Reminder: ‘New Yorker’ fiction parody contest ends in 3 days!


Late last Friday, we announced a New Yorker fiction parody contest— inspired by the magazine’s publication of a short story told from the standpoint of an Israeli soldier saying that Palestinians were begging soldiers to shoot them so that they could get into the headlines and manipulate world opinion.

The contest to outdo the New Yorker in its own genre — blame the victim– has been a hit already, to judge from the many entries contained in the Comments section. But the contest closes on Friday evening, and we wanted to remind other creative folks out there about it lest you missed the earlier post. The rules are pretty simple. Keep it short (under 4 paragraphs or so). Make it a work of the imagination, but use a recognizable historical struggle. And one of your characters must be a soldier or officer of the law.

Here are a couple of the pieces we’ve received so far:

What We Talk About When We Talk About Birthright
By Liz18

Miriam was sitting at an outdoor bar with her other American friends on Ben Yehuda Street. The fifth day of the Birthright trip underway, she felt as though she had been in Israel for years. In fact, according to her Hebrew teacher, rabbis, and Hillel coordinator in the U.S., she had been. She remembered fondly the poster in her Hebrew class at Brandeis that said, “Your soul is here. Bring your body here too.” The four friends sat drinking beer. They were people-watching. She saw an unshaven soldier in his olive shaded uniform. He was cute. He was protecting her. She looked at him, determined to make eye contact. With his M-16 slung over his shoulder, he looked back. “Yes,” she said to herself, “Israel is awesome.” This was their first of two free nights during Birthright. “No rest for the weary,” their guides told them as they schlepped around Jerusalem. And, really, they were tired. Visiting the Western Wall, ancient ruins, Yad Vashem, David’s Citadel, the Israel Museum, and shopping in the shuk, was a lot for one day.

They ordered a second round of drinks. It was hot and they were all feeling the exhaustion of the day mixed with the alcohol they were drinking. Looking out at the buildings, she saw the sunlight hit the limestone in a way that made the stone look rose colored. She reflected on the walks in the ancient ruins earlier in the day. She felt connected to the land and aware of her past, in these ancient ruins, where clearly people had once lived. After all, it was this connection to her past that led her to come on the Birthright trip. Suddenly, she remembered another important part of her past. “Hey, you guys,” she said to the others at the table, “let’s play the Anne Frank game.” Zack squinted at her as he lit a cigarette. The others stared into their phones and scrolled. Through the haze of alcohol, she wasn’t sure if anyone knew what she was talking about. Only Zack seemed to care, smoking and staring. ”You know,” she continued, “We go around and think of people in our lives and then we decide if they would have hidden us during the Holocaust.”

Miriam started. She thought of her friend Jackie and decided that she was too passive. “No, Jackie wouldn’t have saved me.” Zach went next. “I know my girlfriend would’ve,” he said. “I don’t know about that,” said Miriam, “I mean, Zach, we’re talking about the Holocaust. She won’t even make you dinner.” Zach looked sullen and depressed and ordered another drink. This was getting intense. Miriam looked again over at the soldier. “I know who would save me,” she said to the others, making eye contact again with the soldier.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the soldier making his way over to her. She knew it wouldn’t be long before they took a walk and did the Birthright hookup. Her friends had given hand jobs to soldiers in Bedouin tents. Why couldn’t she? After all, it was her birthright.

50 Years later
By Ira Glunts

Westy, the American officer, had stopped feeling his own body since the acid took effect four hours ago. He lay on top of his cheap tattered Chinese beach chair, holding an old copy of the New York Times, blocking the sun. He had to stretch out his arms to hold the wide page above his head.

“Oh, shit, he said.

“The fuckin’ ARVN didn’t do it,” Van said. He flicked his joint carelessly near a gasoline can. He was talking about Kim, the little Vietnamese girl on the road. The picture in the newspaper showed her running, screaming and naked, amid a group of other hysterical little ragamuffins in various stages of undress.

“I know,” Westy said, “This is a manipulation.”

The world said they were hit by napalm when the South Vietnamese Army pilots mistook them for enemy soldiers. But the American Army knew that this was a staged event by the Vietcong to garner international sympathy for its flagging cause. Westy looked at Van. The orange yellow glare of the sun and the acid made Van look like a demon-warrior. Westy wondered if his countrymen would appreciate the hardships his troops had suffered here amid this faceless inscrutable enemy 50 years from now.

