The Journey of a CombOnce upon a time, in the days of yore—namely, after the Blessed Corrective Movement—a man went to the market to buy a plastic comb. In one shop, he found two identical combs in every respect except the price: one was ten liras, the other two.
The man asked the shopkeeper why there was such a price difference. The shopkeeper replied, “The first one is original; the second is recast”—or recycled, to use Bouthaina Shaaban’s vintage nasalized phraseology.
Our man bought the cheaper comb. When he got home and showered, he took out his new comb and began combing his hair and beard—only to find blood flowing from both.
He flung the comb to the ground and said to himself, “Really, cheap is cheap!”
And then something miraculous happened—something that only happens in cartoons and on the Addounia TV channel: the comb spoke! Aye, indeed, it spake! In a voice tinged with pain, quoth the comb, “What fault is it of mine, m’lord? Your head, your beard, and your bottom are all full of boils, and you’re too stingy to see a dermatologist!”
The man was stunned and cried out, “And how did you know I have boils on my bottom too? Can you see the unseen, you cheap piece of plastic?”
The comb replied, “Would it be strange for a chap like me to know such things?” Which is when rendered in boorish prose goes like this, “Come on, Comrade. I used to be the red water pitcher in your squat toilet! I spent my youth serving your bottom—and those of your family – but then your good wife sold me for a few measly piasters! Off to China I went, melted down—without even getting to see the Great Wall—and turned into a boil-busting comb!”
Translated from the Arabic original by the author
Great beginning to what I think would make an epic story.