Chicken of the Sea

Well, hell. I am pretty bummed that the US government wrapped up and shoved overboard into our oceans the carcass of Osama-Used-to-Been-Laden. I know, I know. Cain’t build a shrine if thar ain’t no body to worship. Although even if Looney-Laden’s body were to be available for eternal viewing, there would still be NOBODY worth worshipping.

But, the decision to honor Muslim religious rites isn’t the cause of my discontent. Most religious rites suck ass anyway, so I say fuck all of ‘em. (Whoever came up with the idea of grieving family members viewing bloated, cold, dead people who have permanent clown make-up deserves eye-gouging and testicle-twisting because I’ll bet you it was a man.) I just think having his holey-ness (once the fishes get to him) under the sea taints all my future dinners at Red Lobster, even more than that God-forsaken BP fuck-up. All seafood will now and forever have an—I don’t know—rotten-mother-fucker taste to it. Anyone who eats future crustaceans will in effect be ingesting radical meat-o’-Muslim.

When the sharks that get ahold of corpse-Laden start washing ashore with the frozen expressions on their toothful little faces reserved only for those in the throes of rocket-powered diarrhea, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Trump bin Laden Sheen

The world may be a better place without Osama, but wouldn’t it have been far sweeter if bin Laden had been throwing a little tea party for asswipes on Sunday? I can just imagine the scene:

Inside a million-dollar compound in Pakistan—unnoticed by local political leaders and officials of the military academy within walking distance—a banquet table, draped in a dainty floral-patterned silk, overflows with scones and jam, buttery tea biscuits, iced lemon cakes, and delicate China cups brimming with café au lait.

The Donald leans slightly forward as Osama tops off Trump’s beverage. The “winning warlock” gently chews a petit four. Osama wiggles a teapot in Charlie’s direction.

“More tiger’s blood for my favorite infidel?” Osama inquires. Sheen declines with a slight wave.

“No. No more for me. I’ve got to go drain my torpedo of truth as it is.” He spots a twelve-year-old girl hesitating in the doorway. “Excuse me,” he says to his fellow fuckers, “Gotta go grab me a goddess.” On the way out, Sheen playfully flips the Donald’s hair.

“Goddammit, Charlie. It took five hours and six stylists to get that right this morning. Now I’ll never be president,” Trump seethes.

“Oh, comb on, Donnie. If I can get my career back after all the lies CBS has spread about me, then you can bounce back from a little follicle fuck-up. We shall overcomb!” Sheen explodes with laughter at his own dumbassness. Trump executes an inverted facelock elbow drop, and the two celebrated dipshits soon end up naked and grappling on bin Laden’s linoleum. Just as Osama strips his pastel striped dress over his head to join in the gay old time, a team of Navy Seals in night-vision goggles drops in for a treat. They shoot anything that even remotely resembles a dumbass.

And the world lets loose a collective sigh of relief.

Fade to black.