Paradise Is Overrated

Iowahawk Guest Commentary
by Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi
Former Senior VP, Al-Qaeda In Iraq

Howzit swingin', fagsicles? Yeah, I know all you bitzoches all seen the pictures by now. Go on and laugh it up chump, like your drivers license photo is all George fuckin' Clooney. Personally I think I'm lookin' straight GQ, seeing as I just got a 500-pound laser guided curb stomp. Shit cuz, y'all should see Kahlid, a.k.a. "Ceiling Spackle." But, hey, whateva. You kuffar haters can finally step off my nuts, 'cause I. am. outtahere. Y'all can just suck it, 'cause Zarkman got his free pass to Allah's celestial Disneyland.

You think I didn't see this martyrdom goatshit coming? Cracka, please. When we were out in the boondocks filming that recruiting infomercial last month, I told that asshole Zawahiri that it was dangerous, that Team Satan would lock in on us with one of their outer space high tech computer gizmos. But nooooooo, he's all, "don't worry, they need an NSA warrant," and then he's like, "we have to attack the mindshare gap with a high GRP, Total Quality Jihad leadership marcom message." Which apparently means I have to stand there under Team Satan's goddamn spy satellites, yelling like the goddamn OxyClean guy, burning my goddamn hand on a goddamn machine gun barrel, while that goddamn director Omar Al-Spielberg asks for another goddamn take. Yeah, that's some world class marketing strategery there, Ayman. Best ad campaign since Pets.com. Have fun training all  four of those Syrian droolers that it brought in.

So yeah, I figured I'd be caught in the next round of downsizing, so I started keeping myself prepared. For example, I shaved my junk every morning this week. Okay, I know what you're thinking: what the fizzuck? But trust me, it's in the Koran, and it's not as weird as it sounds. If you're about to be banging a room full of doe-eyed virgins, you're gonna want those nards Brazilian waxed pornstar style. Plus I guess them foxy heaven hos also appreciate a couple of splashes of cologne so they don't have to smell your stanky sack. It's just common martyr courtesy, and that's why around the AQ office we call Brut "the smell of death".

Pretty good in theory, I guess, but holy dung - you try keeping your nuts Kojak-ed with a 9-month old rusty Schick Quattro and your shaving hand all bandaged from gun barrel burn blisters. Faaack, I must have used up three styptic pencils just since Saturday. And when I slapped 'em with a splash of Hai Karate? Talk about a muthafuckin' STING. Mohammed H. Prophet, I think my scream hit two octaves above a dog whistle.

So anyhow, I got my bidness clean, I got my policy with Mutual of Medina paid up, I had a final family meeting with Fatima and the kids. "Are you going to paradise, Father?" says that teenaged one, what's-her-burqqa. "Yeah, but I'll have people watching out for you," I says. "So if you're even thinking about any of that clan dishonor shit, you better watch your back."

Okay, Thursday morning. I clock in at the office, pour a mug of tea, fire up the laptop and check out the latest posts on dKos. Sure, I've had my differences with them in the past. But with morale the way it is Allah knows we need a good laugh around here, and that shit is funnier than Homestar Runner. They had a new parody up, and I swear it had me roaring so hard I was on the verge of a shit hemorrhage. It had Kahlid laughing to the point of tears, and when he goes to wipe his good eye he almost puts it out with his hook, and then this makes Mahmoud squirt tea through his nose, and then this gets the whole damn office going. We're all just fucking roaring, when suddenly there's this silence, and then a funny high-pitched noise.

Tariq says, "did you just hear th..."

Now, back in the madrassa when we studied the afterlife, I always wondered what would be the last thing to go through my head. I'm pretty sure now it was one of Mahmoud's anklebones. And if you're wondering if it was painless? Imagine a full-frontal 800 degree root canal while listening to a Neil Young record. But hey, I figure no big whoop, just the admission price to heaven's eternal ho sammich.

So Zarkman walks toward the light. No shit, it's a lot like 2001: A Space Odyssey, but in 3-D quadrophonic sensurround. And BOOM, plop, I'm in this gigantic white room, completely empty except for this hooded faceless guy and a totally sweet 47" plasma screen.  So I walk across the big empy room to the guy, and I'm like, there is but one God, and Mohammed is his messenger, death to the infidels, yada yada yada. So I'm waiting for him to punch my E-ticket for Magic Ho Mountain, when he whips out a DVD and pops it in. It's the director's cut of "This Is Your Life, Zarkman." Sure, there's a lot of blooper material in there, but also a pretty badass highlight reel -- the rapes, the murders, the IEDs, hour after hour of beheadings. Good times, man. Good times.

