Cafeoutdoors.com: Poems, Palindromes, Pasquinades and Pastiche

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Man, Do I Hate Holiday Travel

Iowahawk Special Guest Opinion
by Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab

Yesterday while I was lying in the burn ward getting my crotch bandages changed, I had a chance to catch the air disaster movie marathon on TCM. The lineup included "Zero Hour," "The High and the Mighty," "Skyjacked," and "Airport '75." For all their campy fun and unintentional laughs, those corny old films really serve as a grim reminder how the whole in-flight terror experience has gone completely downhill since the jet set golden years of the 50's, 60's and 70's. What happened to all those pretty stewardesses and polite, well dressed infidels, screaming as the plane plummeted to the ground? Time was, a suicide mission to explode an international jumbo jet was an event full of glamor and excitement; but now it seems to be a endless series of delays, hassles, pushy jerks and third-degree testicular chemical burns. And don't even get me started on the crappy airline food.

Take for example a recent flight I took from Lagos to Detroit. With over 100,000 miles on my JihadAir platinum card, I've schlepped enough miles through Heathrow and Gatwick and Yemen International to know I should be at the airport two hours before departure. Especially during the holiday heavy bombing season. Good thing too, because by the time I got there, there was already a mile long line at the explosives counter. And man, talk about smell! I swear half of these stupid shaheeds hadn't bothered to take a shower, let alone a pre-martyrdom ablution ritual. Come on people, how about a little self respect?

And right when I was only two martyrs in line from the counter? Yep, you guessed it. The stupid explosives agents called for a prayer break. To top that, just as I was finishing my last supplication, I get up off the prayer rug and these three friggin' Saudis totally jump the line, and I'm like, "dude, WTF?" And they're like, "hey, sorry bro, we're late for a bombing in Somalia." And I'm like, "come on man, we've all got flights we want to bomb, no cutting."

Anyhow, by the time I finally get to the counter, they were all out of business class upgrades and PETN fanny packs. Okay, how about a aisle seat and a rectal bomb? No such luck. Yep, like always, good ol' Umar gets stuck with a center seat in row 43 and a pair of those C4 bikini briefs. The kind that really bind your nutsack. Sometimes I wonder why I even pay the 50 bucks to keep my 1K status on that stupid frequent bomber card.

I was going to lodge a complaint, but the flight was already boarding. I hightailed it through security and was lucky to catch a goatcart that got me to my gate just as they were closing the door. Then the rest of the passengers give me the stinkface, like I'm holding up the show! Hey, infidels, don't blame me, take it up with 72 Virgin Atlantic. And then, of course, I see I'm seated between two 350 pound Imams who are eating takeout from the food court Falafel Bell.

I'll spare you the description of the aromas on that 6 hour flight to Amsterdam. The in flight movie was some horrible Sandra Bullock romantic comedy, so I ended up doing a couple Super Sodukus and leafing through the SkyMartryMall catalog. When we landed at Amsterdam, it took 40 freaking minutes to deplane because apparently no one at the airline feels like enforcing the three carry-on chicken limit.

I guess things got a little better at the Amsterdam airport. JihadAir had a concierge service waiting for me at the gate, some Pakistani guy holding up a little "Abdulmutallab" sign. All apologetic, like, "oh, I am so sorry for your inconvenience, Mr. Abdulmutallab," "let us take care of your arrangements," "you are a valued customer, Mr. Abdulmutallab," "let me get the detonator for you." I guess he heard about my hassles at Lagos and was worried I would transfer my miles to Air Shaheed.

Anyhow I had a two hour layover, so I stopped into the Magic Carpet Club for a complementary pretzels and hashish. Afterwards I had the munchies so I went to the Cinnabon. Geez, 5 euros for a freakin' cinnamon roll? Talk about air piracy! When the flight to Detroit started boarding, the concierge told me to keep quiet and he would take care of the check-in. The US State Department agent asked to see my passport, and the concierge explained that I was a Somali refugee. So she looks at her computer screen and says, "um, I'm afraid there's a problem, this passenger's name is on a watch list." Oh, great. Looks like my dad is playing Mr. Buzzkill again, just because I took that semester off from Oxford to go backpacking in Yemen. So I showed her my official State Department visa.

