Ramadan TV: Ganzoury Edition

6 shows that could’ve benefit from Cairo’s number one party boy’s presence

“Van Gogh would’ve sold more than one painting if he’d put tigers in them.”
Calvin from ‘Calvin and Hobbes’

The downward spiral our entertainment is ever-so-gently sliding into is a testament to producers lack of foresight and their creative bankruptcy. 2010’s Ramadan might have defied the global economic crisis by pouring in  750 million LE into a buffet of televised numbness, but all the money in the world can’t elevate the hours of vanity into viable TV. The quick and dirty solution would’ve been to just let Ganzoury’s take care of businesse. So in the sprit of what-could-have-been, here is ham-fisted reimagining of the month’s top shows with Ganzoury’s mug superimposed into one of their scenes.

Bi Lesan Mo’aredik

While Tony Khalife holds no reservations about grueling his guests for juicy revelations, he lacks the insight into the famous person psyche. Ganzoury, a long scholar of fame — and to a larger extent the human condition — dedicated long spans of his career examining the subject. What were the ‘F**k me I’m Famous’ parties other than a tribal mediation on stardom set to house beats and disco balls?

In his version Ganz will drop the façade and skip to the meat of the matter. He won’t trouble his B,C, and all the way to Z, guest celebrities with useless introductions and teasing questions to butter them up; Instead, he’ll ask him hard pressing questions about their favorite spots to par-tay; If they ever made up a catch phrase before, and inquire about the number of parking valets they pressed a hard iron against their face.

Aiza Atgwez

The problem with Aiza Atgawez is not Hend Sabry’s overacting that puts every Looney Tunes character to shame, or the staggering episodes of backwards feminism — By now the show has successfully restored the balance upset by feminist bitches demanding equality. Mother nature intended for women to seek husbands to provide them with kitchens as the perfect incubation for them while they gain all that healthy weight — The biggest problem with the show is its concept.

The hardship of finding a life partner is a topic so disconnected from the cultural zeitgeist that they have might as well made it about a cat trying to score catnip and it would have struck a more relevant chord. Instead it should’ve been about something more timely, like for example the urge to party hard. Zory could play the perpetually tormented soul looking for that one epic rave to fulfill his burning desire to wave glow sticks all night long. Something all 20-something single women can relate to.

Al leka’ EL mostaheel

Respected historical figures and the actors who love them. Who gives a stinky shit. Give the people what they want, a Ganzoury divided against himself having a tangible case of multiple personality disorder in front of a camera. At least the sixteen viewers of the show can have better understanding of the intricate mind of the top party-organizer of his generation. Sorry Ghandi, we know you’re all about peaceful resistance and leaving behind an enormous body of obnoxious quotes to be used in movies like The A-Team, but we’re not hating on you shaved-head bro, it’s just all we really want is the G-man.

Fawazeer Myriam

Sure, Myriam Fares might have a cushy behind, but god can she be annoying. Can you even speak with an Egyptian accent Ms. Fares, cause I don’t know what freakishly bizarre dialect  you’re speaking in your Fawazeer. It ain’t one I heard before, nor do I want to ever hear again. Fawazeer is a dated concept any way. You mean to tell me that after eating a kilo of Mahshi and washing it down with a pint of Qamar El Din there will be any blood left in my body not going directly to my stomach. How am I to muster enough brain power to solve, not one, but three riddles? And why even bother wearing a belly-dancing suite if you’re already covered head to toes with spandex? Is there a sans-spandex version of the Fawazeer we’re going to see after Ramadan?

Here is what I want to see. Russian go-go dancers handpicked according to rifle-zory’s classy taste, not your stupid rendition of ‘bestek bestek bestek, nao’.

El Kbeer Awi

There is no denying that Mekki got them comedic chops in spades. But look at what happened; After shooting only the first 15 episodes, the funny-man suffered a crippling leg injury. And do you know how it happened? He hurt himself dancing! With all due respect to H-Daboor and the tragedy, it’s obvious that the role required someone with more flair on the dance-floor. Did someone say Ganzoury? Heck yes someone did.

