and lo, the streets ran red with blood, and it was good
i think i ate elvis’s brain. wait, let me explain.
there was this huge ass holiday here, called l3id kbir (yes, that’s a
three. there’s no english equivalent of the letter that belongs
there. it’s kind of like a strangled aiyn sound. strangle somebody
and try it out.) it’s really just this one day, but essentially the
whole country is on holiday for about 2 and a half weeks.
so i came home one day and there was a sheep in our house. just like
that. a sheep.
huh.
so i named him elvis. and he was kind of reminiscent of fat, white
polyester wearing elvis in a strange way. and i did this whole naming
thing even though i knew what was in store for this innocent (until
proven guilty) sheep. yes, i was fully aware that we were going to
kill him. what i didn’t know was that we were going to barbecue his
head.
mmm… barbacued sheeps head…
no, wait, ugh! aiyn!!! 333333!!
this is how it went: on friday, january 20th, i got up and saw my
host dad sharpening a knife. a big knife. and he had this evil glint
in his eye that made me want to hide behind the baby where, i was
pretty sure, i would be relatively safe. i hoped anyway.
so he spotted me crouching behind his daughter and said “we’re
killing now!!!” in a way that clearly meant that something was
definately going to die. and if that sheep had somehow escaped, by
allah/buddha/jebus, he was going after one of the neighbors.
of course, i had to watch. this was, after all, an invaluable
cultural experience. or something.
BBBBAAAAAAHHHHH33333333-!!!! is the exact sound a sheep makes when
it’s head is cut off.
and even after it’s head has been removed and chucked onto a
barbacue, if somebody is, say, blowing air into a small hole
punctured in the skin of the leg to detatch the skin, the body will
continue to twitch in a very disturbing way.
so after all this, my host mom sends me to the store to buy salt, and
i nonchelantly make my way down the street. all this killing of elvis
took place behind our house, by the way, so i had no idea what was
going on inthe rest of the town. but it quickly became clear to me
that many people lacked a back yard to kill things in and so they’d
made due with the street. i was literally jumping over puddles of
blood all the way to the store. i mean, there was just blood
EVERYWHERE. it was a little icky.
this is the exact sound i make when i stumble and almost fall face
first into a puddle of warm sheep blood: YAAAARRRRRGGGHHHH3333333!!!!
so it’s been a week and a half since then and most of the blood
puddles are gone. i won’t force you to consider all the dishes we
made out of my dearly departed elvis. i will just tell you that
moroccans eat EVERYTHING from the sheep. everything.
mmmm…. intestines….. ball sack….. brain….that’s all.
for now. mwa haha haha 33333!!!
thanks for the mail from: rhea sloan (i will be eating mac n cheese
for the next month. anything but sheep! anything!) the linhardts,
including kelley and barbara, skye, the entire seattle crew (i got a
massive flat christmas present extravaganza from emily, alyssa,
megan, nels and an unknown number of cats!) and rhea again! thanks so
much everyone! i’ll try to use your mail for good instead of evil,
unless you stipulated in the letters that you wanted them used for
evil.ugh, i really have to go. i’ll try to write again soon!
love,
jocelyn.