmd7_ULd4PGpk0tleD63-3x6B8LSJR29LJz53iUcc7xWRebtLV7yRrq8mH0_famhZSwLSvn8Rwt7N-Pjk2kyBNdKAaw2bRT1oe1AMuuDv4pp2a7d9pXt-7jGU/s1600/BYC_Entrance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkhwQl63izmHkFBxg40hMmd7_ULd4PGpk0tleD63-3x6B8LSJR29LJz53iUcc7xWRebtLV7yRrq8mH0_famhZSwLSvn8Rwt7N-Pjk2kyBNdKAaw2bRT1oe1AMuuDv4pp2a7d9pXt-7jGU/s320/BYC_Entrance.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #5d7397; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">4307 Snead Island Road<br />Palmetto, Florida 34221<br />Telephone 941-722-5936 • Dockmaster's Cell 941 374-2310 Fax: 941-723-6639</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L.A. Sherman speaking about her book<br />
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<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-91775041522154894822011-10-06T17:19:00.000-07:002011-10-06T17:19:55.988-07:00Author Talk / Book Signing / Free Wine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Author L.A. Sherman will be speaking about her book, <a href="http://amzn.com/B005D1HQ4O">Bengali Girls Don't</a>, at <a href="http://www.midtownsundries.com/st_petecalendar_detail.html?id=29370&ed=1317963600">Midtown Sundries</a> in St. Petersburg, FL on Friday October 7th from 6-8pm. Be there and meet the author and get your signed copy of the book while enjoying complimentary glasses of wine courtesy Coastal Vines Wines. Additionally, anyone who purchases a book will get a free drink at the bar and a VIP card that will give them 10% off their check.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #f3f1d4; font-family: Verdana; font-size: x-small;">Midtown Sundries St. Pete<br />Downtown St. Petersburg, Florida<br />200 1st Ave. South<br />St. Petersburg, FL<br />727-502-0222</span></td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-4056125573296327462011-09-17T14:20:00.000-07:002011-09-17T14:20:42.461-07:00Hang on to your family Jewels!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Family Jewels</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An eel</td></tr>
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Eeeeewwwwww! Or should I say eel? Yes, that's right. Eel. As in the animal thingy that looks like a green disgusting snake that lives in the water and can bite / shock the shit out of you if it wants to. For no other reason at all than it wants to. And no, it doesn't do it in your bath water. But in yucky sea / ocean / murkey pond scum water. So what, pray tell me, was some guy in China doing taking a bath with a tub full of these nasty guys, then? <br />
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Well, apparently, it's called "eel treatment" and it's done at a spa (please remind me never to go to <em>that </em>particular spa ever) for lots of money. <br />
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Supposedly, "eel treatment" can make you look 10yrs younger! Amazing! Right? No, not right. Because when the eel thingy decides to go up your urethra like it did to this guy, you have to have surgery using sharp objects to cut it out. Which is NOT fun when there are sharp instruments of destruction (picture a pair of scissors) so close to your . . . <br />
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Well, you know, so close to family jewels. Your precious moments. The apples of your eye. Your pride and joy. Whatever you like to call it. And let me tell you something else I know: I don't care if "eel treament" makes me 10 years young again with perfect smooth skin, a tight butt, and no kids, no stretchmarks, and single again with a proposal from giant footballer - - aint no way ever am I gonna let some snake thingy swim next to my pee hole. Are you kidding me??!! Cuz obviously it's gonna go right up there!<br />
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<a href="http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/875317-eel-removed-from-mans-bladder-after-entering-penis-during-beauty-spa">Eel Removed from man's Bladder after entering Penis during Beauty Spa</a><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-72534145471575822912011-08-07T18:25:00.000-07:002011-08-07T18:25:02.891-07:00Today I was featured on Women of Google+<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO-bXGo9ZAenGoG6mtnUnd1t9SEiOnQCAPX1DqxCsH9DODGRov93Yvv2eVKTBsJmq0ditjwJy23FA-sEwnUQ7gmfoJV73Cw1qWpS-v5TY1BT-Ck9kYG_jsq9c_q94PKCMN8hBQzT4m6WE/s1600/WofGplus-125x250.png" /></div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://www.womenofgplus.com/2011/women-of-google-l-a-sherman">L.A. Sherman -- the newest member of Women of Google+</a></span><br />
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-3867586913534055782011-08-06T20:59:00.000-07:002013-10-13T02:27:42.519-07:00Thank you Danny Nappi @dannyintampa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 36px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Minion Pro';"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">For blogging about my book. Bengali Girls Don't: The true story of my birth during <st1:country-region w:st="on">Bangladesh</st1:country-region>'s liberation war, my rebellious days as a teen in the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">UK</st1:place></st1:country-region> during the 80s (back when I wanted to be like Madonna), and my forced marriage at 15. --Picture the Muslim female version of <i>Stand By Me </i>meets an unhappy, loveless version of <i>My Big Fat Greek Wedding.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; line-height: 36px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><a href="http://theblogabouteverything.com/bengali-girls-don%E2%80%99t-by-l-a-sherman/">Danny's Blog</a></span></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 30px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 36px;">Danny Nappi</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;"></span><br />
