Thursday, July 28, 2005

And so the Snugglecat said to the Flufflephant, “That’s the true meaning of Christmas, and also why we share.” They held hands and giggled and– Aw, hell, I can’t do this anymore. It’s just unnatural, much in the same way you’d expect Mondays to be jubilant or loud construction throughout the night to be pleasant.

I called the townhall today to inquire about their time frame for paving the city streets. Only a few more days, said the fellow in engineering, of excavation and shit from 9 PM to 7 AM. I originally wanted to squeeze sleep somewhere into that choice bracket–maybe I’m too set in my ways–but, well, you know.

A brilliant solution for our London friends came to mind today, dear reader, in the form of a little conceit I call “Motel 73.” The full title would be “Jihad Motel 73,” though my deft command of international relations and love of brevity asserted a firm veto.

Really, in order to explain my concept without lavish euphemisms, I should tell you the motel is actually a huge concrete room. We’d put a few school buses inside and fill them with, I don’t know, heatheny mannequins or something, which would attract terrorists by the pound. Once 73 of them enter the room, the door clangs shut and the problem solving begins.

In the end, it’s not a question about my needs, nor the needs of any other infidel, it’s all about their wants. Perhaps I’m treading too closely to absurdist reductionism, but two things they genuinely seem to enjoy are virgins–72 of them–and exploding. So! Since they’re wearing explosives anyway, all it’d take is for one fellow to detonate and voilà! He blows up and gets to do so with 72 other virgins.

Ho ho, how’s that for efficiency? Tomorrow we’ll return to normalcy as only we can define it.