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03/18/03

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FARUK HASKINS   Frank Haskins


Never Underestimate the Great Satan's
Ability to Fuck You Over

by Faruk Haskins


When you're Faruk Haskins, the decadent, Zionist-loving American dogs are always out to fuck you. In fact, every day I lubricate my "underground bunker" in preparation for the next assault from the next round of their "weapons of ass destruction."

Take today, for instance. I was abruptly awakened this morning by Bush's demonic jet fighters buzzing my hovel, located in the "No Fly Zone." Next time, I think I'll buy a house in the "No Getting Fucked Over Zone." Next, I get a letter from my five soon-to-be-ex-wives that they have left me for a general in the Republican Guard. They also tell me that they are now having the best beatings of their lives.

Then, my teenage daughter accidentally went out of the house without her veil. Naturally, I was disgraced by her showing her unexposed face like a common Western whore. Fortunately for me, a couple of dozen neighbors immediately stoned her to death, Allah be praised. Then, my camel-shit-for-brains teenage son, the suicide-bomber wannabee, accidentally blows himself to bits. And the dumbass destroyed my goat pen in the process, too! So now, instead of me being known as the father of a martyr, I am simply known as the father of a douchebag. To be disgraced by both of my children in a single day -- what could be worse than that, you may ask?

Well, I'll tell you. First, as I rode to the town square for a "Death to America" demonstration, my camel besieged me with some most unbearable flatulence. Then, while igniting an effigy of Bush the Imperialist, I ignited my monobrow, mustache, and back hair. Later, as I was shooting my rifle into the air near the border, those suckass Kuwaitis captured me. Extensive body cavity searches yielded them no hidden weapons, but confirmed my suspicion that I should get my prostate checked out. Then I was turned over to the American devils, and I now languish in a chain-link cell at Guantanamo. Strangely, this place feels very familiar to me.

As I sit in this Cuban shithole, eating the Armour Potted Sheep Intestines and wearing the knitted beret that my mother sent to me, I reflect upon the words of Kahlil Gibran: "Death most resembles a prophet who is without honor in his own land or a poet who fucks Faruk Haskins."


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