How’s it hanging?
It’s me Mahmoud Ahmadinejad the President of the Right and Downright Nuke-a-licious Republic of Iran otherwise known as Iraq’s Wacky Neighbor. Or as the folks around here call me: DA MAN.
That’s right I am officially the most scary-riffic dude to walk the Earth in a long time. All thanks to that most wonderful invention called the Atomic Bomb or the Islamic Bomb as I like to call it.
Thanks to my big-ass oil reserves and my ongoing ‘nuclear fuel for electricity’ program I’ve got everyone quaking in their boots and I’m feeling like a really big dude.
But enough about me, I wanna talk about the other so-called ‘scary-dude’ out there. You know who I’m talking about the Wild Wahabi himself Osama Bin Laden.
Now he’s been stealing my press lately with some lame-ass tape (doesn’t he know everyone who’s everyone is podcasting these days) his band of bearded bumboys got on Al-Jazeera. In it he cranked and wanked about how he was going to put an Allah-sized smack down on the Great Satan, namely you, but then he goes ahead and offers, or all things, a truce.
True, the truce is just a pissy little shell game where he digs up a bunch of cry-baby talking points from that Murtha dude, Michael Moore and The Daily Kos in a lame attempt to buy some time because his whole organization’s sinking and he’s gasping for air.
Face it he doesn’t have as many friends as he used to have. Saddam’s gone, (& don’t you give me any of that ‘no Saddam/Al Qaeda connection’ B.S. or I’ll be forced to slap you) his buddies in the Saudi hoi-polloi have gone all yellow bellied, and the Pakistani Intelligence is looking at playing bullet catch if Musharaff catches them looking at anyone cross-eyed.
Osama feels that he needs time where he’s not pissing in a cave or running to save his hairy ass to rebuild his organization and recruit some more suicide
morons bombers. Apparently getting your ass blown up six ways from Sunday for the vague promise of 77 virgins isn’t as appealing as it once was. That’s why he’s begging for a truce; even though he knows that Bush ain’t gonna buy it.
Well, we have a word here in Iran for a fellow who goes playing the ‘truce’ game just because his army’s falling apart.
That’s right; Osama’s a pussy, a wimp, a 98 pound weakling who runs into his cave whenever Big Bad Biff Bush kicks sand in his face.
He’s not in any way like me, the Charles Atlas of Islamic Fascism.
I don’t take shit from Bush, from the European Union eunuchs or from anyone. They can rant and rave and condemn me when I threaten to nuke Israel, but they can’t faze me, or scare into calling for a phony-baloney truce.
Sure my country’s falling apart. I’ve got armed uprisings among the Arab minority; a disillusioned youth that are giving up on Islam and embracing everything from atheism to Zoroaster, my top military brass are dropping like flies, and our national economy’s circling the bottom of the toilet bowl even though we've got oil up the wazoo, but I’m not going to let that bother me, or dissuade me from my destiny.
You see, I’ve been chosen by the Big Man Himself to do the sacred duty of spreading terror, death, hatred and genocide.
Sure I had my doubts at the beginning. Not all my past ideas were exactly hits. My attempt to become the Hugh Hefner of the Middle East with the magazine JiHotties tanked. Some say it was because men didn’t want to buy a mag with nothing in it but photos of women in full burka wraps and articles by Norman Mailer, but I blame those pesky Zionists.
I knew I was doing the will of the Big Dude Above when I was speaking at the United Nations. While I was talking I was showered in a brilliant golden light and a little voice told me that I was on the right track.
Sure, the infidels would call that schizophrenia, but I prefer to call it Divine Inspiration.
Let me tell you, it was the best Golden Shower I ever had, and if you’re like me, and wired to the Divine, you get Golden Showered a lot.
So that’s why I’m a bigger badass than Osama Bin-Lapdog, and that’s why everybody’s scared of me. They know I’m more than just a nut looking for the A-Bomb, I’m practically touched.
Toodles, and death to the Infidel.