M-TV Accidentally Honors 9/11 Hijackers

he 20th Annual M-TV Video Music Awards, held last Thursday night at New York’s Radio City Music Hall, served up its usual yearly helping of toned abs, wild costumes and music playing somewhere in the background, as expected. But viewers and M-TV executives alike were also treated to a surprise that few could have anticipated.

The show’s highlights were many and varied, including Madonna swapping STDs with Britney and Christina, rapper 50 Cent being shot 15 times during the ceremony but still returning for his musical performance, and Johnny Cash pulling a no-show, doing little to dispel most viewers’ assumptions that he died ten years ago. Host Chris Rock kept the show moving along at a rapid clip, and kept it funny by refusing to pretend that any of the nominated acts were any more than marginally talented.

In fact, the show took on such a party atmosphere that few even noticed when a diminutive Arab man named Sheik Omar Bakri accepted the award for Best New Artist for his album “Magnificent 19,� peppering the crowd with epithets during his acceptance speech in an accent so thick it could’ve shrouded an iceberg from an ocean liner. Many assumed Bakri was simply rapper Eminem’s newest protégé, failing to recognize him as the head of the radical Islamic group Al-Muhajiroun.

“That Sheik Omar was ate up,� gushed Smurf-like crooner Justin Timberlake. “Boy was so drunk he was talkin’ in tongues and shit. I can see why his fans is mad for him, that was righteous.�

In actuality, Sheik Bakri’s speech was the culmination of several months of planning by Al-Muhajiroun, whose members had infiltrated M-TV as interns and were able to slip Bakri’s non-existent album in as the Best New Artist winner in a tribute to the 19 hijackers who died on September 11th.

“The word magnificent is to attract if you like really the attention of the people to those particular 19 Muslims who in our eyes we see as Muslims what really they are — they are more than magnificent,� Sheik Bakri said, sort of in English. “In our eyes, they are the people who sacrifice their own life and that’s the most valuable thing and they offer it. It must be for a good reason. It must be for divine reason.�

Bakri may have misinterpreted the Video Music Awards crowd’s reaction to his remarks during the show, saying “the many Muslims present celebrated the comeuppance of the U.S.A.,� when in fact the crowd was cheering because Britney Spears’ cooch was momentarily visible on the big screen.

Bakri also considers his Best New Artist win to be sanctioned by God, explaining “If God did not permit that to happen, it would never happen,� and has thus far refused to return his moon-man statuette. Sheik Omar did, however, express regret that there was no Best Cover Art category, which could have honored the bizarre “Magnificent 19� album cover he had mocked up at great personal expense.

Network executives at M-TV seem alarmingly unphased by the incident, claiming that most of its viewers are too young to remember the September 11th terrorist attacks.

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Ned Nedmiller come from a long line of popular sloganeers. Nary a time has this great nation hoofed it off to war without a snappy Nedmiller slogan a-hummin' in their brain boxes. In the big one it was "Give a Hoot, Smoke a Boot" and in the big one, the sequel, it was "Damn the Gravy Crank, Macie!" Them Korean War wouldna been near as keen were it not for "Loose Anus, Shank the Dentist" and who can think of Vietnam without remarkin' to themselves "Gimmie a Slice a' Mermaid Pie!" Not quite as many people as you'd think.

Ned's daddy, and the fella who shot Ned's daddy out his pee-hole (Steve) both was popular sloganeers also. Them presided over the golden age of sloganeerin', and nobody not far or near confused them with anything but the best. Dad Nedmiller often would tell stories of them days of his four fathers back when them slogans was classic and simple, and of the time when his pappercorn invented the world's most famous slogan: "Okay, Bill." That was the ringer that cemented his undying fame and created them family fortune you've been readin' about on the bubblegum wrappers and whatnot. It was the slogan against which all others would be judgemencated, and harshly so.

But that's not to say Dadmiller and Grandcracker didna dream up any no other slogans of international famousness. "Don't Wet My Bagpipe!" "A Man, A Tarpaulin, A Combustible Weasel Throne: Sioux Falls," "I Can't Believe I Porked the Pope!" "The Rancid Backbeaver State," "Don't Eat the TNT," "Remember the Alamo and Some Milk," "Give Me Liberty or Give Me Electric Sex Goggles," "We Have Nothing to Fear But Martian Sodomy Squads," and "Rowdy's Soup is Mm Mm Wet," are all to their credits. A fine legacy that's one tough horse and pony show to follow, if you don't mind me sayin'.

