I’m flying to London tomorrow — a six-hour flight, but a day-long ordeal. I fly from Boston Logan to London Heathrow and back again after the holidays. While I’m not a nervous traveler, these two airports are a little too popular with the Friends of Mohammed for my taste, if you know what I mean.
So, in the unlikely but not impossible event the last words I hear turn out to be “Allahu Akbar!”, I’d like to invite you all to be my family. There’ve got to be a few of you out there willing to back up a weasel here. Do the talk show circuit. Write “I Remember Stoaty” for the Saturday Evening Post. Go all Jersey Girls on me. Just, get my message out there.
And my message is: get those allah-bothering jumped up rat-fucking monkeys what did me! The ones that actually done the deed will have commingled their DNA with mine down the side of some office building somewhere, but get their families and their neighbors and their allies. Make the streets run red and the sky roil with troubled clouds of smoke and ash. Let there be such a wailing and a dying that the whole world fills up with misery and spills into despair. Let my death trigger a time of rage and violence until violence itself dies to cinders for want of fuel. Let the name Weasel henceforth mean vengeance.
Thanks. Merry Christmas!