And now you know the rest of the story...

By Mohammed Asha, MD
Board Certified Gastroenterologist and former Jihad Associate, al Qaeda UK

Ever have "one of those days?" Sure, all of us go through the occasional rough patch, but I swear there are times when I think Allah must really have it in for me. I mean, I know the "Big Guy" is supposed to have a sense of humor, but do I always have to be the punch line?

Take for example this last week. A few mates and I had been planning a big martyrdom weekend for quite a while; it's something we first began discussing a few years ago in medical school back in Amman. We were sitting around the dorm eating pizza, cramming for a big anatomy final, when Ali said "You know, after graduation, we should get together for something really big." We talked about a fishing trip to Canada or something, but most of the guys thought that sounded pretty boring. Abdul suggested a golf weekend in Cancun, but the all-inclusives there can get pretty pricey in-season. Hassan (who's really into motorcycles) suggested renting Harleys and going to Sturgis for the Biker Rally, but we heard that crowd can get pretty rowdy.

Anyhoo, Achmed finally says, "How about packing cars with explosives and killing hundreds of random infidels in a coordinated series of gigantic fireballs?" And we're like, fuckin' A! Not only would it be an awesome bonding experience (with plenty of Paradise poontang, LOL), we would be doing a valuable community service. Okay, so we high-fived and made a solemn promise that we'd target two years after
graduation for the big weekend prank blowout.

I know how it usually goes with these kinds of fraternity things; what with starting up a medical practice, honor killing obligations, and starting a family, it's easy to lose touch with the old school buddies. But this thing -- our thing -- was serious, you know? Thanks to email we were able to keep in touch and keep the plan
going. As luck would have it, we all won Ahmadinejad scholarships to do our residencies in England for the National Health Service. We got our families together most every weekend for backyard cookouts and self-flagellation and TV football matches. Afterwards me and the other guys would slip out to the garage for cigars, and to pack shrapnel.

So okay, the big weekend arrives, and the guys come over to my place bright and early, everybody's jazzed about rolling up some kufr carnage. All the propane tanks and propellant and nail canisters are ready to go. I look at Ali and say, "Okay mate, back up your car to the garage and I'll start loading it up." He gets this
dumbstruck look on his face and says, "My car? I thought Hassan was going to do the martyrdom." And then Hassan does a massive spit-take with his tea, and he's like, "Whoa dude, I rigged the cell phones, I didn't agree to blow up. I thought
Achmed was going to do the blowing up." Then Achmed's like, "Don't look at me, pal, I thought I was just providing the spiritual guidance. Plus my car's in the shop for transmission work." From there it just descended into this big shouting match. Holy frickin' prophet, two years of planning this prank and now everybody wants to pussy out on the actual martyrdom.

Long story short, we decided to draw straws. And guess who wins? Yep, yours truly, good old sucker Mohammed, the same guy with a pile of charge card receipts for petrol and propane and hardware. The same guy who ended up having to host two thirds
of the martyrdom planning parties at HIS house, because his good old college "pals" always have some convenient excuse about "kitchen remodeling" or "MI6 surveillance," and never lift a finger to help clean up the empty bottles or paper plates or the C5 mess. Well, you know what they say: no good deed goes unpunished. Then the other short straw gets pulled by Bilal, and I'm like, oh, great. Now I'll be banging some celestial virgin with that wanker looking over my shoulder.

So, I'm like, "Okay, whose donating the cars?" And these dicks just look around at each other, and ANOTHER big argument breaks out, because "I still have 28 payments left," or "it's due for a tyre rotation," or some other lame excuse. So we draw straws again to pick the explosion cars, and guess who wins? Yup, my Benz, the same fucking car I just paid £129.95 to have detailed. So I go to the house and tell my wife Jumanah about the whole deal, and here it comes -- The Look, complete with the whole exasperated eye roll and head shake. I swear, if her dad wasn't my uncle, I'd be tempted to smack that irritating sneer right off her face. So she's like, "Fine, go have your fun with your lazy jihad buddies and your 72 virgins. Just leave me the keys to the Jeep so I can get groceries."

After that, I guess I was pretty much ready to get it over with. I called up the office and had them cancel the rest of my patient appointments for the day and drove the Benz to London, which incidentally cost me another £40 for gas and tolls. When I got to Piccadilly and parked in front of the nightclub and called Achmed on my cell to let 'er rip. Nothing. I sat there waiting 3 minutes waiting for the cell phone detonator to go off, nothing. I saw a cop walking toward the Benz, so I hopped out and started booking it and almost got run over by a double decker. I got on the Tube, thinking I was safe, but then all the stupid racist kufrs started giving me the stinkeye because apparently they're freaked by panting Arabs smelling of gasoline. I got out in Ealing and went to the mosque where the other guys were supposed to be, and they're all standing around like a bunch of sheepish idiots.
So I'm like, "WTF? What happened with the detonation?"