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<span class="screen-name screen-name-dannyintampa pill" style="font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 2px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 2px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 2px;">@dannyintampa</span> Tampa, FL</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-11514566776694667032011-08-04T12:31:00.000-07:002011-08-04T12:31:35.150-07:00Woman seeks $46,000 a month in child support payments<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evangelista<br />
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</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_3fgj18="152" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Meet Supermodel Linda Evangelista, the woman who made a child with French billionaire Francois Henri-Pinault some time ago. Evangelista, who is no longer in a relationship with the billionaire, is seeking $46,000 a month (Yes! That’s $46,000 per month!) in child support to provide for her little poor Augustin, the child she made with Mr. Moneybags. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now get this: a woman by the name of Natasha Pearl, the president of <a href="http://us.lrd.yahoo.com/SIG=11e582cvh/EXP=1313692896/**http%3A/www.astonpearl.com/"><u closure_uid_3fgj18="108">Aston-Pearl</u></a>, the New York-based lifestyle-management firm for wealthy families, said that such a sum is basically nothing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“At first glance,” she said, “$46,000 seems like an extraordinary amount and it is. “But for a fortunate child in New York [like Augustin], it is actually absolutely conceivable that his expenses could approach $50,000 a month.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Incredibly, this Mr. Moneybags guy is the same guy who fathered a kid with Salma Hayek not too long ago. My God, it makes you wonder who’ll get eggy and get the big-time money next?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now for the COMMENT OF THE DAY award, which goes to a woman on Yahoo who wishes to remain anonymous:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“This [story] makes me want to vomit. I teach full-time and have a master’s degree; that’s more than I made last YEAR, even with taking on extra teaching and tutoring assignments. I guess I got into the wrong racket… I wonder if I can go back and get an advanced degree in Getting Knocked Up by a Billionaire.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yeah, I say. Don’t we all.</span></div><div closure_uid_3fgj18="94"><a href="http://www.sheknows.com/entertainment/articles/835095/salma-hayek-linda-evangelista-share-same-billionaire-baby-daddy">French billionaire has two 4yr olds</a> </div><div closure_uid_3fgj18="94"><br />
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</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-57797462651237085932011-07-21T11:23:00.000-07:002011-08-04T12:38:44.085-07:00The First Chapter to My Book: Bengali Girls Don't<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_xaga4g="154" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_d11mqi="132"> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 36pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Bengali Girls Don’t</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><div closure_uid_d11mqi="133"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Based on a True Story.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">L.A. Sherman</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_xaga4g="154" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_xaga4g="169" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> Copyright © Luky Ali Sherman, 2011</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All rights reserved.</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Blue Sari Press</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cover photo by Z.M.S</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Cover design by Sherry O’Donnell</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <a href="http://www.facebook.com/L.A.ShermanOfficialPage"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.facebook.com/L.A.ShermanOfficialPage</span></a> </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://twitter.com/lukysherman"><span style="color: blue;">http://twitter.com/lukysherman</span></a></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_xaga4g="154" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_xaga4g="170" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 24pt 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 1; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">Acknowledgements</span></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’d like to thank my family for being so supportive and God for giving me a life worth writing about.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_xaga4g="154" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Author’s Note</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.7pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 18pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">n the summer of 1947, exactly 24 years before my story begins, the British left India, giving rise to two new nations: India and Pakistan. But back then, Pakistan didn’t merely comprise the western zone of India as it does today, but the eastern zone as well, under the name of East Bengal, then later as East Pakistan, before becoming a free nation in and of itself during my birth year, in 1971, under the name of Bangladesh.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now, before that fantastic moment of liberation, when Bangladesh was still called East Pakistan, West Pakistan, which had less of the population but all the political power, treated East Pakistan and its people as the unwanted step-siblings, as the impure Muslim cousins from the east, as the speakers of an impure tongue (we spoke Bangla and they spoke Urdu), as the people who constantly needed help due to cyclones and floods.