Caliphate. Le Parfum.

With thanks to Darrin H. of australianidentity.net.

Siddiqui (of the otherwise commercially profligate but in this instance strictly non-alcohol Siddiquies) arrived in Sydney and was barely six weeks into target acquisition when he fell critically ill.

He went to doctor after doctor, but none of the unbelievers were of any use.

Desperate, he had no choice but to turn to his contacts in the State Department in D.C. who instantly directed him to a moderately genocidal Saudi Wahab practitioner who listened briefly to Siddiqui's list of symptoms, nodded sagely and quickly squeeked: "Take thees bocket, go into the other room, sheet into the bocket, piss on the sheet and then place you face directly over and down into the bocket and breathe in for ten minutes. Hamdellalah!

Siddiqui dutifully picked up the bucket, went into the other room, shit in the bucket, pissed on the shit, bent over and consumed the fumes for the prescribed full ten minutes.

Rushing back to the doctor's surgery, and completely ignoring the six seriously wounded explosives technicians patiently biding their time in the waiting room, he burst in and exclaimed: "Allahu Akbar! It worked! I feel terrific! I am ready for total Jihad! What was wrong with me?"

"You were homesick."

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Sppourt Gzaa!

As the Readership well knows, The Journal's record of support for our Gazan brethren and cistern goes without saying, with the sole proviso that we say it. In stark and revealing contrast to the competition such as those motherfuckers at Time, Sports Illustrated, The Manchester Gurniad, Frankfurter Achtung, Reader's Digest, Classics Illustrated, Playgoy and The Jewish Weekly Chronicle, The Editorial Waterboard has courageously supported both Tostadas, the righteous rocketing of Zionist kindergartens, termination with extreme prejudice of Danish cartoonists and, most of all, the clitorial circumcision of Michael Edward Rashoff.



Yesterday's spontaneously orchestrated demonstration in Bumfuck was no exception. Shown above, from either left or right all the way over to the other side of the whatsis, are Waterboard members David Marvin Mailer, Hugh Jorgen and Padraic O'Cossett, exercising their Sharia-bout That© endowed right to stand on the pavement. Followed by a frenzied caucus at the Log Cabin Buffet in the Mens' Shitter, just down the hall from the Rheum Room at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn, starring Gore Vidal.

Aloha Snackbar™! And, like, death to all the other guys.

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Peace in Our Time

JOCOP News Service, August 29,2008, London

Her Majesty's Commission for the Neville Chamberlain Attitudinal Adjustment Commission has today decreed that local climate advisories in the UK shall no longer be referred to as "English weather."

In order to avoid any possibility whatsoever of offending the culturally ascendant portion of the population, this information will now be referred as "Dhimmitudinal Atmospherics"—partly Sunni but mostly Shi'ite.

Topographical Wiseass

Three men were participating in a corporate "esprit de corpse' enhancing exercise in the forest when, hiking through a particularly fierce region of the wilderness, were suddenly confronted by a vast, raging maelstrom of a river.

Urgently needing to get to the other side, the first man prayed: "Dear Lord, I beseech thee to give me the strength to cross this river."

Poof!

God enlarged his arms by a factor of 2.47, increased the strength of his legs by at least as much and the devout Christian swimmer was able to swim across in about 2 hours, albeit nearly succumbing to the waters on two fairly shitty moments of sincere but, ultimately of course, temporary doubt.

After witnessing the preceding, the second man sank to his knees and prayed to his Lord and Saviour with every fibre of his being:

"God in Heaven and His Only Begotten Son! I will devote the rest of my life to your service with particular reference to the heathen in Saudi Arabia and surrounding areas full of rich unbelievers which many of your followers seem to have overlooked in favor of other locations blessed by Taco Bells of greater proximity. But this I will do, I will go unto the sea of tea-towel/fan-belters to show them The Way, I swear it Lord, if you will only grant me the strength--and the, uh, tools--to cross this river, Praise Jaysus!"