Dershy, grown up
By dbroncos

Gone were the sour playground days of his youth when jolly apes would snicker and make fun of him and his name. “No one kicks Alan Dershowitz around anymore” Mr. Dershowitz said out loud with a great deal of satisfaction. Mr. Dershowitz smiled as he reflected on how far he had travelled, how high he had climbed: a Harvard chair, a made-for-hollywood profile on the legal defense team of a black football star, and invitations to the White House.

The White House visits were the best of it, and Mr. Dershowitz prided himself in always remembering why he was there. He was there to remind the President, Mr. President whatever-your-name-is, that it is Mr. Alan Dershowitz who speaks for the Jewish people. As long as he made this point crystal clear he could say, “mission acomplished”, and rest easy on the eve of his visit. Mr. Dershowitz was intent on making this point clear this afternoon when he travelled to the White House to meet with President Bush. He brought a signed copy of his book, The Case For Israel, with the intention of personally presenting it to the President.

“How’s it hangin’, Dershy?’” said President Bush, slapping Mr. Dershowitz on the back. It was out of character for Mr. Dershowitz to feel nervous, even in the presence of the Commander in Chief, but when the time came Mr. Dershowitz’s hands trembled a little. His book felt heavy and Mr. Dershowitz understood this to mean that it wasn’t just a book. It was Yaweh’s design for the President’s ME foreign policy. It was written for powerful lawmakers who need to be reminded constantly of the exalted role that the Chosen People play in in our own universe and beyond. Mr. Dershowitz presented his book with both hands. His eyes were moist. “Thanks, Dershy!, that’ll be a great prop for election season!” said the President, slapping him on the back. The President never touched The Case For Israel. A White House staffer snatched the book out of Mr. Dershowitz’s hands, and briskly left the Oval office with The Case For Israel teetering on a tall stack of note cards and pizza boxes. “Now let’s talk business, Dershy.” said the President. “Do you have a check for me and can you deliver Pennsylvania?”

IDF Spokesman’s Unit — Fiction Department
By Shmuel

Col. Arik Klein sat in his office on the third floor of the IDF Spokesman’s Unit headquarters on Kaplan Street, overlooking Victor Gate. He had just been appointed head of the Unit’s new Fiction Department, brainchild of Information Minister Yoni Edelman, and was awaiting the arrival of his staff: a major on loan from the IDF Journal and four recruits fresh from basic training–a secretary and three writers. The first to arrive was Private Shira Bejerano. According to her file, she had won first prize in the Ministry-sponsored “My Country Right or Wrong” essay contest, and had already published a couple of short stories in Bamahane.

“At ease, Shira. You don’t have to salute me; we’re not that kind of unit. Make yourself a cup of coffee and pull up a chair.”

“Thank you, sir.”



“I like your writing. I think we can do some really good work here, but it will take you some time to mature as a writer. The way I see it, your service in this department is just the beginning. Your real service to the country will come later, after the army, at university, maybe abroad, and after graduation. Press releases, reports and even documentaries can only go so far in getting our side of the story across. Fiction is the key to winning hearts and minds. I think Uris proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

“Who, sir?”



“Leon Uris. Your first assignment is to read Exodus. You’ll have to find your own voice and style of course, but it’s important that you understand Uris’ achievement. Learn your lesson well and, who knows, you may even be featured in the New Yorker some day.”

“Where, sir … I mean Arik?”

“Never mind. Just read the book, for now.”

About James North and Philip Weiss

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28 Responses

  1. Daniel Rich
    June 26, 2012, 7:51 pm

    A Shot In The Dark.

    “They say that every bullet carries the name of its victim on it. You would call me sniper. I call myself marksman in the art of distance. I kill people who do not know they’re about to die. I am the judge, the jury and prosecutor in one. I am the living dream-team of death. When I pull the trigger I feel nothing. I feel nothing, because I shoot nothing. There’s nothing beyond the wall in my mind or the wall I’m sitting on. When I pull the trigger I am God.

