Sniper Perpetuates Exciting New Muslim Stereotypes

eligious differences again proved insurmountable, this time in the case of the pair of snipers who terrorized the east coast of the United States with a string of fatal attacks that left ten dead and countless others terrified to walk in a straight line to work or school.

The suspects arrested for the crimes, John Allen Muhammad and John Lee Malvo, were like a Sanford & Son for the Guns and Ammo set, spending years of their lives as desperate loners together, acting for reasons not yet known to the public as they killed random victims and threatened the United States, requesting the reasonable extortion fee of $10 million to cease their terror. While little is known about the suspects, it is known that Muhammad, a Muslim, has done a bang-up job in putting a positive foot forward for the Islamic community.

"Oh, goody," said President of the Positive Islam Group (PIG) Al-Abib Farouzi, "at last, a Muslim making the news who is not a foreign terrorist. This is more than we could have hoped for."

According to PIG, Muhammad has managed to break the usual American stereotype of Muslims who live in faraway third-world countries who wish death on America and commit gigantic acts of terrorism.

"Now when people think of Muslims," said Farouzi, "they'll know that in addition to the foreign-born terrorists moving around them, Muslims can also be van-driving serial killers who strike without apparent motivation and prey on anybody who makes an easy shot."

Muhammad, in his two-man tirade of raining bullets, has challenged post-September 11th stereotypes of domestic Muslims being normal Americans with no desire to kill or harm in any way. He has also reminded most Americans, who are quick to assume security in the areas they live, that danger doesn't only lurk in air travel or opening strange envelopes, but can come from anywhere at any time. Death is only a random bullet away.

"Thank you, Mr. Muhammad," said 24-year-old Maryland college student Marjorie Block. "I had previously begun to speculate maybe the anger Muslims feel toward the United States was possibly politically motivated due to unwanted government intervention in countries we had financial stakes in—I now foolishly see that Muslims just want money. Or they hate people walking around without flak jackets and helmets."

The negative Muslim images couldn't have come at a worse time for Islamic Americans, who were beginning to make a dent in negative Muslim images in the wake of the United States' War on Terror and the possibility of war with Iraq. Plans to add an Islamic muppet to Sesame Street have been stalled in the wake of the sniper arrest and ABC has dropped a mid-season pilot for My Six Wives and Kids, a Muslim sitcom.

"We have worked diligently at improving the perception of Muslims in the United States, domestic and abroad," PIG President Farouzi later stated. "And our hard work has been brought down by another brazen asshole. Thanks, dickhead—any other negative racial or religious stereotypes you'd like to perpetuate, as long as you're up?"

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OH MY GOD SNOW

I suppose, like me, you have all noticed the vast proliferation of electric products surrounding us these days. Is this getting ridiculous or what? When did all of society become mechanized overnight? Now you can't even go to the bathroom without finding some sort of electric toilet waiting for you.

Before you get worked up in my diatribe, I should let you know that won't be what the column's about this week. It was going to be, I thought I'd give everyone a double-dose of old school Rok Finger, but that was before my wife started swearing like Slappy White. It's her who deprived you of that joyful raving against electricity, good people, so direct those complaints to her. She'll call you the F-word, surely, and then make some gang sign. But it is something I must address, for the world is not spinning on the right axis when Rok Finger, paragon of virtue and stodginess, has a foul-mouthed immigrant wife.

It all began when I kicked up my English-as-a-Second-Language program a notch. I decided it was way past time Felchyana learned to speak like an American, as I was getting so tired of the neighbors asking what was that god-awful screaming in a funny language they kept hearing while I was away at work. If she's going to make a racket, at least make it in English, as the saying I just said goes.

I figured we could share in the learning process together, and she would learn English the same way I learned everything growing up: television. I introduced her to basic cable, with its 60+ channels of day-filling programming. I'm not much on TV anymore myself, except for those delightful rerun channels like TV Land and Nick at Nite. If only life could be like that! A rerun. She took an immediate liking to The Jeffersons, and I was delighted to hear her assemble her first full English phrase: "Look, little man is like you." Her darling laugh is so infectious I let it slide, even though, of course, George Jefferson is far from like me; he's a diminutive black man who yells about everything. I am white.

