Sex on the Sand
Mr. and Mrs. and Mrs. and Mrs. and Mrs. bin Laden had been dwelling in the Afghanistan desert for what seemed like forever.
Bin Laden’s youngest wife had said at breakfast over shriveled figs, “It’s like we have been living like sand crabs on this like desert for like eons.”
“I don’t appreciate it when you use the word ‘like,'” said her husband.
“Like, why not?” asked his second youngest wife.
“Because,” said the famous bearded religious cleric, “it means you have been watching American television again. Like is an infidel word.”
“Don’t be such a poop,” said the youngest wife. “We were watching a program about our own Arabic history.”
“Yeah?” asked bin Laden. “What program would that be?”
“I Dream of Jeannie,” chimed in his oldest wife — who was irritated with bin Laden since he had not played “Hide the Scimitar” with her for almost five years.
She had halitosis since she had never seen a dentist in her life. Her lice didn’t help either.
Bin Laden could feel his blood pressure creeping up again. “Shut your collective falafel holes,” he said, “the satellite TV is to be used by the four of you only to watch me when I am on CNN.”
“But you are like hardly ever on TV anymore and we are getting bored out of our gourds living in musty caves,” said his third wife, the one with the shriveled breasts who never bathed. Well, she did bathe but only after sex with bin Laden. She had had two baths in nine years.
“I am too on TV,” growled bin Laden. “I’ve been on TV as much as The Evil Christian Crusader Bush! May a large camel fart up his nose and his Mission Accomplished shit.” The cleric hurled a hand grenade at a poster of the United States President.
The grenade bounced back at the family but a suicide bomber-in-training threw himself on it. The bomb ripped the true believer apart.
“Look at what you did — wasted another perfect good true believer,” said the oldest wife.
“Enough with the nagging,” said bin Laden.
“Tell it to the Taliban,” said his youngest wife. “The world media doesn’t even let you speak anymore. They just broadcast that picture of you looking like a cantankerous camel while Christiane Amanpour explains what you said.”
“Allah, I hate that media whore,” screamed bin Laden as his blood pressure bounced up another notch. “Talk about one-sided coverage. I’d like to slice her head clean off.”
“Please,” said his oldest wife, “don’t use the name of Allah in vain. You’ll upset the children.”
“Where are the children?” he asked.
“In the other cave playing Nintendo,” said the youngest wife.
“Doesn’t anyone ever listen to me?” screamed the cleric. “I told them to read the Koran and practice with their box knives.”
“They are only children,” said his third oldest wife. “They grow weary of learning how to be suicide servants. A little Nintendo can be of no harm.”
“Silence, before I cut your other hand off. Nintendo, along with the rest of the wicked Western entertainment industry, is corrupt. I’m going to blow up the Hollywood studios. I’m taking out Disneyland too.”
“Oh yeah?” asked his youngest wife. “How?”
“I’ve got a team of suicide bombers who look like Goofy,” said bin Laden. “They have been studying with Saddam in Iraq.”
“You can’t be serious,” said his oldest wife.
“You bet I’m serious. We’ve even trained suicide bombers to look like the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus. The Americans will feel the wrath of Allah.”
“But why would you harm children?” asked his youngest wife. “That is against the teaching of the Koran and Islam.”
“You forget that we are in holy jihad. Anything goes. Now, I feel like sex. Excite me,” said bin Laden to his youngest wife.
“Yes, enlightened one,” she said. And she did what she always did to get him in the mood. She turned on the satellite TV Playboy channel.
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