State Department Leaks: Osama's Diary Continued

We have another selection from Osama's personal journal.  This one requires no real setup.  The entry is beneath the fold in its entirety.



December 11, 2006

Dear Diary,

I had quite the surprise visit today. Keith Olbermann stopped by. We had some falafel and a little tea. Then he hooked us up with some illegal cable from the feed to the military compound across the street, so we can watch him on MSNBC. He threw in CNN too. He really thought this would be good for morale, seeing how much the real Americans supported us. He told us to be sure and tune in for the protests at the White House tomorrow.

December 12, 2006

Dear Diary,

Decided to give everyone a break today. Whipped up a nice, fresh batch of Jiffy Pop and had everyone huddle around the set to watch our new cable. Wasn’t as relaxing and morale-boosting as planned.

The announcer said that after the break they were going to show footage of the infidels marching on Washington, and at first everyone was all ululating and blasting off their guns at the prospect of watching this great offensive within the very bowels of the Great Satan, but then the footage started.

Mohammed H. Prophet! The room became more and more subdued with every shot of another drooling drum circle reject and half-naked, hirsute hippy, waving their misspelled signs and passing their hemp hacky sacks lazily back and forth.  The Syrian recruits just stared, mouths agape and filled with half-chewed popcorn and cactus nectar. 

Then, upon closer inspection, it was noticed that not all of the sacks bouncing off of knees were of the hacky variety.  Most were merely the liberated mammaries of aged NPR grannies who had thrown off the shackles of male oppression.  If I had ever questioned Allah’s creation of the burka, I never would again.

As the ancients continued their titular march upon the White House, the Saudis in the peanut gallery shook off the shock and began to speak soberly.

Is that what women look like without burkas?

If so, just take me out back and stone me now. I think I might be gay.

Is that what the virgins are going to look like in Paradise? I don’t want even one of those, let alone 72.

I couldn’t think of anything to say. Made me think. What kind of woman is still a virgin when they come to Paradise?  I’ll never forget the look in the eyes of that poor, young Afghan recruit, unblinking, vacant, questioning the very existence of Allah.  I passed my hand between his eyes and that dreadful cavalcade of hairy vegans, their legs braided in cornrows and dreadlocks blossoming from beneath their arms.  Their anti-siren song broken, he gazed at me and solemnly asked, “When I go to Paradise, can I get 72 sluts instead? Say yes, or the martyrdom is off.”

I shut off the the saggy boob tube, and it took me nearly 30 minutes to calm the boys down and assure them that Paradise was not going to be a ménage-a-soixante-deux with a bunch of furry Code Pink feminists. Nearly a third of my crew just walked away, nonetheless.  I think they were relieved when we shot them.

Thanks a lot, Keith. I nominate you for Worst Person of the Day. Next time you stop by, do me a solid and set us up with HBO/Cinemax instead. Give my boys something to die for.