SEVENTY-TWO VIRGINS

- by TC Lai, 23rd July 2019 (Singapore)

A man was dying, so they called in a priest. "No," said the soon-to-expire man. "I want to be a Muslim,
just in case there are 72 virgins waiting for me up there. Please find me an imam!"

Afterwards, at the black plinth gate of Allah-land (and as expected) the man was greeted by two
columns of "virgins" all dressed in burka and with one foot planted forward. Jewelry glinted. At the end
of one line, there was an empty spot.

"Hey, how come there are only 71?" said the rather calculative man.

The check-in clerk handed him a burka and swiftly clamped the same ankle bells on him. "You are
number 72."

"But I am not even a virgin!" protested the man.

"If you bend down, aren't you?" This gave the man pause and before he knew it, he was shoved in-line
with the rest. "Your turn will come," the clerk then said, rather conspiratorially.

When there was a new arrival, the virgins all hitched up a hip and then shook that foot resulting in a
cacophony of ankle bells. Doves flew up a-midst falling veils. Somewhere down below John Woo
raised an eyebrow and had a deja vu moment.

(Note: Other establishments often used harps instead of ankle bells.)

Well, anybody could tell that in some cultures, girls and women wore ankle bells to signify that they
were still unmarried and virgins. Old women wore them too but that was often a case of old maids and
being members of that short-lived Satisfy An Old Cunt Foundation (SOCF) - the geriatric counterpart
to that famous Make-A-Wish Foundation. Their ankle bells, however, were made of brass instead of
silver. It nevertheless gave off a shine of optimism.

In no time, rumors flew claiming they warded off Mr Death himself as the old cunts (um, ladies)
appeared suddenly pink of cheek and light of step. And so in the evenings, before going to bed, old
women could be seen standing at the doorways of their homes and shaking a leg. Old men would stand
at a corner and observe, with some being successful at getting a warm bed that night. Flirting suddenly
became high art with the elderly. More brass bells rang, many heralding the evening ever louder in
some areas. Donations flowed to fill the coffers at the SOCF.

And as Tolkien himself might muse: Silver anklets for the young and gay; brass ones for the old and
wistful. As a matter of fact, brass wind-chimes do sound sonorous and lamentic, kind of like how a
lover might be missing much a certain kind of warm embrace. This time down below Chow Yun Fat
raised an eyebrow and experienced a deja vu moment. Carol Cheng came to his mind.

Now back to the man.

Job done, he hastened to return the burka. "What now?" he asked the clerk, who could be seen perusing
a great book with Arabic text. "And is that it, the 72 virgins?"
"Well," the clerk intoned, scarcely looking up. "The Great Book only says "welcome" - kind of like
airline stewardesses. It does not say they have to sleep with you or something. And does this place look
like a makhur (bordello) to you?" his voice suddenly rising.

The man was taken aback and softly regretted his decision to become a Muslim. He was to regret more.

"Go to that room over there. Time for your circumcision to become A TRUE MUSLIM!"

And as he was dragged away, his anklet could be heard ringing brightly. The 71 virgins looked on and
shook theirs in camaraderie. Some clapped and cheered; others grinned and made the scissor sign. One
pale skin one with golden hair could be heard humming, "If you put your right foot in and shake it all
about...that's what it's all about!"

The end