    I slipped another armor-penetrating bullet in the clip and noticed the 6,ooo,ooo million Arab names on it and shrugged. Names of all the grains of sand in an empty desert? What would be next; two states for the price of one? Ha, reality’s funnier than fiction!” – Avithal Shalom. 2nd fiddler on 1st base, bringer of peace, רֵיק country, somewhere in the ME.

    • Daniel Rich
      June 30, 2012, 10:32 pm

      The End of the Tunnel

      We dug with everything we’d got; spoons, forks and our bare hands. Long ago I’d given up hope to save my hands from destruction. The feel of my fingertips caressing ivory keys as they ran up and down the scales was nothing but a distant memory; a memory of another man.

      Almost every night the soldiers barged into one room or another. Every night you could hear the distant screams of someone being kicked, beaten tortured or killed. There was no let up and everyone knew they wouldn’t stop until all of us were dead.

      For weeks we’d been digging; five young men, a small group of trusted brothers. Every night we slipped down the rabbit hole underneath the floorboard and worked diligently. We were always on edge, because every sound, every bark and every footstep could be the last thing we ever heard.

      Tonight, according to our calculations, we should have reached a safe spot on the other side, out of sight of the searchlights, towers and machineguns. We were all nervous, although no one would admit it. A and D, the biggest and strongest men took point and crawled on their hands and feet forward, duly followed by the rest of us.

      At one point we could hear the muffled voices of on-duty guards as they joked around and the vibrations of their footsteps only a few feet away. The pulsating beat of my heart became so loud that my eardrums began to hurt and I stopped breathing, but didn’t realize it. The seconds sneaked by, one by one and the tunnel seemed endless. Some sand crumbled and fell on my hands.

      ‘No time to stop. Keep going. Keep going!’

      Finally I reached the rest of the group and watched as A and D widened the hole above their heads. I could see a few stars twinkle and started to cry.
      “Shut up!” growled A over his shoulder. “You’re gonna get us all killed.”

      Then, one by one, the men got out and grappling hands reached in and helped me up and out of the tunnel. The urge to start running was overwhelming. I looked around and saw more haunted eyes piercing through the darkness and all beamed the same messages of distress.

      “OK,” whispered D. “Stay low and follow me. Whatever happens, do not make any sound! Got that?”

      I glanced one last time at where we’d escape from. The horrors lay behind us, but what about all those we left behind? How were they supposed to survive Dachau?

  2. hughsansom
    June 26, 2012, 10:47 pm

    I hope someone at Mondoweiss will submit these to The New Yorker for publication.

  3. Donald
    June 27, 2012, 8:17 am

    “Why, Sam, why?”

    “Well, Mr. Frodo, sir, you seemed to be suffering so much and for what? Besides, I thought you were dead when I took It”.

    “But look what it’s done to you! You were the best of us, brave, unselfish, humble, if anything too much so and always ‘sirring’ me, liking nothing better than to work in your garden…”

    “But nothing has changed, Mr. Frodo sir. I still like gardening. So do…., no, no Shagrat, put Celeborn’s body in that hole. Sindarin fertilizer, maybe I can get Lotho to build a factory, we can put out bags of the stuff. Nothing better for mallorn trees. Gorbag, go fetch Galadriel from her cage. My feet need combing. What was that you were saying, Mr. Frodo sir? ”


    Okay, this isn’t historical. Sam did nothing of the kind.

    • Donald
      June 27, 2012, 8:42 am

      What I’d personally like to see is a story that closely mimics the New Yorker one, but turned upside down in a way that would enable even the most dimwitted pseudo-liberal understand what was wrong with the original. (Mine of course doesn’t even attempt such a thing.)

      What was wrong with the original was its condescension and contempt for Palestinians dressed up as a sort of “humanization”, with all the usual hasbara claims about Palestinians–that they make up stories about imaginary Israeli atrocities– placed in a setting where if you object you can be accused (like that writer did to Phil at “Open Zion”) of not understanding literature. The parody would have to be dishonest to match the original, so you’d have to take whatever true claims you could make about Israeli crimes and exaggerate them. LOTR parodies are about my speed, but what I’d like to see is beyond me.

      • Rusty Pipes
        June 27, 2012, 9:11 pm

        So many of these parodies are terrific at capturing different aspects of hypocrisy and hasbara. Glunts’ piece is the best one for conveying to an average American reader (with little background on I/P) the distorted lens through which Boianjiu views Palestinians and the realities of occupation.

