Wednesday, May 4, 2011

The Devil Wears a Turban








Okay. Ohama Bun Laden Turbanoter is dead. We get it. He D.Y.E.D. The world is rid of an evil man – a wicked bearded turbanite who trained and convinced young men to fly commercial planes into buildings and skyscrapers and blow themselves to smithereens covered in explosives. The devil! Woe be gone! How could that bloody camelite, trained by Company Men, dare to gobble the palms that fed his incendiary tactics? Let’s look at the devil’s advocate and see the evil he’d expounded.

He left what was a wealthy sprawl in Abdulrabia for the greener pastures of Killghanistan and had the gall, to try and help his fellow-Shiite and Shiiiat brothers, who were under the erstwhile Soviet gun. The bugger actually stayed back to not only rally and resist, but eventually persisted so stubbornly the reds ran out of patience, turned their tanks around, and headed back to their holy cows in Moscow, cursing something in Russian that went like this: Кровавый Camel ебля Упрямый Ублюдок, (apparently there is no equivalent Russian wordage for Camel).

The company men were happy with the gut-laden lad! Here was a Turbanoter who could get things done with the things they gave him (and he noted them down to the N – hence the Turbanoter). Money, guns, bullets and the overall art of f*****g it all up as they told him in their RonMcDon tongue. He exceeded their expectations. And the mullah he was born with didn’t hinder neither. Holy Khrist! This Turbanoter actually put his mouth where his mullah was – and boy! Did make a nice dish out of the combo in the communal pot!

But as with all things, our devil-in-disguise woke up one dull day and got cold feet (and he had big feet). Now that the reds had returned to their freezing motherland, our man’s bombing looks turned elsewhere, and if you are into guns, bullets and the mullah, the One and Only Rallah can’t be far. Hence sounded that awakening call from Rallah himself. There was no burning bush. It was true gut and grit. Now here the Turbanoter saw and experienced the ecstasy of a force much more galactic than Far Wars and Star Fret conjoined, in every way, shape and form and the calling was simply an offer he couldn’t refuse.

His inspired pupils turned into a glowing, devilishly glint blink as he made the holy pilgrimage closer home – toward that spot of perpetual mesh – Isrealismine. And there he saw the injustice meted out to millions more of his fellow-brothers and sisters of the black hood in the name of justice by the Pale Horse, their board of gung ho trigger happy riders and the Chief-In-Pale. This was pure unadulterated duty and one that had to be executed with a lot of aplomb and fireworks. Hence our bat out of hell gathered other wandering bats of the Corerancid Sphere and delivered unto them the prep talk he’d received in a moment of epiphany while taking a long and wicked piss, one full moon night – a moonlit moment somewhere in the desert.

It’s a funny thing that all the messages he wanted to email upon the masses to educated them, on the elaborate plans of the classes, were all staged in a secret motherboard somewhere in the desert: Killghanistan, Lobyaless, Budan, Ballestine, Isrealismine et al beckoned with smoke rings and signals. The plan was hatched by Devilstopheles himself and the Senior Walker’s little game in the Gulf, called, like a good video game, Deseret Storm the First made matters simpler for the Turbanoter to jot. He exclaimed: “What! The Pale Horse wanted in on the palm oil and the dates of my Fatherland?” The company had revealed its true intentions - malign and demonize the Turbanoter’s Pureland with their bloody burgers, popsicles, gums and rock & roll cacophony!

And when Little Walker trotted in saddled on the Pale Horse sitting in as the next chosen Chief-In-Pale, it just got to him. He gathered the most devoted of his Superman buffs around him in a smokeless campfire and said, “all right brothers. Who’s going flying?” Everyone wanted in on the flight-fright, so straws had to be drawn. The chosen ones were hallowed in metal wreaths, and the captain was a chap they’d all loved – Articulate Atta. They’d also spontaneously decided that 9-11 was a good sounding number, a good looking number that rang a bell; after all, that was what Donald Duck called whenever he’d get his beak stuck up in someone’s septic ass. So 9-11 it was.