Poof!

God instantly produced a Boston Whaler tied up to a nearby tree and the Believer powered across the raging effervescence in a Khobar minute, which runs just about an hour and a quarter.

Seeing what had happened to the first two men, the third man--a consultant passing himself off as an atheist to get his nose up a violently devout VP's ass significantly further than would otherwise have been the case--suddenly found spiritual sustenance sufficient to make the following heartfelt-to-the-core albeit ever so slightly more comprehensive request via the usual gratuitous and billed-in-advance "pre-planning."

Poof!

The Lord instantly transformed the third member of the party into a woman.

"God!" he/she/it invoked the heavens. "This is me--Ted! Or Tessa! Whatever! Strictly up to you, I could give a shit!"

"For chrissake," continued Ted/Tessa, "please give me/us/she/it/him (a) the strength, (b) the technology, (d) the bogus schedule and budget I'll need to back up this true smeller of a billing and--most important of all--(c) the actual intelligence required to cross this cruel, bad-ass motherfucker of a river!!!'

The third person, now of the feminine persuasion, immediately went to his/her/its backpack, wherein was contained each and every item he/she/it/them had requested--including one in particular which caught her eye right off--a map of the immediate area which, checking it in the most cursory fashion possible, conclusively demonstrated that a hike of one hundred meters up-stream would take he/her/sheit to a massive bridge.

Whereby it embarked upon the twelve minute journey thereto and casually walked across the bridge--traversing, of course, the river.

The male members of the "team" were, of course, aghast at this miracle and all fell to their knees to praise the Lord for the wonders of His works.

After which they returned to their personalized work cubicles whence to proceed to the coffee machine where Earl, who wore the largest flag-lapel pin of all the "associates" in the office, summarized it all:

"And then the cunts wonder why they get treated like shit at work...."


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Bouncing Back From Adversity

The Editorial Waterboard is pleased to announce the return of Padraic O'Cossett to the Bumfuck Holiday Inn.

O'Cossett, The Journal's Middle East Rectal Arts Bureau Chief, was released by Hamas PLC™ pursuant to completion of his thirty (728) day tour of duty as Hostage-in-Chief at the request of his wife and close confidante, Hillary Rodham O'Cossett.

Aloha Snackbar®.

I Slam, You Slam, We All Slam For Islam

Five Hamas strategists are in the jacuzzi having a won- derful time and also discussing the presidential campaign, new fall colours, future suicide bombing targets, the subprime mortgage meltdown, timing of the next intifada, etc. when suddenly they notice a glob of sperm float to the surface.

The senior jihadi stands suddenly, points at the wad and shrieks.

"Alright, which one of you bitches farted?!"

Boom

S Revitz will not have to worry about any heavenly scenario such as that appearing below. Because S Revitz is going straight to hell.


A Taliban suicide bomber pulls the plug and explodes, taking 24 women, 12 children and six infants with him.

A short while later he finds himself on a huge white staircase leading towards heaven, so he starts climbing.

After an hour of hard climbing, he arrives at a landing where an old man in white robes with a long flowing beard is sitting surrounded by ledgers.

"Excuse me, sir." he says. "Are you Mohammed?"

"No," replies the old man, "I am St Peter. Mohammed is further up the stairs."

"But this is wonderful news!" ejaculates the martyred bomber. "Mohammed is higher than St Peter! I can hardly believe it!"

With this he carries on climbing the stairs.

After an hour or so of hard climbing he arrives at another landing where stands a serene old man with white hair and a long beard.

"Excuse me, sir," he says. "Are you Mohammed?"

"No," replies the old man, "I am Jesus. Mohammed is further up the stairs."

"Oh for joy, but this is amazing news!" screams the bomber. "Mohammed is higher than Jesus, I can hardly believe it! Martyrdom is even better than I thought possible!!!"

With this he carries on climbing up the stairs.

After another hour or so of hard climbing he arrives at an overwhelmingly huge, awe-inspiring landing in the baroque manner.