      • ColinWright
        June 29, 2012, 3:32 pm

        Sounds like you need to face up to a fact.

        You’re just not as good at lying as Israel supporters are.

        One has to concede one thing to Israel. It’s creation and defense has led to the most impressive display of dishonesty even seen by man. The pyramid of lies really is awe-inspiring. And it’s so pure, too — it’s almost miraculous how little truth contaminates the whole edifice.

        In a way, it’s almost gratifying. You see, normally in life, almost every issue is shot through with ambiguity. No matter how strongly one might feel about x, one always has the nagging realization there’s something to be said for un-x.

        Not so with Israel. It’s utterly and clearly wrong, and its defenders have nothing to offer but lies. However, one does have to concede one thing: they’re good at their job. I can’t even convincingly tell a cop I’ve no idea how that baggie of grass got into my car. These guys are pros. Neither you nor I are even close to being in their league.

        Neither are the poor Palestinians.

  4. libra
    June 27, 2012, 10:00 am

    Operation Cast Stone

    David crept forward along the hillside towards the Philistine lines. He turned a rocky outcrop and there, the giant was suddenly before him. Bigger than an ox, snorting even louder, and bellowing out dark, stinking breath. Holding in front a massive iron shield which could topple whole walls and houses. If not stopped, the phils would soon push the Israelites beyond the Jordan into the far desert.

    David was frozen with terror. How could he beat this monster with just a sling and a few small stones? But then the words of the wise old hasbarist echoed prophetically in his mind. “Does not a cherry tomato taste a thousandfold sweeter than a beefsteak?”

    The giant started towards him. With renewed courage, David took careful aim and swung his sling with all his might, casting a stone right into the eye of the mighty Goliath. The giant gave a terrible roar of anger, surged forward like a crazed beast, then all of a sudden veered sideways and toppled into a deep gully, rolling over and over with an almighty clatter…

    Cpl. Ben-David awoke with a start. The cab was on its side. The stones from the village boys above pinged metallically all around him. Oh no, what a freier! How they’d all laugh at him back at base. Damn that Birthright babe for keeping him up all night. Damn the pals for. . . for just not giving up. Damn Israel even! How could it be worth all his sacrifices?

  5. Rusty Pipes
    June 28, 2012, 1:05 pm

    Truth is stranger than fiction. The everyday reality of occupation is far closer to Chris Hedges’ Gaza Diary than the propaganda about the “most moral army” that Boijanui has spun:

    Sunday afternoon, June 17,
    the dunes

    I sit in the shade of a palm-roofed hut on the edge of the dunes, momentarily defeated by the heat, the grit, the jostling crowds, the stench of the open sewers and rotting garbage. A friend of Azmi’s brings me, on a tray, a cold glass of tart, red carcade juice.

    Barefoot boys, clutching kites made out of scraps of paper and ragged soccer balls, squat a few feet away under scrub trees. Men in flowing white or gray galabias—homespun robes—smoke cigarettes in the shade of slim eaves. Two emaciated donkeys, their ribs protruding, are tethered to wooden carts with rubber wheels.

    It is still. The camp waits, as if holding its breath. And then, out of the dry furnace air, a disembodied voice crackles over a loudspeaker.

    “Come on, dogs,” the voice booms in Arabic. “Where are all the dogs of Khan Younis? Come! Come!”

    I stand up. I walk outside the hut. The invective continues to spew: “Son of a bitch!” “Son of a whore!” “Your mother’s cunt!”

    The boys dart in small packs up the sloping dunes to the electric fence that separates the camp from the Jewish settlement. They lob rocks toward two armored jeeps parked on top of the dune and mounted with loudspeakers. Three ambulances line the road below the dunes in anticipation of what is to come.

    A percussion grenade explodes. The boys, most no more than ten or eleven years old, scatter, running clumsily across the heavy sand. They descend out of sight behind a sandbank in front of me. There are no sounds of gunfire. The soldiers shoot with silencers. The bullets from the M-16 rifles tumble end over end through the children’s slight bodies. Later, in the hospital, I will see the destruction: the stomachs ripped out, the gaping holes in limbs and torsos.

