You’re not going to believe this, but this is my fourth daily column in a row, and I’ve got another one holstered and almost ready for tomorrow. Which means I am in the midst of pulling off the unthinkable: the fabled 5-column week!
I’m like a clutch receiver at the height of his powers, on 3rd-and-6 with the game on the line: you can’t stop me, you can only hope to contain me.
One of my contacts in the Trump campaign told me that the big guy just heard about this, and said, “Five columns? I heard that, and I said, ‘A five column week?!’ This is like something nobody’s ever even thought of. People are saying it’s unprecedented. No precedent for it! First his great advice on debating, then his instant classic “Muhammad Dangerfield” bit, and now this? I need that guy in my cabinet. He’s just fantastic, right?”
How do you know that that quote is authentic, and didn’t come from Joe Biden? Because it didn’t end with, “Pause. Repeat the line.”
I took a nap yesterday, right after reading about the Iranian diplomat who lost both of his eyes to an exploding pager, and the last thought in my mind before falling asleep was, “What would an Iranian diplomat be doing with a terrorist’s pager?”
You can imagine how my subconscious mind works, since you’ve been reading how oddly my conscious mind works. So… yep. My first thoughts when I woke up were, “Does this mean that Iranian diplomat is just a Ranian diplomat, now?” (Boom! Missing eye joke when you least expect it!) (He never saw it coming, either!) (I’m here all week, people.)
By the way, I’ve been reading all of your comments this week, and I appreciate them. But I haven’t had time to respond to them. Because I may not have mentioned this, but I’ve been turning out another solid gold column every 27 minutes over here!
Still, I appreciate your kind words, and thanks.
Just when I feared that Tuesday’s pager-palooza in Lebanon might be inducing a dangerous redirecting of my blood flow that threatens to last for more than four hours, a sequel appears, this time involving walkie-talkies (or as they’re now being called, “talkies-no-longer-walkies”) and radios!
Who knew that jihadis listened to radio? (“Hey, cool camels and kittens, you’re listening to your 50,000-watt blowtorch out of downtown Beirut – the station with all the ululatin’ – and you knoowww our call-sign: K-BOOM. It’s another wacky, Death-to-Israel Wednesday! Fifth caller gets a signed copy of Hassan Nasrallah’s biography, “Mein Kampf? Me Too!” Now sit back and listen to the Madrassah Boys, and their remake of the infidel surf group’s “Little Deuce Coupe!” “She’s my little goat bride, you don’t know what I’ve got. Well, I’m not bragging, Hamid, so don’t put me down, But I’ve got the sweetest she-goat in this one-camel town, I met her on a Monday in the neighbor’s barn, and soon we were talkin—” BOOM! (then static)
You see what I did there? It’s my version of the Mossad mind trick. They implanted explosive devices in the ears of terrorists, and I just implanted an ear worm in your head. Because right this minute, those of you old enough to remember the Beach Boys are bobbing your head and softly humming to yourself, “She’s my little goat bride, you don’t know what I’ve got.”
Sorry about that.
This story just keeps getting better and better! Imagine you’re a black-hearted little Hezbo anti-Semite. All you’ve ever wanted to do is stuff women into bee-keeper outfits, toss gay guys off roofs, and kill unarmed Jewish civilians. But on Tuesday your dad (Muhammad) and your uncles (Muhammad and Muhammad) and your grandpa (Muhammad) and even your cousin Joey – he’s always been an odd one – all answered their pagers, and no one’s heard from them since.
Which reminds me of an old joke:
A young Muslim is seeking a divorce. (He should have known the marriage was doomed right from the wedding vows, when the imam asked his betrothed if she takes this jihadi to be her lawfully wedded husband, and she just bleated and continued chewing on a tin can.) But he doesn’t know marital law, so he looks for a local attorney.
He comes across a firm that sounds promising: “Muhammad, Muhammad, Muhammad & Muhammad, Esquire.” So he calls, and someone picks up. (This joke takes place before all the phones in Lebanon went ballistic.)
Voice on phone: “Hello, Muhammad and etc.”
Jihadi: “Can I please speak to Muhammad?”
Voice: “I’m sorry, he was droned last week.”
Jihadi: “Well then, can I speak to Muhammad?”
Voice: “He’s in Qatar until Thursday.”
Jihadi: “Then let me speak to Muhammad.”
Voice: “He’s hiding in a ‘freedom tunnel’ and defecating into a bucket all afternoon.”
Jihadi: “Okay, can I talk to Muhammad, then?”
Voice: “Speaking.”
Back to the young Hezbollah would-be terrorist: What’s he supposed to do now? His older brother (Muhammad) and his second cousin once removed (Muhammad) thought they’d found a work-around to communicate: two cups connected by a very long string.
But in the middle of a conversation about murdering elderly Jews in wheelchairs, one of them said, “Hey, wait a minute. This isn’t string. It’s primer cord! You filthy Je—” And… KA-BLAM!
Rumors that Nasrallah and Yahya Sinwar are now training a small flock of carrier pigeons have been confirmed.
Meanwhile, in a secret lab hidden deep beneath Mount Sinai, three guys in yarmulkes are gathered around a fourth, who has just put down a soldering iron. He steps back, holds up a small metal band that would fit around a pigeon’s leg, and says, “Gentlemen, I give you the C4-DEADS.”
“Ooh,” one of them says. “The C-4 Detonating Explosive Avian Delivery System? Nice!”
Next up: Shin Bet is working on a plan to make it so that if two terrorists cup their hands around their mouths to yell to each other across a rubble-strewn street, their fingers explode.
And, scene.
Oh, another layer of sweet irony in Pager-Gate just occurred to me.
In the decades since 9/11 – memo to Que Mala: that day was just a tad bit worse than January 6th, you moron – terrorists throughout the Middle East and Afghanistan have been using cell phones and pagers to send signals to detonate roadside bombs and IEDs.
I bet they did not see this “Reverse” UNO card coming!
I cannot get enough of this story! As Billy Edd Wheeler might say, I’m happy as a pig in slop right now. (How’s that for an abrupt transition?)
Who’s Billy Edd Wheeler, you may be asking, if you don’t know as much about high-brow culture as I do? He’s the songwriter with the most country music songwriter name ever, and he just died yesterday at the age of 91.
Among other great hits, he wrote the most concisely evocative description of divorce ever, in Johnny Cash’s hit, “Jackson: “We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout./We’ve been talking ‘bout Jackson, ever since the fire went out.”
(Taylor Swift has written 3,261 songs, and all of the meaning in all of them put together can’t match that one couplet.)
He also wrote one of the strangest songs ever, for Kenny Rogers: “Coward of the County.” (It’s about the darkest subject, and yet treated so bizarrely, and put to such a jaunty tune.)
If you’ve never taken a piece of advice from me before – and if so, see how your life is turning out? That’s on you. – take this one:
Use “Duckduckgo.com” (NOT commie Google) to search “Norm Macdonald and Adam Carolla discussing Coward of the County,” and then listen to some 24-karat comedy gold! (I really miss Norm!) It’s two parts, and it’s worth it.
In fact, they also do a hilarious break down of “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” And I’m just a simple, country doctor of literature and not a psychiatrist, but if you don’t think that’s funny, you are clinically insane.
In fact, if you listen to those two gems and don’t agree that your life has been improved by at least 1%, I will happily refund all the money you’ve put in my PayPal tip jar at Martinsimpsonwriting.com.
What’s that? You’ve never put anything in my tip jar?
I’m slowly turning away from you now…
RIP, Billy Edd
Not so much, Hezbollah terrorists.
Hamas delenda est!
Martin Simpson 