There, sitting on a magnificent throne is another old man, even more magisterial than the others, complete with impeccable white robes, magnificent beard and flowing white hair.

"Excuse me, sir," he says excitedly. "Are you Mohammed?"

"No," replies the old man. "I am God."

"But this is beyond anything that I might ever have thought possible," shrieks the bomber in total thrall.

"Mohammed is higher than God! I am so happy I can't believe it, martyrdom is more than wonderful, all my prayers have been answered!!!!!"

"You look tired, my son," intoned God in a voice to carve granite. "Would you like to sit down and rest a moment?"

"Oh, yes!" replies the bomber. "I am bone weary from the climb and would love a rest before I carry on, thank you."

The bomber sits down and God says, "You look thirsty, my son, would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Oh yes please!" replies the bomber. "I am most thirsty, thank you!"

With this God turns, snaps his fingers and shouts: "Oy, Mohammed! Two coffees over here and make it snappy!!"

Losing a Friend

Our Senior Subprime Gaza Bureau Chief, Padraic O'Cossett, was able to get a message smuggled out of the Gaza City Ramadan Inn [Alas, rectally.--Ed.] which certainly made a lasting impression on the Editorial Waterboard for reasons which will be intuitively oblivious.

Dear Jocop,

Greetings from Gaza City!

Eid was really great this year, see photo of my wife (right) during the height of celebrations.

Especially during the Hajj period which I know means so much to everybody back in Bumfuck (please say hello to everyone at the Log Cabin Buffet for me, will ya?), this heartwarming message now making the rounds here in Gaza will most assuredly reach out and touch you guys back home.

It's a truly profound story about life, death and friends and is certain to strum your heartstrings and touch your soul.

As you all know, I normally don't send out mushy messages but this one I couldn't help . . . I'm still choked up over it!

All the best,

Paddy

[Please click on "X" if you love Jesus.]

The Sand Box

Grgl Jeer, pictured right, will most assuredly burn in the fires of hell for the infamous slur on The Religion of Peace© appearing below, Aloha Snackbar!™.

Jeer is eminently well-known to the readership and needs no introduction except to the extent no one can remember him.

His biodata start with the unsuccessful attempt at birth by the pediatrician to push him head first back up the birth canal. When this proved futile, the doctor decided not to slap the baby, instead assaulting both parents with a pair of forceps. The decision was then taken by unanimous vote to retain the afterbirth in lieu of the baby.

Grgl went on to major in High Colonics at Yale whence he was asked to depart his sophomore year owing to excessive IQ--74--which would disqualify him from a future running the nation.

Jeer is chiefly known today for his philanthropic work for the charitable foundation, Motherfuckers Without Borders™.


A class of five-year old schoolchildren return to the classroom after their recreation period in the playground during their break time.

The teacher says to the first child, "And how are you, Becky, what have you been doing this playtime?'

Becky replies, "I have been playing in the sand box."

"Very good!" says the teacher. "And if you can spell "sand" on the blackboard, I will give you a biscuit!"

Becky duly walks to the head of the class and writes S A N D on the blackboard.

"Very Good!" exclaims the teacher who then gives Becky a biscuit.

The teacher then turns to another student and says, "Freddie, what have you been doing in your playtime?"

Freddie replies: "Playing with Becky in the sand box...."

"Very good," says the teacher. "If you can spell "box" on the blackboard, I will also give you a biscuit."

Freddie duly strides up and writes B O X on the blackboard.

"Excellent!" ejaculates the teacher who gives Freddie a biscuit out of the tin.

The teacher then turns to another little boy and says, "What about you, Mohammed? Have you been playing in the sand box with Becky and Freddie?"

"No," replies Mohammed dejectedly. "I wanted to, but they would not let me. Every time I went near them they started throwing sand at me and calling me nasty names!"

"Oh dear!" cries out the teacher. "That sounds very much indeed like blatant racial discrimination to me! I'll tell you what, though--if you can spell 'blatant racial discrimination,' I will give you a biscuit...."

