Kamal Ghorui
King Donald-I was a very worried man. His decisions for the day depended on which side of the bed he had got up from, but it was almost noon, his favourite Field Marshal was sweating it out, waiting on the hot Islamabad tarmac, and he just could not remember which.
How the hell was he supposed to decide? To send Sir Vancelot, or not to send; to bomb or not to bomb – those were some of the questions that weighed on his mind. Decisions, decisions! He could toss a coin. Either way, there was a risk. As his wise predecessor, George Rush would say, if you don’t succeed, you run the risk of failure.
Vancelot may have been right. He never wanted us to go to war. How come he is so clever. Ah! He has a smart wife. Some guys are lucky!
The King had been calling for a regime change. Lately he had been getting feedback that the entire world wanted a regime change. But not in Tehran.
In DC! No wonder Vancelot was seen smirking. “@*&@!#*$,” the King exploded with an imperious shake of his orange mop. He was good at expletives.
Actually, of all the knights, Sir Peter was his favourite. For him war was a video game and this King D was also good at. He practised it for days on end at his own Camelot, in Mar-a-Lago.
A third knight, Sir Marco, or is it Sir Macron, he often got confused, seemed to be in a sulk. Maybe he could be asked to fetch pizzas for everyone around the Oval table. Give him something to do.
We cannot put our boots on the ground, of this the King was certain. We don’t want our soldiers to get killed. Because if you get killed you die. And Americans may die in street or school violence, they dislike doing so on the battlefield.
Better we ask the Arabs to do it. The Saudis are very brave people. Very brave. They will fight for their country to the last Pakistani soldier. And I, King Donald, can then declare victory. Again!
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