How this led to the swearing I'm not entirely sure. They do allow a lot more saltiness on basic cable than I remember. Some of those channels even make references to birth control and anal leakage—in commercials! It's pandemonium. I think commercials were her downfall, particularly when I noticed she kept gesturing to this commercial for a CD called "The Best of Gangsta Rap, Vol. 13." With Stony Ass-Whippin', Killer D, MC Grabass, Master Cock, and all your other favorites. Of course, I knew she already had my credit card, but I didn't put two and two together until later.

In fact, all the relentless barrage of swear words didn't clue me in at all, and I thought the fact they rhymed was just delightful coincidence. None of it dawned on me until I noticed she was wearing work-out suits and gold chains, or bling-bling, as she referred to it. I confronted her about it, asked her if she was getting involved with a new culture and she insinuated I prefer the company of men.

I can't take her anywhere until I get this fixed. She came to work with me one day when I hoped Stigmata Spent could straighten her out, and she referred to new reporter Shabozz Wertham with a very negative word. I tried to tell him she meant it like he was her homey, but I think I only succeeded in making yet another lifelong enemy. When I make them myself, that's one thing, but I can't have her going around doing my work for me.

This will work itself out, mark my words. TV got me into this mess, TV will get me out. I'm hoping to wean her off onto other niche cultures. I'm convinced if I can get her to sit down for Seinfeld long enough she will lose this whole swearing problem. Or at least offend me in brand new ways. Anything would be an improvement at this point.

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May I be struck down by the ghost of Sid Caesar if I'm lying, but I swear I'm the only person who's paying attention any more in this crazy world. The latest example of thistruism happens to be the VCR repair business. Seems harmless enough of a topic, right? Wrong again, my friend! I may never loose those CIA dogs of my trail after this one.

I've become convinced that the VCR repair business is nothing but a front for criminal activity in all of it's grisly manifestations. A few years ago I was living down the street from this guy who claimed to be a VCR repair man. I even had him tinker with my betamax machine on several occaisions. Now I'm not saying he didn't fix the thing, but I knew something was up. Then one pleasant afternoon I was sitting on my porch when not unlike all the monkeys of hell descending from the sky at least a dozen police vehicles of every make and description, vans, trucks, cars and battering devices squealed onto my street, producing scores of heavily armed SWAT officers brandishing shotguns, gas masks and ferocious-looking dogs. Equipment and vehicles were scattered helter-skelter across the street, and all of these Virgina farmboys had but one intention in mind: Well, there's an outside chance that they wanted to have an old hi-fi deck looked at or something, and that it was all a coincidence, but deep down inside I think that they came there that day with the intention of kicking down my neighbor's door, dragging him out into the street in his underwear, and then removing large amounts of illegal drugs from his home before loading him into the back of one of their cars and driving away. Call it a hunch.

Naturally, anybody would be a little curious about "VCR Repair Men" after an episode like that. But it doesn't stop there. Just today on the way home I passed the friendly neighborhood porno theater and what did I see on the marquee (I mean, under "A Fistfull of Tits" and "Jug-Jambouree") but the simple words "VCR REPAIR UPSTAIRS". I should have suspected as much.

There are several schools of thought on the subject. Some have suggested to me that those living on the fringes of our society's culture, the unwashed and rarely shaven, those apt to deal in drugs or products of the flesh, may themselves be frequent users of porno videocassettes. And that the frequent playing of these tapes, in cahoots with frequent high-speed rewinding and heavy use of the slow-motion feature, may be apt to damage the average video cassette recorder. And that these individuals, rather than pay the high price of electronics repair or replacement, might take up with screwdriver in hand (and some kind of tool with which to open the VCR in the non-drinking hand) and learn the fine art of VCR repair themselves through trial and error. And that such experience might give them a way to supplement the income received from their illegal and barely-legal activities.

A sound enough theory to most ears. But I think it's bullshit. I think VCR repair people are all inherently evil, and most likely they are from Milwaukee. I know, sometimes the truth hurts. I'll be in touch.

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