Enemy of Allah
by Ali Kalil Mohammed Yousaf al-Wahiri
I call upon you today to put down the funnies and instead take
up arms in defense of the Almighty, the one God Allah, against a
most insidious infidel. This impostor has made of himself a false
idol. He is guilty of the basest effronteries, the most obscene
self-veneration. Those he has most wholly corrupted he has made
his priests and through them, this façade of gentle and smiling
benevolence—this mirage of iniquity—he has bid his followers to
prostrate themselves before him; to pay him the most extravagant
tributes, to shower him with greatest praise, to annually supplicate
him. Toward this end, he has subjugated them all with the wrath
of heaven itself! He alone purports to speak to, for and through
the firmament. He presumes to make of himself our God on Earth.
now to you, of course, about Punxsutawney Phil!
I urge you to take up arms against this unrepentant transgressor;
this idolatrous “hog” who has gorged himself and grown so monumental
at the trough of vainglorious idleness that he threatens to obstruct
heaven itself! Observe his overindulgent contentedness, the world-weary
grimace permanently affixed on his face, as he gazes out at his
enchanted masses. Witness his paunch, his shameless corporeal profligacy!
He has, in his unabashed worldliness, feasted on the very marrow
and most outrageous of all, he has predicted seven straight long
winters. Seven! There is no end to his duplicitous tyranny. On the
one hand, he reveals to the world his placid, mollifying aspect.
And yet, he undertakes his celestial machinations, his diabolical
meteorological manipulations, with sinister opaqueness. The white
shit does not lie! He is peeing on us through his suffocating accumulations!
disdain is a deep, mustard yellow—suggesting a tangy, almost piquant,
but nevertheless unacceptable savor. It is time to stop swallowing
this gall, no matter how potentially delicious, how delectable this
saucy taboo may enliven the tongue. Resist his, and all other, golden
showers! Resist the glittering, arcing stream. The heady, yeasty
bouquet, flowers with poison breath. Sweet, sweet poison…Perhaps
I should change metaphors.
short, slay this unholy beast, this mocking defiler. Your reward
shall be great: 72 virgins to shower you with adoration, or even
something else. Though I have no opinion as to what that might be.
Punxsutawney Phil must be killed. Or at least forced into hiding
so that his legend increases, until he is more widely known and
revered than he ever was before we put a price on his squat, hairy
head. And even his lamest literary endeavors are hailed for their
courage and vision. On second thought, no: he should just be killed.