Ned Nedmiller has done his best to follow in their novelty-sized footsteps. Nedder made his name early with such rememberable slogans as "A Friend in Needles is in Nevada," "I'm With Stupid," "Shit Stinks," "Go Up, Space Moron," "Smells Like Kindercare," "Rachet Down the Tuna Shaker," "Asthmatics Have More Fun," "Dribble Glass, My Ass," and "Don't Spaz the Curb Monkey!" But Neddle didn't really hit his stride until he penned the counterculture hit slogan of them 60's: "Flush it Down, Charlie Brown." Them slogan captured the imagniariums of a whole generation and put Nedder on the map, as them cartographers is fond of sayin'. Ned got himself a tickletape parade for that caper, and is still beloved by acid burn-outs of all ages, yessir.

Sloganeerin' is quite a pursuit, bringing you much famousness when done right and the satisfaction of givin' folks something to say when they got nothing to say on their own. Quite a charm. And don't let a contradictionary word be spoke about the eternal nature of them very best slogans. You know what them robotic space dinosaurs will say in a billion and one years when they dig up them fossils of you and your neighbors. That's right. "Flashdance in Grover Cleveland's Ass!"

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No one wanted it to come to this. Sure, if you checked with Arvelyn, or my other ex-wife, several of my children, or anybody on the commune staff, a number of them may have wanted it to come to this. But no one I like wanted it to come to this: A duel to the death.

I have besmirched the name of Boguslaw Sadowski, and it's no small feat to besmirch his name, given he's a dirty red con-man, heartless thug, and general bad cookie. But the time for words has passed, at least until we resume the slander trial. I for one won't wait that long. The duel is ten days from now. One of us will be dead by the time that trial rolls around, making it a lot easier case for the other guy. Though the survivor will get stuck with court costs, that's no free lunch.

The besmirching in question began two days ago, when I came home to find Boguslaw Sadowski in my home, talking to my wife in that unintelligible Russian blather they both know. Mob boss and Sting-lookalike Yogi explained to me Boguslaw would be moving in for the next few forevers, or until he could find his own place. Well, something snapped in me, good people, probably a couple of lower vertebrae, and I lost another inch in height. That I'm used to, but being made a fool of in my own home, and being completely aware of it, that's something I'm not. As if to make things worse, I noticed Boguslaw, talking to Felchyana still, make the international hand symbol for asshole, which I won't share with you decent folk here.

That was it, I was incensed. I grabbed the nearest thing I could and threw it at the mad Russian, a bucket of confetti I keep on hand for emergency purposes. At first Boguslaw was delighted, then he realized the intended insult and was driven into a mad rage. He threatened to cut off the fingers of all my living children in response, which I laughed off—if he's got that sort of time, good luck to him, right? Then he decided it was more effective to pick me up by the ankles and hang me out my own window.

Well, I've been hung out windows by better than he and didn't bat an eye, but the insult of doing it to me in my own house, in front of my non-English-speaking wife, and revealing my unsightly ankles to the whole world. Boguslaw Sadowski made an enemy for life that day, good people, and the difference now is I told him to his face. I slapped him with a glove I keep for duel challenges, and it left quite a welt, being a rubber surgical glove. I then pulled it taut and snapped it in his face, and his eye has been bandaged ever since—hopefully that will effect his aim quite a bit. Since we are dueling in ten days, as I aforementioned.

You all know I am not afraid of death, when it is happening to someone else. In this case, though it comes for me, I will stand proud against it. Boguslaw Sadowski may fire an endless barrage of bullets in my direction, though technically that will be against all the rules of the duel, and I will not falter. If he tries to kill Felchyana and Camembert and Lee, I will not weaken. If he kills my ex-wife Arvelyn I may even send him a nice thank-you note and an FTD bouquet. But whatever happens, no matter how logic argues with me, I will not back down from this challenge.

For I have been insulted with an obscene hand gesture by a man who barely speaks the language, good people. And some things defy common sense. Rok Finger are one of those things.

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