Anyhoo, he fast-forwards through the credits and the FBI warning, pulls out the DVD, and turns to me with an empty faceless stare. Dead fucking silence, like he's expecting me to say something. A couple minutes pass, and still Chatty Cathy isn't saying a word. So I'm like, "hey, bitch, you're welcome."

Okay, good, this finally gets the guy off the schneid. He points over to a door on the far side of the room that opens up, zwwwwippitch, just like the old Star Trek noise. It's a good thing too, 'cause my bald balls were turning blue from the thought of that fine ass ho-stack on the other side. Cracka, I got my fat horny Jordanian ass into a full trot across that room and did a dive-roll through that door like vintage Shatner.

When the door close behind me, zwwwwippitch, I guess you could say I was a little surprised, maybe a little disappointed. Turns out paradise is dumpier that you'd expect. A lot dumpier. In fact it's a lot like the Iraq boondocks; sandy, dusty, seemed like 150 degrees in the shade. I always figured paradise would have better climate control, but hey, Allah has the thermostat and He works in mysterious ways. I start looking around, and looking around. No virgins, no figs, no raisins. Now, I'm horny, hungry, and annoyed. Okay, I figure, I guess it's up to Zarkman to cherchez la poontang himself, so I start to walk down this dusty street, and BOOOM!

Get this: some asshole planted an IED right in the middle of goddamn downtown Paradise, and I take my first step right on the cocksucker. As I was flying through the air, I'm going, what the dung? It must have been planted by some Jew or Crusader, but how did one of those bastards slip into paradise in the first place? It was giving me a headache. Then I got another headache when the schoolbus ran over my head.

I was laying there trying to figure it out, when my various limbs and torsos and gonads and such started to reassemble, sort of like that liquid chrome cop in Terminator 2. Pretty cool, but it hurt like a mofo. So SPROING! I'm back on my feet, and start out again and BOOM! And I'm like, another fucking IED? I mean, what are the frigging odds? Then shhhklorrrp, bus over the head, reassemble SPROING. The next couple of hours was a blur of step- BOOM- shhhklorrrp - SPROING, lather-rinse-repeat, and I'm like, dude, fuck this shit. I had only made it 50 yards and wasn't all that horny anymore.

Anyway, I'm standing there trying to figure out my next step, when this badass crew of straightup masked assassins comes around the corner. Talk about a relief, I was beginning to wonder if Allah had made some sort of mistake. And I'm like, "yo, cuz, which way to the virgina?" Then the assholes start eying me up and down, lauging. And then I'm like, "come on, holmes, don't bogart the cooch,"  and then you know what those douchebags did? Throw a friggin' burqqa over my head and drag me into an abandoned warehouse. I'm goin' finally, some action. 

I will spare you the ribald details, but let's just say after that 12 hour train bang I know how Marilyn Chambers felt after Behind the Green Door III. Dude, I can't even fart anymore, I hoot. And I'm so bowlegged they call me Hopalong. But, hey, I'm thinking it was just part of the Paradise Club for Martyrs initiation, because we sometimes did the same thing with AQ recruits. Not gay or anything, just to make sure the new jihadis knew who the boss was.

I pulled up my trou, and they were sitting there smoking cigs, and I'm like, okay homeslices, you had your fun, bring on the bitches. And then you know what the bastards did? Pull out the scimitars and start slicing off my fargin' head. What the flock??? If you've never been beheaded, let me clue you in: it. hurts. like. a. muthafuka. And being the ball in an alley pickup soccer game is no picnic either. Man, I'm telling you, you Omega Q-dogs ain't got shit compared to this initiation ceremony.

Anyway, they just got my head half sewed-back on, and broke for lunch. Right now I'm at some shitty internet cafe. Nothing but AOL dial-up, and for some reason the the only sites I can access are HuffPo and Iowahawk, and nothing but Dixie Chicks on the jukebox. I ordered the raisin & date plate, but I'm pretty sure that ain't dried fruit.

Gotta go soon, I guess I'm scheduled for some more beheadings after lunch. Just between us, I'd have to say that so far Paradise has overrated. Don't get me wrong, Allahu Akbar, blah blah blah. But if this initiation thing doesn't end soon, I'm thinking about filling out a complaint form.

In the meantime, I'm trying to keep thinking positive. It's been a little rough here so far, but at least I haven't noticed a single Marine.

Peace Out,

Zarkman