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In other words, they couldn’t stand us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">To make matters worse, on March 25, 1971, the day before my country, East Pakistan, declared independence, the government of West Pakistan sent in their soldiers to rape and slaughter their way through Dhaka, our capital city, to instill fear in the hearts of the people, leaving the Bengalis no choice but fight back and defend themselves. It was five months after this that I came into the world on a mud floor in a remote village, and four months more until Bangladesh won liberation.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At a February conference in 1971, shortly before the war broke out, General Yahya Khan, then president of Pakistan, when referring to the Bengalis to a reporter named Robert Payne, said, “Kill three million of them and the rest will eat out of our hands [like dogs].” (The dogs part is my own personal addition, but I always pictured him saying it whenever I heard this quote). Just like other maniacal dictators had done throughout history, he used genocide as a means to control his population. Anyway, this was the world I was born into and the place where my story begins.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">P.S. Certain names in the book have been changed at my discretion, and faces in the photo section blurred, to protect identities, and I promise (truly, I promise) that I have tried to write everything exactly as how it all happened, based on my own memories and feelings of the events, as well as the memories and feelings of certain family members whose brains I picked with a fine surgeon’s scalpel. However, and to be quite honest, it’s possible I may have gotten a few minor details mixed up or mistaken (though not <i>too</i> mistaken), such as exact dates or times, but for the most part, I believe that everything I have written in these pages happened in the exact way that I’ve described.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_xaga4g="154" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 24pt 0in 0pt; mso-outline-level: 1; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 18pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">Part I. Birth. East Pakistan. 1971. Summer.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 36pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">1</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 8pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">——————</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.7pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 20pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">T</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">hey race through the doorway, two boys and their parents. They scamper over a pathway to check in on a neighbor, thirteen other Bengali families in tow, their eyes never leaving Rahman’s solid frame. The neighbor isn’t there. Thank God, Rahman says to them. Must have already left.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Backtracking, Rahman motions for them to follow, but they barely have an opportunity to round the corner when they see a group of soldiers flanking a motored vehicle and approaching fast, though still 150 to 200 meters off. Rahman knows they came from the market. Knows what they did there. What they did to his sister. <i>What they tried to do to him.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Instinctively, they rush toward the tree line, leaving Rahman’s home in the rear-view. They know the Pakis won’t follow after. When they reach the forest, they stash themselves amid the thick brush where the undergrowth is as dark as it is dense. The women restrain their children by cupping their hands over their mouths and the men, vigilant, edgy, remain helpless. <i>But how to run farther.</i> Yet they cannot run farther. Why? Look to the tree tops. Hear those black things cawing? If more movements below, then more alarms in the air. And if that happens, the soldiers will have no choice but to turn their guns toward the forest, open fire, and revel in the clinking sound of shell casings hitting each other at their feet. So, for the time being, they are content to stay low, stay quiet, and wait.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">All except Rahman.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sunia, his wife, notices he is not among them. The others do too. “Where is he?” they keep asking. “Where…?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“There,” someone whispers. “Up against the tin.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The people look.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Rahman…Rahman,” they call. Though not too loudly, so as not to alert the soldiers, who are still heading in their direction.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">No answer. Nothing. Rahman remains stolid, his back resting against the outer wall of his home, his mind lost in some thought or paralyzed by some unknown fear, but not bothered by any worries. In a moment, he’ll look to his left, toward the jungle, where he’ll see his family and other Bengali families motioning for him to come to safety. He’ll then look to his right, toward the soldiers, where he’ll see nothing but foreign pigs encroaching onto their land, their homes, and into their lives. He’ll hate them at that moment. Hate them for the rest of his life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Rahman…Rahman,” they call to him again, but just like the last time, they receive the same answer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rahman looks straight ahead now and stares into the lush expanse he calls home, wonders if he’ll ever be back. His eyes become watery, and they close. He wipes them, but his vision remains cloudy so he blinks. When it clears, he sees he’s no longer squatting at the edge of civilization, about to flee for his life and his family’s lives, but he’s at the market buying naan, cilantro, jackfruit and mangoes, and two other items no Bengali household can do without: betel nut and paan, all of it to take to his sister.