Better warfare through chemistry

I’ve heard some pretty flaky metaphysical theories in my time, stuff that makes the “Jesus-was-the-captain-of-an-alien-spacecraft” theory look downright conservative. But I’ve never heard anything flakier than the notion that a feller can get on the fast track to An Eternal Paradise filled with food, comfort and a never-ending supply of curvy, hymenated nymphets by committing simultaneous acts of mass murder and suicide.

Excuse me?

So if anybody is now inclined to give the Osamists even the tiniest iota of credibility in terms of their political and socio-economic goals and desires, it would behoove you to consider that you do so at the risk of shredding your own cred. Because, in the final analysis, it must be stated in clear, simple terms of the starkest black and the purest white: These guys are frickin’ nuts.

I mean, I’m not one who goes around telling people what’s going to happen to their souls when they die. I like to think of the spiritual universe as being akin to a road map. You’re here in Reno, and you want to get to San Francisco. Is there just one way to get there? Of course not. There are lots of ways to get there. But, at the risk of offending all the extremist fanatical terrorists who are regular readers, I have to say that I think the mass murder/kamikaze route to the gates of Heaven is a skull cramp of incredibly enormous proportions, and I’d advise anybody who has embarked on such a life path to re-assess his personal cosmology as soon as possible.

I’ve been having a vengefully good time lately imagining the eternal rewards that have befallen the soul force that used to animate the body of the man known as Mohammed Atta. I picture his now disembodied soul material kind of wafting around aimlessly on some unimaginable, ethereal plane for the last month, wondering where the hell all the virgins are. And then, without comment or warning, his particular batch of soul stuff gets instantly re-assigned to new duty here on this crazed, desperate planet … assigned to animate the brand new baby tapeworm just now hatching in the lower guts of one Mulla Mohammed Omar.

I’d like to see us strike first in the chemical warfare game. Not with anthrax or small pox or any of that thousands-of-rotting-corpses-in-the-street jazz. That dreary scene is for zealous, humorless a-holes. No, when dealing with shocking metaphysical misfits like the Osamists, I say we take off the gloves and play serious chemical hardball. I say we dose the bastards with a solid overload of the best LSD the CIA has stashed in its Double Secret Closet of Really Nasty Bidness. That way, we can put a whole bunch of these clowns on the psychedelic hot line to Allah and let the Big A Himself give them the word that they are indeed messing up very, very badly.

I’m sure it won’t work, but really, what could it hurt? It might even be productive for those dour-assed mullas to laugh like giddy fools for about six hours straight.