The US Government reports to have a man, one Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, who claims to be the mastermind of nearly 30 high-profile terrorist attacks including failed assassination attempts on then President Bill Clinton, the 2002 Bali bombing and the infamous attacks on the World Trade Centre towers.
That sounds pretty fucking unbelievable to me. That’s a fairly fanciful session for Lex fucking Luther. Don’t try to convince me that a single sand-eater is responsible for the complete works of 21st century terror. I’ll buy that right after I buy a cold turd salad off the McDonalds New Choice Menu.
What does that mean for the world? What does that mean for the War on Terror? Is it over? Can we call off the dogs? Is Osama (who is and always was a free, wealthy and oddly charismatic chap) now an UN-wanted man? FBI’s Most Wanted original poster-boy free to invest in Texan oil again. He’ll be on a couch with Oprah before the end of the fucking week.
“So, Osama. Where have you been all this time, girlfriend?”
‘Well, I spent most of my time in this delightful café down in the West End working on my memoirs. They have the most amazing double choc cookies there!’
“And you know what!? We’ve got cookies for everyone in our audience! COOOKIEEES!”
*crowd goes fucking nuts*
*white lady in pastel knit can’t find her cookie*
*she suspects that the black lady next to her stole it, but is reluctant to speak up*
*cries tears of joy anyway*
“That was Osama. His book is in stores now. It changed my life. I’m not just saying that. Thank you for being here.”
‘Death to infidels.’
“Of course, death to infidels.”
Can you even do that? Can you just tell prosecutors anything? Have they asked for any evidence? Corroborating witnesses? This all sounds a little like the boy who cried ‘I killed Jean-Benet’ to me. Fuck. Only in Guantanamo. Any other prison in the world and it’d get you a free ticket to some low-security nuthouse.
Why don’t they just ship these ‘suspected’ terrorists to Area 51 and treat them like the aliens they believe them to be. Have a nationally broadcast autopsy. Find the Terrorist gene and a cure for beardlessness.
By claiming to be responsible for everything good that the terrorists ever did, is effectively trying to absolve the crime and guilt (dare I say sin?) of all terrorist-kind. I’m no Qur’anic scholar but surely there has to be some modesty in martyrdom. This dude is giving Jesus a run for his money.
I can see it now. In centuries to come the books written about him by pseudo-political analysts and cash-hungry pop-academics will be collated to form the newer testament – a version true to Islam.
A great following will rise. Praise be to Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, who died in the chair for all our sins. People will send great sums of money of preachers of his teachings with little silver electric chairs around their necks – arguing long into the night on talkback community radio about how the miracle of 9/11 WAS that half of the 19 hi-jackers were found to have never been on the plane in the first place (resurrected) NOT THAT two unskilled pilots could hit a single building with a jumbo at 700kms an hour. Mercy on your children.
The first casualty of war is reason. The second is apparently irrelevant.
*somewhere in middle-America a black lady gives her daughter a cookie that she brought her from the Oprah show*
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Boredom and Curiosity
Yesterday I shaved off all my pubic hair. Not like with a razor or anything, if that makes it any less weird. It just happened. I was lying in bed naked and the hair clippers were charging on the bedside table. Fate? I ask you.
Heaps of guys do it – I know at least three. It’s supposed to make your junk look bigger. Here’s where I make a joke about not needing to make it look bigger… but... well… I was curious. Men like me climbed Everest. Men like me claimed sovereignty to land they “discovered.” Men like me mowed their man-muff. Why? Because it was there… and fuck it, I wasn’t doing anything else that morning.
I would never usually consider giving my balls a buzz-cut. I reckon it looks freaky. The fact is, I’m right - something that big should have hair on it. Male or female. I seriously worry about people who are attracted to hairlessness. If that’s your ‘bag’, go fuck a manatee or admit you’re a paedophile. Your choice.
I don’t get my dick out in public nearly often as I used to. Still, I was worried that someone might get a look at my newly-nudes and assume that that floated my bloated. Just thinking about it makes me shudder. I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing than getting to that point with a lady – her hand sliding down the front of your pants and getting a handful of pink and pricklies.
“What is that? A baby echidna?”
‘…um, yeah… that’s what it is…’
“It really should be in a sanctuary for orphaned wildlife.”
*long pause*
‘…I guess there’s no chance of me convincing you to eat it now!?’