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He routinely goes to the market after morning prayers to buy things for his sister. She’s married, but lately her husband’s been ill. Been in bed resting for the past couple of weeks. Rahman helps out whenever he can, considers her husband a brother. He bargains for some jalebis, his sister’s favorite sweet, and hears some commotion down by the water. Walking closer, he sees people screaming and running and knocking things over. He hears gunshots. He runs, though not for safety, but for his sister, her husband. He knows his own family will be safe, at least for a little while longer, as they’re situated farther away from the main hub of the village.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rahman runs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He reaches the home of his sister and quickly looks around. Nothing’s afoot. He removes his sandals. Opens the door.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And the image he sees is one that will haunt him for the rest of his life. A woman. Her hands bound. Her lower half completely bare. The rusty blade of a machete buried deeply into her most private of parts.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rahman steps toward the body.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The ground upon which she lies is soggy, squishy even, under Rahman’s barefeet. He wonders who this woman is in his sister’s home.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Surely, it can’t be my…</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He raises his right leg, pulls his foot up over atop his left knee and scans the bottom of his sole. Wipes it with his hand. Blood. All blood.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He notices a man in the corner, his sister’s husband, lying face down in a pile of vomit. His hands bound behind his back. A single bullet hole through the back of his skull.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Oh no, they couldn’t have. Not to him, not to her, not to my…</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Rahman bends down, slowly pulls back the woman’s sari, for it had been covering her head, and looks into his sister’s lifeless eyes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sons of bitches! Goddamned bastards!</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He drops to his knees, gasps for air, and is about to cry out to Allah for justice when he hears voices outside. Men’s voices. Saying something about going back in for another ride.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He rises to his feet.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And tears mingled with rage stir rebellion.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He reaches for the machete.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The bootsteps grow louder.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He slips to the shadows.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The soldiers enter with smiles.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He holds the blade ready.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The soldiers step forward.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He leaps from the shadows with a grin.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Rahman! RAHMAN!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For a moment, he can’t remember where he is or what he is doing squatting alongside his home. His head feels muddled, but when he glances toward the tree line and sees his wife and others motioning, waving for him to come over from behind a patch of closely knit bushes and shouting his name no less, he remembers. Only then does it all come flooding back.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He takes one more look at the soldiers—more of them coming now. He counts two more vehicles, two more trucks. More foot soldiers. Carrying rifles with bayonets. Rahman doesn’t waste any more time. He scurries off into the forest and then, as everyone else had been doing, crouches down low and waits, and is thankful it is no longer raining.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The vehicles drone by and then stop. Soldiers disembark and begin shouting. They order everyone in the trucks to get out and everyone complies.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sunia watches a small contingent of soldiers enter nearby homes. A few even enter her husband’s home, but soon reappear as there wasn’t much left to see. Looking at the trucks now, she counts twenty-one men, all Bengalis, making their way from the rear of the farthest truck to the clearing adjacent her husband’s home. They walk quietly, eyeing only their barefeet, seemingly resigned to their unaccustomed fate. Some will welcome what is about to come. Some of their losses probably too great to bear.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In the clearing, they are ordered to stop. Thick black bands are wrapped around their heads to cover their eyes, and they are made to stand in single file, one behind the other, so tightly that not even an inch of space can pass between them. Yet why so close? Sunia wonders.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A solider with a rifle walks to the front of the line and shouts at the men to open up their gobs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Defeated, they obey.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The soldier cocks his rifle and buries the tip of it into the first man’s mouth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sunia whispers something to her children, Abir and Saqir: Close your eyes. Then covers their ears and prays that no one in her company makes a sound, as even the faintest little din could put <i>all</i> their lives in jeopardy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The soldier yells, “Allahu Akbar.” God is great.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The air about them turns grim.