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The Real Dictator

Even tyrants can be hen-pecked.

Mrs. Asma al-Assad, the British-born wife of Syria’s
dictator, asserts that she’s the one who wears the trousers in the Assad
family.  What she actually said was, “I’m
the real dictator”. I can well believe it. 
Under that posed winsome smile, she looks formidable.  Her husband looks like a chinless wonder, and
perhaps acts like one. 

One might imagine what the Assads discuss over

Assad:  Morning,
dear.  Coffee? 

Asma:  Yes,
please.  You look awfully tired, darling.

Assad:  Of
course I am. Those bloody people in Homs
are stirring up trouble again.

Asma:  Well, you
know what to do, darling.  Bomb them to bits.  Violence, that’s the only thing they’ll ever
understand.  Wipe them out if you have to.  Be a love and pass the marmalade.

Assad:  You’re
probably right dear, but we’ll get scorched in the western press. 

Asma:  Rubbish!  My friends in London tell me they’re with us all the way,
and not to mind the newspapers.  The
media are always for the rebels, everywhere. 
The Arab Spring, the papers call it. 
Makes good copy, doesn’t it.  Anyway,
we’ve got the Russians and Chinese on our side. 
Who cares about the silly-old Brits? 

Assad:  I worry
for you, dear.  If we don’t win, then we
won’t be welcome in most European countries. 
Where will you shop?

Asma:  You can
be so thick sometimes, Ass.  I do my
shopping on the internet these days.  I
haven’t been to Harrods or Harvey Nicks for years.  Anyway, never mind me.  I can take care of myself.  It’s you I have to worry about.  Stand up to these people.  What are you, man or mouse?

Assad:  I’m
doing my best, dear, but things do get me down sometimes.

Asma:  Oh my
word!  You make me wonder sometimes why I
married you.  You’re supposed to be the
king around here.  Absolute ruler, you
said.  Now you’re telling me you’re
worried about a few trouble-makers in that dump of a town, and what a few
British tabloids might think.  Pull
yourself together, and act like a real man for a change.

Assad:  You’re
probably right, dear.  I’ll have the
generals launch a new artillery attack this morning.

Asma:  That’s
more like it, pet.  I do like these
croissants, by the way.  Delicious!  And while we’re on the subject of the
internet, what’s all this about pictures of naked women on your phone?

Assad:  I can
explain that, dear ….. But first let me call the army and get you’re artillery
barrage under way.




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