So I'm like, "honey, do I look like I'm a US military veteran?"

"No."

"Do I look like I'm some sort of right wing anti-tax teabagger?"

"No."

"Do I look like anybody else on the DHS terrorism danger list?"

"No, but..."

"Then I suggest that unless you want a nasty anti-discrimination lawsuit on your hands, you'd best give me an aisle seat. With extended legroom."

That shut her up. I boarded the plane with the concierge and plopped down in my seat. It looked like this martyrdom would start going a little more smoothly, but, just my luck, I'm assigned in the same row as these two smelly hippies listening to Dave Matthews on their iPods. I thought about asking for a seat change but the whole damn plane was full of stupid Dutch and American stoners, with their stupid screaming hippie babies. The thought of an 8 hour flight with these hemp shirt douchebags made me wish I was on still on that connecting flight from Lagos with all the livestock and poultry.

After we took off (after a 45 minute delay on the tarmac) I look up and the in-flight movie is -- get this -- another horrible Sandra Bullock flick. I mean, WTF is it with these infidels? As if flying isn't bad enough with the delays and cramped seats, do they really need to ratchet up the hellscape with Sandra Bullock and CNN Headline News? At that point I'm pretty sure I wasn't the only one on this flight planning suicide.

When the dinner service came around, the flight attendant goes, "oh, I'm sorry Mr. Abdulmutallab, we ran out of the special halal meal. Would you like something else?"

"Um, what do you have?"

"Pork chops."

Frack. It was a good thing I had that Cinnabon back at the food court, or I'd either be going to paradise half starved or to pig eater hell. So I just ordered a Diet Sprite and washed down my prescription of of suicide relaxants.

I pretty much dozed off after that, but then it was like "BING! Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. In twenty minutes we will begin preparations for our final descent into Detroit, so if you have to use the restrooms, blah blah blah." Crap, I had completely forgotten to blow up the plane, and the concierge was giving me the hurry up sign. So I walked back to the loo, and there was already a line of hippies. So I told them, "hey dude, do you mind? I really gotta pinch one bad." I guess my eyes were kinda dilated from the suicide relaxants, so they let me by.

Lemme ask you: have you ever tried to inject a glycerin detonator syringe into some plastic explosives glued under your nutsack, while you were stoned out of your gourd, in an airplane bathroom, during Lake Erie turbulence, while some stupid hippie is pounding on the door? Take my word for this, it. is. a. mofo. I must have stabbed myself in the junk eight or ten times before I finally got it smoldering. So I stroll out of the loo, real casual-like, with my nuts on fire, and headed back to my seat to blow out the fuselage.

But then, get this: some friggin' Dutch dude jumps out of his seat and tackles me right in the aisle, completely ignoring the "fasten seatbelts" sign! Typical pushy Eurotrash. And then the flight attendant comes running up, and instead of enforcing the damn rules starts blasting me with the fire extinguisher, which means my nards go from flame broiled to freeze dried in about 3 seconds flat. To top it all off? While I was laying there a stupid hippie baby throws up all over my head.

Good thing I was wasted on those relaxants, because I don't remember too much until we were at the gate at Detroit International. When I came to, I was handcuffed, surrounded by cops and bomb sniffing dogs. Amid all the hysterical hippies I felt a strange sensation and heard a soft klink. -Yep, you guessed it. My freeze dried bar-b-cued junk had just fallen off. Before I could locate it, one of the bomb sniffing dog snarfed it up like a frozen snausage. A damn lot of good those 72 virgins are going to do me now. At least I got to get off the plane before everybody else, and I didn't have to wait in line at customs. Plus I'm getting comped a hospital room, even if the chow here is even shittier than airline food.

Anyway, I'm watching a lot of TV and trying to sort out my lawsuit options. Do you believe this infidel Napolitano who keeps saying that "the system worked"? Hey, biatch, try telling that to my junk. My lawyers from CAIR say I've got a pretty good shot at an out of court settlement for religious discrimination, loss of wages, defamation, and alienation of penis. Maybe even seven figures.