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Allahu Akbar,” the soldier repeats the mantra.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Allahu Akbar.” Sunia closes her eyes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The soldier pulls the trigger.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A single shot leaves the barrel and enters the first man’s mouth and exits through the back of his head, doing so, more or less, to each and every one of the prisoners, knocking them over, killing some, injuring others.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When Sunia opens her eyes, a ghastly scene awaits her vision: 21 bodies being doused with some sort of fluid and a single soldier lighting a match. Horrified, she watches the match.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.3in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Minutes later, the pile of human flesh is afire, the byproduct thereof a dark-gray smoke plume, a testament to its vulgarity. But the soldiers, in their vehicles now, never look back, never feel guilty concerning their fellow Muslim brothers whom they charred; and in the bushes only silence and blinks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" closure_uid_xaga4g="154" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div closure_uid_d11mqi="134" closure_uid_xaga4g="105"><div closure_uid_d11mqi="166"><br />
<a closure_uid_d11mqi="165" href="http://amzn.com/B005D1HQ4O"><span style="font-size: large;">Buy it now on Amazon!</span></a></div><br />
</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-63582092703077069522011-07-19T20:52:00.000-07:002011-07-19T20:52:32.033-07:00Bengali Girls Don'tMy story, Bengali Girls Don't, is now is now available on Amazon.com!! You can read it on your PC, smart phone or Kindle (also the ipad/iphone). If you read it on your smart phone or PC, you'll just need to download the free kindle for PC app or kindle for smartphone app before you buy, which you can do from the same page you purchase the book from (just below where you click to buy it). Otherwise you'll get an error message. :)<br />
<br />
<iframe src="http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=bengirdont-20&o=1&p=8&l=as1&asins=B005D1HQ4O&ref=tf_til&fc1=000000&IS2=1<1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr" style="width:120px;height:240px;" scrolling="no" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" frameborder="0"></iframe><p></p><p></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-36535537681509661222011-07-19T07:44:00.000-07:002013-10-13T02:28:32.780-07:00A little more about my book: Bengali Girls Don't<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Did you like The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri? Or Bricklane by Monica Ali? Or A Golden Age by Tahmima Anam? Well, Bengali Girls Don't is like Bricklane on Steroids, or like the namesake times 100. It's raw, powerful, and everything in it is true. It's like a fly-on-the-wall look inside a traditional Bengali Muslim home. It's my story, my life. How I was tricked into leaving the UK shortly after my 15th birthday for Bangladesh and forced to marry a man old enough to be my father. It's sure to cause controversy, especially since my culture frowns on women writing about their personal lives and their culture and their religion. We all know how Ayaan Hirsi Ali has been treated. But please check it out and let me know what you think. All responses/emails/messages are welcome. :)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXtE_2IFVky6sGsEql2Xt-OkpX4LtYJxl-P2b1nL_b-Uszw5nXEIkEPDPYfIwRNTHgAprHmy48tw1usMKAAUzytO5aJ4piZ2WeM17J8wG1aKOrARcAGUdDWjS8nTULl1fKnlc2g-36Gg/s1600/010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXtE_2IFVky6sGsEql2Xt-OkpX4LtYJxl-P2b1nL_b-Uszw5nXEIkEPDPYfIwRNTHgAprHmy48tw1usMKAAUzytO5aJ4piZ2WeM17J8wG1aKOrARcAGUdDWjS8nTULl1fKnlc2g-36Gg/s320/010.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His family swarmed me like mosquitoes. I missed my friends. I couldn't stop crying. I missed my Mum and wanted to go home.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-5LHQsdPFnFgITBjAd8wSvFvsKzwcg-z0MhgmgBkpcnLex0sBaw2J_oRaS7kKMIma6eFjf9PaPVndfxN8IGDWd2uTcnZSTGpkpGqUCcLczL8iaGxhe8w9TpvZ7tNobyMifAAq_16fjY/s1600/014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-5LHQsdPFnFgITBjAd8wSvFvsKzwcg-z0MhgmgBkpcnLex0sBaw2J_oRaS7kKMIma6eFjf9PaPVndfxN8IGDWd2uTcnZSTGpkpGqUCcLczL8iaGxhe8w9TpvZ7tNobyMifAAq_16fjY/s320/014.jpg" width="227" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in my darkest days</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-1115544134659791212011-07-17T18:25:00.000-07:002011-07-17T18:26:00.585-07:00The Introduction to my Book: Bengali Girls Don't<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC3aZXEyYQ_H9AcrMjZQ90z_5Lezm02-Dh4wHOUw7tSQr4OcBoie5CyjZi8TajLqlvAK0Izs_VLbpVfs8W8HtRwh-oetHBOIPNfUtxlmJYkCR1kMGtW5F0sYuB78JBK-CUOMWJDu12gPY/s1600/001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC3aZXEyYQ_H9AcrMjZQ90z_5Lezm02-Dh4wHOUw7tSQr4OcBoie5CyjZi8TajLqlvAK0Izs_VLbpVfs8W8HtRwh-oetHBOIPNfUtxlmJYkCR1kMGtW5F0sYuB78JBK-CUOMWJDu12gPY/s400/001.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in 1977. I was six.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>n the summer of 1947, exactly 24 years before my story begins, the British left India, giving rise to two new nations: India and Pakistan. But back then, Pakistan didn’t merely comprise the western zone of India as it does today, but the eastern zone as well, under the name of East Bengal, then later as East Pakistan, before becoming a free nation in and of itself during my birth year, in 1971, under the name of Bangladesh.<br />
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Now, before that fantastic moment of liberation, when Bangladesh was still called East Pakistan, West Pakistan, which had less of the population but all the political power, treated East Pakistan and its people as the unwanted step-siblings, as the impure Muslim cousins from the east, as the speakers of an impure tongue (we spoke Bangla and they spoke Urdu), as the people who constantly needed help due to cyclones and floods.<br />
