Written by D. L. Hawkinson
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Topics: Terrorism

Wednesday, 27 September 2017

London. A terrorist visiting London while reconsidering his career options stopped by and talked to a local radio host. Apparently, he's suffering from a general loss of interest in blowing himself up or other people up, or shooting, stabbing, bludgeoning, running over, spitting on, insulting or--by any other means--giving people a hard time and, generally, putting a damper on their day.

Could this mean we've turned the corner on terrorism, there's light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, it's darkest before the dawn? Or is this particular terrorist the exception, a slacker, a bit of a Mamma's boy?

Perhaps, the listener/reader will gain a bit of insight from the partial transcript of the terrorist's interview:

Radio Host (RH): So why so down in the mouth, bud?

Terrorist (T): I don't know. One morning I just woke up and thought, what's the point?

RH: Are you having second thoughts about your career? I mean, it's fairly obvious to most people that it has little opportunity for career advancement, and the benefits, well, I must say, even if they were good, how would you ever take advantage of them, all splattered on the sidewalk or in a train or at one of our first-rate eateries?

T: You took the words right out of my mouth.

RH: And I noticed that you exhibit another symptom of depression. Even from across the desk, I'm catching a pretty powerful whiff--if you know what I mean. Have you stopped your daily hygiene?

T: (somewhat taken aback) No, I just showered this morning, even broke open a new bar of Irish Spring.

RH: Right. Forgive me. Well, if we can get back on track . . .

T: That's my problem. I'm not just off track. I can't even find the damned track.

RH: You are lost, bud.

T: You said a mouthful. You're brilliant, I must say. Especially for someone from Britain. Although even the daftest Brits are like Einsteins compared to the Yanks. Now, they're a bunch of doofuses.

RH: Well, off the record, I quite agree.

T: And yet they kicked your Brit arses.

RH: We don't like to talk about that.

T: Your royal soldiers, with all their poofiness, are a little too "left-handed" to intimidate anyone. My Gawd, how did this piece of dirt of a country ever own half the world? Life's not fair. And where I'm from, the dirt is sand. Hot, lifeless sand. And there's not even anything interesting to look at. Talk about depressing.

RH: You're starting to depress me now. I understand that happens with depressed people. They're contagious.

T: You said a mouthful.

RH: Well, what about that 72 virgins bit? Isn't that an incentive? I mean, no insult intended, but you're not the best looking guy in the world--maybe if you shaved and updated your wardrobe.

T: That wouldn't help. And the virgin bit isn't a reward for me. More like, it's just more pressure. I mean, if she doesn't know what to do and I don't know what to do--where's the reward in that? And if I have to go over it 72 times . . . that's the definition of torture. I mean, we're talking sheer hell by any other word . . .

RH: I never thought of it that way.

T: That's the only way I think about it. It's a bummer.

RH: What say, you want to end this interview and get a pint?

T: I'm not allowed to drink. That's just for the infidels that we must strike down and destroy and burn their streets and crush their governments and wipe their countries off the face of the planet.

RH: And then you'll be less depressed?

T: Well, maybe a little.

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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