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Friday, July 22, 2005


Again With The Bombs...

...but what a contemptible little set of bombs they were. To call them pissant would be too generous.

In my early childhood I was told that the first time the Nazis bombed England the casualties were as follows: Humans, 0, Rabbits, 1. It inspired, or so I was told, this song.

And today - the mighty warriors behind this latest triumph were, I am sure, hoping that the Brits would be cowering in terror from north, south, east and west, but really, what have they achieved?

They grazed a granny. (link).

No offense, Ma'am; we hope you aren't badly hurt. (We know you aren't. The weak sisters die young; the strong women live forever. The little old ladies are little only in stature; their spirits are a hundred feet tall).

Y'know, when the miserable little cowards behind this latest venture eventually wind up in the next world (after tripping over their own shoelaces and falling down some stairs, I'd wager, judging by the level of competence they have displayed today), when they collect their seventy-two raisins;

(You poor, deluded, dupes. If you wanted raisins, you can get them in any convenience store. And if you were dumb enough not to check your translation, and thought you were getting virgins - don't you know that every moment of intimacy takes place between two virgins, because every intimate moment is unique in its delight, and so whatever one's past, one always comes virgin to every encounter? - Well, no, you don't. If you were healthy enough to know that, you would be healthy enough not to find joy in blowing people up).

-At any rate, you wouldn't want to be these two-bit losers, on the day they finally choke on their own drool and find themselves in Hell. I believe there is something worse than being eternally tormented for being evil, and that is being eternally laughed at for being a useless fuck-up.

But seriously, boys, I take it all back. You are the ultimate in terrorism. Because terrorism is a confession of weakness; it screams to the sky "Nobody really supports my cause, so I have to murder a bunch of random people just to get noticed!" (Of course, under a well-run government the terrorists get noticed in ways they never wanted (police raids and cruise missiles are a poor substitute for seventy-two something-tasties) but still they get noticed, and that might be their true psychological payoff). At any rate, terrorism is a confession of weakness, like the pathetic little inadequate that stalks the beautiful woman he knows he can never, never deserve while he remains as he is. But you, you pathetic little pratfallers, you can only aspire to the weakness of the terrorist: you are people who have fucked up even your fuck-ups.

And you know what? When the last one of you has choked on his own hatred we'll still be here. Drinking our beer, wine and cocktails. Reading and saying whatever we like. Flaunting our shameless flesh. Loving who, how and where we want to. We'll bury you, you sad little inadequates, and we won't even notice while we're digging your graves because you know what? We have so many better things to do with our time than worry about you.

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