A fellow called Morgan Spurlock has made a documentary about the on-going manhunt for bin Laden. The mood of the film can be summed up as follows:
They seek him here, they seek him there,
Those missiles seek him everywhere.
Is he indoors, or in someone’s garden?
That damned elusive Osama bin Laden.
I give the man full marks for enthusiasm, but he’s clearly out of his depth. To catch a slippery fish like bin Laden you’ve got to be an experienced bounty hunter, equipped with the latest gadgets and mingling with the shadiest characters. Spurlock’s credentials are weak to the point of non-existent. It’s the old story of antiquated kit and piss-poor intelligence leading to a futile wild-goose chase.
A lot of humans seem to have their own pet schemes for liquidating the goatish fugitive. Last Easter, at Dr Whipsnade’s dinner table, I heard an English country gent explaining how he would go about it.
“Give my hounds a scent of his briefs and let them loose in North Waziristan at daybreak,” declared Hubert ‘Sniffer’ Gusset. “They’ll be biting chunks off the blighter before sundown!”
I couldn’t avoid sucking my teeth in disbelief, even though it’s not the best table manners. Bin Laden may be a crafty fiend, but fox he is not. Nor does he wear underpants beneath those demure ankle-length frocks he models for Al Jazeera. How do I know about these sartorial details? Because I have a reliable informant who’s seen Osama from inside the llama’s lair. I bullshit ye not, ladies and gentlemen, I actually know a woman who was bin Laden’s concubine in the flower of her nubility.
Ever since I wrote an essay about her in September 2006, Ms Kola Boof has been a regular correspondent. (I have since deleted the post for reasons that are none of your business, but my longstanding readers may remember it). This proud Nubian damsel was abducted by the Yemeni Yeti in the 1990s and forced into a grim existence as his sex slave. She eventually managed to give him the slip, and went on to found an authentic African religion involving Earth-mother, bare-titty themes. She currently lives in California and has published a number of poems and short stories.
Incidentally, just because a man is wanted for terrible crimes it doesn’t mean his lesser ones should be ignored or forgiven. As I mentioned above, Ms Boof was far from being a willing adornment to bin Laden’s camel-hair rug. Back in my circus days, I remember hearing about the trial of a notorious con-man who’d swindled pensioners out of their life savings. When his picture appeared in the newspapers, one of our female acrobats recognised him as the flasher who’d ruined her breakfast at a café in Littlehampton. I applauded her civic spirit when she resolved to appear as a character witness for the prosecution, although it turned out her testimony was inadmissible. I don’t understand these legal technicalities. A man who indecently exposes himself at a woman with her mouth full is surely capable of anything.
Returning to the bin Laden case, Ms Boof has supplied me with inside information about the scoundrel’s biggest weakness. In a word, it’s poontang. According to Kola, he became deranged with lust for Whitney Houston when he saw her on TV, dreaming up the craziest plots to kidnap the chanteuse and ravish her inside his tent. Hence the best way of bringing about his downfall might be to persuade a Whitney look-alike to prostitute herself in a noble cause (the real Miss Houston being too far gone for such work).
If our intrepid Mata Hari were to go round the karaoke bars of Peshawar singing ‘I will always love you’, bin Laden would soon get to hear of it, and no doubt think she was singing about him, the conceited ass. Little would he know about the high-voltage device implanted in her vagina, capable of killing a man with a single lethal jolt, or rendering him incontinent at the very least. I don’t see him making any more boastful videos after an experience like that. Better implant one in her rectum as well to be on the safe side.
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