How-eh-vah, the gods of fate and fortune dangled a now-or-never-moment in front of my ever adventurous eyes. I’m in a remote community, quite safe in the knowledge that here is no fucking chance that I’ll have a girl’s hand in my pants for months. Bless this sexlessness. If I ever wanted to see myself pubeless, this was a genuine opportunity with no risk of embarrassment. A change is a good as a holiday – I bought my dick a pair of sunglasses and off it came.
There are so few decisions in life that you can IMMEDIATELY REGRET. This was one. My balls were cut to shit, everything itched, and that little creature from the Alien films was winking up at me – smug little prick. It’s official; my woolly mammoth needs his afro. Now, when I peer into my pants, I don’t know whether to piss or scratch it under the chin and feed it milk from a bottle.
The most difficult bits were the man-scaping decisions. Hair runs an unbroken line from my neck to my toes. I basically carved a clearing, like a pair of tiny pink budgie-smugglers, only with the parrot on the outside. I look fucking ridiculous. My penis now has no attractive qualities whatsoever. It just looks like some fleshy extendable tube used for depositing semen into dark places. Get thee to a fig leaf. Thankyou, wise serpent.
The only thing vaguely sexy about it is when I inch my hand down the front of my own pants it reminds me of the short and spikies of girls I’ve known before… that is, until I hit dick. Then it reminds me of that time in Thailand.
*starts singing and dancing to Karma Chameleon*
So the question remains – does it look any bigger? Well… yeah, I guess… a bit… but when you think about it, I was always this big whether I looked it or not. Besides, if you’ve been invited to take it out that battle is already won. It looks like a dick. It’s not about to win ‘best in show’ at Westminster.
Heaps of guys do it – I know at least three. It’s supposed to make your junk look bigger. Here’s where I make a joke about not needing to make it look bigger… but... well… I was curious. Men like me climbed Everest. Men like me claimed sovereignty to land they “discovered.” Men like me mowed their man-muff. Why? Because it was there… and fuck it, I wasn’t doing anything else that morning.
I would never usually consider giving my balls a buzz-cut. I reckon it looks freaky. The fact is, I’m right - something that big should have hair on it. Male or female. I seriously worry about people who are attracted to hairlessness. If that’s your ‘bag’, go fuck a manatee or admit you’re a paedophile. Your choice.
I don’t get my dick out in public nearly often as I used to. Still, I was worried that someone might get a look at my newly-nudes and assume that that floated my bloated. Just thinking about it makes me shudder. I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing than getting to that point with a lady – her hand sliding down the front of your pants and getting a handful of pink and pricklies.
“What is that? A baby echidna?”
‘…um, yeah… that’s what it is…’
“It really should be in a sanctuary for orphaned wildlife.”
*long pause*
‘…I guess there’s no chance of me convincing you to eat it now!?’
How-eh-vah, the gods of fate and fortune dangled a now-or-never-moment in front of my ever adventurous eyes. I’m in a remote community, quite safe in the knowledge that here is no fucking chance that I’ll have a girl’s hand in my pants for months. Bless this sexlessness. If I ever wanted to see myself pubeless, this was a genuine opportunity with no risk of embarrassment. A change is a good as a holiday – I bought my dick a pair of sunglasses and off it came.
There are so few decisions in life that you can IMMEDIATELY REGRET. This was one. My balls were cut to shit, everything itched, and that little creature from the Alien films was winking up at me – smug little prick. It’s official; my woolly mammoth needs his afro. Now, when I peer into my pants, I don’t know whether to piss or scratch it under the chin and feed it milk from a bottle.
The most difficult bits were the man-scaping decisions. Hair runs an unbroken line from my neck to my toes. I basically carved a clearing, like a pair of tiny pink budgie-smugglers, only with the parrot on the outside. I look fucking ridiculous. My penis now has no attractive qualities whatsoever. It just looks like some fleshy extendable tube used for depositing semen into dark places. Get thee to a fig leaf. Thankyou, wise serpent.
The only thing vaguely sexy about it is when I inch my hand down the front of my own pants it reminds me of the short and spikies of girls I’ve known before… that is, until I hit dick. Then it reminds me of that time in Thailand.
*starts singing and dancing to Karma Chameleon*
So the question remains – does it look any bigger? Well… yeah, I guess… a bit… but when you think about it, I was always this big whether I looked it or not. Besides, if you’ve been invited to take it out that battle is already won. It looks like a dick. It’s not about to win ‘best in show’ at Westminster.
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