Jihads - I've had a few

Verily!

One of the best things about being a leading international jihadist is the wealth of stories you accumulate to tell down the pub and impress people. What’s that I hear you say? The pub? What would the Great Mufti be doing at a pub? Isn’t that haram?

LO! Imbeciles! How dare thee question the judgment of the Great Mufti? Yes, alcohol … the infidel’s potion … is banned by the holy Qur’an, but show me the verse where it says “And YEA! The believers may not skip down the local for a few minutes peace and quiet and a non-alcoholic beverage with the lads when thy four wives start nippething the ear about thy not mowing the lawn since one has returned from the hajj?” No, it doesn’t. Question my knowledge of the holy Qur’an one more time and there’ll be big trouble in little Riyadh.

Anyway, there’s one story the boys down at my local Wahhabist watering hole love more than the others – the story of my first suicide bombing. As many of you know, yours truly holds the record for the most successful suicide bombings in one campaign: four, last year in Iraq.

As is always the way with these things, it’s your first suicide bombing that’s the hardest. There we were one day, the wolves of the Mujahideen, the brave soldiers of Allah; those who fear no man, and embrace death as a friend, wondering which target to strike. An informer had told us a that a contingent of heavily armed American and British commandos were gathering in the main square of the town, while just outside the field of jihad, a convoy of hardened Kurdish peshmerga would be driving past on their way to the hated, secular godless lands in the north. The informer also let it be known that a large party of mentally deficient wheelchair-bound Shia children were being taken on their annual visit to the market, where they would get the one piece of chocolate allowed them per year.

As I drove to the market, 500 pounds of high explosive in the back of the truck, I reflected on what selfless and courageous men are attracted to the life of jihad. Not for us the drudgery of work and raising families and looking after elderly relatives as they drool and soil themselves and descend into a final madness whereupon they hoot and jabber about the old days and lament the passing of their neighbour Iqbal who was run over by a melon cart when they were but seven and blah blah blah, no, instead we jihadis take the harsh road of spending all day with our mates doing what we enjoy most: slaying the infidel wherever he lurks.

Anyway, back to my first suicide bombing. As I approached the market I could see the Shia weasels gamboling about in their wheelchairs, exulting in their heresy, their keepers feeding them chocolate that should rightly have been in the mouths of devout Sunni children. This made me angry, more angry even than the time when I got into my sleeping bag after a night attack in the mountains of Chechnya only to find a ‘wet spot’ from where Abu Al-Al had been ‘practicing’ for his long planned defiling of the cross god whorelings at the mega church in Topeka. He claimed he needed to use my sleeping bag as his had gone ‘rigid and uncomfortable’ with all the practicing, but I digress.

So angry was I that these Shia vermin thought they could take their disabled children out for a day at the market and sweets – THE CHEEK OF THEM! – that I swerved around the corner in order to get to the market and detonate my bomb even quicker, so these swine would not pollute the Earth even one second longer. Unfortunately, I was not wearing my seatbelt, and the driver’s side door had come ajar, meaning I was flung from the wheel a good 120 yards before the truck hit a mobile phone accessory/kebab/beheading DVD vendor on Victory To The Brave Street. Luckily though, even though my truck didn’t plough into the Shia scum as planned, the shockwave of the explosion caused many of the Shia retards to be shaken from their wheelchairs, leaving them flapping on the ground like drunken fish, or upturned turtles, which caused much amusements for the brothers recording my attack for posterity.

The Zionist cur and his docile American servant have distributed a clearly fake tape that purports to show me parking the van outside Uncle Habib’s Phone/Kebab/Atrocity Warehouse and fleeing like a mangy dog. This is of course the product of Photobazaar and the other tricks employed by these lying sandworms. If you do come across any copies of this propaganda, be sure to destroy it lest they fall into the hands of impressionable youngsters not as aware of the tricks of our enemies as we are.

Up next: the time I planned to take Tim Henman hostage in order to trade his life for that every Muslim held in jail in the world.