One time when we were preteens a friend and I decided to kill time by acting out funny plays for each other. I chose to act out a short story we had read in Arabic class where a dim witted guy tries to get rid of a bee that was bothering him and after a number of failed attempts hits himself in the head with a hammer when the bee sits on it. My friend acted out an equally lame scenario where at the end he kept asking himself out loud where he should sleep. After we were done with this I later brought up the end of his play and sarcastically started acting it out and telling him how lame it was. He responded with فکر کردی مال خودت خیلی خنده دار بود
"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...

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