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Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Well, That Didn't Work Out So Great

Iowahawk Guest Commentary
By Kahlid Ahmed, MD
Board Certified Gastroenterologist and former Jihad Associate, al Qaeda UK

Ever have "one of those days?" Sure, all of us go through the occasional
rough patch, but I swear there are times when I think Allah must really
have it in for me. I mean, I know the "Big Guy" is supposed to have a
sense of humor, but do I always have to be the punchline?

Take for example this last week. A few mates and I had been planning a
big martyrdom weekend for quite a while; it's something we first began
discussing a few years ago in medical school back in Amman. We were
sitting around the dorm eating pizza, cramming for a big anatomy final,
when Ali said "you know, after graduation, we should get together for
something really big." We talked about a fishing trip to Canada or
something, but most of the guys thought that sounded pretty boring.
Abdul suggested a golf weekend in Cancun, but the all-inclusives there
can get pretty pricey in-season. Hassan (who's really into motorcycles)
suggested renting Harleys and going to Sturgis for the Biker Rally, but
we heard that crowd can get pretty rowdy.

So, Achmed finally says, "how about packing cars with explosives and
killing hundreds of random infidels in a coordinated series of gigantic
fireballs?" And we're like, Fuckin' A! Not only would we be it an
awesome bonding experience (with plenty of Paradise poontang, LOL), we
would be doing a valuable community service. Okay, so we high-fived and
made a solemn promise that we'd target two years after graduation for
the big weekend prank blowout.

I know how it usually goes with these kinds of fraternity things; what
with starting up a medical practice, honor killing obligations, and
starting a family, it's easy to lose touch with the old school buddies.
But this thing -- our thing -- was serious, you know? Thanks to email we
were able to keep in touch and keep the plan going. As luck would have
it, we all won Achmedinejad scholarships to do our residencies in
England for the National Health Service. We got our families together
most every weekend for backyard cookouts and self-flagellation and TV
football matches. Afterwards me and the other guys would slip out to the
garage for cigars, and to pack shrapnel.

So okay, the big weekend arrives, and the guys come over to my place
bright and early, everybody's jazzed about rolling up some serious kafir
carnage. All the propane tanks and propellant and nail cannisters are
ready to go. I look at Ali and say, "okay mate, back up your car to the
garage and I'll start loading it up." He gets this dumbstruck look on
his face and says, "my car? I thought Hassan was going to do the
martyrdom." And then Hassan does a massive spit-take with his tea, and
he's like, "whoa dude, I rigged the cell phones, I didn't agree to blow
up. I thought Mohammed was going to do the blowing up." Then Mohammed's
like, "don't look at me, pal, I thought I was just providing the
spiritual guidance. Plus my car's in the shop for transmission work."
From there it just descended into this big shouting match. Holy
frickin' prophet, two years of planning this prank and now everybody
wants to pussy out on the actual martyrdom.

Long story short, we decided to draw straws. And guess who wins? Yep,
yours truly, good old sucker Khalid, the same guy with a pile of charge
card receipts for petrol and propane and hardware. The same guy who
ended up having to host two thirds of the martyrdom planning parties at
HIS house, because his good old college "pals" always have some
convenient excuse about "kitchen remodeling" or "MI6 surveillance," and
never lift a finger to help clean up the empty bottles or paper plates
or the C5 mess. Well, you know what they say: no good deed goes
unpunished. Then the other short straw get pulled by Bilal, and I'm
like, oh, great. Now I'll be banging some celestial virgin with that
wanker looking over my shoulder.

So, I'm like, "okay, who's donating the cars?" And these dicks just look
around at each other, and ANOTHER big argument breaks out, because "I
still have 28 payments left," or "it's due for a tyre rotation," or some
other lame excuse. So we draw straws again to pick the explosion cars,
and guess who wins? Yup, my Benz, the same fucking car I just paid
£129.95 to have detailed. So I go to the house and tell my wife Jumanah
about the whole deal, and here it comes -- The Look. Complete with the
whole exasperated eye roll and head shake. I swear, if her dad wasn't my
uncle, I'd be smacking that irritating sneer right off her face. So
she's like, "Fine, go have your fun with your lazy jihad buddies and
your 72 virgins. Just leave me the keys to the Jeep so I can get groceries."

After that, I guess I was pretty much ready to get it over with. I
called up the office and had them cancel the rest of my patient
appointments for the day and drove the Benz to London, which
incidentally cost me another £40 for gas and tolls. When I got to
Picadilly and parked in front of the nightclub and called Achmed on my
cell to let 'er rip. Nothing. I sat there waiting 3 minutes waiting for
the cell phone detonator to go off, nothing. I saw a cop walking toward
the Benz, so I hopped out and started booking it and almost got run over
by a double decker. I got on the Tube, thinking I was safe, but then all
the stupid racist kafirs started giving me the stinkeye because
apparently they're freaked by panting Arabs smelling of gasoline. I got
out in Ealing and went to the mosque where the other guys were supposed
to be, and they're all standing around like a bunch of sheepish idiots.
So I'm like, "WTF? What happened with the detonation?"

