For his part, little Danesh inhaled a heady, unleavened diet of science fiction films, despite his grandmother´s insistence that they were neither halal nor anywhere near as good as Mr. Looney of the Tunes, as she called her favorite American programme. He had spent many afternoons, surrounded by siblings slaloming through the furniture, trying to convince his nani, the very one who would drop lemons in Piccadilly Square years later, that Alien was far, far better than Elmar Fudd and Bugs Bunny, far more serious and meaningful than a goofy, dumb cartoon, only to be hushed by a wave of her hand and a brief lecture on her personal philosophy of pop culture criticism.
"Jee haan, but they are the same! One hunts, one runs; one chews the carrot, one chews the Sir John Hurt. One makes Egg that go BANG! One makes Acme traps that go BANG! See? Sameful. Only Mr. Looney of the Tunes is more actual, on account of how aliens live in your big Danesh-head and bunny rabits live in Coventry. Also, mine is bright and happy and makes a colorful noise, so I put it on top of yours that is droopy and leaky ands makes a noise like a dishwasher [...]"
Hahaha. Nani is awesome!