OT the problem with holiday jihad travel
Gary Collard
Man, Do I Hate Holiday Travel
Iowahawk Special Guest Opinion
by Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab
Yesterday while I was lying in the burn ward getting my crotch bandages
changed, I had a chance to catch the air disaster movie marathon on TCM.
The lineup included "Zero Hour," "The High and the Mighty," "Skyjacked,"
and "Airport '75." For all their campy fun and unintentional laughs,
those corny old films really serve as a grim reminder how the whole
in-flight terror experience has gone completely downhill since the jet
set golden years of the 50's, 60's and 70's. What happened to all those
pretty stewardesses and polite, well dressed infidels, screaming as the
plane plummeted to the ground? Time was, a suicide mission to explode an
international jumbo jet was an event full of glamor and excitement; but
now it seems to be a endless series of delays, hassles, pushy jerks and
third-degree testicular chemical burns. And don't even get me started on
the crappy airline food.
Take for example a recent flight I took from Lagos to Detroit. With over
100,000 miles on my JihadAir platinum card, I've schlepped enough miles
through Heathrow and Gatwick and Yemen International to know I should be
at the airport two hours before departure. Especially during the holiday
heavy bombing season. Good thing too, because by the time I got there,
there was already a mile long line at the explosives counter. And man,
talk about smell! I swear half of these stupid shaheeds hadn't bothered
to take a shower, let alone a pre-martyrdom ablution ritual. Come on
people, how about a little self respect?
And right when I was only two martyrs in line from the counter? Yep, you
guessed it. The stupid explosives agents called for a prayer break. To
top that, just as I was finishing my last supplication, I get up off the
prayer rug and these three friggin' Saudis totally jump the line, and
I'm like, "dude, WTF?" And they're like, "hey, sorry bro, we're late for
a bombing in Somalia." And I'm like, "come on man, we've all got flights
we want to bomb, no cutting."
Anyhow, by the time I finally get to the counter, they were all out of
business class upgrades and PETN fanny packs. Okay, how about a aisle
seat and a rectal bomb? No such luck. Yep, like always, good ol' Umar
gets stuck with a center seat in row 43 and a pair of those C4 bikini
briefs. The kind that really bind your nutsack. Sometimes I wonder why I
even pay the 50 bucks to keep my 1K status on that stupid frequent
bomber card.
I was going to lodge a complaint, but the flight was already boarding. I
hightailed it through security and was lucky to catch a goatcart that
got me to my gate just as they were closing the door. Then the rest of
the passengers give me the stinkface, like I'm holding up the show! Hey,
infidels, don't blame me, take it up with 72 Virgin Atlantic. And then,
of course, I see I'm seated between two 350 pound Imams who are eating
takeout from the food court Falafel Bell.
I'll spare you the description of the aromas on that 6 hour flight to
Amsterdam. The in flight movie was some horrible Sandra Bullock romantic
comedy, so I ended up doing a couple Super Sodukus and leafing through
the SkyMartryMall catalog. When we landed at Amsterdam, it took 40
freaking minutes to deplane because apparently no one at the airline
feels like enforcing the three carry-on chicken limit.
I guess things got a little better at the Amsterdam airport. JihadAir
had a concierge service waiting for me at the gate, some Pakistani guy
holding up a little "Abdulmutallab" sign. All apologetic, like, "oh, I
am so sorry for your inconvenience, Mr. Abdulmutallab," "let us take
care of your arrangements," "you are a valued customer, Mr.
Abdulmutallab," "let me get the detonator for you." I guess he heard
about my hassles at Lagos and was worried I would transfer my miles to
Air Shaheed.
Anyhow I had a two hour layover, so I stopped into the Magic Carpet Club
for a complementary pretzels and hashish. Afterwards I had the munchies
so I went to the Cinnabon. Geez, 5 euros for a freakin' cinnamon roll?
Talk about air piracy! When the flight to Detroit started boarding, the
concierge told me to keep quiet and he would take care of the check-in.
The US State Department agent asked to see my passport, and the
concierge explained that I was a Somali refugee. So she looks at her
computer screen and says, "um, I'm afraid there's a problem, this
passenger's name is on a watch list." Oh, great. Looks like my dad is
playing Mr. Buzzkill again, just because I took that semester off from
Oxford to go backpacking in Yemen. So I showed her my official State
Department visa.
So I'm like, "honey, do I look like I'm a US military veteran?"
"No."
"Do I look like I'm some sort of right wing anti-tax teabagger?"
"No."
"Do I look like anybody else on the DHS terrorism danger list?"
"No, but..."
"Then I suggest that unless you want a nasty anti-discrimination lawsuit
on your hands, you'd best give me an aisle seat. With extended legroom."
