Monday, May 02, 2011

Gotcha, Cocksucker!

Usama Bin Hidin' is now, officially, dead. Shot like the dog he was by U.S. Special Forces inside Pakistan. Americans dance in the streets of New York and Washington, and the scenes are beamed around the planet, the justified counterpart to the macabre dances done on September 11 by the mental retards in Palestine, Saudi Arabia, and Syria.

Take that, you Sheep-Shagging Motherfuckers!

And you know what makes this the greatest thing ever? It's my fucking birthday.

On September 11, 2001, this Lunatic was on his way to work, and had just left the Concourse between the two towers when a plane flew directly over his head.  I never heard it coming, and I only saw it at the very last second before it hit 1 WTC.

A decade of personal Hell has followed. At first, I felt guilty: I lived. Then I felt frightened: it might happen again. Then I felt sheer panic: it might happen again, but when? And will it get me this time? A whole decade, lost. My sanity left in tatters. My career ruined. My finances destroyed. A Life turned upside down.

And now, it's over. Finally.

Upon hearing the news I could feel every sinew and muscle in my body relax. I finally felt at peace, and as if it was possible now to finally let it all go. It is done. I've been trying for the last few years to finally turn the page, but it's been problematic: Life moves in fits and stops. I think I've got it all worked out, and then something returns and fills me with doubts again. Not anymore. Normal Life resumes at 44.

I knew something must have been up when, at around 10:30 this evening, I heard sirens outside. Lots of them. More than I can ever remember hearing in quite a long time. Something, I thought, must be up. I picked up the remote and turned on the local news: nothing. Switch to FoxNews, and there's that insufferable asshole, Geraldo Rivera, telling us that something was brewing in the White House, and it might have something to do with the other inbred goatfucker who needs to be dead, Khadaffi.

And then Geraldo changes gears; you know, he says, I think this might be about Usama Bin Laden. And for a brief second, Geraldo was not such a douche and was something akin to the Angel of God, about to deliver some inspiring message, to offer some Hope of Joy. But then he kept talking because, as usual, President Frequent-Flyer-Miles, who would be late to his own funeral and probably expect the Taxpayers to pay for that, too, was very late getting to the podium.

Still, there were sirens outside. Lots of them.

Geraldo finally got the words out: Usama Bin Laden, dead. His filthy, flea-ridden corpse, in American custody. Shot like a common theif inside a Pakistani suburb. Good riddence to Bad Rubbish. A waste of gametes. Rot in Hell, Motherfucker, and a Great Big Middle Finger to the Muslim World; One down, One Billion More to Go, Assholes.

This just might be the best day of my far. And the sirens were the NYPD and FDNY, the Best in the Entire Fucking Universe, rushing to secure whatever needs to be secured in the event that one of our loser, broom-pushing, taxi-driving, sexually-frustrated retards with a Death Wish (I believe we call them "Home-grown Jihadis") decides to either avenge his fallen Poster Boy, or decides that there is no longer any point in Life with his role model dead, and decides to do something stupid...other than worship Allah, the Whore God, which was his first stupid decision.

There have been fireworks tonight on Staten Island, the place that 271 of the 2,700 WTC victims called home. There will be much drinking, much celebrating, and even more fireworks, but we will never forget that you aren't here to celebrate with us. By sheer coincidence, I was at Richmond County Ballpark Sunday afternoon (my nephew played a double-header there), and I stopped by the Memorial on the esplanade. Just to have a look, because I have never gone to see it before. I wasn't particularly happy to be there, but I was compelled to take it in.

I'm glad I did.

A few notes on this Day of Jubilation:

1. President Obama: for at least one evening, I was prepared to think of you as probably on the verge of salvaging your Presidency. Then you made that corny and obscenely self-serving speech. And then I figured out why you released you Birth Certificate after two-and-a-half years: You knew this prick was dead a week ago, and the news would knock that trifling paperwork kerfuffle -- and questions about your origins and qualifications -- off the front pages. Well played. I don't particularly care about your birth certificate, but that others cared so much must have bothered -- or frightened -- you.

You're still a douche who's in over your head. Nothing has changed. Don't take your Victory Lap; the U.S. Military did this, not you, Mr. President. You were the man who stood up day after day and said that Victory for America could not be achieved -- if we left Afghanistan right this fucking second, Bin Laden is Dead, and that's all the Victory we need, until somoene has the guts to kill the rest of the Inbred Retards who call themslves Muslims.You called George W. Bush a Warmonger to court the Anti-War vote. You dithered over General Petraeus' request for troops in Afghanistan, and then gave him half of what he asked for, and put a pull-out date on the whole thing.

The brain dead press and the greater mass of people in this country who can't wipe their own ass without government-provided step-by-step instructions, nor without a government check to buy toilet paper, will hail you as the greatest thing since the invention of Oral Sex, for a few days, at least. And then they'll remember that even if the Great Camel Fucker is dead, they still can't find work, their country is bankrupt, and you're a fucking doofus. I applaud you for giving the order to do what should have been done a long time ago (pissing all over Pakistani sovereignty in order to bring an Islamic Pig to justice), but it's a polite Golf Clap.

You haven't saved your sorry behind. Want to really impress me? Kill the rest of them.

By the way, I've noticed you've been dying your hair lately. Oh, and one more thing: that whole "we're not at war with Islam" stupidity doesn't buy you any friends over there. We may not be at War with Islam, but Islam is at War with us. It has been ever since the demented dirtbag who invented it passed his mental vomit onto a second demented dirtbag who bought it. Get that through your thick skull, Barry.

2. On Pakistan: you are not a nation -- you are a collection of vicious vagabonds with a flag, living in a fetid patch of Purgatory that smells like a used, World-War-Two Sweatsock that someone wiped his ass with...and even that still smells better than Pakistanis. You are the greatest Mistake of British Foreign Policy. The Turd That Fell from India's Ass. Bin Laden was finally brought to ground inside one of your cities, and if the reports are to be believed, a city which is the headquarters of one of your largest military forces, practically next door to a police station. You've known where this bastard was all along. You've protected him for all this time, and I don't care how much Obama talks about "co-operation", he's not fooling anyone.

Watch your ass, Pakistan; you're on my list. If it were up to me, after finding out the Bin Laden had been killed and captured inside Pakistan, I would have fucking nuked you.

Fuck Pakistan in it's collective ass. I understand that's the National Pastime there, anyway.

3. Bin Laden's Body: bring it to New York. I want it desecrated on television, for all the world to see. I want it beaten with something with spikes protruding from it, until it falls to pieces. I want the pieces collected so that a dozen of New York's most prominent rabbis can piss on it. Then I want the mixture liberally doused in bacon grease and set aflame. I want the ashes collected and sold to the highest bidder to be used as kitty litter.

Show it on television.Show the entire Islamic World, every last sandy little cunt in the Middle East has to know: we will find you, and we will kill you, and then we will humiliate you publicly, for all the world to see, even after death. DON'T FUCK WITH US.

And just for shits and giggles, take every douchebag in Gitmo and waterboard 'em gain. Show that on TV, too.

4. To the Men and Women of the U.S. Military: Out-fucking-standing! You have suffered much, and you've done your duty in a way that can never be described in mere words. You are the best.


1 comment:

Mr. Chap said...

Happy Birthday, Mr. M.

I would be pumped up too.