12:36 CST Okay, I called a meeting of my direct reports in the Assad Conference Cave and asked 'em for an mayhem update. "Abdul? Tariq? Anyone?" Except for a few flies, freaking dead silence. And I'm like, "What do I pay you fuckers for?" and all they can do is stand there and study their flip-flops. So I go back to Pajamas Media, thinking maybe they'd have some bloody torso shots, whe I see this.
Women voting? In fargin' burqqas?? I mean, hellooooo, Planet Dar Al-Islam, is there any intelligent life down there? Holy Fucking Prophet, what's next -- not stoning homos?
The whole thing was such a buzzkill I decided to go home for lunch. My sons were all off at madrassa and the only wife at home was the fat one, Fatima, who was watching the stupid non-son shorties who all need expensive hijjabs and farkin' dowries. Anyway I think I kind of freaked Fatima out, she said something about the other wives "doing errands."
So I'm sitting at the table, telling her about the donkey crapstorm, and the old man, and the voting chicks, and she's like "mmm hmm," while she's frying up some chick peas. Then she comes over to the table with the pan and I notice something odd: she's got a purple finger.
She gives me this sheepish look from her eye slit, and she says it was "a burn from kitchen accident."
I don't know, dude. Something weird is going on around here. |