Iowahawk Guest Commentary
by Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi
Senior VP, Al-Qaeda In Iraq
What's crackalackin', y'all? I know it's been long-time-no-post, but I gotta tell you it's a little hard to keep up with the blogging when you're getting a daily enema from infidel Tomahawks. I knew that war is supposed to be hell, but dude -- this one is starting to totally fucking suck. Bigtime.
Case in point: after taking in the nards in Tel Afar last week, let's just say the martyr recruiting has gone a little slow. And speaking of 'a little slow,' can we talk about this latest busload of asswipes from Damascus? Jeez, I thought the Saudis were stupid, but these Syrians take the fucking baclava. Send one of these choads on a simple martydom operation against a Bagdhad collaborator elementary school, and they're like, "Durrrr, a thousand pardons effendi, I got lost! Doyyyy, can I have a martyrdom car with OnStar?" Then you end up having to print out MapQuest directions for them, which totally chews up printer cartridges, and they end up smeared along some desert freeway because they mistook the detonator button for cruise control.
Just between us, it was almost a relief when Team Satan and their Iraqi puppets greased a couple hundred of my lovable losers last week. 'Thinning the herd,' if you know what I mean, and I suppose it probably raised our average insurgent IQ ten points. To 67, maybe. Still, word-of-mouth about this kind of missile strike crap gets around, and it has really screwed our recruiting. Even with the dipshit teenage mosque-rats in Damascus and Riyadh. It's gotten so bad, in fact, that we had to open up a recruiting office in France. I shit you not: reduced to recruiting Le. fucking. Fron-say.
Go ahead and laugh, sunshine. Yeah, it's humiliating, but these French dudes are actually kinda gung-ho. Until they get here and crap their pantalons after they realize that Le Monde might have exaggerated our success just a tad.
So anyway, I'm dealing with this garbage yesterday, in the middle of a meeting with my French ad agency, when Achmed comes in and he's like, "come effendi! Allah be praised! The infidels are marching against the Satan Bush on the C-SPAN2!"
So I'm like, cool, gather up the boys and throw some Pop Secret in the microwave, this ought to be a morale booster. Allah knows we need one. Then everybody gathers around the TV, and they're all like ululating and shooting off the AKs, when C-SPAN2 breaks out of Booknotes for live coverage of the big insurgent offensive.
Have you every been at Friday prayers when somebody just totally rips a gigantic falafel gasbomb while the Imam is cursing the crusaders and Jews? That's what it was like around the TV -- total dead silence. And with every shot of another placard-waving elderly hippie moron, every pachouli drum circle, possibly even more silence. Then, when the speakers started up, so did the uncomfortable buzz.
"Where are their weapons, effendi?"
"Well, ya see, um, they are using their um, voices as weapons, um, against empire and occupation, and..."
"It seems they will need much training for the street battles, effendi. Many are appear weak or fat or old."
"Well, see, er, they are basically offering more of a, uh, moral support, and..."
"Will they be conducting martrydom operations soon?"
"Okay, well, not exactly, but..."
"But... are these what the virgins in paradise will look like, effendi?"
Shit. I don't think I'll ever forget the look of horror in that poor Jordanian kid's eyes when the camera panned across that fugly forest of hairy vegan Heathers and uberbutch Andrea Dworkin manatees. And can you blame the poor trembling kid? Holy fargin' Prophet, sometimes I swear the only thing that keeps me motivated is knowing that a restored Caliphate means these hippie bowsers are gonna have their mugs and their bankles safely shielded under a burqqa.
By then the damage was done. I must have spent fifteen minutes trying to calm the boys down, promising them that Paradise is not gonna be a menage-a-72 with a bunch of Unitarian NPR grannies. Luckily, the camera panned to some guy in who was wearing a dynamite belt, which kinda cheered them up momentarily. At that point I didn't have the heart to tell them it was probably fake.
Where was I? Anyhoo, sorry to be such a buzzkill, but what exactly did I do to deserve all this shit? I mean, Zarkman does his five-a-day. Zarkman volunteers at the madrassa. Whenever there's a village homo who needs stoning, Zarkman brings his A-game high heat. And what thanks does Zarkman get? A goddamned infidel peanut gallery of hashpipe trustafarians and skanky Code Pink insugent groupies too unsightly for Sig Eps Pig Night, that's what. That, plus a smoldering "safehouse" full of Syrian martyr-tards whose families all expect one of my famous personalized thank-you notes:
"Dear Mr. and Mrs. _AL-DURRA____:
Please find enclosed a Ziploc containing the remains of your martyr _TARIQ____. Though he is now frollicking in Paradise, his comrades and I will always remember him for his ___POKEMON COLLECTION____. Thanks to his holy sacrifice, we are one step closer to __EXTERMINATING THE JEWS___.
Yours in Sharia,
Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi
Okay, I know, form letters are cold. But shit, you try writing 300 of these things a week while trying to stay ahead of the crusader missiles. And while I'm mentioning it, these letters are another damn drain on the printer cartridge budget.
Arrrrggghhh. Good Allah, I really need a good long vacation.
Listen man, I seriously gotta book. Achmed says Team Satan is headed this way, and I'm still walking funny from their last laser-guided high colonic. Stay golden, and if you're one of those college fuckwits that was screaming "End The Occupation" yesterday in DC: cracka, please. Allah knows I've got enough crusader problems as it is, and that kinda shit only encourages them.
You really want to end the infidel occupation? Put down the ANSWER picket sign and book a group tour to Damascus. Flights leave daily, and Delta is Ready When You Are, Moby. We may be running short of martyrs, but we'll make sure to have an eastbound bus waiting for you at the airport. And while you're at it, bring along some of that primo chronic you're always bragging about.
And, oh yeah, some Canon BC-6100 printer cartridges.