Now instead of comedy, stories, and seeing a guy with a hot-pink Mohawk, how about something with more heft. Say a 30 minute slideshow of pictures of Ganz engaged in the activity formally known as partying – now known as pulling the Ganz – to be repeated from now until the end of time and everything.

Al Gamaa

Now that’s tricky. one I don’t want to offend any fanatic or get a fatwa against me — I heard that Ganzoury is really strict — I’m just playing the devils advocate while having a poor-choice-of-words day. So the show is ostensibly chronicling one of the most seminal movements of our time and the story of its founder. Hmm, I wonder which other “raving” movement and its “wild” leader they could’ve covered? It would’ve been Ganztastic.

(Note: Rejected Campus Article)

Ramadan TV in Brief

Aiza Atgawez: A show about a girl who doesn’t know what a dildo is.

Al Kabeer Awi: Ahmed Mekki owns a Now 95 CD.

Zay El 3asel: A social experiment in which 3 home grown egyptians set out to find if there are any one left with their testicles intact.

Bi Lesan Mo’aredik: Tony Khalife consistently uttering the word “gens” and getting away with it because of his classical arabic inflection.

Fawazeer Myriam: Myriam Fares’ ba-dunk-adunks.

Al Gamaa: Waheed Hamed is back against the Akhwan Moslmeen, and this time it’s personal.

Bedoon Rekaba: The hussy and the washed up actor.

Rob3 Meshakel: Mohamed Henedi’s wet dream.

Sheikh Al Arab Hammam: The show all of Egypt is not watching.

Cleopatra: 30 episodes that has nothing to do with cigarettes.

New Look

Out of the deluge of lame expressions and trite catchphrases that came out since the dawn of reality TV, it was only the metroflexible ‘New-Look’ that stuck to our vernacular’s web. This new be-all end-all neologism has a certain crass oomph to it. It also comes with a promise: A change for the better. So in the spirit of New Lookness, lets scoop from this bottomless can of hair gel and see what our highly refined palette is going to pick.

New Look is the new I’m Going to Change
Ever since Sha’bola made his publicized vow for change – He was going to quit smoking, start resistance training, and drink milk that comes from a container not straight from the cows tit – and the Sha’bi crooner hasn’t changed as much as a note in his songs. I’m not going to hold it against him, he puts a lot of time and effort making sure his suites matches the couches he sits on, and he did attack Israel in one of his songs, so respect. But this aspiration for the better has long daunted our thoughts after smoking the last joint, and although deep down we all know we ain’t going to change shit, it’s nice to entertain the thought every once in a while.

New Look is the new Rewish (Cool)
Part of the metamorphosis the phrase went through once washed in the Nile is that it got voided from any actual meaning. It’s now an all-encompassing flag for any thing trendy. That’s why all hairdressers have it tagged on their signs and flyers and why most teenagers substituted it for their last name on facebook. Bonus points given to the phrase cause it also rhymes with the name of the social network.

New Look is the new Stereo
One look at a music Kiosk and all the posters will tell you this is a New Look record. No one knows exactly what it means though; most probably someone must have started it out of confusion but now it has gotten way out of hand. The new Tamer Hosny album poster is the most perplexing of all; in it, the New Look tag takes sizable space yet his shit-eating grin looks exactly the same, leading to the conclusion that the label must be referring to some sort of new sound technology that infuses music with even more sappiness.

New Look is the new Chic
Leaning towards a more classical interpretation, New Look is also used as an excuse for horrid fashion choices–predominately by dudes; Chicks have Makeover and guys get New-Look. All these extra tight acid washed cheap jeans and flamboyant shirts worn callously by misguided Egyptians are a testament to the powers of New Look. How about Old Look for a change, be ahead of the curve and wear something less provocative, like your dads shitty underwear over your head. Old Look is going to be the new New Look. Say that 20 times and huff a can of a cheap body spry, you’ll get it.

