Well, That Didn't Work Out So Great

Well, That Didn't Work Out So Great

Iowahawk Guest Commentary

By Kahlid Ahmed, MD

Board Certified Gastroenterologist and former Jihad Associate, al Qaeda UK

 

Ever have "one of those days?" Sure, all of us go through the occasional

rough patch, but I swear there are times when I think Allah must really have

it in for me. I mean, I know the "Big Guy" is supposed to have a sense of

humor, but do I always have to be the punch line?

 

Take for example this last week. A few mates and I had been planning a big

martyrdom weekend for quite a while; it's something we first began

discussing a few years ago in medical school back in Amman. We were sitting

around the dorm eating pizza, cramming for a big anatomy final, when Ali

said "you know, after graduation, we should get together for something

really big." We talked about a fishing trip to Canada or something, but most

of the guys thought that sounded pretty boring. Abdul suggested a golf

weekend in Cancun, but the all-inclusives there can get pretty pricey

in-season. Hassan (who's really into motorcycles) suggested renting Harleys

and going to Sturgis for the Biker Rally, but we heard that crowd can get

pretty rowdy.

 

Anyhoo, Achmed finally says, "how about packing cars with explosives and

killing hundreds of random infidels in a coordinated series of gigantic

fireballs?" And we're like, effin' A! Not only would it be an awesome

bonding experience (with plenty of Paradise poontang, LOL), we would be

doing a valuable community service. Okay, so we high-fived and made a solemn

promise that we'd target two years after graduation for the big weekend

prank blowout.

***Continued After Jump***

 

I know how it usually goes with these kinds of fraternity things; what with

starting up a medical practice, honor killing obligations, and starting a

family, it's easy to lose touch with the old school buddies. But this thing

-- our thing -- was serious, you know? Thanks to email we were able to keep

in touch and keep the plan going. As luck would have it, we all won

Achmedinijad scholarships to do our residencies in England for the National

Health Service. We got our families together most every weekend for backyard

cookouts and self-flagellation and TV football matches. Afterwards me and

the other guys would slip out to the garage for cigars, and to pack

shrapnel.

 

So okay, the big weekend arrives, and the guys come over to my place bright

and early, everybody's jazzed about rolling up some kufr carnage. All the

propane tanks and propellant and nail canisters are ready to go. I look at

Ali and say, "okay mate, back up your car to the garage and I'll start

loading it up." He gets this dumbstruck look on his face and says, "my car?

I thought Hassan was going to do the martyrdom." And then Hassan does a

massive spit-take with his tea, and he's like, "whoa dude, I rigged the cell

phones, I didn't agree to blow up. I thought Mohammed was going to do the

blowing up." Then Mohammed's like, "don't look at me, pal, I thought I was

just providing the spiritual guidance. Plus my car's in the shop for

transmission work." From there it just descended into this big shouting

match. Holy frickin' prophet, two years of planning this prank and now

everybody wants to pussy out on the actual martyrdom.

 

Long story short, we decided to draw straws. And guess who wins? Yep, yours

truly, good old sucker Khalid, the same guy with a pile of charge card

receipts for petrol and propane and hardware. The same guy who ended up

having to host two thirds of the martyrdom planning parties at HIS house,

because his good old college "pals" always have some convenient excuse about

"kitchen remodeling" or "MI6 surveillance," and never lift a finger to help

clean up the empty bottles or paper plates or the C5 mess. Well, you know

what they say: no good deed goes unpunished. Then the other short straw get

pulled by Bilal, and I'm like, oh, great. Now I'll be banging some celestial

virgin with that wanker looking over my shoulder.

 

So, I'm like, "okay, who’s donating the cars?" And these dicks just look

around at each other, and ANOTHER big argument breaks out, because "I still

have 28 payments left," or "it's due for a tire rotation," or some other

lame excuse. So we draw straws again to pick the explosion cars, and guess

who wins? Yup, my Benz, the same ******* car I just paid £3129.95 to have

detailed. So I go to the house and tell my wife Jumanah about the whole

deal, and here it comes -- The Look. complete with the whole exasperated eye

roll and head shake. I swear, if her dad wasn't my uncle, I'd be tempted to

smack that irritating sneer right off her face. So she's like, "fine, go

have your fun with your lazy jihad buddies and your 72 virgins. Just leave

me the keys to the Jeep so I can get groceries."

 

After that, I guess I was pretty much ready to get it over with. I called up

the office and had them cancel the rest of my patient appointments for the

day and drove the Benz to London, which incidentally cost me another £340

for gas and tolls. When I got to Piccadilly and parked in front of the

nightclub and called Achmed on my cell to let 'er rip. Nothing. I sat there

waiting 3 minutes waiting for the cell phone detonator to go off, nothing. I

saw a cop walking toward the Benz, so I hopped out and started booking it

and almost got run over by a double decker. I got on the Tube, thinking I

was safe, but then all the stupid racist kufrs started giving me the

stinkeye because apparently they're freaked by panting Arabs smelling of

gasoline. I got out in Ealing and went to the mosque where the other guys

were supposed to be, and they're all standing around like a bunch of

sheepish idiots. So I'm like, "WTF? What happened with the detonation?"