    Yesterday at this spot the Israelis shot eight young men, six of whom were under the age of eighteen. One was twelve. This afternoon they kill an eleven-year-old boy, Ali Murad, and seriously wound four more, three of whom are under eighteen. Children have been shot in other conflicts I have covered—death squads gunned them down in El Salvador and Guatemala, mothers with infants were lined up and massacred in Algeria, and Serb snipers put children in their sights and watched them crumple onto the pavement in Sarajevo—but I have never before watched soldiers entice children like mice into a trap and murder them for sport.

    • ColinWright
      June 29, 2012, 3:40 pm

      I wonder if the New Yorker published that?

      It’d be amusing if they did. Why do I have this suspicion all those who would defend B-woman’s story for its literary merit wouldn’t be there to be seen when it came to defending the above?

      It certainly has literary merit. That it’s not transparently false is hardly a criticism.

      • Citizen
        June 30, 2012, 6:37 am

        The young author has twittered that it’s just fiction and her characters are not there to depict anybody but themselves.

  6. Danaa
    June 28, 2012, 3:19 pm

    I liked David Samel’s entry. Everyone, go read it….

  7. Daniel Rich
    June 28, 2012, 5:01 pm

    @ Rusty Pipes,

    Q: … clutching kites made out of scraps of paper and ragged soccer balls

    R: You might want to rewrite that line, because I don’t think the kites are made out of scraps and ragged soccer balls.

    • MRW
      June 29, 2012, 6:08 pm

      @Daniel Rich,

      The line is Chris Hedges’. The boys are clutching kites and balls.

      • Daniel Rich
        July 1, 2012, 10:45 am

        @ MRW,

        I checked with my copy-editor to be absolutely sure and this is what she had to say:

        “Hi Daniel,

        Interesting question, never heard that metaphor before. I would immediately assume the former, i.e. that the kites were made up out of scraps of paper and soccer balls. If I wanted to express the latter idea, to avoid any confusion I suppose I would say “clutching ragged soccer balls and kites made out of scrap paper.”

        I guess we all sail by different compasses?

  8. talknic
    June 28, 2012, 6:03 pm

    Everything had been shite since April. The ‘Eisner M-16′ had been turned down by every toy company in the world. Damned boycotts.

    No one in Israel would make ’em. “Why?” they ask. “Are you mad? We have plenty of real M-16s here, real heads and who is gonna stop us?”

    Now Eisner couldn’t even remember if he still had the same gun. Oh well, there was bound to be some schmuck collector with big bucks out there wants an autographed sacred relic of the occupation.

  9. Citizen
    June 29, 2012, 3:07 pm

    Henri, the leader, lay on the makeshift barricade, reading the leaflet before his young eyes. At age 17, he was in charge. “Our Army didn’t do it,” the boy Karl said, “Junk dropped from a plane to make us lose heart–thought you should see it, stuff’s littering the road out there”
    “I know,” Henri said. “Propaganda–our Leader warned us, thank goodness.”
    The leaflet said that the German Army had done it, but the Army knew the family had been killed by the negligence of fellow Jews, or perhaps sneaky local Slavs looking for a hand-out from them. “I’m numb,” said Henri.
    It wasn’t the first time Karl had heard that from Henri. He tried to soothe his leader, even gave him his precious chewing gum. Henri chewed a stick as if he was in heaven. Henri’s thoughts turned to school days… In the morning he woke up. He had been given command of the small bridge attendant the tiny village nestled at the stream bank. Over a week and not a sign of activity approaching it. The Leader had magical weapons he was about to spring. Henri thought about his future, after Germany was secure. The Hitlerjugend was a good place to start in any career, and he had a command defense position–holding the bridge against all comers… suddenly Karl was saying, “Look! Coming down the road!”
    Three unarmed guys were approaching, and Karl was shouting, “Halt! Halt! What are you doing! What do you want?” They produced a ragged piece of cardboard. Held it up. “We are looking for mushrooms to eat.”
    ” So, you won’t let us pass so we can gather some food to eat?” The older one said.
    “That’s not true.”
    Henri was suddenly even more excited than he had been since he was posted to defend the little bridge. He grabbed the orders he had been given, which spelled out what to do in any situation. He looked for mushrooms there. Finding nothing, he asked the older one: “You want to cross my bridge for mushrooms?”
    “We just want to try. Everybody around here knows we’ve come here. We want to see if we can. We use to pick them all the time back there, behind you.”
    “Well, you can’t. Go away!”
    And they did. They came back a few more times.
    The last time, Karl was really annoyed. Although the hecklers did nothing to warrant a bullet, he was itching to unsheath his knife, which bore the inscription “blood and honor.” Henri calmed him down, saying to the silly ones, ” Go home. Nothing to see here or behind us. We are defending Germany. That includes the mushrooms in the fields around here.”