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In other words, they couldn’t stand us.<br />
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To make matters worse, on March 25, 1971, the day before my country, East Pakistan, declared independence, the government of West Pakistan sent in their soldiers to rape and slaughter their way through Dhaka, our capital city, to instill fear in the hearts of the people, leaving the Bengalis no choice but fight back and defend themselves. It was five months after this that I came into the world on a mud floor in a remote village, and four months more until Bangladesh won liberation.<br />
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At a February conference in 1971, shortly before the war broke out, General Yahya Khan, then president of Pakistan, when referring to the Bengalis to a reporter named Robert Payne, said, “Kill three million of them and the rest will eat out of our hands [like dogs].” (The dogs part is my own personal addition, but I always pictured him saying it whenever I heard this quote). Just like other maniacal dictators had done throughout history, he used genocide as a means to control his population. Anyway, this was the world I was born into and the place where my story begins.<br />
<br />
P.S. Certain names in the book have been changed at my discretion, and faces in the photo section blurred, to protect identities, and I promise (truly, I promise) that I have tried to write everything exactly as how it all happened, based on my own memories and feelings of the events, as well as the memories and feelings of certain family members whose brains I picked with a fine surgeon’s scalpel. However, and to be quite honest, it’s possible I may have gotten a few minor details mixed up or mistaken (though not too mistaken), such as exact dates or times, but for the most part, I believe that everything I have written in these pages happened in the exact way that I’ve described.<p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-34245536378413076352011-07-16T10:21:00.000-07:002011-07-16T10:24:45.132-07:00The StrangerHe grasped me firmly, but gently, just above my elbow and guided me into a room, his room. Then he quietly shut the door and we were alone. He approached me soundlessly, from behind, and spoke in a low, reassuring voice close to my ear. <br />
<br />
"Just relax."Without warning, he reached down and I felt his strong, calloused hands start at my ankles, gently probing, and moving upward along my calves, slowly but steadily. My breath caught in my throat. <br />
I knew I should be afraid, but somehow I didn't care. His touch was so experienced, so sure. When his hands moved up onto my thighs, I gave a slight shudder, and partly closed my eyes. My pulse was pounding. I felt his knowing fingers caress my abdomen, my ribcage. <br />
<br />
And then, as he cupped my firm, full breasts in his hands, I inhaled sharply. Probing, searching, knowing what he wanted, he brought his hands to my shoulders, slid them down my tingling spine and into my panties. <br />
Although I knew nothing about this man, I felt oddly trusting and expectant. This is a man, I thought. A man used to taking charge. A man not used to taking 'No' for an answer. A man who would tell me what he wanted. A man who would look into my soul and say . . . . <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"Okay ma'am, you can board your flight now." <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ONfr0nqU1UN7dJC964EHtiD2x9tIxBCvF2UjwLen-SULzkpWoRQI0Bk9QHraBW0Y7AzQ3MS4G676WbhA9xvhtJWoZZEFY7V71M0oNtY-Kdure86e56cs8fmeMfgF_ZYueiJM2PZJFLI/s1600/kate-beckinsale-airport-security-1_0_0_0x0_300x452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ONfr0nqU1UN7dJC964EHtiD2x9tIxBCvF2UjwLen-SULzkpWoRQI0Bk9QHraBW0Y7AzQ3MS4G676WbhA9xvhtJWoZZEFY7V71M0oNtY-Kdure86e56cs8fmeMfgF_ZYueiJM2PZJFLI/s400/kate-beckinsale-airport-security-1_0_0_0x0_300x452.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<p></p>Please note that this was a joke one of my friends passed along to me. <p></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-61311973809565851542011-07-11T14:02:00.000-07:002011-07-11T14:03:03.911-07:00The Cosmo QuizName: L.A. Sherman<br />
Nickname: Luky Love or Luks<br />
<br />
The best part about having sisters is:<br />
<br />
C. Having a free punching bag to hit when you're angry or a free slave to boss around when your mum wants you to do chores or a fallguy to take the blame when one of your schemes goes awry.<br />
<br />
You'd be surprised to know that I've never <u>driven a bike nude while flipping pancakes and balancing a duck-billed platypus on my noggin.</u> <br />
<br />
I feel sexiest when <u>I haven't had intercourse for a month (I mean, who wouldn't?).</u> <br />
<br />
The best relationship advice I've ever received was <u>if you mess around with boys, it'll get stuck (thanks mum!).</u><br />
<br />
In another life, I was probably <u>Napolean Bonaparte, because we have the same tempers and stature.</u><br />
<br />
The celebrity I'd most like to be friends with is: <br />
<br />
C. Oprah Winfrey, because being on her show = a shitload of book sales.<br />
<br />
I'm really terrified of <u>anything that is creepy-crawley or that gives me the cringes. And yes, that mean YOU!</u><br />
<br />