Get this: Mohammed, whose only job it was to call in a simple fucking
detonation code, switched his cell carrier to get the new iPhone and
forgot to transfer his goddamn detonation contact list. So I'm like,
"how about Bilal? Did he explode? Please tell me HE exploded." The dopey
expressions around the room told me otherwise. Faaaack. Now there's NO
dead infidels, NO horny virgins, and I'm out one leased Mercedes with a
£12,000 balloon payment.

So I go, "Here's the deal guys. I just put my ass on the martrydom line,
and it was Allah's will that it didn't happen. So why don't we just call
it good, and try again in another two years." Crissakes, you would have
thought I just took a dump in their falafel. They started talking about
"Ummah Pride," and "giving it all for ol' Central Jordan U.."

So I said fine, let's draw straws again. Because, hey, what are the odds
of me pulling martyrdom duty twice in a row? Guess I should have been a
stat major, because there I was holding the short stick again. When
Bilal pulled the other short stick, I just went ahead and volunteered my
Jeep because I figured the way this day was going it was gonna get blown
up one way or the other.

When Bilal and I got back to my house Jumanah had just gotten back from
Tesco and was unloading groceries. "I thought you were supposed to be in
Paradise by now," she said, in that stupid irritating voice. "Change of
plans," I said. "We need to head up to Glasgow to blow up the airport."

Here it came again. The Look.

"Um, and we need to use the Jeep."

The Look, like, double.

"And our faces are all over the TV, so we need you to drive us."

I won't even bother trying to describe her face at that point. We loaded
up the rest of the explosive cannisters in the back of the Jeep and
headed north on the M1 in the middle of the out-of-town holiday rush
traffic. Jumanah pretty much seethed the entire way, complaining about
the traffic and the gasoline fumes. Needless to say when we finally got
to Glasgow and dropped her off at a roadside cafe, I was pretty much
geared up for the sweet release of death.

Okay, so Bilal and I get psyched up, check all the equipment to make
sure it's ready for a big boom, point the Jeep at the terminal, and mash
the throttle. I'm shouting "Allahu Akbar," and Bilal's shouting "Allahu
Akbar" and "Go Martyrs" just like the old pep squad days at CJU. And I'm
thinking, "Grease up them virgins, Allah, 'cause Dr. K's luck is about
to change." BAAAAM! Right into the glass!

I was probably out for maybe two, three seconds. Bilal and I peeled our
broken noses out of the airbags, which meant we were still alive, which
meant the goddamn cannisters didn't explode, again. Maybe we went
through into the terminal and killed some infidels, I thought, then I
saw we hadn't made it in more than a couple inches into the terminal. I
mean, WTF? The Jeep salesman kept going on about how the Jeep was this
awesome unstoppable American SUV that crusader cowboys use to bulldoze
their way through mountain forests, with an easy payment plan, and the
damn thing can't make it through a bloody plate glass window. I restart
the engine and now the piece of shit just sits there spinning the tyres.
"All-wheel traction," my arse.

Okay, plan B: Bilal and I start pushing backup detonation buttons and
cell codes. A couple of pops, but they were all duds. Then I see the
cops coming at me.

As Allah is my witness, I really can't explain what happened next; maybe
it was stress, or confusion, or frustration. Whatever the reason, I
decided it was a reasonable idea at that point to pour a can of petrol
over my head and flick the Bic.

Here's a handy health tip from Doctor K: if you ever get a wild urge to
start yourself on fire, sit down and relax until it goes away. Because
(A) it's not a particularly effective method for killing infidels, and
(B) it... So much that I almost enjoyed
the distraction those high-pressure water cannons and getting my lights
punched out by that crazy mumble-mouthed Scottish baggage handler.

By the way, did I mention I also started the Jeep on fire? Only 37 more
payments of £438 to go.

After that, I really didn't mind getting bludgeoned by those angry
bagpipers. The sound was horrible, but at least they got the rest of the
flames out. I was almost relieved when the cops were cuffing me face
down on the pavement, because by that point I was pretty much
reconsidering this whole college martyrdom pledge thing and I figured
the worst was over.

No such luck. Here's another handy health tip from Doctor K: if your
skin is half melted and bubbly hot, avoid lying down on any surfaces
that aren't Teflon coated. And please note: the Glasgow sidewalks aren't.

After a some time with a spatula and a few cans of Pam, the cops finally
got 95% or so of me peeled off the sidewalk. I looked down at my legs
and realized that I'll be saving a lot of money on clothes from now on,
because I'm sporting a permanent pair of melted-on black polyester trousers.

And then the kicker: I looked down at my package and noticed "Little
Khalid" was AWOL. As they were loading me into the the police wagon I
glanced back over my shoulder and saw what was was left of him
charbroiling on the sidewalk. Then one of the bomb sniffing dogs gobbled
him down like a snausage. A fat lot of good those 72 virgin are going to
me now.

Final box score: I'm out one Mercedes, one Jeep, £2000 in miscellaneous
bomb materials, several layers of skin, and one very low-mileage penis.
Infidels killed: nil. So the next time you want to bitch to me about how
bad your day is going, don't expect a lot of sympathy.

Well, gotta go. The interrogators are coming, and afterwards I've got an
appointment to have my arse skin grafted on to my face. But I will leave
you with one more handy tip from Doctor K: no matter how many virgins
they promise, don't ever join a fraternity.


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