Obscene, self-righteous, and unfunny Sacha Baron Cohen has earned a few hundred million dollars, in movies “Borat” and “Bruno,” by insulting rubes in Kazakhstan and the United States, and then either deflecting or burying their lawsuits. Now you can be assured that I, General Aladeen, supreme leader of Wadiya, will by all necessary means forever seal the malicious mouth of a Hebrew who in unforgivable ways blasphemes me in “The Dictator.”
Dishonest from inception, Cohen, grandson of gangster Mickey Cohen, asserts I was born with a beard and pubic hair, and implies that related trauma caused my mother’s immediate death. In fact, I entered the world anatomically normal and my mother not merely survives but flourishes, albeit in prison after trying to seize my office. Cohen portrays me, an impossibility given his dorky ways, as an ungainly and malicious Olympic competitor who, during competition, shot my closest competitors and various officials. I’m indeed a fine athlete, but not of gold-medal stature, and am most comfortable telling you so.
Cohen’s assertion that I’m enriching weapons-grade uranium, and need but two months before producing nuclear warheads, is preposterous, like his claim that all my friends have nukes, even President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran. In fact, Mahmoud is my only friend nearing that soothing state of armed readiness, and I don’t need to spend money or risk preemptive strikes to develop something that will soon be given me just prior to our dual launches.
Predictably, Cohen alludes to hapless Saddam Hussein, foremost employer of doubles, by showing one of mine getting killed in an assassination attempt. I have lost some lookalikes, yes, but this is not a humorous matter. They were brave men. And contrary to Cohen’s slur, through the malodorous mouth of my nonexistent uncle and most powerful aide, the unconvincing Ben Kingsley, my doubles do not have their penises shortened to resemble mine, but in fact undergo major augmentation. And, I straightforwardly tell you, I have no use for hookers Cohen burdens me with. Ladies flock to my desert boudoir.
Cohen’s lies about my seminal diplomatic trip to New York, for a speech at the United Nations, will cost him much money and time on earth. I was not kidnapped. I addressed the General Assembly. It wasn’t some halfwit who swigged his urine from a jar before offering some to the Israeli delegation. My speech, about the obsessive and paranoid nature of American interventions in the Middle East, and the civilian casualties thereafter incurred, evoked a howling ovation from eighty percent of diplomats in the U.N. chamber.
The episode about my working in a feminist vegan store, and punching a customer, throwing a garbage can at a vehicle, and kicking a child, are of course apocryphal. I did visit the store, for cultural enrichment, and was smitten by the charming young lady who managed it. She indeed accompanied me back to Wadiya, and we did marry whereupon I learned she’s Jewish. I certainly did not give my feared double left-hand slices across the throat. I accepted her, and she was thrilled that even after I ordered my country to become fully democratic I won almost ninety-nine percent of the vote.