Now it's YOUR turn to take the Cosmo Quiz. :)<p></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4164405612038314775.post-28063274774953827882011-07-11T12:00:00.000-07:002011-07-11T12:07:09.206-07:00Funny facts about me and my family<span style="font-family: inherit;">I once accidentally dyed my hair orange and my dad said I looked like a pumpkin.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWr9lK7At-jBos0ca5nuTT0OenHC49jQK6SsP_SU4tXdcdsZi2Yhv0hDO3NzhwfcO01gnU7bBKOnAPvAetsDqhkdJRz1w10xs34cj9a4qzs3Qgl1CycXSdyjsIysgOlXpWN9-FJXBS_U/s1600/pumkin_punkin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPWr9lK7At-jBos0ca5nuTT0OenHC49jQK6SsP_SU4tXdcdsZi2Yhv0hDO3NzhwfcO01gnU7bBKOnAPvAetsDqhkdJRz1w10xs34cj9a4qzs3Qgl1CycXSdyjsIysgOlXpWN9-FJXBS_U/s320/pumkin_punkin.jpg" width="287" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pumpkin my dad said I looked like.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: inherit;">My mum used to say: "When you step on someone else's danda (i.e. dick) it feels all good and squishy, but when you step on your own it hurts." As a side note, it also hurts when someone steps on your face.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkZYLu3UsiX07U7MlW0-R0w62Y0aklXzUBWoyn9014n6lQdGBh6Eeahl-B0WvbWlHh_LoMM4DkOXUcd7PC3rL56Czw85_7ryuN-SZhe6Md-Gl6brEqeo3KDXtHVSBZ3llVJ4zwuaBUGa0/s1600/imagesCAE24WBQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkZYLu3UsiX07U7MlW0-R0w62Y0aklXzUBWoyn9014n6lQdGBh6Eeahl-B0WvbWlHh_LoMM4DkOXUcd7PC3rL56Czw85_7ryuN-SZhe6Md-Gl6brEqeo3KDXtHVSBZ3llVJ4zwuaBUGa0/s1600/imagesCAE24WBQ.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ouch!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
It could be worse. One time, when I was a kid in Bangladesh, a rickshaw driver lost control and the whole rickshaw fell over and my sister Lahbi (which means lovely) flew out and fell into a sewer of shit. No lie.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDlo549wh6lIi_Yos8TlzjT-cWbKxgLbe3CY_K3z6cMEIPjZ7NvkYXajf1xdkUVj04hYNJ3uUJyGAc8wsGCeyp2UcVHilUqCzd8h7vqlNzy_739y616dfYGXEU2jDq-KDftaHZ8Mb6hx4/s1600/imagesCAZMR6S8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDlo549wh6lIi_Yos8TlzjT-cWbKxgLbe3CY_K3z6cMEIPjZ7NvkYXajf1xdkUVj04hYNJ3uUJyGAc8wsGCeyp2UcVHilUqCzd8h7vqlNzy_739y616dfYGXEU2jDq-KDftaHZ8Mb6hx4/s1600/imagesCAZMR6S8.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A shithole much like the one my sister fell in</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Immediately following the incident, my brother, whose temper is legendary, slapped the shit out of the rickshaw driver and called him a whoonga bastor, meaning you damn bastard, and labeled him a rabbisher jadth, meaning he belongs to the rubbish class. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocaQXUvwkw-iKVuEnzTcLtUjPtYY5TMZhfAejIJ16d5nZQaylIUkiZBpVOQNL2dZfrszT79DvlHFLhubeXHqaMyYQKC4MMulE13bpa4PTQq74iH54SXGrk0vN_c-9NeBx-l0A9crDCUU/s1600/untitled.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocaQXUvwkw-iKVuEnzTcLtUjPtYY5TMZhfAejIJ16d5nZQaylIUkiZBpVOQNL2dZfrszT79DvlHFLhubeXHqaMyYQKC4MMulE13bpa4PTQq74iH54SXGrk0vN_c-9NeBx-l0A9crDCUU/s1600/untitled.bmp" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rickshaw and its driver</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Have you ever noticed how rickshaw drivers have such huge ass calve muscles? Well, I guess you wouldn't unless you saw one. A REAL ONE. Not those wannabes in NY who THINK they're rickshaw drivers. No, the real rickshaw drivers are dirt poor, work all day in the hot sun for pennies, never get to see their family, and are skinny from not eating and running/walking/carrying fat ass passengers all day.<br />
<br />
True fact: My dad had to cut off his female cousin's leg during the 1971 liberation war between Pakistan and Bangladesh.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvtjg99xF2V_PXwssqIOeK7eATRsf8XjN3JLRaahCopEmbOTswyUxua2B7B6LYFjQhPmnirfLwAx2H4GXUnjzz2TjD1lZSdzGIxNnA5P6FiAYfvNTYemXbL2ATOe47r7wnb65LEpxr1t0/s1600/rusty-saw-two.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvtjg99xF2V_PXwssqIOeK7eATRsf8XjN3JLRaahCopEmbOTswyUxua2B7B6LYFjQhPmnirfLwAx2H4GXUnjzz2TjD1lZSdzGIxNnA5P6FiAYfvNTYemXbL2ATOe47r7wnb65LEpxr1t0/s200/rusty-saw-two.jpg" width="91" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A saw for cutting trees and legs</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Okay, who would you rather be? Tony the tiger or that frog guy on sugar smacks? Hint: choose that frog guy on sugar smacks because pretty girls kiss frogs, and when they kiss you, you'll turn into a handsome prince!<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8rGvkDR-HWcN4zE51_NgrJvB7D3r0b8h5fyqRDSpA6NixhCjEjhz7-MGveYDqM2wbi8seF48n9k0_Txdp6VKy0BhNLNvEdlL4KWCyP2WStOxQEcIj3Iy9f-buU7Tr40B1cQBTxx82Ms/s1600/3368337490_8b6980949f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo8rGvkDR-HWcN4zE51_NgrJvB7D3r0b8h5fyqRDSpA6NixhCjEjhz7-MGveYDqM2wbi8seF48n9k0_Txdp6VKy0BhNLNvEdlL4KWCyP2WStOxQEcIj3Iy9f-buU7Tr40B1cQBTxx82Ms/s320/3368337490_8b6980949f.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tony the Tiger, whose name means "TO New York"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_X7M17Zt1MG3UAsjrt6hiTxq2-jXDYJY3OemkQ8pvPrM9Dg4WJxwOy-qsdf-A5y0sQw93EwQQkMigKtQPGeT3s30LTT5VTqJg_weoa_3JnxBpvmuUOhvxZswFtlP57AX3-dwun7u54w/s1600/dig-em-frog.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0_X7M17Zt1MG3UAsjrt6hiTxq2-jXDYJY3OemkQ8pvPrM9Dg4WJxwOy-qsdf-A5y0sQw93EwQQkMigKtQPGeT3s30LTT5VTqJg_weoa_3JnxBpvmuUOhvxZswFtlP57AX3-dwun7u54w/s1600/dig-em-frog.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is you before getting kissed by a pretty girl</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQt4AGWN6ur5ZExaxsZhW1FDPM-2hczpwLOD_yGpEquqyGJcZJwpZ-3IJt-jTFzQD-SA_IbSBIYSSdTFJKssAS7ApZ4PX1vHSxc0DgKqCo2HC-_k3cexip43VqUMZ6jPfG9_O7orNbfo/s1600/Prince%252520thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqQt4AGWN6ur5ZExaxsZhW1FDPM-2hczpwLOD_yGpEquqyGJcZJwpZ-3IJt-jTFzQD-SA_IbSBIYSSdTFJKssAS7ApZ4PX1vHSxc0DgKqCo2HC-_k3cexip43VqUMZ6jPfG9_O7orNbfo/s320/Prince%252520thumb.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is you after getting kissed by a pretty girl</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Bengali girls don't suck on lollipops. Why? Because such as act makes men's eyes full of sin. (This is according to my mum, of course)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="tweet-row" sizcache="41498" sizset="0"><div class="tweet-text"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVmbRiK4tey0_6QatPOkHbqPw1K-p7HcFxCs5Gb60RhKiXMOuUv-vP5KEfuNHdfWBx-JW3Tl2d8yUVZo9_57OkfwabdKx0nlbVVr57JcRfTTt9zRGOJsdX7PLDmDBHigjQpOrYN2d8pM/s1600/imagesCAZPRBZA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuVmbRiK4tey0_6QatPOkHbqPw1K-p7HcFxCs5Gb60RhKiXMOuUv-vP5KEfuNHdfWBx-JW3Tl2d8yUVZo9_57OkfwabdKx0nlbVVr57JcRfTTt9zRGOJsdX7PLDmDBHigjQpOrYN2d8pM/s1600/imagesCAZPRBZA.