Get this: Achmed, whose only job it was to call in a simple fucking detonation code, switched his cell carrier to get the new iPhone and forgot to transfer his goddamn detonation contact list. So I'm like, "How about Bilal? Did he explode? Please tell me exploded." The dopey expressions around the room told me otherwise. Faaaack. Now
there's NO dead infidels, NO horny virgins, and I'm out one leased Mercedes with a £12,000 balloon payment.

So I go, "Here's the deal guys. I just put my ass on the martyrdom line, and it was Allah's will that it didn't happen. So why don't we just call it good, and try again in another two years." Crissakes, you would have thought I just took a dump in their falafel. They started talking about "Ummah Pride," and "giving it all for ol' Central Jordan U.."

So I said fine, let's draw straws again. Because, hey, what are the odds of me pulling martyrdom duty twice in a row? Guess I should have been a stat major, because there I was holding the short stick again. When Bilal pulled the other short
stick, I just went ahead and volunteered my Jeep because I figured the way this day was going it was gonna get blown up one way or the other. When Bilal and I got back to my house Jumanah had just gotten back from Tesco and was unloading groceries. "I thought you were supposed to be in Paradise by now," she said, in that stupid irritating voice. "Change of plans," I said. "We need to head up to Glasgow to blow up the airport." Here it came again. The Look.

"Um, and we need to use the Jeep."

The Look X 2.

"And our faces are all over the TV, so we need you to drive us."

I won't even bother trying to describe her face at that point. We loaded up the rest of the explosive canisters in the back of the Jeep and headed north on the M1 in the middle of the out-of-town holiday rush traffic. Jumanah pretty much seethed the entire way, complaining about the traffic and the gasoline fumes. Needless to say when we finally got to Glasgow and dropped her off at a roadside cafe, I was pretty much geared up for the sweet release of death.

Okay, so Bilal and I get psyched up, check all the equipment to make sure it's ready for a big boom, point the Jeep at the terminal, and mash the throttle. I'm shouting "Allahu Akbar," and Bilal's shouting "Allahu Akbar" and "Go Martyrs" just like the old pep squad days at CJU. And I'm thinking, "Oil up them virgins Allah, 'cause Dr. Mo's luck is about to change." BAAAAM! Right into the glass.

I was probably out for a two, three seconds. Bilal and I peeled our broken noses out of the airbags, which meant we were still alive, which meant the goddamn canisters didn't explode, again. Maybe we went through into the terminal and killed some infidels, I thought, then I saw we hadn't made it in more than a couple inches into the terminal. I mean, WTF? The Jeep salesman kept going on about how the Jeep was this awesome unstoppable American SUV that crusader cowboys use to bulldoze their way through mountain forests, with an easy payment plan, and the damn thing can't make it through a bloody plate glass window. I restart the engine and now the piece of shit just sits there spinning the tyres. "All wheel traction," my arse.

Okay, plan B. Bilal and I start pushing backup detonation buttons and cell codes. A couple of pops, but they were all duds. Then I see the cops coming at me.

As Allah is my witness, I really can't explain what happened next; maybe it was stress, or confusion, or frustration. Whatever the reason, I decided it was a reasonable idea at that point to pour a can of petrol over my head and hit the Bic.

Here's a handy tip from Doctor Mo: if you ever get a wild urge to start yourself on fire, sit down and relax until it goes away. Because (A) it's not a particularly useful method for killing infidels, and (B) it hurts. Like. A. Motherfucker. So much that I almost enjoyed the distraction those high-pressure water canons and getting my lights punched out by that crazy mumble-mouthed Scottish baggage handler. After that, I really didn't mind getting bludgeoned by those angry bagpipers. The sound was horrible, but at least they got the rest of the flames out. I was almost relieved when the cops were cuffing me face down on the pavement, because by that point I was pretty much reconsidering this whole college martyrdom pledge thing and I figured the worst was over.

No such luck. Here's another handy tip from Doctor Mo: if your skin is half melted and bubbly hot, avoid lying down on any surfaces that aren't Teflon coated. And please note: the Glasgow sidewalks aren't.

After a half hour with a spatula and ten cans of Pam, the cops finally got 95% or so of me peeled off the sidewalk. I looked down at my legs and realized that I'll be saving a lot of money on clothes from now on, because I'm sporting a permanent pair of melted-on black polyester trousers.

And then the kicker: I looked down at my package and noticed "Little Mohammed" was AWOL. As they were loading me into the police wagon I glanced back over my shoulder and saw what was left of him charbroiling on the sidewalk. A fat lot of good those 72 virgins are going to me now.

Final box score: I'm out one Mercedes, one Jeep, £2000 in miscellaneous bomb materials, three layers of skin, and one very low-mileage penis.

Infidels killed: nil. So the next time you want to bitch to me about how bad your day is going, don't expect a lot of sympathy.

Well, gotta go. The interrogators are coming, and afterwards I've got an appointment to have my arse skin grafted on to my face. But I will leave you with one more handy tip from Doctor Mo: no matter how many virgins they promise, don't ever join a fraternity.