Letter from Hugh Jorgen

It was Thanks- giving morning when Hugh Jorgen, Senior Left Coast Bureau Chief blue ballin’ clearcutter, wrote in with white-hot HUMINT™ on your Clinical Depression- IslamoHigh Colonic™ Tare nexus held in sacred awe by the international Therapeutic-Industrial Community.


Dear Jocop,

I have been hopped up for the past two weeks. Last Thursday I spoke with a friend who'd been depressed, so he’d called the mental health help-line. Like a lot of other call centers, it had been out-sourced to a third world location. My friend asked the operator where the help line operator was located now and was told Pakistan. The friend then told the operator that he’d been depressed and was feeling suicidal. The operator got very excited and inquired if the caller could drive a truck or fly a plane.

Yours in Jesus,

Hugh Jorgen

Permanent Icelandic Jihab™

As an ardent advocate and supporter of Worldwide Caliphate, Infantile Tostada™, Sharia ‘Bout That™, Permanent Icelandic Jihab™ and in the interest of full transparency and due wah diddy diddy dum diddy due, The Journal herewith advises its worldwide readership that, in common with other major international 24/7 news sources, all sovereign governments, corporate employers, genocidal dictatorships, all banking institutions, 52% of all cathouses, all Rupert (What An Asshole) Murdoch publications, all federal bureaucracies, all credit reporting agencies and the Cheltenham Chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous and Knights of Columbus, we do maintain constant surveillance on our subscribers in the interest of facilitating the liquidation of family members in whatever parts of Northern Europe the leadership of The Caliphate may deem necessary, appropriate or just plain fun, no questions asked. Accordingly, we reprint the scurrilous heresy set forth below in the full knowledge that the contributor who sent it in, Mr Ed Zachary, will be dealt with in the appropriate manner and at the particular moment congruent with maximum civilian casualties, Aloha Snackbar™!!


Atlanta Air Traffic Control: "Tower to Saudi Air 911 -- Roger that, SA 911 heavy, you are cleared to land eastbound on runway 9R."

Saudi Air: "Thank you Atlanta ATC. Acknowledge cleared to land on infidel runway 9R, Inshallah!"

Atlanta ATC: "Tower to Iran Air 711, you are cleared to land westbound on runway 9R."

Iran Air: "Shukran Atlanta ATC. We are cleared to land on infidel runway 9R--God is Great!"

(Pause)

Saudi Air: "ATLANTA ATC! ATLANTA ATC!"

Atlanta ATC: "Go ahead Saudi Air 911."

Saudi Air: "You have cleared both our aircraft for the same runway going in opposite direction, we are on collision course, instructions please! Instructions Please!"

Atlanta ATC: "Well bless your hearts, praise Jesus and y'all be careful now and tell Allah 'hey' for us, y'all come back now, heah?"

War on Terra

Being without reference to phenomenological externalities, The Journal's pro-jihad, pro-tostada editorial stance is inherently self-intuitive and we yield to no one in our support of the legitimate demand of our Islamic brethren and cistern for immediate restoration of their right to rule the universe in the manner and to the extent they may from time to time--collectively, individually or both--find satisfactory, no questions asked, Aloha Snackbar!™

As a pubic service, we run the godless porkmentation set forth below as an example of works by unwashed infidels, some of whom now 'accidentally' drop partially masticated Braunschwieger onto the bourkas of our semi-virginal ladyboys eating at the Took Lae Dee counter at Foodland.

We have their names. Perhaps they have relatives in England?


As you may already know, it is a sin for a Muslim male to see any woman other than his wife naked and that he must commit suicide if he does.

Accordingly, next Saturday at 1600 hours Eastern Standard Time, all American women are asked to walk out of their house totally nude to help uncover any and all neighborhood terrorists.

Circling the block naked for one hour minimum is recommended.