Birell

Hey fagot, put down the Jack Daniel’s whiskey bottle and drink this non-alcoholic beer like real men do. Pufft, you’re such a dripping pussy what with you not drinking non-alcoholic beer and fucking all the women–Man the fuck up and gulp that zero percent brew down your throat pronto.

By assuming there’s someone out there who doesn’t get the staggering irony in Birell’s marking campaign I’ll already sink too low, almost scraping the button of the barrel where Birell hatched their Masculinist scheme–what kind of fucked up idea of masculinity is being sold here? And since when do we hold group interventions for queers.

Among the lessons of manhood Birell has forgot to mention is. You’re only a fag if you get porked in your ass not the other way around; Always piss while standing up; A woman’s mouth is for sucking cock, a mans mouth is for sucking Birell’s bottleneck. You should never let a woman look you directly in the eye for more than 5 seconds as it’s a sign of disrespect. And you manually refill a bottle of Birell by ejaculating in after masturbating to Ricky martin.

Here is the real elixir of manhood, the real Birell, drink that.

Bus Movies

Back in the early 2000s, Asrar El Banat was rumored to be considered for a ‘Best Foreign Film’ Oscar Nominee. It was almost 2 year after the fact, and the Academy is strict about the eligibility rules (the movie is not eligible unless it was released the same year) so it was obvious that it was just a curious and desperate rumor—Although any movie that features an impregnated girl who’s still a virgin deserves to be recognized and celebrated. I am sure the film had a positive effect on all Egyptian girls who after a heavy meal had serious doubts about the nature of their food baby—But being nominated is not the highest honor an Egyptian movie can aspire; Being played to sleepy travelers on their way to Sharm El Sheikh on a small tube screen is really where it’s all at. It’s the only real way to experience and appreciate an Egyptian movie, or Lethal Weapon 4.

For some odd reason, all Egyptian movies end up the same on the Buses. Their similarities are only amplified when two of them are played back to back without any sound. And to assure polarized viewers a déjà vu moment, Hassan Hosny is required by law to be on 80% of all film used in Egypt pretty much playing the same role; When did we all started befriending old painfully unfunny geezers? Where did that stock character originate?

My favorite moment in the world comes after the bus starts to move. I put on my headphones, play some music and start to fall asleep, and then the magic happens: Urgently, the glow of the TV and the cracking inaudible sounds gently wakes me up. I guess the only thing that could top that feeling is getting your cock sucked by a cobra.

When I say the best way to experience Egyptian movies is through watching them on the bus I am not kidding. It’s like fucking I-Max for Egyptian flicks. Instead of filling your peripheral with their ugliness, the bus tube gives them the minute visual space they barely deserve, and your brain tends to fill the gaps far beyond the filmmakers ability. If you’re watching them on mute it’s even better.

I’d like to think that the real reason they play movies on buses is to make us appreciate life and prepare us for a quick get-away without the comfort of TV, but that would be giving the bus companies to much credit. The only redeeming thing about watching movies on the bus is—and that’s only if you’re lucky—the ancient ads that momentarily make you nostalgic. But even the VHS tracking noise can’t distract from the fact that most Egyptian movies amount to a steaming pile of donkey shit, and even that is a stretch.

Abou El Leef

I hope I can make it and chime in before Mr. Leef 15 minutes of fame is up. It’s just that novelty acts tend to have a very short life span, and once their shtick get tiresome, a new viral vid with housewife puppets comes in and grabs the public’s very short attention span. It’s just how the pop-cultural jungle operates; it’s chews up and spits out, and judging by his cave-man rig-out, Mr. Leef should find that humorous if not bitterly ironic.

I’m not hating on the Leef on grounds of his artistic merits, I am calling bull-shit on the whole working class hero motive. For reals and for reals, yo; I hope he gets fucked up his shitty ass hole by a king kong.

