I suppose your feeble, racist American minds expect me to greet you with a defiant, bellowed "Allahu Akbar." Not anymore. I did not wake up to the afterlife I was expecting. Instead I woke up in a squarish office-looking room with windows looking out on a few humble lakes of fire in the distance. The tedium—even worse than being confined to a mansion in Pakistan—was only temporarily relieved when my buddy Muammar showed up, and we got to play hacky sack and swap pornography. But then this American dipshit Bil Keane arrived! He invented The Family Circus comic strip, and all he does is blather on about cute things his children did. "Who broke that lamp?" Bil will say, waiting for Mo and me to play along. Then he'll shout the punch line: "Not me!"
Do you get it? I don't get it.
This dumb asshole might be tolerable for an afternoon. A week, if you're a masochist. But all of eternity? Just because I coordinated four little hijackings? I keep pleading for him to be transferred to Adolf and L. Ron's room because he just... won't... shut... up with the heartwarming anecdotes about children who say "pasghetti" instead of "spaghetti." Jesus fucking Christ, help a Yemeni Kindite out: Can somebody get President Obama to kill me a second time?