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Wednesday, March 7, 2012

The GOP Primary From a Muslin Point of View


Muslin Voodoo Doll***
I'm an American who's been living in Paris for five years, so you can assume that I'm a socialist (at least that's what my parents from the leftist state of Arizona call me). I also live in a neighborhood full of Islamic humans, but I haven't checked under their jalabiyas to see if they're socialists too, since that's probably haraam and there'd be a fatwā out on my ass before you can say Barack Hussein Obama.

The other day, on my way to meet my Egyptian friend Apet* for coffee in my neighborhood, I passed by my favorite terrorist pizza joint (the swarthy beardy owner waved at me as I went by) and a couple of halal meat shops (the butchers waved their flesh-stabbing bloody knives in greeting). I'd picked a French-style bistro for our rendezvous, so that Apet could give me a top-secret document (her wedding invitation) and we could finalize our plans for the Islamification of America (since we'd already achieved our goals in France my neighborhood).

At first blush, visiting Americans from Iowa would be thinking that my neighborhood Muslins (as one of my Republican friends spells them) were surely plotting their deaths, but little do the Iowans know, it’s The French who really want to kill them. Don't fucking show up at a Paris restaurant looking for dinner at 7:30 or you will be atomized by a piercing Gallic stare and your body will be riddled with meany French words. If you're looking for an early-bird special at 4:30, you might as well just snort some Anthrax right now and be done with it. (Or stay in Iowa and go to Luby's.)

Since it was around 4:30, the French bartendrette eyed us warily as we entered the bistro and only loosened up after we ordered two coffees. But soon we were passing out from the ammonia fumes she was using to clean the bar mats, so we walked across the street to another bistro, hoping they wouldn't try to kill us too. 

I ordered a Perrier, even though I really wanted a giant Caipirinha. But it’s about respect, you see. I didn't want Apet to know I'm an alcoholic infidel. Being an infidel is excusable, but an alcoholic one is a bit much. She had the Obaman Audacity to order a coffee and a croque-monsieur (without unhalalified ham, s'il vous plaît). I sat quivering, waiting for the waiter to pull the pin on his apron grenade, but he only arched one of his eyebrows (which can maim you, but not quite kill you). That's ok, he got back at her. She got ham in her croque anyway.

So while Apet daintily pulled the ham out of her sammich, she and I got to talking about how Obama had really, really filled everybody in the Middle East with hope way back in 2008, but now those same people are really, really pissed off at him. If The Muslins knew who Sarah Palin is (or more accurately was), they’d be answering “!!ليس جيدا”** to her “How's that hopey changey stuff workin' out for ya?” 

What's the crux of The Muslin World's disappointment, according to Apet?

Apet: “The way Obama kisses Israel's ass is horrible.” 
Me: “Yeah, I know. But right now in the GOP primary, the Republicans are accusing him of hating Israel.”
Apet: “WHAT? That's crazy! Do Americans really believe that?”
Me: “Do you mind if I order a Caipirinha? This might take a while.”


*Apet is a nom de guerre. It also means The Hippo Goddess.
** Goggle (As a Republican friend likes to spell it) translation (so I’m SURE it’s correct) of “Not very well!!”
***Little Muslin Voodoo Doll made by jazzy1453 & available on deviantart.com. I would check out all of jazzy's dolls if I were you.

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