I don’t know the dudes backsoty; the funny crooner doesn’t have a wikipedia page, and if you’re not important enough to warrant a wiki entry about you then you ain’t the research. What I know is this though: He’s in his 40s, he comes from a middle class family, and he always wanted to sing with no luck what-so-ever; I am guessing he never had access to a mirror too.

Inspired by premature symptoms of midlife crisis, he found a way to make it work: Endear your self to the masses by, you guessed it, dissing on faggy motherfuckers who have parents that could provide for them, cause if there is one thing we as a nation agree on, it’s that unless your parents were deadbeats who let you sniff a street dogs ass hole, then you’re most probably a spineless fucktard. If you wanna know which camp you belong to, check your passport cause evidently it’s written somewhere right next to the size of your dick. Belittling the less-unfortunate is a the cheapest trick there is, plus, didn’t Adel El-Far dry that well like 15 years ago.

I admire the fact that in his first album (volume 1?) he, setting a precedent for Egypt, discuses the complexity of romantic relationships in a post-facebook world, he did have his hairy hands on the pulse there.

Our society is completely unjust, no argument there. But dose that make it ok for every un-talented douche to use working class frustration to climb to fame and fortune and gave them nothing in return other than hypocritical empathy? I think yes.

Shit on Pedestal

Hi there! Umm Kulthum can’t sing for shit. I would rather listen to technical support trying to explain to my grandma what an access point is than listen to that diva sing one more hour-long song about cryptic shit. Youssef Chahine, that talentless fruit, why does all his agitated characters have a 160-words-per-minute word count. I lose my breath trying to keep up with the dialogue. And for the knockout, Requiem for a dream is just as artistically stimulating as watching two cats trying to blow one another.

If your knees are shaking after reading these statements then you suffer from “shit on pedestal” syndrome. The symptoms include (but are not limited to) having godlike reverence for the things you admire; acting defensive when said things are put under question; brain-freeze episodes when faced with someone who does not share your affinity. To sum up, you’re just another sheep in the common denominator herd.

It’s stupefying how unwieldy normal conversation can get as a result of this. Why I’m suppose to feel like imbecilic just because I don’t think Teer Enta is the most significant cinematic event of this decade, It was a funny movie, but when a movie shines compared to other Hassan Hosni joints it does it really mean that much?

I don’t mind giving qualities to things don’t merit them, what I do mind is refusing to think for yourself and putting down the ones who do. This better be a byproduct of our –already 50 years overstaying its welcome– inferiority complex. It served us good not to question prevailing stances back when we forming a nation and fighting a war, but right now it only solidified odd cultural icons reputation as being historically significant. Who wants to see another autobiographical drama about some schmuck who’s only claim to fame is that he physically existed during the midd-20^th-century.

I know it radiates mad sex appeal to be opinionated, but if you don’t know your foot from your butthole then I would advice a different game plan; not knowing shit and caring less about it. It’s sexy and gets the girls motor going, but If you’re going to stick to your ignorant guns on that one then why don’t you go back to your room and watch that Bravehaert again. There are some details that you don’t get until the 6542^nd viewing.

Taxi Drivers

Like any Nile drinking Egyptian, I love a good “fucked a hooker without a condom” story, but truth by known, I am getting tired of the confined intimacy of taxi drivers, maybe not for so long.

We are now living through a taxi paradigm shift. One by one, these boxy-black eco frienemies are falling out. In their place we’re getting these slick white air-conditioned joy rides, yet there are some things that I’m going to miss. The personal touch for example, BW taxis used to be decorated employing very tacky DIY aesthetic. The element of surprise, where else would you pay an arbitrary fee, depending on your ability to read the person infront of you, for the same exact service.

One thing I wouldn’t miss is the casual relation taxi drivers had with their customer. I don’t know how it started or why but all of sudden it became kind of rude not to sit beside the taxi driver and hold his hand while he’s driving you to your destination. The new taxis offer a much colder and more distant experience, but I’ll take it anyway. In fact hustling with taxi drivers is a very pivotal Egyptian experience and a constant source of agony, one that we all bitch and whine about to the point that writing about it is just so obvious and uninspired. Yet, no list of Egyptian crap would be half complete without it.

