I'm slowing making it through the document dump. It was very disorganized. When my man at State was in the document room, he was startled when a drunken Bill Clinton stumbled in with a couple of chubby brunettes, and he panicked and just stuffed some random papers into his socks. Most seem to be written in some kind of squiggly text, and it's taking me a while to translate it with google. Here's the first one I finished. It appears to be a letter to Barak. Couldn't make out the signature on the bottom.
Dear B. Hussein Obama,
Greetings to my beloved brother in arms. I hope you had a lovely Ramadan.
Could you do me a small favor? I know you have to keep up the appearances in the war on terror and all, but could you tone down the drones a bit. I'm losing too many of my best men. Here's a tip: the fake weddings and funerals, that is where we send the trainees. Blast away there, but keep away from the Pakistan hills.
Like I said, you're killing my cream. All I have left appear to be borderline retarded. I mean, Mohammed H. Prophet, these new French recruits are plum useless. Sent a crew down to that preschool with a car bomb. Four hours later, they’re back here totally whole and unmartyred. I was like OM-Allah,why aren't you partying in paradise? And they were like, dude, we got lost and couldn’t find it. Can we have a boom-mobile with a GPS? I was like, WHATEVER. Achmed, give them your GPS.
On the way back to the car, they turned on the GPS to be greeted with a tinny, robotic voice saying: “BLEAT! Achmed. BAAAAA! You’re very good at turning me on.” Most the newbies gathered around as they kept turning the GPS on and off and on and off again to hear the welcome greeting ad nauseum. As they were yucking it up, they confused the car fob with the bomb fob. Exploded the whole crop of new recruits. Like I said. Mohammed H. Prophet, I’m surrounded by idiots. Allah, give me strength. Here's a thought. Can you free me a couple more of my experienced squads from Gitmo?
No comments:
Post a Comment