THE HAMID SHOW
You want cultural sensitivity? Here's cultural sensitivity.
Hamid wakes to find himself in a beautiful garden, with plenty of shade and fruit trees, and fountains flowing with wine served up by almond-eyed, lush-lipped, melon-breasted virgins, each more beautiful than her 15-year-old sister. The wine intoxicates, yet in a holy way. The houris compete to offer themselves for his eternal sexual service, yet their hymens regenerate so there is no sin. His manhood is drained repeatedly, yet arises again and again, hard and insistent.
Now he is joined by white-robed fellow jihadis, some his cave-mates from the old days, the rest eager to hear more of his bold deeds against the infidel. They all relate in wonder how they seem to have been transported to this place from their former abode, a hellhole where constant colonoscopies and tiresome visits from American journalists took time away from prayer, Koran-reading and basketball.
Ha! Those weak, irresolute Crusaders and Zionists! They used to sit us in La-Z-Boys for interrogation, we who once bedded down on the hard desert floor! They gave us juice boxes and Oscar Mayer Halal Lunchables, we who once lapped water from mudholes and ate goat jerky. Their kindnesses only increased our contempt for them! Tongue loosened, Hamid talks freely of his past exploits, his future plans for the American pigs, his compatriots still at large in Dearborn and Dagestan. The while, a booming Voice blesses him in the most poetic Arabic, though he cannot see Whose Voice it is for the blinding white light emanating from a giant golden throne.
But wait! It was all a ghastly ruse! Those houris are really just hookers hired for the occasion, the mujaheddin are really American soldiers who have actually learned a foreign language and gotten reconstructive plastic surgery for their country's sake. They borrowed the whole sound-and-light show from Hollywood. By the Prophet's beard, what are those blue pills?
Gotcha, sucka! The country that put men on the moon and tuna in resealable pouches has brought forth another miracle: all the fun, all the results of torture without the thing itself. We Americans are after all a good people.
--October 2006
Hamid wakes to find himself in a beautiful garden, with plenty of shade and fruit trees, and fountains flowing with wine served up by almond-eyed, lush-lipped, melon-breasted virgins, each more beautiful than her 15-year-old sister. The wine intoxicates, yet in a holy way. The houris compete to offer themselves for his eternal sexual service, yet their hymens regenerate so there is no sin. His manhood is drained repeatedly, yet arises again and again, hard and insistent.
Now he is joined by white-robed fellow jihadis, some his cave-mates from the old days, the rest eager to hear more of his bold deeds against the infidel. They all relate in wonder how they seem to have been transported to this place from their former abode, a hellhole where constant colonoscopies and tiresome visits from American journalists took time away from prayer, Koran-reading and basketball.
Ha! Those weak, irresolute Crusaders and Zionists! They used to sit us in La-Z-Boys for interrogation, we who once bedded down on the hard desert floor! They gave us juice boxes and Oscar Mayer Halal Lunchables, we who once lapped water from mudholes and ate goat jerky. Their kindnesses only increased our contempt for them! Tongue loosened, Hamid talks freely of his past exploits, his future plans for the American pigs, his compatriots still at large in Dearborn and Dagestan. The while, a booming Voice blesses him in the most poetic Arabic, though he cannot see Whose Voice it is for the blinding white light emanating from a giant golden throne.
But wait! It was all a ghastly ruse! Those houris are really just hookers hired for the occasion, the mujaheddin are really American soldiers who have actually learned a foreign language and gotten reconstructive plastic surgery for their country's sake. They borrowed the whole sound-and-light show from Hollywood. By the Prophet's beard, what are those blue pills?
Gotcha, sucka! The country that put men on the moon and tuna in resealable pouches has brought forth another miracle: all the fun, all the results of torture without the thing itself. We Americans are after all a good people.
--October 2006
Labels: terrorism torture Islam
posted by Lloyd Drako at
9:58 AM
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