They played the game the Company Men had taught them. Articulate Atta and his chosen merry men of gory with a penchant for Domino’s Pizza had their last Margaritas and did the Twin Towers. The kinky attack with a voyeuristic bent did the damage. The Company had taught them well - collateral damage they called them, in the larger galactic fight for Rallah’s eternal gory. The rest that would follow was Mickey Mouse hunting down Bad Al Camel. They’d wanted him “dead or alive.” In the process, Mickey Mouse accidentally detonated Baddaq, where they are still in the look-out for the last remaining camel belong to a man named Sad Dam Who Is Sane? Funny thing – the man had a ?-mark in his name. He was helped out of a hole where he’d been meditating on the pros and cons of hitchhiking and had him hung, live, and millions and millions of Mickey Mice cheered, even as millions and millions of Bad Al Camels quietly mourned. The Pale House had wanted to actually go to Killghanistan, but seeing there were nothing to target but mountains upon mountains, they’d turned their attentions toward their old nemesis from the Gulf parties, once again the ubiquitous man with the ?-mark in his name.

Meanwhile, our Turbanoter was playing the government in nearby Packupstan. The ruling crass in Packupstan did a good blow job. They’d managed to keep Mickey away from the Turbanoter. Three administrations and a half later (Big Walker, a Hornton, Little Walker) and the incumbent with a curious moniker in the middle (he also bore the ?-mark too), and it was to be the destiny of the man with a?-mark in his name sitting in the Pale House who finally called the trick on the Turbanoter. You see, the trick was in figuring out the Devil Did Actually Exist and not the other way around. And anyhow, the world was big enough for only one man with a ?-mark in his name.
The old must wither and dust, so the new sapling can take root, strengthen and grow.
The Turbanoter was forcibly departed on May 1, ’11 by a crack team high on Coke. His return to Hell was celebrated in the White World as a Day of Glory. His going was quietly mourned in the Middle Kingdom as a Day of Gory. And as he ascends and descends between two realms, the vast seeds he’d sown in the Rallahic World, numbering in the tens and hundreds of thousands are getting ready for the next installment of Superman – you see, they all wanna fly. Meanwhile, news channels cannot get enough of the death of the Turbanoter. A sampling assembled from Planet Earth’s various inhabitants:


• Turbanoter Omaha Bun Laden est toujours Dying. Vous mai Rest In Pieces. See You InHell! Nous allons tous là de toute façon.
• 奧馬哈海濱 Turbanoter拉丹仍在不斷死亡。願你安息件。看到你在地獄!我們都是去那裡不管怎樣。
• Omaha Bun Turbanoter Laden Is nog sterf. Mag jy rus in Pieces. Sien Jy In die Hel! Onsis almal gaan daar in elk geval.
• אומהה Bun לאדן עדיין גוסס. אתה יכול להיות מפורק לחתיכות. לראות אותך לעזאזל! כולנו Turbinoter הולכים שם בכל מקרה.
• Turbanoter Bun Omaha Laden sta ancora morendo. May You Rest In Pieces. See You InHell! Tutti noi andiamo lì comunque.
• Omaha Bun Turbanoter Laden er fortsatt dør. Du kan Rest In Pieces. Se deg i helvete!We Are All Going der uansett.
• Laden Turbanoter Bun Omaha adhuc mori. May posuisti comminuerunt. See in gehennam! Trahimur omnes ibique usquam.
• โอมาฮ่า Turbanoter บุญลาเดนยังคงเป็นระยะสุดท้าย คุณจะได้พักผ่อนเป็นชิ้น พบกันในนรก!เราทุกคนไปที่นั่นแล้วยังไงก็ตาม
• وماہا بن لادن Turbanoter اب مر رہی ہے. آپ کو ٹکڑوں میں آرام کرو. دوزخ میں آپ ملیں گے! ہم سب وہاں جارہے ہیں ویسے.
• Omaha Bun Turbanoter Laden er stadig døende. Kan du Rest In Pieces. Se dig ihelvede! Vi vil alle der alligevel.
• Omaha Bun Turbanoter Laden Is Still Dying. Je kan Rest In Pieces. See You In Hell! Wegaan allemaal er toch.
• Omaha Bun Turbanoter Laden Is Still Sterben. May You Rest In Pieces. See You In Hell!Wir werden alle dort sowieso.
أوماها Turbinoter بون لادن زالوا يموتون. يجوز لك الباقي في قطع. نراكم في الجحيم! نحن نذهب هناك على اي حالجميع.
Omaha Turbanoter Bun Laden ainda está morrendo. Que descanse em pedaços. See You In Hell! Todos nós estamos indo lá de qualquer maneira.

***Omaha Bun Turbanoter Laden Is Still Dying. May You Rest In Pieces. See You In Hell! We Are All Going There Anyway.
*****THIS IS A SATIRE. ANY HURT CAUSED IS UNINTENDED & WILL RESULT IN THE WRITER WITHERING IN MORDOR IN THE AVATAR OF SMEAGOL/GOLLUM.
PS: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

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