All men are to position themselves in lawn chairs directly in front of their subprime-financed housing units to establish they are not Muslims and to demonstrate their approbation of observing nude women other than their respective wives and to show support for all American women.

Since alcohol is forbidden under Islamic law, the men are requested to have at least one ice cold six-pack to their immediate right as further proof of their anti-Islamicist credentials.

The Federal Government™ appreciates these efforts to root out terrorism. All those who fail to participate will be audited.

God bless America.

Our Incompetent Competition

July 3, 2007

CNN International (Assholes!) are reporting as follows:

Those who witnessed the flaming Jeep Cherokee smash into the airport Saturday said one of the passengers was shouting "Allah" as he fought with police and...set himself on fire.

This is a grievous, albeit indicative, error which typifies the tyro-lackadaisical approach our competition take to the news--in this case, an important strike against infidel Britain, may they choke on pork loin in mustard sauce.

The semi-martyr in question is a highly respected proctologist and dues-paying member of the BMA, AMA, NFL and CBI. As the readership will be well-aware, he was in fact shouting: "Aloha! Aloha!"

Redneck Girl

The Journal's pro-caliphate editorial bona fides are well-established to the point of seppuku. Accordingly, we take this opportunity to applaud our fellow jihadis' kidnapping of Padraic O'Cossett shortly before landing at Hamas PLC™ International in Gaza City. Padraic, our Gaza Bureau Chief, has been held for the last month incommunicado, without food, water, tampons, adult diapers. We join the BBC and CNN--our competition and what assholes they truly are--not to mention Paddy's wife and in-laws, in calling for Paddy's continued incarceration into perpetuity.

Paddy smuggled the reportage set forth below via the septic tank/water truck just in back of the Hamas safe house where he is being held, exact GPS coordinates available upon request....or withheld an additional two weeks, whichever is more conducive to... martyrdom.

Aloha Snackbar™!!!

A Mexican, an Arab and a redneck girl are in the same bar.

When the Mexican finishes his beer, he throws his glass in the air, pulls out his pistol and shoots the glass to pieces. He says, "In Mexico, our glasses are so cheap we don't need to drink with the same one twice."

The Arab, obviously impressed by this, drinks his beer, throws it into the air, pulls out his AK-47 and shoots the glass to pieces. He says, "In the Arab World, we have so much sand to make glasses that we don't need to drink with the same one twice either."

The redneck girl, cool as a cucumber, picks up her beer, downs it in one gulp, throws the glass into the air, whips out her .45 and shoots the Mexican and the Arab. Catching her glass, setting it on the bar and calling for a refill, she says:

"In America we have so many illegal Mexicans and Arabs that we don't have to drink with the same ones twice."

The Agony of Victory: June 5, 1967

In the customary spirit of heartfelt pan-caliphantic solidarity with our Islamist brethren and cistern, The Journal is pleased to join in celebrating the occasion of our heroic victory over The Jews™ forty years ago this date, at which time we repossessed our ancestral homelands on behalf of Harvey's Bail Bonds, Collections and Laundromat, 231 Santa Monica Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 95555, USA, Tel. (209) 441 3856--"We Deliver!"

In recognition of this momentous occasion, we are in the privileged position to publish the photograph above submitted by our Gaza Bureau Chief, Padraic O'Cossett, eyewitness to the celebrations in the greater metropolitan Gaza City area--and daily exiteer PDQ to the Sderot Ramada Inn, Room 251.

Note the joyous near-martyrdom-level expression on the countenance and nether regions of one celebrant in particular, since identified as Abu Bin Jamin, Chief Financial Officer, Hamas PCL.

Aloha Snackbar.

And the point of this photograph would be...?

S. Revitz, a wise-ass, sent this in after the cartoon incident. He will get his. We know where he lives. Or used to. Actually, we're not quite sure. I mean, you start up a perfectly normal jihad, do the flow charts, get the venture capital, hire the hot shot suicide bombers. And then the idiots start coming in from HQ to fuck it all up.