  10. Citizen
    June 29, 2012, 3:24 pm

    It worked. Karl smirked, “Yeah, we’ll leave you the poisonous mushrooms.”

  11. ColinWright
    June 29, 2012, 3:47 pm

    Liz18’s ‘What We Talk About When We Talk About Birthright’ is still da winner.

    For one, literary merit aside, it’s going to hit exactly the right people in exactly the right place. Published widely, it should lose Israel several thousand supporters.

  12. ritzl
    June 29, 2012, 5:36 pm

    How do you satirize a parody of itself? With reality? If one wants to point out generically false beliefs, does one actually kill a mockingbird?

    Rosewood, FL, Greenwood, OK, and the Civil War draft riots in NYC come to mind as potential avenues for a parody, but as I tried writing them they seemed so non-humorous, humor being the road to insight. It always came to, “Blame the victim.” as opposed to blaming the blamer of the victim for blaming the victim in order to feel less blame for actual events.

    I wish I had more talent.

    I hope that people with more talent than I (of which there are many here) can make this work.

  13. bindup
    June 29, 2012, 10:40 pm

    Means of Suppressing Occupations


    Rami, the Mayor, had never stopped feeling his own body. Even after his legs were gone. He stretched out his arms to hold the wide page far out in front of him.

    “Oh,” he said. A family murdered.

    “The boys didn’t do it,” Toma said. “Thai did it, or one of their own. They never look under their own beds.”

    Rami shrugged. He shifted his stumps, which protruded over the lip of the seat of his motorized chair. The world said the Israeli Army had done it with live-fire, but the Israeli Army said the boy had been crippled by a dormant shell Palestinians had left in the dirt.

    Rami slapped his lap and looked up at his cousin: He was fifty now, ten years older than Toma.

    “It’s just that I can feel them all of a sudden,” he said.


    “Every time the Army’s near.”


    The story that was in the paper Toma brought over the next night was about a Haredi girl who’d been killed by her father.

    “Sex”, said Toma.

    Rami frowned and changed the subject. “The soldiers slept in their trucks last night, right next to the Mosque, can you believe it?”

    “We kept everything quiet all night, hooded the roosters.”

    “Don’t serve them tea unless they ask.”

    Now it was Toma’s turn to frown. “When will they ever get enough rest to feel ashamed?”


    The picture in the newspaper Toma brought the next night was of a bird washed up on the beach at Acre. He and Rami were out on the porch. The night sky was clear, the moon was full. No starlight.

    “We just want this one thing, and you can give it to us”.

    Rami gestured at his legs, which weren’t there. “May we offer you tea instead?”


    Live fire is not a means of suppressing occupations, and the Officer, Lea, knew that the cooperative villagers knew this– they knew all the rules– and so she knew that they would never fire. That’s why they’d felt secured enough to park their trucks on the street in the center of the village beside the Mosque, and go right to sleep.

    “Please, shoot us,” one of the soldier had said, in Hebrew, before turning in. Their guns still slung across their shoulders, he and four buddies had lined up side-by-side, held their arms out wide, grinned lopsidedly. The boys gathered across the street– not one of them over 12– averted their eyes, embarrassed by the overture, which they understood well enough.

    Through the eyes of a stranger looking out from the light of a very distant house, they could have been executioners.

  14. bindup
    June 30, 2012, 1:12 am

    Now it was Toma’s turn to frown. “When will they ever really rest… enough to feel ashamed?”

    • bindup
      June 30, 2012, 2:46 pm

      Edit 2:

      Rami shrugged. “Anything’s possible.”

