Kuja Las Vegas
Aug 25 2009, 02:57 AM
One Afternoon in Ramallah
Like an incoming Kassam rocket, Husayn brightened her heart from the day he first darkened her door. In the beginning, Serraha denied her feelings for him and pressed them deep into her heaving bosom as if she were casually burying a cache of weapons in her neighbor's backyard. Then came the day that passion ignited as faithfully as a well-packed belt of explosives.
After a long romantic afternoon, spent quietly together, talking softly of bombings, stabbings and other means of spilling infidel blood, Serraha was startled to see a look of desire in Husayn’s eyes.
“Oh, Husayn,” she exclaimed. “I knew there was something different about this afternoon when I saw the rose clenched in your teeth.”
“Actually,” said the handsome A-rab, turning away for a moment and putting his hand to his mouth. “I think that might be a bit of broccoli left over from lunch. That was quite a casserole I downed,” he said wistfully. “Quite a casserole indeed.”
“Oh,” she said, barely able to conceal her disappointment.
“No, no, don’t get me wrong," replied the Jihadi hotty. "I'm still hungry, if you know what I mean…”
“You are?” she asked.
“Yes. You might say that my appetite is whet… eh?”
She gave him a blank look.
“You know,” he repeated a bit impatiently. “For what we can cook up together...ah?”
“Actually, I wasn’t planning on fixing anything for…”
“Oh for Allah’s sake,” he snapped tersely. “I wasn’t speaking literally. I was just using a metaphor. Do you know what it means to speak metaphorically? In fact, I was talking about a little Arabian Night action, so to speak… eh?”
“Hmmm?”
“You know, knocking sandals, greasing up the old camel, rubbing the magic lamp, shaking sheets with a sheik, doing the Bedouin boogie, the Hezbollah hump, the…”
“Oh,” said Serraha shyly. She turned her eyes away from him for a moment and her gaze fell on the wedding picture above the mantle. “Just so you know, I’ve got only one thing on my mind, Husayn, and that’s lovin’ my man.”
“That’s what our great leader, Yassir Arafat used to say,” responded Husayn, somewhat glumly. “Before he was killed by Jews with lasers.”
He rose from the couch and stood looking out the open window, where a strong breeze caught his flowing black hair and pressed his clothes against his body, fully outlining the ample stick of dynamite and two grenades that he always kept packed in his underwear. It never hurt to be prepared in the event that he came across any infidels looking for a little interfaith dialogue.
She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about the sight of him standing there stirred the woman in her. Perhaps it was the way his short beard quivered in the wind. “Oh Husayn,” she cried. “Please understand. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I can’t.”
He turned and put his hands on her shoulders, melting her as surely as a Nutter Butter® in a 40-kilogram fertilizer blast. “That noise coming from behind your burka says ‘no,’ but I’m sure your eyes—if I could see them, that is—are saying ‘yes’.”
“Oh, Husayn!” she exclaimed. “Your beard—it reminds me of (in)Fidel Castro!”
“That perfume of yours is giving me a Cuban missile crisis.”
She gave a low moan and leaned back on the couch.
He continued, somewhat coyly. “What say you slip out of that burka and into something a little more comfortable… like a hijab?”
“Take me, Husayn!”
“Where? I left my camel back at the—”
“Shut up and take me, you fool!”
“Oh, Yes! Yes! Whose your Baghdadi now, baby?”
Like an incoming Kassam rocket, Husayn brightened her heart from the day he first darkened her door. In the beginning, Serraha denied her feelings for him and pressed them deep into her heaving bosom as if she were casually burying a cache of weapons in her neighbor's backyard. Then came the day that passion ignited as faithfully as a well-packed belt of explosives.
After a long romantic afternoon, spent quietly together, talking softly of bombings, stabbings and other means of spilling infidel blood, Serraha was startled to see a look of desire in Husayn’s eyes.
“Oh, Husayn,” she exclaimed. “I knew there was something different about this afternoon when I saw the rose clenched in your teeth.”
“Actually,” said the handsome A-rab, turning away for a moment and putting his hand to his mouth. “I think that might be a bit of broccoli left over from lunch. That was quite a casserole I downed,” he said wistfully. “Quite a casserole indeed.”
“Oh,” she said, barely able to conceal her disappointment.
“No, no, don’t get me wrong," replied the Jihadi hotty. "I'm still hungry, if you know what I mean…”
“You are?” she asked.
“Yes. You might say that my appetite is whet… eh?”
She gave him a blank look.
“You know,” he repeated a bit impatiently. “For what we can cook up together...ah?”
“Actually, I wasn’t planning on fixing anything for…”
“Oh for Allah’s sake,” he snapped tersely. “I wasn’t speaking literally. I was just using a metaphor. Do you know what it means to speak metaphorically? In fact, I was talking about a little Arabian Night action, so to speak… eh?”
“Hmmm?”
“You know, knocking sandals, greasing up the old camel, rubbing the magic lamp, shaking sheets with a sheik, doing the Bedouin boogie, the Hezbollah hump, the…”
“Oh,” said Serraha shyly. She turned her eyes away from him for a moment and her gaze fell on the wedding picture above the mantle. “Just so you know, I’ve got only one thing on my mind, Husayn, and that’s lovin’ my man.”
“That’s what our great leader, Yassir Arafat used to say,” responded Husayn, somewhat glumly. “Before he was killed by Jews with lasers.”
He rose from the couch and stood looking out the open window, where a strong breeze caught his flowing black hair and pressed his clothes against his body, fully outlining the ample stick of dynamite and two grenades that he always kept packed in his underwear. It never hurt to be prepared in the event that he came across any infidels looking for a little interfaith dialogue.
She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about the sight of him standing there stirred the woman in her. Perhaps it was the way his short beard quivered in the wind. “Oh Husayn,” she cried. “Please understand. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I can’t.”
He turned and put his hands on her shoulders, melting her as surely as a Nutter Butter® in a 40-kilogram fertilizer blast. “That noise coming from behind your burka says ‘no,’ but I’m sure your eyes—if I could see them, that is—are saying ‘yes’.”
“Oh, Husayn!” she exclaimed. “Your beard—it reminds me of (in)Fidel Castro!”
“That perfume of yours is giving me a Cuban missile crisis.”
She gave a low moan and leaned back on the couch.
He continued, somewhat coyly. “What say you slip out of that burka and into something a little more comfortable… like a hijab?”
“Take me, Husayn!”
“Where? I left my camel back at the—”
“Shut up and take me, you fool!”
“Oh, Yes! Yes! Whose your Baghdadi now, baby?”