I can clearly see the taxi drivers side of this, fuck, they are the ones who live life through this never ending sham that is Egyptian traffic. But you know what, all this bullshit they soak all day, they take it out on me someway or another, and while I don’t wanna say something harsh like that I hate them, I centrality have no love in my heart for these jerks what so ever. Bellow is a list of the different breeds of taxi drivers one might come across, some of the drivers are hybrids of two different breeds so feel free to mix-n-match.

The Storyteller Guy:
The plain vanilla of taxi driver. Storytelling abilities vary as the stories themselves. You got a wide variety of stories ranging from your basic you-wont-believe-what-happened-to-me-today, to the I-fucked-a-hooker and in some rare instances fables in real life context.

The Push It To The Limit Guy:
You say you’ll pay 10, he’s gonna ask for 15. You start with 15 he’s gonna go for that 20. They are harmless as long as they do it in a I-might-as-well-ask manner, but some of them get real rowdy, avoid those at all costs.

The Daredevil Guy:
Hard to tell at first, but within seconds of hitting the road you’ll notice that things keep getting progressively fucked. Like a frog in boiling water you won’t notice that one until it’s too late. A common excuse they tend to give is that some daddy’s boy cut them off or is pushing their buttons.

The “Walked Into The Middle Of A Story” Guy:
A psychedelic variation of the storyteller; You hop in and the minute your ass touches the seat it hits the resume button on some story he’s been telling the passenger before you. Feels like walking 15 minutes late to a movie, you’re confused and don’t know what the hell is going on. Caution: don’t ask him to fill you in, show any signs of confusion or else you’ll be walking right into his trap.

The Zawahiri Guy:
Easy to tell; Load Quran or Islamic lecture, occasionally asks you if you prayed or not. Harmless but potentially annoying, depending on your mood.

The Eyeballer Guy:
If you’re a fella riding with him, he’ll slow down everytime he comes across any thing with two holes between its legs, then proceed to eye rape the shit out it. Some of them also are whiny as fuck. Hate those dipshits because they are the personification of hypocrisy.

The Cool As Ice Guy:
Mid 20’s, listening to Nogoom FM or some badass (read shitty) Arabic pop via his mp3 player, car all pimped out, wholesome and very friendly. Some though, suffer from The Fast and The furious syndrome.

The Shortcut Guy:
Would rather die than take a regular route.

The Carpooler guy:
Always stopping to trying to persuade people to join his party. Sometimes the taxi would be full but he would still stop for people as if it’s a freaky gag reflex.

The Bold Face Lair:
You agree on a fee, you get it and then he starts sweet talking his way into getting more. By the end of the ride he’ll say that he didn’t really agree, he was merely just going along, and that there is no way in hell he would’ve picked you up if he knew that you really were planning to pay what you said you’ll pay. It’s the same logic that drives men to kill their family to “protect” them.

The “I Don’t Know The Way But I’ll Act As If I Know Any Way” Guy:
This one is the worst, they’ll say yes to any thing, and by the time you find out that he’s acres full of shit and he realizes he’s getting way to little money for the drive the real ride begins. These guys are extra shitty because you can’t really tell them until it’s way too late. Fuck them, fuck them up their stupid asses.

Ramadan Traffic

Growing up, Ramadan was THE time for gulping trans-fat goodness while I reevaluate my favorite teenage mutant ninja turtle; Michael Angelo loved to party, but his surfer dude doozy cracks were over the top. The angsty “Raphael” and the tech-wiz “Donatello” felt so been-there-done-that, so I was left with Leonardo. He was the coolest, most grounded turtle I have ever seen, and he wasn’t even trying. Not to mention his weapon of choice were two swords. I’d love to see a ninja turtle pick a cooler instrument of death. Now fast forward to the time they dubbed the Simpsons and Ramadans synonymity with good ol’fashion fun was over and done.

