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We were reminded of a
news item from a couple of years ago concerning a female suicide
bomber named Reem Al-Riyashi, a Palestinian who killed several
Israelis at a border crossing as penance for her adultery.
The
woman’s husband was a Hamas operative who came home one day to find
her “putting the 'ho’ in housewife” as it were, with another
operative from the same terrorist group. (Hamas means Islamic
Resistance, by the way).
Apparently the trio
worked out an understanding that the crime could be neatly
recompensed
for all of them if the woman martyred herself (we’re
guessing that the vote was two to one on that count). It was decided
that Allah would be even more pleased if she could pull off murdering
a few Israelis in the process of atonement. (And Muslims wonder why
it takes a death threat to keep their own from converting to other
religions).
Now, tallying up the dead
and dismembered victims of Islamic terror is a serious business for
us here at TROP; make no mistake about it. On some days, that
bottle of Jack that the editor thinks he keeps hidden in the back of
his lower desk drawer can look mighty tempting. We thought it more
constructive in this case, however, to channel our energy into
fleshing out the part of the story that we can all relate to… the
romance!
Yes, cultural relativists
are right after all. Militant Muslims are just like us (sans the suicide
bombings and other senseless acts of terror). They have needs.
Emotional needs. Physical needs. We at TROP are quite proud
to cater to these needs (the emotional ones that is) by trying our
hand at historical romance. Hey, who says we aren’t in touch with
our feminine side?
Although we don’t know
the exact details of how Reem and her lover (whom we’ll call
Hassan) got the party started, we can use a little imagination to
fill in the blanks since it’s for a good cause. Be forewarned
though, TROP knows romance and knows it well. The language in this
segment is sure to get the blood pumping, so you may want to turn
the air conditioning up a bit before proceeding.
Here we go… a little
something for the ladies (of Ramallah)…
Like an incoming
kassam rocket, Hassan brightened her heart from the day he first
darkened her door. In the beginning, Reem Al-Riyashi denied her
feelings for him and pressed them deep into her heaving bosom as if
she were casually burying a cache of weapons in her neighbor's backyard. Then
came the day that passion ignited as faithfully as a well-packed
belt of explosives.
After a long romantic
afternoon, spent quietly together, talking softly of bombings,
stabbings and other means of spilling infidel blood, Reem was
startled to see a look of desire in Hassan’s eyes.
“Oh Hassan,” she
exclaimed. “I knew there was something different about this
afternoon when I saw the rose clenched in your teeth.”
“Actually,” said the handsome Arab,
turning away for a moment and putting his hand to his mouth. “I
think that might be a bit of broccoli left over from lunch. That was
quite a casserole I downed,” he said wistfully, “quite a casserole
indeed.”
“Oh,” she said, barely able to
conceal her disappointment.
“No, no, don’t get me wrong,"
replied the Jihadi hottie. "I'm still hungry, if you know what
I mean.”
“You
are?” she asked.
“Yes.
You might say that my appetite is whet… eh?”
She gave him a blank look.
“You know,” he
repeated a bit impatiently. “For what we can cook up
together...ah?”
“Actually, I wasn’t planning on
fixing anything for…”
“Oh for Allah’s sake,” he snapped
tersely. “I wasn’t speaking literally. I was just using a
metaphor. Do you know what it means to speak metaphorically? In
fact, I was talking about a little Arabian Night action, so
to speak… eh?”
“Hmmm?”
“You know, knocking sandals,
greasing up the old camel, rubbing the magic lamp, shaking sheets
with a sheik, doing the Bedouin boogie, the Hezbollah Bop, the…”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Al-Riyashi shyly.
She turned her eyes away from him for a moment and her gaze fell on
the wedding picture above the mantle. “Just so you know, I’ve got
only one thing on my mind, Hassan, and that’s lovin’ my man.”
“That’s what
our great leader, Yassir Arafat used to
say,” responded Hassan, somewhat glumly.
He rose from the couch and stood looking out the open window, where
a strong breeze caught his flowing black hair and pressed his
clothes against his body, fully outlining the ample stick of
dynamite and two grenades that he always kept packed in his
underwear. It never hurt to be prepared in the event that he
came across any infidels looking for a little interfaith dialogue - Religion of Peace style, that is.
She couldn’t put her finger on it,
but something about the sight of him standing there stirred the
woman in her. Perhaps it was the way his short beard quivered in
the wind. “Oh Hassan,” she cried. “Please understand. It’s not
that I don’t want to, it’s just that I can’t.”
He turned and put his hands on her
shoulders, melting her as surely as a Nutty Buddy in a 40-kg
fertilizer blast. “That noise coming from behind your burka says
‘no,’ but I’m sure your eyes, if I could see them that is, are
saying ‘yes’.”
“Oh, Hassan!” she
exclaimed. “Your beard - it reminds me of Fidel Castro!”
“That perfume of yours
is giving me a Cuban missile crisis.”
She gave a low moan and leaned back
on the couch.
He continued, somewhat coyly.
“What say you slip out of that burka and into something a little
more comfortable… like a hijab?”
“Take me Hassan!”
“Where? I left my
camel back at the…”
“Shut up and take me
you fool!”
“Oh Yes! Yes! Whose
your Baghdadi now, baby?
…
Ok. Ok. We apologize for the
crude Arab stereotyping. We know that Palestinians don’t usually
ride camels or wear burkas. We can think of one or two
thousand things worse than stereotyping however, and if you can't,
then click on the link below to find out...
Go back to the List of Islamic Terrorist Attacks
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