Iran Student Protestors Clash With Anti-Protestor Protestors

riot ensued Friday in Tehran as Iranian student protestors were met violently by those protesting the protestors' right to protest, referring to themselves as "pro-troops." The violence marred ten days of anti-government protests throughout Iran that were only slightly less violent.

The country, under the rule of a fundamentalist Islamic regime, has faced a surprising bout of student uprisings within its borders starting the previous week. In a country where even reciting anti-government slogans is seen as a challenge to Allah and carries swift judicial reaction, the protests are seen by some as extreme domestic unrest, and others as the perfect excuse to try making off with some TVs and electronics in the confusion.

Shortly after the initial series of protests erupted around Tehran University's Amir Abad campus, waves of pro-troop demonstrators, often dressed in military garb and heavily armed, arrived to shout down the protestors. The shouting down frequently involved assault with batons and occasional gunfire.

The violence served to undermine Iran's position in world politics as well this week, inviting a warning from the United States that it reserves the right to invade any country that starts with an "I" if it deems that country to be a threat to its security. Efforts to stand firm as a country against perceived U.S. aggression are diminished by internal disagreements of such a public nature.

"These who demonstrate against the clerics do injustice to Allah," said Iranian official Ayatollah Mohammad Kaddidazi, "but they are a small pocket of naysayers among the most-favored children of Allah who make up Iran. Those who choose to speak heresy shame us all, but are free to do so. Of course, I kid—they will be stomped into organic puddles and destroyed most painfully by us all. After that, whatever happens is between themselves and Allah."

The way Iran elects to respond to the protestors is particularly important in the aftermath of the U.S.-Iraq war and other situations in the Middle East region. Iran seeks support of the entire Islamic world, but if reaction is seen as too harsh by more moderate Islamic countries, they run the risk of alienating themselves; conversely, allowing the protests to gain popularity or go without reaction would signal a weakening in the country's posture to dissidence and could be construed by the U.S. as an opportune time for intervention.

One solution, points out Tehran University professor of African-American studies Yul Haddid, is to allow independent military protestors to quell anti-establishment rhetoric.

"The government is fortunate that it does have so many supporters willing to step forward and defend it with their own demonstrations," said Haddid. "Their reaction is swift and merciless, and very patriotic indeed. It's a well-organized response, obviously, but that is no surprise since many of the protestors are police and have a methodical precision protest in reaction. It is obvious that in such large turnouts where emotion runs high the occasional incident of violence will break out between groups. Again and again. It might even appear to some it's a state-sponsored crackdown, but I assure you it's just Allah's will taking on the form of a structured backlash."

The professor then treated this reporter to tea and bread, which was fortunate as, upon leaving the campus, I was mistaken for a protestor and met with harsh disagreement by a non-state-sponsored "pro-troop" demonstrator. The local hospital is quite competent and helpful, and they tell me my meal of bread was the last solid food meal I will have for a week or two.

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51. 2? That's what constitutes a rating from you, my loyal readers? I would say "go to hell," but I'm bigger than that. Not much bigger… that unwashed rabble Omar Bricks receives more readers than me? I would cry recount, if I were not staunchly conservative. But forget the injustice… I already am. Let's forget my poor readership and likelihood of losing my job forever.

Not much can clothesline my good mood today (though 51.2 came awfully close). I am in love, good people! An event that happens very rarely for me, every three or four months at the most. The moon goes crescent more often than I fall in love. And I think this is the real deal. Ginger Baker is loud, opinionated, and not very tall at all—can you think of a more perfect match for yours truly? Or myself? I think not.

Good people, love is like the pollen that keeps flowers and bees doing obscene things to each other. It is a sweet nectar, the very blood of life itself, except you can get it out of carpets. And I am so in love I'm ready to throw up. No joking. She is like the wife I've been married to twice before. A little more like Arvelyn, my second wife, than my first wife—Wyfe. And boy, does she have a hot body. Built like a brick ship.

Perhaps I've become a little arrogant with my hip new relationship. We keep kissing in front of Camembert, holding hands, rubbing our noses together—he's even started locking his bedroom door so we won't wake him up in the middle of the night just to do that stuff in front of him. His girlfriend Elvis isn't very happy about it either, and threatened to put the karate to us. But our love is stronger than karate. Melee attacks, that's another question. I'll have to evaluate it in closed conditions.

You're probably thinking, "But Rok," as all 51.2 of you is apt to say quite a lot, "Don't move too fast. I've had my heart broken by a Bangkok hooker, who also stole my wallet, and I don't want that to happen to you." To which I say: That's a little more information than I needed! And then I laugh in a forced manner. But I assure you, I'm moving at my usual cautious romantic speed. I have yet to even book the place for the wedding, I'm still shopping around. Heartbreak won't catch hold of me again.