I'm hoping for a big payday, but I'll tell you one thing: even if I win, next time I'm taking the train.

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"Being deeply learned and skilled, being well trained and using well spoken words; this is good luck."

Poof - No Eyebrows!

Patrick F. McManus, from “Never sniff a gift fish”

Just as I was assembling the ingredients for a small snack in the kitchen, the doorbell rang. My wife, Bun, went to answer it, and I heard her invite in Milt Slapshot, a neighbor who often seeks out my advice on matters pertaining to the sporting life.

"Is Pat home?" I heard Milt ask. "A fella told me he knows something about muzzleloading."

Realizing Bun could never resist a straight line like that, I jumped up and headed for the living room in the hope of stifling her.

"Does he ever!" she said, chortling. "Why, this very minute he's out in the kitchen loading his muzzle!"

A wife who chortles is an irritation, but one who also regards herself as a wit is a social nuisance. I grabbed Milt by the arm and guided him toward the den before Bun could embarrass the poor fellow further with another attempt at emulating Erma Bombeck.

"Stop the cackling, Milt," I told him. "It only encourages her."

Once his tasteless display of mirth had subsided, Milt explained that he was building a muzzleloader and needed some technical advice from me. A mutual acquaintance, one Retch Sweeney, had told him that I had once conducted extensive scientific research on primitive firearms. That was true. In fact, it would be difficult to find firearms more primitive than those utilized in my research.

"You've come to the right man," I said. "Yes, indeed. Now the first thing I need to know is, are you building it from a kit or from scratch?"

"A kit," Milt said.

"Good," I said. "Building muzzleloaders from scratch is a risky business, particularly when you work your way up to sewer pipe too soon. Now the first thing..."

"Sewer pipe?" Milt asked. "What do you mean, sewer pipe? Are you sure you know something about black powder?"

"Ha!" I replied. "Do you see my eyebrows?"

"No."

"Well that should answer your question. All us experts on black powder have bald eyes."

Actually, I do have eyebrows, but they are pale, sickly fellows, never having recovered from the shock of instant immolation thirty years ago. Having my eyebrows catch fire ranks as one of the more interesting experiences of my life, although I must say I didn't enjoy it much at the time.

Indeed, my somewhat faulty eyesight may be a direct result of having my eyebrows go up in smoke. Either it was that or the splash of Orange Crush soda pop with
which my sidekick Retch Sweeney, ever quick to compound a catastrophe, doused the flames.

As I explained to Milt, who had settled into a chair in the den and was attempting with some success to conceal his fascination, most of my early research into the mysteries of black powder took place during the year I was fourteen. Some of those experiments produced spectacular results, particularly the last one, which enabled Retch and me to attend the annual Halloween party as twin cinders.

The first experiment, in which my eyebrows were sacrificed to the cause of science, consisted of placing a small pile of black powder on a bicycle seat and touching a lighted match to it. I can no longer recall why a bicycle seat was employed as part of the apparatus, but I am sure my co researcher and I had sound reasons for it at the time. In any case, we proved conclusively that a match flame serves as an excellent catalyst on gunpowder. I later concluded that the experiment might have been improved upon in only two ways: to have placed the powder on Retch's bicycle seat and to have let him hold the match. Instead, he chose to stand in awe of the experiment and about ten feet away, sucking absently on a bottle of Orange Crush. On the other hand, my sacrifice was not without its reward, since bald eyes and a hole burnt in my bicycle seat made great conversation openers with girls at school.

The success of the experiment had to be withheld from the rest of the scientific community for fear our parents would find out about it. Unfortunately, my mother inadvertently discovered the secret.

"Is anything the matter?" Mom asked during supper the evening after the bicycle seat experiment.

"No," I replied casually. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," she said. "It just seems a little odd, your wearing sunglasses and a cap at the dinner table."

She then expressed her desire that I remove both glasses and cap instantly, sooner if possible. After some debate over the finer points of dinner table propriety, I complied.

As expected, Mom responded with the classic question favored by the parents of young black powder experimenters everywhere: "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR EYEBROWS?"

