Say y'all heard of the National Football League's championship game? And shoes? Well, turns out that the Arizona Cardinals and the Pittsburgh Steelers played in the Super Bowl the other day. Faithful readers of this here blog will recall that I love me some New Orleans Saints, but as they didn't even make the playoffs I had to adopt the Cardinals as my team since they too have a religious mascot (this is the reason why my favorite NHL team is the Toronto Maple Popes). Unfortunately my team lost as San Antonio Holmes made an amazing touchdown catch in the waning seconds of the game. That was the second best catch I have ever seen in a Super Bowl (first place of course belongs to David Tyree's helmet).
What most people don't realize is that Holmes' Super Bowl-winning catch wasn't even his most notable reception of this season. I'm sure most of y'all have heard of that reporter dude in the Iraq who done threw his shoes at our Presdident Bush in December. Being that the reporter was Muslamic, the shoes almost certainly contained explosives of some sort, probably TNT hidden in the sole. Or at least some kind of biological or chemical agent, like maybe the aglets were laced with cyanide (was that a pun?!? sorry). It goes without saying, but needs to be typed, that had the shoe hit Dubbs we'd be looking at another 9/11 type situation. In the Arab world, hitting someone with a shoe is the ultimate insult (worse than flying a plane at someone). This may be hard for us Westerners to fathom, as having shoes thrown at you is considered high praise over here. Oh well. What're you gonna do about the crazy cultural norms of those inscrutable Arabs? Here is a story:
The Muslim reporter took his place at the press conference, attempting to maintain composure as he listened to the inane ramblings of the American president. Though he appeared calm, in his Muslim soul a toxic mixture of resentment, inarticulate rage, and desire for vengeance simmered, gaining steam with every flippant platitude offered and simpering smirk cast by the President. He Islamically wondered to himself, "How can this man be so utterly devoid of remorse? Is he that callous? Or just oblivious? Surely he cannot be so evil?"
Soon his thoughts turned to his fellow journalists. Being Arab, he first looked to his right, then his left. In his Islamic peers' eyes he could discern no spark of critical thought, no twinkle of engagement with the noxious ideas emanating from the President's mouth. Had years of violence inured them to the atrocities committed daily at the President's behest? Had their instinct for self-preservation made them incapable of exhibiting the courage required to overthrow the status quo and move towards justice? Had their tightly-wound head towels restricted blood flow to their Mohammedan brains, thereby overwhelming their ability to yearn for peace? Islam islam muslim arab?
Whatever the reason, the Islamical journalist knew that the President's nefarious designs would find no resistance from the benumbed zombies that surrounded him. The onus of confronting the POTUS would be his alone. Rarely, and as of late exceedingly so, history provides great challenges, perfect moments for a lone intrepid soul to commit heroic deeds and etch his (or her, but let's be realistic, it's usually his, right? Eh? Crickets?) name onto the cosmic Stanley Cup of eternity. This was the Mohammedan journalist's moment. Exactly why fair and noble History, in Her boundless grace and munificence, agreed to bless this Qurany Quaraner with such an opportunity may never be known, but aforementioned Islamic Quraning Muslamateer knew exactly what destiny required him to do. He did what every great hero since time immemorial has done: he took off his shoes.
With his Muslim heart full of fury (the fury too was probably of an Islamic variety), the Islamite reporter hurled his shoes, one after the other, towards the podium. Like two hijacked airplanes, the Muslim shoes charted a course directly for the President. Time slowed down. Impact seemed imminent. The waxwing of liberty and freedom was a hair's breadth from being slain by the false Islamic azure of the terrorist windowpane. The fate of Western civilization hung in the balance. What was the point of this story? Oh yeah, but then Santonio Claus came along out of nowhere and saved the day, America won the Superbowl, that Iraqi journalist dude was signed to be the New York Jets' new quarterback, the dish ran off with the spoon, and everyone lived happily ever after. Except for the fork, who was so distraught at the spoon's infidelity that she jumped off the kitchen counter. She was survived by a lovely three year old spork and a teenage carrot peeler from a previous marriage. This is why gays shouldn't be allowed to cook. QED.
If Jason David were involved this would've somehow led to WWIII
What most people don't realize is that Holmes' Super Bowl-winning catch wasn't even his most notable reception of this season. I'm sure most of y'all have heard of that reporter dude in the Iraq who done threw his shoes at our Presdident Bush in December. Being that the reporter was Muslamic, the shoes almost certainly contained explosives of some sort, probably TNT hidden in the sole. Or at least some kind of biological or chemical agent, like maybe the aglets were laced with cyanide (was that a pun?!? sorry). It goes without saying, but needs to be typed, that had the shoe hit Dubbs we'd be looking at another 9/11 type situation. In the Arab world, hitting someone with a shoe is the ultimate insult (worse than flying a plane at someone). This may be hard for us Westerners to fathom, as having shoes thrown at you is considered high praise over here. Oh well. What're you gonna do about the crazy cultural norms of those inscrutable Arabs? Here is a story:
The Muslim reporter took his place at the press conference, attempting to maintain composure as he listened to the inane ramblings of the American president. Though he appeared calm, in his Muslim soul a toxic mixture of resentment, inarticulate rage, and desire for vengeance simmered, gaining steam with every flippant platitude offered and simpering smirk cast by the President. He Islamically wondered to himself, "How can this man be so utterly devoid of remorse? Is he that callous? Or just oblivious? Surely he cannot be so evil?"
Soon his thoughts turned to his fellow journalists. Being Arab, he first looked to his right, then his left. In his Islamic peers' eyes he could discern no spark of critical thought, no twinkle of engagement with the noxious ideas emanating from the President's mouth. Had years of violence inured them to the atrocities committed daily at the President's behest? Had their instinct for self-preservation made them incapable of exhibiting the courage required to overthrow the status quo and move towards justice? Had their tightly-wound head towels restricted blood flow to their Mohammedan brains, thereby overwhelming their ability to yearn for peace? Islam islam muslim arab?
Whatever the reason, the Islamical journalist knew that the President's nefarious designs would find no resistance from the benumbed zombies that surrounded him. The onus of confronting the POTUS would be his alone. Rarely, and as of late exceedingly so, history provides great challenges, perfect moments for a lone intrepid soul to commit heroic deeds and etch his (or her, but let's be realistic, it's usually his, right? Eh? Crickets?) name onto the cosmic Stanley Cup of eternity. This was the Mohammedan journalist's moment. Exactly why fair and noble History, in Her boundless grace and munificence, agreed to bless this Qurany Quaraner with such an opportunity may never be known, but aforementioned Islamic Quraning Muslamateer knew exactly what destiny required him to do. He did what every great hero since time immemorial has done: he took off his shoes.
With his Muslim heart full of fury (the fury too was probably of an Islamic variety), the Islamite reporter hurled his shoes, one after the other, towards the podium. Like two hijacked airplanes, the Muslim shoes charted a course directly for the President. Time slowed down. Impact seemed imminent. The waxwing of liberty and freedom was a hair's breadth from being slain by the false Islamic azure of the terrorist windowpane. The fate of Western civilization hung in the balance. What was the point of this story? Oh yeah, but then Santonio Claus came along out of nowhere and saved the day, America won the Superbowl, that Iraqi journalist dude was signed to be the New York Jets' new quarterback, the dish ran off with the spoon, and everyone lived happily ever after. Except for the fork, who was so distraught at the spoon's infidelity that she jumped off the kitchen counter. She was survived by a lovely three year old spork and a teenage carrot peeler from a previous marriage. This is why gays shouldn't be allowed to cook. QED.
If Jason David were involved this would've somehow led to WWIII