That shut her up. I boarded the plane with the concierge and plopped
down in my seat. It looked like this martyrdom would start going a
little more smoothly, but, just my luck, I'm assigned in the same row as
these two smelly hippies listening to Dave Matthews on their iPods. I
thought about asking for a seat change but the whole damn plane was full
of stupid Dutch and American stoners, with their stupid screaming hippie
babies. The thought of an 8 hour flight with these hemp shirt douchebags
made me wish I was on still on that connecting flight from Lagos with
all the livestock and poultry.
After we took off (after a 45 minute delay on the tarmac) I look up and
the in-flight movie is -- get this -- another horrible Sandra Bullock
flick. I mean, WTF is it with these infidels? As if flying isn't bad
enough with the delays and cramped seats, do they really need to ratchet
up the hellscape with Sandra Bullock and CNN Headline News? At that
point I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one on this flight planning suicide.
When the dinner service came around, the flight attendant goes, "oh, I'm
sorry Mr. Abdulmutallab, we ran out of the special halal meal. Would you
like something else?"
"Um, what do you have?"
"Pork chops."
Frack. It was a good thing I had that Cinnabon back at the food court,
or I'd either be going to paradise half starved or to pig eater hell. So
I just ordered a Diet Sprite and washed down my prescription of of
suicide relaxants.
I pretty much dozed off after that, but then it was like "BING! Ladies
and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. In twenty minutes we will
begin preparations for our final descent into Detroit, so if you have to
use the restrooms, blah blah blah." Crap, I had completely forgotten to
blow up the plane, and the concierge was giving me the hurry up sign. So
I walked back to the loo, and there was already a line of hippies. So I
told them, "hey dude, do you mind? I really gotta pinch one bad." I
guess my eyes were kinda dilated from the suicide relaxants, so they let
me by.
Lemme ask you: have you ever tried to inject a glycerin detonator
syringe into some plastic explosives glued under your nutsack, while you
were stoned out of your gourd, in an airplane bathroom, during Lake Erie
turbulence, while some stupid hippie is pounding on the door? Take my
word for this, it. is. a. mofo. I must have stabbed myself in the junk
eight or ten times before I finally got it smoldering. So I stroll out
of the loo, real casual-like, with my nuts on fire, and headed back to
my seat to blow out the fuselage.
But then, get this: some friggin' Dutch dude jumps out of his seat and
tackles me right in the aisle, completely ignoring the "fasten
seatbelts" sign! Typical pushy Eurotrash. And then the flight attendant
comes running up, and instead of enforcing the damn rules starts
blasting me with the fire extinguisher, which means my nards go from
flame broiled to freeze dried in about 3 seconds flat. To top it all
off? While I was laying there a stupid hippie baby throws up all over my
head.
Good thing I was wasted on those relaxants, because I don't remember too
much until we were at the gate at Detroit International. When I came to,
I was handcuffed, surrounded by cops and bomb sniffing dogs. Amid all
the hysterical hippies I felt a strange sensation and heard a soft
klink. -Yep, you guessed it. My freeze dried bar-b-cued junk had just
fallen off. Before I could locate it, one of the bomb sniffing dog
snarfed it up like a frozen snausage. A damn lot of good those 72
virgins are going to do me now. At least I got to get off the plane
before everybody else, and I didn't have to wait in line at customs.
Plus I'm getting comped a hospital room, even if the chow here is even
shittier than airline food.
Anyway, I'm watching a lot of TV and trying to sort out my lawsuit
options. Do you believe this infidel Napolitano who keeps saying that
"the system worked"? Hey, bitch, try telling that to my junk. My lawyers
from CAIR say I've got a pretty good shot at an out of court settlement
for religious discrimination, loss of wages, defamation, and alienation
of penis. Maybe even seven figures.
I'm hoping for a big payday, but I'll tell you one thing: even if I win,
next time I'm taking the train.
--
Gary Collard
SABR-L Moderator
gmcollard at yahoo dot com
http://twitter.com/LakerGMC
http://sarcastipundit.blogspot.com/
"You can't even dignify this squalid racket as bribery: If I try
to buy a cop, I have to use my own money. But, when Harry Reid
buys a senator, he uses my money, too." -- Mark Steyn
and Sniff
wrote:
>http://iowahawk.typepad.com/iowahawk/2009/12/man-do-i-hate-holiday-travel.html
>
>Man, Do I Hate Holiday Travel
>
>Iowahawk Special Guest Opinion
>by Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab
>
<sick shit snipped>
You find such untasteful stuff funny? You are really a sick fuck. Did you find
911 jokes funny as well? Go live somewhere else you treasonous dick.