Scroll for David's birthday

Written by  //  March 27, 1997  //  Herb Bercovitz, Special Wednesday Nights  //  No comments

To David Nicholson 27 March 1997

On Sunday, the twenty-seventh day of March 1932 according to the Western calendar, in an Atlas taxi on McGregor street, owned and driven by a native of Teheran, registered as an Iranian vessel, was born a boy child named by Ibrahim, Abdul, Ahmed. As it is truly written, the boy may be taken out of the country, but the country may not be taken out of the boy. As Ibrahim, or David as he was then known, grew and developed, he sought employment as a pilot for the Trans-Canada Flying Carpet Corporation, then for Les Tapis Québecair. For some time thereafter, Ibraham, or David if you prefer, whose talents were in fact hidden from even his own self, mistakenly believed his future lay in profit. Upon discovering his true destiny that the word in the English tongue is spelled prophet rather than profit, he was anointed Ayatollah of Westmount, much revered even unto this day. On the fourth day of each western week at sundown, the faithful gather at the shrine located at three and thirty Rosemount Avenue to pay homage and receive the wise words of prophecy. The spiritous gifts, when removed from the SAQ, are deposited on the altar at the entrance to the chapel. Once inside, the assembled Angles, Saxons, Franks, Goths, Slavs and Israelis receive predictions on their fate, and do listen to words of prophecy on the market of the stock.

Ayatollah Nicholson exercises his authority. Surrounded by the fairest of the subjects of the female persuasion, he wields his power, expelling those who have offended his precepts, requiring them to forever leave his temple and join the likes of Salman Rushdie.

On this, the cusp of the sixty-fifth date of birth of our beloved Ayatollah according to the solar calendar, we his loyal subjects offer our words of praise, invoking the following time-honoured blessing:

“May you live long and see many offspring. May your detractors grow like onions, with their heads in the ground. May your enemies grow like potatoes, totally in the ground.”

By Herbert and Miriam Bercovitz

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