This is the most unusual relationship I've ever been in, not quite "traditional," but hey—I'm mod. I know for whom the bell tolls, cat. So what if Ginger makes more money than I do. I'm cool with that. I've even taken an interest in her career, as a veterinary talent agent. I've been scouting several local stray dogs, who all seem to have a pretty impressive screen presence, judging by my novice eye. I'm also in negotiations with a math-savvy peacock. Not that I'm naming names—I don't think it even has a name, and I'm not entirely sure it's anything more than a lawn ornament. But cut me a break, I'm not doing this to get rich (but if it happens, I won't complain). This is all in the name of love, as any number of songs might say.

She's into all the same things I am—lifts, non-professional wrestling, home ownership, chasing new interests with maniacal fury, complaining, and not paying a lot of money for things. In the short time we've been going out, we've already done all the "relationship things"—getting drunk at family reunions, accusing each other of infidelity, arguing about having kids, and of course, miniature golf. She is quite the lady, and looks less like a man than any woman I have ever dated. And it goes without saying the sax is great—we're both altos.

If you never hear from me again, don't fret, good people—I am being bound and gagged and abducted by the greatest of all terrorists… love! And it shouldn't surprise you, with low numbers like 51.2. You complete shits.

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Once upon a time, there lived a poor old cobbler who was very sad because he could have no children. He would wander up and down the road kicking puppies into the street gutter and praying to God to give him a child. Any child. Even someone else's child. Then, one day, he got married.

Before too long, his wife was pregnant and he knew that one day, he would have a child. This made him so happy he could scarcely cobble (or whatever the heck it is a poor cobbler does for a living). He and his lovely wife (who dies very soon in this story so let's not bother giving her a name) were very happy when the time came for her to have the baby, but since medical science was not very advanced at this time (they would drill open a hole in your skull to let the demons out if you complained about a broken foot) she died.

Well, the poor cobbler was heartbroken that his wife, uh, whatshername, died. He was so heartbroken that even six straight hours of cobbling couldn't take his mind off it. So he named his child "That Kid Who Killed My Wife." Later, he wised up and changed the name to "Benjamin." Benjamin was a cute little boy and he would often help his father cobble. Then, the poor cobbler met another lovely woman and fell in love with her. Luckily, she fell in love with him too and they got married at the local 7-11 during rush hour next to the Slurpee machine.

The poor cobbler's new wife was a cruel woman, though. And she greatly despised Benjamin because she knew he would inherit all of her new husband's inheritance when he died (something she had planned for Labor Day right in time for the sales). This greatly upset her, and when she gave birth to a daughter, she named her "Better Than Benjamin" but the poor cobbler made her rename the child "Stephany."

Stephany and Benjamin grew up as great and dear friends and loved each other immensely. One day, they were playing under some power lines and frying ants with a magnifying glass while their father was busy cobbling. The step-mother (or mother in Stephany's case but we'll refer to her as "step-mother" from now on) went and made some lemonade. Then, she prepared two cups—one with poison in it and the other one, well, with no poison in it. She filled them both with lemonade and called for the children to come in.

The children ran into the house, fell to the ground, paused, got back up, and then ran through the door. The step-mother handed them cups full of lemonade and told them to go back outside after they were done so she could get back to knitting that body bag. They gleefully drank down their cups of lemonade. The step-mother smiled wickedly to herself and watched them run back outside. Hours later, they returned for more lemonade. Unbeknownst to the step-mother, Benjamin had spent his off-time from cobbling as a poison specialist and had developed an immunity to most poisons. "Drat," said his step-mother. "I forgot about that."

So another day, after the poor cobbler went to a Cobbling Convention in Las Vegas, she conceived her next plot. She told the children it was time for their baths. She took little Stephany in, gave her a nice hot bath with Bubbles. Bubbles was always taking baths with Stephany because she loved that dog. Anyway, after her bath, Stephany put a leash on Bubbles and took her out to play in the yard. And it was time for Benjamin to have his bath.

But before Benjamin could have his bath, the step-mother placed the television over the bathtub. Benjamin got in, with his rubber ducky and his toy boat and his raft and his inflatable sex toy and his pet plunger and his stamp collection and his favorite bar of soap: Whitey Soapsworth the III. Then, as he scrubbed away at his ears with Whitey Soapsworth the III, the step-mother pushed the television at the bathtub. And she pushed and pushed and pushed, but it was a 32 inch television and it just wouldn't fit (they had a small tub) so she gave up.

Finally, after many years, the family grew old and died. All of them. Forget I even started this story. It really didn't have a decent ending. I do apologize for wasting your time.

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