ISIL for Idiots
My fan base has been pressing MOI for my reflections on the horrific events in Paris; and it seems a shame to let him down. It is indeed a declaration of war; and that’s never a very good idea with the French; ask any Algerian. However it is much more than that for the bits of used toilet paper involved – it is a declaration of suicide; ask any member of the legion d’etrengere. But since that appears to be the heart’s desire of the flaming freak show, they are about to get much more than they imagined. YeeHaw!
Know Your Enema
And what could be simpler in the instant case? Not only do they obligingly stroll about with towels wrapped around their heads, they always have their heads stuffed up their arses. To be absolutely fair, since they are a bunch of bloody idiots, it might be better if they wrapped their heads with sanitary towels. The main thing is to start to label them properly. Moslems? Not even remotely. In fact, it is a well kept secret that the acronym ISIL actually stands for “Institution for Sexually Impotent Losers”. They are obsessed with sex – because they’re not very good at it. The orgasm has been banned; and the reason the chicks are kept covered from head to toe in fetching blankets woven with explosives, is to avoid the danger of premature ejaculation. The good news is that for every little boy pre-pubescent jihadi manque who has gone out there to join them, their sister back home is being soundly shagged by some white guy who just can’t get enough of her. Gland to gland combat.
Continuing the theme of labelling, it has to be obvious that self-igniting firelighters can be fun to watch. A better name for them would be ‘Ronsons’, named after the good old lighter of yesteryear. In World War Two, the Sherman tank was so nick-named because of its tendency to burst into flame easily when under attack. This rebranding of our incendiary insurgents might even help the poor old lighter industry which has suffered a setback in the UK thanks to the efforts of the FagiBan, a group of fanatical bottom-sniffers who have criminalised smoking of cigarettes. I mean, when I was young, ‘secondary smoking’ involved a furtive fag round the back of the bike shed while examining the contents of some fourth year’s knickers. But we digress.
Irony of Ironies
We are now threatened by a medieval crew of gay rent-boys, armed with World War Two weaponry, trying to wipe out the high-tech rest of us. Any prizes for guessing the end result? “A train came down the line puffin’, Sanity seven billion, ISIL nuffin’ ” Oh sure; any tool can buy themselves a black market Sig or Glock; ask anyone in North London or Nottingham. Then go and shoot up a nursery school or church service. That’s not how wars are one. Ask the Caliphate; oh sorry, they all got wasted some hundred years ago or so. ‘Along came Hungary and ate up Turkey, and all that was left was Greece’. Ha ha ha.
So here’ s the irony; how do you kill them? With a bow and arrow! Which explodes on impact with the obligingly de rigeur bomb jacket; so terribly Lagerfeld my dear! It’ll give Son et Lumiere a whole new meaning.
Of course, it’s only a rumour, but what if it’s true? That some anti-ISIL forces are being given bullets greased in pig fat, to ensure that when a member of ISIL is wasted, the last place he is going to is paradise. Laugh? I nearly bought a round. Oh, and while on the subject, what is all this about seventy-two virgins? In Leith? I don’t think so. I mean, if any bloke has been married, he will shudder at the thought of getting too involved with any other one of them, never mind that amount. Now that would be hell.
It seems, as I write, that some of the wee souls out there are leaving their crapital city due to a localised outbreak of death. Don’t worry boys, look on it merely as the hors d’oeuvre. Wait till you get to the main course. Bon appetit!
Copyright; John J McCabe 2015.