Suicide bombers. Fucking idiots, really.
I mean, yes, no, no, let’s not get ourselves drawn into a philosophical argument about the existence (or otherwise) of Causes Worth Dying For. Think of the children, think of the children, fuck off. I’d kill for a nice cup of tea, FAKT, but die for it? Nuh-uh. Daft, stupid.
…But then, y’know, I’ve got no faith, no soul, no belief, and that sort of stuff is all-conquering, ever-present, all-absorbing. (“Religion = An Incontinence Pad”, Discuss.)
No. I concede: maybe if I was certain to receive some sort of celestial and perpetual Nice Cup Of Tea in the Hereafter, in exchange for detonating my Caffeine-Starved guts all over (say) the quaint little café opposite my street, which is fucking closed — closed! — right when I need it, now, in the rain, unable to go home without being distracted by the neighbours rutting through the fucking wall, then yes, fine, okay, I might consider it. And, really, there’s astonishingly little difference — on a cosmic level — between a Nice Cup Of Tea and 72 Eternally-Grateful Virgins.
So, no: let’s not argue about people who Top Themselves For a Cause. Walk a mile in my bombshoes, etc etc.
Anyway, that’s not even why suicide bombers are such unbelievable twunts.
(Nor, by the way, is it because of the whole PsuedoDarwinian angle on the thing. That’s the one which says, hey: if the only way to achieve your Survival Of Self goal is to — whoops — die, then your species/race/school-of-thought probably isn’t cut out for the this whole wacky Existence Fandango. But then, uh-oh: WRONG. You try telling it to the bees and the ants, chummy. Protect the Queen, Protect the Queen, Drown The Evil Aardvark In Insect Blood, Protect the Queen, God is Great, Allahu Akbar. And so on. And, hey, at least Suicide Bombers can get their willies wet before they die. Spread their seed, secure their heirs, pick a Burka from the crowd, hope for the best. From a Darwinian POV that puts them a billion miles ahead of the humble Panda, except here we are spending millions on getting those insane twig-nibbling blackeyed nobheads to Remain Resident On Planet Earth. Where’s the global charity with a cute logo of a baleful-looking Martyr, eh? World Idiot Foundation? I smell hypocrisy!)
No no no. Rambling nonsense, shut up shut up.
What really makes the humble self-topping explodo nutcase such a galloping gitwit is that he hasn’t yet worked out the unavoidable truth:
Voluntary Personal Splatterment, as a means of Propagandising, is a game of severely diminishing returns. Over enough time it ceases to be horrific; loses its power; gets a bit… well. Sorry. Passé. (Boom.)
Listen. It used to be, if one guy believed a cause strong enough to — what — storm the cockpit and aim Straight Down, to splatter chapatti dough all over a train, to prime a grenade and chuck away the pin, etc etc, then yeah: the world sat up and paid attention. In horror and outrage, mostly, but still. This is a depth of passion and power with which none of us — really, truly, excuse the cliché, but fuck you: none of us fat deodorant-spraying sushi-gobbling wine-chugging consumer scumfucks — can empathise. This is true horror, yes. This is euthanasia on a spiritual plane; a state of being in which one’s soul is in such existential agony that death is the only recourse. This sort of shit blows the massmind. It’s the monk covered in fire. It’s the planes hitting the towers. It’s the zero-fighter corkscrewing into a destroyer. It creates ripples! It fucking shocks us!
…uuuuuuuuntil, aha, a couple thousand other guys have already done it. Until you’re number 2136, shaking your fist at the camera, How To Make A Martyr Video 101, soon-I-will-be-with-God, Western Powers rah rah rah… then sprint into a marketplace and smear your glorious, unique, shocking, ripple-causing Meat Armour all over creation: taking with you an Elderly Shopkeeper, a lame woman trying to buy a bicycle, two goats, several chickens, and a colony of lice living in your scalp you never even knew were there.
And the world sits up, opens it eyes wide–
–burps morosely, grunts So?, and changes the fucking channel.
Behold: Suicide Bomb apathy! Explodo Overexposure! Change the fucking flak-jacket, man, and pass another beer.
Behold: Queues of Unique Impassioned Martyrs waiting to get into paradise because the poor sods have run out of virgins. Behold the right-hand-of-Allah getting seeeeeriously overburdened. Behold an Al Jazeera archive shelf collapsing under the weight of all those unique, beautiful, heartfelt, exactly the fucking same videos.
It’s got so we barely blink unless the latest Terminal Marketplace Moment in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever scores its victims in either a) double digits, or b) White People. The news services don’t even tell us about them unless there are women and children involved. Think of the children, Think of the children! Wait… are there cute photos? Singed dollies? Sobbing mothers? Yeah? You sure? Okay, then, yeah, yes: Think of the children! Think of the children!
This is Suicide Fatigue, ladies and gentlemen, and to our poor faith-filled chum in the firecracker-jacket, making his video right now, it means that he’s not only going to vanish into anonymity the second he’s done his Bit (meanwhile failing utterly to publicise and propagandise in the name of his Cause), but — even worse — is making the glorious fiery sacrifice of whoever-comes-next even less interesting.
Idiots, you see? They’re not really fighting the Infidel for God’s Glory: they’re fighting each other for the fucking limelight. As a long term strategy… sorry: it’s a bit plop.
Anyway, as I write this rubbish the TV is all aflutter with news that a Nigerian fellow — planebound for Detroit — attempted to detonate a chemical device concealed in his Y-Fronts while in mid-air, succeeding instead (thank goodness) in merely causing himself Extreme Physical Damage. He, at least, broke through the apathy boundary. He’s done what a thin atmospheric splatter-layer of thousands of men and women throughout the whole of 2009 have utterly failed to do, and grabbed the headlines via attempted destructive suicide.
…Notable, then, that he utterly failed in his mission.
Prospective Explodo-numpties: take note. You’d get a lot more fucking publicity if you stopped successfully blowing-up people in your own countries, and instead made an abject Wanker of yourselves in International Territory. At least, if you bugger it up, you’re still around afterwards to, y’know, explain why you bothered.
The idea is to “Spread the Word”, yes? Not “Spread the fucking Powdered Bone and Pink Mist Of Your Own Arse”.
(NB: If, in the act of Failing, you also manage to burn-off your own dick, that’s the icing on the media cake. You can learn a lot from this Nigerian dude, oh wouldbe suicide-bombers: he knows his fucking PR.)
He deserves, at the very least, a limerick for his troubles:
The AutoCue Says Keep Filling:
Consider poor Umar Farouk,
Whose cockbomb the airport mistook
For his genuine bollocks,
(And whose subsequent frolics
Did his manmeat grotesquely unhook).
I NEED CAFFEINE.
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