 

Get this: Mohammed, whose only job it was to call in a simple *******

detonation code, switched his cell carrier to get the new iPhone and forgot

to transfer his goddamn detonation contact list. So I'm like, "how about

Bilal? Did he explode? Please tell me exploded." The dopey expressions

around the room told me otherwise. Faaaack. Now there's NO dead infidels, NO

horny virgins, and I'm out one leased Mercedes with a £312,000 balloon

payment.

 

So I go, "here's the deal guys. I just put my ass on the martyrdom line, and

it was Allah's will that it didn't happen. So why don't we just call it

good, and try again in another two years." Crissakes, you would have thought

I just took a dump in their falafel. They started talking about "Ummah

Pride," and "giving it all for ol' Central Jordan U.."

 

So I said fine, let's draw straws again. Because, hey, what are the odds of

me pulling martyrdom duty twice in a row? Guess I should have been a stat

major, because there I was holding the short stick again. When Bilal pulled

the other short stick, I just went ahead and volunteered my Jeep because I

figured the way this day was going it was gonna get blown up one way or the

other.

 

When Bilal and I got back to my house Jumanah had just gotten back from

Tesco and was unloading groceries. "I thought you were supposed to be in

Paradise by now," she said, in that stupid irritating voice. "Change of

plans," I said. "We need to head up to Glasgow to blow up the airport."

 

Here it came again. The Look.

 

"Um, and we need to use the Jeep."

 

The Look X 2.

 

"And our faces are all over the TV, so we need you to drive us."

 

I won't even bother trying to describe her face at that point. We loaded up

the rest of the explosive canisters in the back of the Jeep and headed north

on the M1 in the middle of the out-of-town holiday rush traffic. Jumanah

pretty much seethed the entire way, complaining about the traffic and the

gasoline fumes. Needless to say when we finally got to Glasgow and dropped

her off at a roadside cafe, I was pretty much geared up for the sweet

release of death.

 

Okay, so Bilal and I get psyched up, check all the equipment to make sure

it's ready for a big boom, point the Jeep at the terminal, and mash the

throttle. I'm shouting "Allahu Akbar," and Bilal's shouting "Allahu Akbar"

and "Go Martyrs" just like the old pep squad days at CJU. And I'm thinking,

"oil up them virgins Allah, 'cause Dr. K's luck is about to change." BAAAAM!

Right into the glass.

 

I was probably out for a two, three seconds. Bilal and I peeled our broken

noses out of the airbags, which meant we were still alive, which meant the

goddamn canisters didn't explode, again. Maybe we went through into the

terminal and killed some infidels, I thought, then I saw we hadn't made it

in more than a couple inches into the terminal. I mean, WET? The Jeep

salesman kept going on about how the Jeep was this awesome unstoppable

American SUV that crusader cowboys use to bulldoze their way through

mountain forests, with an easy payment plan, and the damn thing can't make

it through a bloody plate glass window. I restart the engine and now the

piece of shit just sits there spinning the tyres. "All wheel traction," my

arse.

 

Okay, plan B. Bilal and I start pushing backup detonation buttons and cell

codes. A couple of pops, but they were all duds. Then I see the cops coming

at me.

 

As Allah is my witness, I really can't explain what happened next; maybe it

was stress, or confusion, or frustration. Whatever the reason, I decided it

was a reasonable idea at that point to pour a can of petrol over my head and

hit the Bic.

 

Here's a handy health tip from Doctor K: if you ever get a wild urge to

start yourself on fire, sit down and relax until it goes away. Because

(A) it's not a particularly useful method for killing infidels, and (B) it.

hurts. like. a. motherfucker. So much that I almost enjoyed the distraction

those high-pressure water canons and getting my lights punched out by that

crazy mumble-mouthed Scottish baggage handler.

 

By the way, did I mention I also started the Jeep on fire? Only 37 more

payments of £3438 to go.

 

After that, I really didn't mind getting bludgeoned by those angry

bagpipers. The sound was horrible, but at least they got the rest of the

flames out. I was almost relieved when the cops were cuffing me face down on

the pavement, because by that point I was pretty much reconsidering this

whole college martyrdom pledge prank thing and I figured the worst was over.

 

 

No such luck. Here's another handy health tip from Doctor K: if your skin is

half melted and bubbly hot, avoid laying down on any surfaces that aren't

Teflon coated. And please note: the Glasgow sidewalks aren't.

 

After a half hour with a spatula and ten cans of Pam, the cops finally got

95% or so of me peeled off the sidewalk. I looked down at my legs and

realized that I'll be saving a lot of money on clothes from now on, because

I'm sporting a permanent pair of melted-on black polyester trousers.

 

And then the kicker: I looked down at my package and noticed "Little Khalid"

was AWOL. As they were loading me into the police wagon I glanced back over

my shoulder and saw what was left of him charbroiling on the sidewalk. Then

one of the bomb sniffing dogs gobbled him down like a sausage. A fat lot of

good those 72 virgin are going to me now.

 

Final box score: I'm out one Mercedes, one Jeep, £32000 in miscellaneous

bomb materials, three layers of skin, and one very low-mileage penis.

Infidels killed: nil. So the next time you want to bitch to me about how bad

your day is going, don't expect a lot of sympathy.

 

Well, gotta go. The interrogators are coming, and afterwards I've got an

appointment to have my arse skin grafted on to my face. But I will leave you

with one more handy tip from Doctor K: no matter how many virgins they

promise, don't ever join a fraternity.

Comments

[karen engeron]

some of the best, most original and funniest writing i have seen....wow