Nowadays you got the distasteful choice of watching horrid dramatization of social phobias on LCD, or, going to a tent where you watch them with a bigger group of people (speaking of Ramadan tents, the idea is low rent that it’s doesn’t even have to be an actual tent.)

During Ramadan one must refrain from eating, drinking, smoking, and indulging in anything that is in excess or ill-natured. Enduring the absence of these worldly pleasures can be somewhat challenging, but in practice all of them get dwarfed by Ramadan’s real test of endurance, one that even transcends religious beliefs. I am talking about—drum roll please—the traffic.

Traffic in Cairo is bad as is. Now take it, condense this run-of-the-mill 24-hour jam into a 2 hour cluster-phobic sauna session and you’ll end up with Ramadan Traffic. Remember these gigantic spaceships looming in the sky in Independence Day and how everyone made a run for it, think that, only people are less eager to get to their destination and more likely push you over the 6 of October Bridge.

I also wanna give a shout-out to the unsung hero of Ramadan Traffic. I am talking about the guy who—when you finally get off the bridge and into the streets—bolts at you and hurls you with a bag of tamr. Good for him, he found a Ramadan loophole: Help break someone fasting and you get to score a grip with god. It’s like micro banking on a spiritual level–Way to go you cheap fuck, why don’t you assault me with something I can’t buy for less that a pound, like say, a cup-o-nodels.

Alas, there aint no more weekends at the Sahel. So why don’t take off your skimpy bikinis, hop on and put your seat belt tight because you’ll be driving to speeds up to 16 KM an hour. And don’t worry about losing your cool, Yehia El-Fakharany got paid an 7 million just so he turn your frown upside down, so be sure to watch his show, otherwise he’ll be only getting paid to fulfill his life long dream of having a swimming pool filled with condoms. And remember if you’re setting beside someone who’s been still driving you to home, distract him from the pain by looking him dead in the eye and asking “are you fasting or is it like every year.”

Car Hiving

Car Hive: verb, engage in the nighttime activity of (sitting in/standing out) a parked car with a group of friends.
Example: I can hear these fagots car hiving all the way from my room.

Us homeboys like to chill. We like to ramble, and since having hos in your crew is a commodity in Egypt, our appetite for bro-ing out got exponentially bigger. And what better way to quench that bro-thirst than car hiving, the quintessential Egyptian-man leisure activity. It’s cheap, it gets you out of your house where mom is sewing a burka, and it marginally counts as something “you did last night.”

it’s also the bread and butter of the kiosk industry. In fact car hives must hatch with close proximity to a kiosk. I don’t know which came first, the kiosk egg or the car hive chicken, but I know that one can’t survive without the other.

Now in order to initiate a successful car hiving session one must

1. Assemble his crew.
2. Go to his favorite kiosk.
   (one that’s named after the jerk that runs it)
3. Park his car near said place.
4. Open all/some doors.
5. Put on some shitty music.
   (some choice House circa 2005 will suffice)
6. Engage in some playful banter with his bros.
7. Create awesome memories.
   (e.g. being your friend’s watchdog while he’s takes a piss on the corner)

That seem to scratch some right where they itch, and I can tell from their faces that they are having the time of their life. I’ll see them laughing it up and slapping one another, pulling off almost every acceptable form of affection short of full-on french kissing. And that led me to a conclusion: Car hiving is for checkpoint-fearful fagots, while cruising is for real men.

Compared to the lackluster car hiving, cruising is awesome. It leaves a hefty carbon footprint, just like a man. You also have the heterosexually reaffirming option of hustling the ladies, car stocking them, and good old picking them up. Unless you’re under age and can’t get your license, you should never settle for car hiving.

I don’t think there is enough shitty hash out there to make me put up with such bull shit, if I wanna have a jolly good old time with my buddies and I am short on the brown I’ll go to one of these shisha-cafes or fool stands or even fucking sket-elmatar, but I won’t be caught dead eating Doritos in the backseat of my friend’s parked car. it’s called dignity, and I still have some left.