Tuba Mirahm

Chelsea Handler has started a new talk show, after the one she had on Netflix crashed and burned. Crying shame; I really liked that show.

"And now," Ms. Handler announces to her live studio audience, "I bring to you a very rare delicacy, straight from federal prison. She's the much-revered and much-accursed would-be assassin of President Grant II. Ladies and gents, give it up for one of Iran's finest: Tuba Mirahm!

The audience applauses. In the background, a contemporary rendition of the "Tuba Mirum" solo from Mozart's Requiem plays...

Ms. Mirahm proceeds onto the stage, dressed in a slutty orange dress. The prison did offer her to wear a different color on stage...alas, it seems that Mirahm is adjusting a lot better to prison life than a lot of her captors wish she would...

She shakes Ms. Handler's hand, and sits. Soon, the applause dies.

"So Tuba, you're in prison now. Do you want to tell us what that's like."

"Well," Tuba smiles, "they sent me to a women's institution, of course. I wish they hadn't. I MUCH prefer male captors, but... Somehow, the guards keep acting like they know that."

The audience laughs.

"Yeah, I can see that. So, how long is your sentence? Tell me; has your sentence been extended, in any way, because of the partisanship or the gender of the president you tried to assassinate?"

She sighs. "Sadly, this country doesn't do that. I would love it, though, if they did. I would've gone gaga, if only President Grant II punished me himself."

"Well if it's any consolation, I hate him to?"

Most of the audience cheers, at this.

"I helped my husband keep him captive in the war," Tuba adds. "I still have no idea how he never found out, but at night, I'd drag Ens. Grant into a shower chamber, where I'd chain him up, and water-board him. He was in the buff, each time I did it."

At this, the audience seems amused.

"Well, I would ask if you ever killed him, but then," Ms. Handler fumbles with some of her own hair, in her hand, "I'd be more worthy of these blonde locks than I want to be!"

At that, the audience laughs.

"Grant was actually a very submissive captive," Tuba continues. "I always had thoughts of fucking him. And deep down inside, I'm sure he felt the same way about me."

"Tell me," Ms. Handler flaps her hair, "did he ever harden, when you waterboarded him?"

Tuba smirks, glances at the cameras, and flaps her raven hair. "I will neither confirm nor deny the President's penis's biases, navy-era or otherwise."

The audience laughs; some of them groan, in chagrin.

On a TV back in Iran, Dr. Ghurani watches the show. He smiles, shakes his head, and keeps folding Persian rugs. As long as he was once married to Tuba, he STILL can't believe that she'd voluntarily go down for having assassinated a president, who was a POW who she'd fuck behind his back, in the war. As magical as he is, he supposes that he'll just never understand women as well as he'd like.

But of course, femininity is just a TRAIT. Half of the things women do have more to do with themselves, after all...

"Still beats me," he mutters to himself. "I still swear that after all these years, I would've at least DETECTED such an urge..."

The phone rings. Dr. Ghurani freezes, straightens out what he's wearing, checks his own breath, and answers it. "Hello," he asks, flirtily.

"So Tuba," Ms. Handler asks, on the show, "as a courtesy to my legacy on Netflix, I need you to answer me something: do you believe that women who own fancy cars have small vaginas?"

The audience laughs; Netflix veterans laugh louder.

Tuba shrugs. "Well, I suppose they do. I have a gaping vagina, and I don't even own a car, so I suppose the answer is yes."