Looking surprised and fingering the scorched area above my eyes, I tried to convey the impression that it was news to me that my eyebrows were missing, as if they might have dropped off unnoticed or been mislaid at school.

The truth was soon extracted from me with an efficiency that would have been the envy of medieval counterintelligence agents. This was followed by a bit of parental advice. But scarcely had this parental advice ceased reverberating among the rafters than I was already plotting my next experiments for unlocking the mysteries of black powder.

The discovery by Retch and me that we could purchase black powder in bulk from a local dealer was to have great impact on our lives, not to mention various parts of our anatomies. The dealer in question was the proprietor of Grogan's War Surplus, Hardware & Gun Emporium, none other than that old reprobate, Henry P. Grogan himself. We weren't at all sure Grogan would sell a couple of scruffy, goof off kids something as potentially dangerous as black powder. Our first attempt at making a purchase was, therefore, cloaked in subtlety and subterfuge.

"Howdy, Mr. Grogan," we opened with, both of us so casual we were fit to burst.

"Howdy, boys. What can I do for you assuming, of course, you got cash in your pockets and ain't just here to finger the merchandise?"

"Oh, we got cash," I said. "Uh, Retch, why don't you read Mr. Grogan our list?"

"Uh, okay, heh, heh. Yeah, well, here goes one GI mess kit, one helmet liner, a parachute harness, a pound of black powder, and let's see, now, do you have any of those neat camouflage jackets left?"

To our chagrin, a look of concern came into Grogan's eyes. "Gosh, boys, I don't know if I should ... It just don't seem right to sell you two young fellows ... Oh, what the heck! Elmer Peabody wanted me to save those last two camouflage jackets for him, but I'll let you have 'em. Now, how much gunpowder was that you wanted a pound?"

In all fairness to Grogan, I must admit that he did warn us that severe bodily harm could result from improper use of the black powder. His exact words, if I remember correctly, were, "You boys set off any of that stuff near my store and I'll peel your hides!"

The black powder we bought from Grogan had been compressed by the manufacturer into shiny black pellets, a form intended, I believe, to make it less volatile. Even before mashing them into powder, we found it was possible to touch off the pellets if they were first piled on a bicycle seat and a match held to them. The pellets did not ignite immediately even then, apparently for the purpose of tricking the person holding the match into taking a closer look at what was occurring on the bicycle seat. Then poof! no eyebrows.

Our first muzzleloaders were small and crude, but as our technological skill and knowledge increased, they gradually became large and crude. We never did develop a satisfactory triggering mechanism. On the average shot, you could eat a sandwich between the time the trigger was pulled and the gun discharged. A typical muzzleloader test would go something like this:

There!

RETCH: Okay, "M going to squeeze the trigger now.

MUZZLELOADER: Snick! Pop! Ssssss ...

ME: Good. it looks like it's working. Better start aiming at the tin can.

MUZZLELOADER: SSSS ... fizt ... SSSS ...

RETCH: Say, give me a bit of that sandwich, will you?

ME: Sure.

MUZZLELOADER: . . SSS ... sput ... SS ... putt *

RETCH: What time is it?

ME: About time for me to

MUZZLELOADER: ... ssst POOT!

RETCH (enveloped in cloud of smoke): How was my aim?

ME: I think it was pretty good, but the muzzle velocity leaves something to be desired. As soon as the smoke clears, reach over and pick up the ball and we'll load her up again.

Even as we increased the range of our muzzleloaders. the delay in the firing mechanism discouraged us from using them on game. If we had used one of them for rabbit hunting, say, we would have had to squeeze the trigger and then hope a rabbit would happen to be running by when the gun discharged. Squeezing the trigger before your game appears over the far horizon is the ultimate in leading a moving target.

Since we had up to three minutes of lead time on stationary targets, hunting with our muzzleloaders, seemed somewhat impractical. There was also the probable embarrassment of having our shots bounce off the game. It didn't seem worth the risk. A hunter can stand only so much humiliation.

Our first muzzleloader was a small caliber derringer, the ammunition for which consisted mostly of dried peas. This prompted Retch to remark derisively to a tin can target, "All right, Ringo, drop your iron or I'll fill you full of dried peas."

