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Curtain rises
Here's a Palestinian father talking with his 12 year old son.
Son: Dad, what do you want me to be when I grow up?
Dad: Dead.
Son: Huh?
Dad: I said "dead." What part of "dead" didn't you understand?
Son: Dad, I can't believe you would say that! You want me dead?
Dad: Of course!
Son: Why do you want me dead?
Dad: So the neighbors will be impressed.
Son: Dad, are you hearing yourself? You want me dead? And you think this will impress our neighbors?
Dad: Of course. You get a bomb vest, tuck plastic explosive into all the pockets, find some Jews, and detonate yourself. Then the neighbors come over and admire me.
Son: Dad, that's sick! You want me to kill some strangers, and die while doing it, so the neighbors will think you're hot stuff? If you want to impress people why don't you get a job?
Dad: Don't be disrespectful, son. We need to get Palestine back from the Jews. Until then, we don't do anything constructive. We just sit around cursing the Jews and using our kids as human sacrifices.
Son: That's all I am to you? A human sacrifice?
Dad: You make that sound like a bad thing.
Son: What will we do with Palestine if we get it back from the Jews, anyway?
Dad: I dunno. Never thought about it. Fire guns in the air, I guess.
Son: So you don't even know what you'll do with that useless stretch of sand, but you're willing to see me die to get it?
Dad: Now you're starting to understand.
Son: Dad, do you mean to say that the entire meaning of life for the Palestinian people is to die for the sake of a chunk of desert that we don't even know what to do with???
Dad: Heyyyyyyy, that's my boy!
Son: Dad, we Arabs own 99.5% of the Middle East, and at least half of that is uninhabited! We have all the land we could ever use!!! Why spend 55 years killing ourselves over this little strip of desert???
Dad [crossing arms, breaking into song and dance]: Tra-dish- SHUN........ TRA-DISH-SHUN!!!
Chorus: Tra-dish-SHUNNNNNNNNNNN..... TRA-DISH-SHUN!!!!
Dad [singing]:
Who, day and night, must scream about the Zionists? Beat his wife and children, say his daily prayers? And who has the right, as master of the house, To honor-kill his little girls?
The Papa, the Papa! Tradition! ThePapa, the Papa! Tradition!
Who, day and night, must live in fear of Papa Cannot go to school and cannot drive a car? Who lives in serfdom like the Middle Ages And who can be killed at whim?
The Mama, the Mama! Tradition! The Mama, the Mama! Tradition!
Matchmaker, matchmaker, strike me a match. I'll light the fuse, which is attached To dynamite sticks sticking in my son's vest And test him the ultimate test
Matchmaker, matchmaker, bring me some news My son blew up, killing some Jews He'll be a martyr and then I will be The envy of all I see.
Matchmaker, matchmaker, bring me a check Saadam's now gone, but what the heck Surely some Saudi will pay me a sum For killing my teenage son!
Son [singing]:
Bombmaker, bombmaker, make me a bomb One I can fit, under one arm One that's equipped with an extra-long fuse So I can kill lots of Jews
Father and son [singing]:
Matchmaker, matchmaker, help me decide Which one to choose, fight on whose side? I chose Saadam twice and oy, I got burned. You'd think that by now, I'd learned.
Matchmaker, matchmaker, I'll never learn Israel will never let me return I should have stayed put back in '48 And now it is much too late!
So bring me no peace, fire will not cease, Jews took my land, though it's just sand Fuses I'll light, if only for spite My goal is to light a match!
Father: So now, do you see, son?
Son: Yes, Papa. I'm sorry I was disrespectful. I can't wait to have my body ripped into pieces by an impressive explosion that will make you proud!
Father: That's my boy!
Curtain falls.