      He shifted his legs, which dangled over the lip of the seat of his motorized chair. The world said the Israeli Army had shot him with live-fire, but the Israeli Army said the boy he’d once been had been crippled by a dormant shell other Palestinians had left in the dirt.

  15. talknic
    June 30, 2012, 6:39 am

    “Say, Bibi” Barak drew himself closer to Netanyahu.

    “Have you ever read these ?”

    “Nope. Why? What are they?” said Bibi innocently.

    Barak whispered “UNSC Resolutions about Jerusalem. Do you know how many reminders there are?”

    “Really? Give us a look! ………… 252 Uh huh ………. 267 Uh huh ……….271 Uh huh ………298 Uh huh ………… 465 Uh huh …….476 Uh huh …………… 478 Uh huh ………….1860 Uh huh ………..497 and the Golan?? ……—netanyahu.gif …… Holy shit!

  16. talknic
    June 30, 2012, 10:31 am

    “Can I go in” the tanned young man asked

    “Yes” said the soldier, letting the young man pass

    “Say, would you use that?” the young man asked, pointing at the gun

    “Just keep this side of the sign mister, or you’re gonna find out!

  17. talknic
    June 30, 2012, 1:07 pm

    Mass IDF defections denied!

    An IDF spokesman today denied yesterday’s reports claiming a viral YouTube video was the cause of over 70% of the IDF suddenly defecting to the Palestinian territories, taking billions of dollars of military equipment.

    “We’re not aware of any defections or helicopters, tanks, submarines, fighter bombers, military vehicles, ammunition or nukes flooding into the disputed territories.” said Mr Netanyahu in a statement, before flying out of Ben Gurion airport with the Foreign Minister.

  18. Edward Q
    July 2, 2012, 10:44 am

    I wrote another parody this weekend that I thought was a more direct satire of the New Yorker piece. My internet was knocked out Friday so I am not sure what the status of the contest is.

    The “Rape” of Nanking

    Corporal Yoshiro Takamura of the Japanese Imperial Army flattened himself against a wall and prayed they had given their pursuer the slip, the fear in his face mirrored in the eyes of his squad mates further down the alley. Alas a shadow fell across the alley entrance followed by the dreaded form of a boy wearing a malicious grin, filling them all with panic. The boy had chased them more then two miles through the streets of Nanking, threatening to kill himself while someone else photographed more “proof” of Japanese atrocities. Now he crept towards them knowing utter triumph was close at hand.

    Yoshiro’s squad was franticly trying to form a human pyramid to reach the rooftops above, leaving fingernail scratches on the wall, but it was too late. Desperately, Yoshiro pointed his rifle at his head and spoke in broken Chinese, “Stop or I’ll shoot myself!” But the boy only laughed; “where is your camera?”, he chortled between gasps for air and then proceeded to taunt them. Pointing his pistol toward and away from his head the kid jeered, “maybe I will, maybe I won’t”. “Be reasonable”, Yoshiro pleaded, as sweat dripped down his strained face, “I will give you my rifle if you leave us alone!” “Too late”, the boy replied, shooting himself and collapsing on the ground, while above them, from a window, a camera snapped a photo of the grisly scene.

    Yoshiro felt like he was being simultaneously crushed by 1000 tons of bricks and pulled apart by the hard vacuum of outer space. As he slipped to the ground he seemed to have an out-of-body experience. When he could move again he noticed there was a commotion to his left. Private Hiru had snapped and now believed he was Han Yang, citizen of China. This was happening all the time now. Yesterday another member of his squad had gone crazy and decided he was a Fuji-Nikon 800B camera. How long would the army last at this rate?

    In desperation, General Omu had made an emergency request for 100,000 cameras so they could retaliate, but it would take weeks for them to reach Nanking. Even if they arrived, all Nanking had to do was evacuate its male citizens. Then it would be Japanese males versus Chinese women, children, and the elderly. Who would be blamed for the atrocities in that situation? Yoshiro reflected bitterly that they would have to break their arms and legs and use wheelchairs to have any hope of parity. Even then, would it work?

    Yoshiro felt his insides turn to ice and started to gibber as a woman appeared at the alley entrance holding a knife.

  19. rhipidon
    July 10, 2012, 9:01 am

    Loved this contest — a brilliant response to the New Yorker. When will you be posting the results? Can’t wait to see who won!

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