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My Name Is Arun Rajas

Editor’s Warning: Today’s guest column is not advised for children or those who wish to preserve positive images of their role models.

I was born in Mumbai, not California. I am 37 years old, not 28. Moving to this country, I attended the University of Illinois, not the University of California, Berkeley. I have never thrown a football, although I do enjoy cricket and have come to love basketball. I did not even watch the Super Bowl last year let alone play in it. I do not like the colors green and yellow. I am Hindu and do not eat American cow cheese and would never associate myself with people who wear it upon their heads. I am Arun Rajas—Ah-ROON…RAH-jahs—and you need to leave me alone.

I have been trying to be patient with you, and I am trying to be polite, but enough is enough. At first it was mildly amusing. I had heard that our new neighborhood outside of Chicago was a good place for families, so I could only assume that we were the product of some sort of playful hazing. I did not understand the stickers—the bears and lions and the funny bearded men with pointed horns—being left during the night, but a few hours with Goo Gone and a scrub brush and the garage door would once again be clean. I assumed it would just stop as we met our neighbors. Our neighbors, however, never introduced themselves. They glared at me as I drove to work. They gave rude gestures. A boy on the bus told my eldest son, “Jay Cutler could kick your dad’s ass.” Confused, young Tejas simply looked at him and said, “I do believe that is true. My father is not a fighter.”

When I finally understood what was happening, I again assumed it could not be serious. The next time there were gestures made at my car, I rolled down my window. “Yes, that is an amusing coincidence. His name certainly appears to have a phonetic similarity to mine, although the linguistic differences between their origins makes that untrue.” That was the first time I was hit by an egg. When I read about the results of this large football game last January between these Green Bay Packers and Chicago Bears, I did not emerge from my home for three days. Once I finally did, I could barely see through the flies hovering over the fecal matter stretched across my yard. I did not bother to clean up that day. The Super Bowl was coming.

I am asking you to stop, as I have been for nearly 3 years now. My wife is afraid to go to market. My children are bullied at school. I am a peaceful man, but my patience is quite tested by this. I simply do not understand how you can mistake a 5’7” Indian man for an NFL quarterback. How can you watch the television and not realize the names are different on the jersey and the mail which you have stolen from me? How can this educational system have failed you so badly that you don’t even realize what an interminable commute it would be from my Illinois home to Green Bay, Wisconsin? What in Shiva’s name is wrong with you people? Do I have to move my family from a home we love to get away from a bunch of moronic white devils? Fuck you. Fuck you and your stupid sport. Fuck the stickers on my car. Fuck the stuffed mascots you burn in my yard. Fuck the footballs you have thrown through my windows. Fuck your families. Fuck your mothers. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

My name is Arun Rajas, and I simply want to be left alone.

 

 

Arun Rajas claims to be a businessman from Chicago, Illinois.  We have our doubts.

Comments

  1. chimp_attack says:

    You are funnier than Rye Blanchard.

  2. website says:

    2 cheese

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