'May, okay," I said, "I get your drift. We'll move up to the hard stuff marbles, ball bearings, golf balls."

It was a mistake, though, and I knew it. Once you start escalating, there's no stopping until you achieve the ultimate weapon. Within a couple of months, we were turning out muzzleloaders in the .80 caliber range. Then we got into the large caliber stuff. Finally, we decided the time had come to stop monkeying around with black powder pistols and rifles. We'd had some close calls. We had reached the point where there was some doubt in our minds whether we might be firing a muzzleloader or touching off a bomb. Thus it was with considerable relief that we abandoned our clandestine manufacture and testing of pistols and rifles. After all, a cannon would be much safer; you didn't have to hold it.

The cannon was constructed of sewer pipe, two by fours, baby carriage wheels, rubber inner tube bands, a clothespin, baling wire, and various other odds and ends, all of which, blending into a single, symmetrical unity, neared perfection on the scale of beauty. A croquet ball was commandeered from the Sweeney backyard for use as shot. In our enthusiasm of the moment, it was thought the croquet ball could be returned to the set after it was recovered from the firing range. Alas, it was not to be so.

Attired in our muskrat skin hats, which we had sewn up ourselves, we mounted our bicycles and, with cannon in tow, set off for the local golf course, where a fairway would serve as a firing range, a putting green as a target.

As we had hoped, the golf course turned out to be deserted. We quickly wheeled the cannon into firing position and began the loading procedure.

"Think that's enough powder?" Retch asked.

"Better dump in some more," I advised. "That croquet ball is pretty heavy."

"And there's some for good measure," Retch said.

The croquet ball fit a little too tightly, but we managed to ram it down the barrel.

Then we both took up positions alongside the cannon to witness the rare and wonderful spectacle of a sewer pipe firing a croquet ball down a golf course fairway.

"Ready, aim, fire!" I commanded.

Retch tripped the firing mechanism.

Eventually, the thunder was replaced by clanging bells inside our heads, the shattered pieces of earth and sky fell back into place, and the wobbly world righted itself. Retch and I limped over to the side of a utility shed and sat down to relax a bit and collect our senses. Presently, a deputy sheriff drove up. He stood for a moment gazing at the haze of smoke wafting gently over the golf course, the patch of smoldering turf ringed by fragments of sewer pipe, baby carriage wheels, and pieces of two by four. Then, hoisting up his gun belt, he sauntered over to us.

"You boys know anything about an explosion out this way?" he asked.

"What kind of explosion?" Retch asked.

"A big explosion."

I was still so stunned I couldn't even think up a good lie. Anyway, I knew the deputy had us cold.

"Now, what I want to know," the deputy went on, "is why are you two boys sitting out here behind this shed smoking?"

"Shucks," I said, "if you'd been a little earlier, you'd have seen us while we were still on fire!''

I thought for sure he was going to haul us off to jail, but instead he just smiled, took one last look at the smoldering debris, and started to saunter back to his car. "Well, if you fellas turn up any information about the explosion," he said over his shoulder, "I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know. I don't reckon there'll be another one, do you?"

"Nope," Retch and I said in unison.

Then the deputy stopped and kicked gingerly at something on the ground in front of him. It was Retch's muskrat hat! The deputy turned and gave us a sympathetic look. "Too bad about your dog," he said.

The cannon pretty well quelled our enthusiasm for building our own muzzleloaders from scratch. Not only had it made a big impression on us; it had made numerous small impressions. Years later, while I was undergoing a physical examination, the doctor commented on some bumps under my skin.

Pay them no mind, doc," I told him. "They're just pieces of sewer pipe."

At this juncture of my recitation, Milt Slapshot jumped up and headed for the door.

"Thanks," he said. "You've answered my question."

"Gee," I said. "I've even forgotten what the question was. But if you need any help putting your muzzleloader kit together, Milt, just give me a call."

He hasn't called yet. I suppose he's been tied up at the office a lot lately.

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"Being deeply learned and skilled, being well trained and using well spoken words; this is good luck."