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Warning: if you're Bengali, don't do this. Otherwise, you may be sinning.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Bengali girls don't eat non-halal or kosher food. Which means no gummy worms. (You see, gummy worms have gelatin in them, and that's a no-no in our culture since gelatin comes from pigs, which are considered unclean).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3KNOz5U4uuwoQrgjPzWBtdjigOhzZTkCN3TgjssKLZRL9q7ON3m_UWVDJEuqre6sKTHwogVB5KwMHXUh0k0K4rCq8NGBK9Ca3GJSF4Pp2i9bc7MfIBPmc_2rpC_v7Ihxc7VntsON16TU/s1600/imagesCANY7B0Y.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3KNOz5U4uuwoQrgjPzWBtdjigOhzZTkCN3TgjssKLZRL9q7ON3m_UWVDJEuqre6sKTHwogVB5KwMHXUh0k0K4rCq8NGBK9Ca3GJSF4Pp2i9bc7MfIBPmc_2rpC_v7Ihxc7VntsON16TU/s1600/imagesCANY7B0Y.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yummy gummy worms</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0LvBfERTXQCLdgseXAHkiS6-3gea3YH-XfwiVz7F7XAB_T2LukVzES8vE98Sknp6JXa9ys7Y24Y7UwA-Xng2aAsJXVaDz47jLRW5qRsBiUCvWnJGlR8iWe7ZUYR67NeiJzoGU2h3Dh9w/s1600/yyyrr.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0LvBfERTXQCLdgseXAHkiS6-3gea3YH-XfwiVz7F7XAB_T2LukVzES8vE98Sknp6JXa9ys7Y24Y7UwA-Xng2aAsJXVaDz47jLRW5qRsBiUCvWnJGlR8iWe7ZUYR67NeiJzoGU2h3Dh9w/s1600/yyyrr.bmp" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pigs, or unprocessed gummy worms</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="tweet-text">On Sundays, when I was a kid in England, I had to go to Sunday school - - Islamic Sunday school, which was basically an imam with cane who whacked us when we didn't properly recite verses from the Quran.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0maUm4ypc3JVgU3Ftd29oSh1VI2GPXQN5ukrVbj0MSZBOoPgj3G02SVtek-PnV4KxIDBdOubjQKJb0a7IfupoXetPT1gxaEsQ76Ky8JvfKsgXEWuLEtnbBu8uLOr-3ilcSCH0DktdtC4/s1600/imagesCAPCSI1Y.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0maUm4ypc3JVgU3Ftd29oSh1VI2GPXQN5ukrVbj0MSZBOoPgj3G02SVtek-PnV4KxIDBdOubjQKJb0a7IfupoXetPT1gxaEsQ76Ky8JvfKsgXEWuLEtnbBu8uLOr-3ilcSCH0DktdtC4/s1600/imagesCAPCSI1Y.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our imam had a beard much like Gandolf</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC-DgJc_HuPmbBypCIaQofJIFSc5E83w5MTFPmxDS-Oa6VlEQToUXfjVcx5jhDJzmjqwdGw0ejR_0tuT0MAcI4_1EPXlwZMsrinqIvHtLOcW0SsTVTtGtb0_cNLo3ksdwxPaYwA73YyKQ/s1600/imagesCA58RTNT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC-DgJc_HuPmbBypCIaQofJIFSc5E83w5MTFPmxDS-Oa6VlEQToUXfjVcx5jhDJzmjqwdGw0ejR_0tuT0MAcI4_1EPXlwZMsrinqIvHtLOcW0SsTVTtGtb0_cNLo3ksdwxPaYwA73YyKQ/s1600/imagesCA58RTNT.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let's just say me and the imam's cane got to know each other pretty well</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Bengali girls don't eat pizzas with pepperoni on them. Why? Cuz pepperonis are pork and we, as Muslims, can't eat pork.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBAu0QP_L5bc429N1V5TlH_CbipG4BK5pICpLpMZDevuM0vfVdCjAnaGfeqJCgC8EeEsXWs06_up7J_3un3oraztA3Z597aMumdSacEFJEgHmAhdGHnCoTM6HZDDTQdWEPai3_30vypzA/s1600/imagesCAN2TD6W.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBAu0QP_L5bc429N1V5TlH_CbipG4BK5pICpLpMZDevuM0vfVdCjAnaGfeqJCgC8EeEsXWs06_up7J_3un3oraztA3Z597aMumdSacEFJEgHmAhdGHnCoTM6HZDDTQdWEPai3_30vypzA/s1600/imagesCAN2TD6W.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pizza with yummy pepperoni</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKdI195gq6pZQRQu8ov_-hkvmLYA4b50IxGu2euH3srwjkoKvLL5lpZkp1LdseH6KB_fpqw225u5_4Ct8GusuaHXh6wO7w_eI5JYxG4_AIKfO8PIznkPK91m14s0VnJtnkpk4HHVTOug/s1600/tgeefgq.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKdI195gq6pZQRQu8ov_-hkvmLYA4b50IxGu2euH3srwjkoKvLL5lpZkp1LdseH6KB_fpqw225u5_4Ct8GusuaHXh6wO7w_eI5JYxG4_AIKfO8PIznkPK91m14s0VnJtnkpk4HHVTOug/s1600/tgeefgq.bmp" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By eating pepperoni pizza, you could be eating this guy</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="tweet-text"><div class="tweet-row" sizcache="51600" sizset="0"><div class="tweet-text">Bengali Girls don't eat hot dogs or Italian sausage or polish sausage on the grill or ham for Easter dinner. My mum says they're all unclean, and that if we eat them we'll go to hell and get murdered by the devil.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYt46JqNdroEto3Js0fmL6iLCAph0w1FiMYtLXlvGi_y1LUgxr1A70P3L7MJ4u7ul-PhdvzvfdSAHv-cBZwICrd0Cw-MTiq4695dQPrPV3ZN9f_TEjgO0BOmbubM_pinFK6_HPR_1FDbM/s1600/oooo.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYt46JqNdroEto3Js0fmL6iLCAph0w1FiMYtLXlvGi_y1LUgxr1A70P3L7MJ4u7ul-PhdvzvfdSAHv-cBZwICrd0Cw-MTiq4695dQPrPV3ZN9f_TEjgO0BOmbubM_pinFK6_HPR_1FDbM/s1600/oooo.bmp" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yummy sausages on the grill</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzg6ide2HJWjjS7hTTDjtMdEnSolLx4cWnSKi0PHgFhOfyNBpoU7DjnAPYHU-kthBJi5v26Ay9DuF6kfzSdbzwetktprDIZhm1UsUrSbnWCSRM8uYhEtSnHzPG2O_0skRKZ4YVdTSg4fo/s1600/imagesCAEX85EI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzg6ide2HJWjjS7hTTDjtMdEnSolLx4cWnSKi0PHgFhOfyNBpoU7DjnAPYHU-kthBJi5v26Ay9DuF6kfzSdbzwetktprDIZhm1UsUrSbnWCSRM8uYhEtSnHzPG2O_0skRKZ4YVdTSg4fo/s1600/imagesCAEX85EI.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By eating sausages on the grill, you could get you murdered by this guy after you're already dead</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="tweet-text">One more note about the cane: My brother used to get whacked with the imam's cane on a pretty regular basis. But when he moved out, the imam hit me.<br />
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</div><div class="tweet-text"></div><div class="tweet-text"></div></div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07359898739576084259noreply@blogger.com10