Child Sacrifice

Front pages were dominated by the story of 11-year-old Abdullah Quran, who carried a powerful bomb in his schoolbag, replete with a load of metal pellets and other assorted bits of hardware calculated to rip through human flesh. When they opened the bag, soldiers found, alongside the explosives, the boy's Spiderman doll.
Abdullah wasn't merely a courier. He was, unknowingly, a guided missile. A cellphone connected to the 10-kilo bomb he lugged was primed to detonate the bomb by remote control, if his dispatcher considered it expedient.

In the Cold War, actual shooting was avoided based on the principle of MAD. Although it was a mealy-mouthed, new-age, pussified sentiment, Sting was right when he said he "hoped the russians love their children, too". Communism is absolutely devoid of human sympathy, yet it was the human element within the Soviet system that kept them from lobbing gigatons of nuclear destruction our way. They didn't want to die, and they knew that that was exactly what would happen if they started anything with us.

Unfortunately, Muslims in general, and arabs in particular, want to die. They live for it. They consider the sacrifice of their own children not only acceptable, but desirable. I can't even fathom the lack of humanity that would result in the above action. Handing an eleven-year-old kid a sack of plastic explosives and woodscrews and walking him through a checkpoint, because you're too candy-ass to do it yourself is no way to run a war.

Oddly enough, I haven't found a single story at Spiegel Online about that kid. But the frothy-mouthed rantings and ravings of the Hamas zombies about the death of Yassin-Saruman is still front page news at the time of this writing.

You can't survive as a people when you don't love and protect your children. Your desire for fame and riches should come after your desire to protect the lives of your children. This despicable, piece-of-shit religion is eking its way to oblivion. We can't let ourselves be taken along for the ride.

Link via Allah

Cocksucker.

Ryan, the Gay Punk, Say:

My name is Ryan and this is my personal web site for selling my used sneakers and socks.

So begins a hair-raising, mind-boggling, and above all meal-ruining express-elevator trip into the Hell of the Many Things You Never Wanted to See, Not Even Accidentally™.

Much like an H.P. Lovecraft survivor-character, or a witness before the House Un-American Activities Committe, I shall not reveal the source of that map, nor the connections between myself and this horrible leftover of the Old Ones.

And no, I did not order his picture CD. It's feet, for the love of Sweet Jesus.

My mom sent me this picture of my cat, Jones. Apparently, he had a tough day out in the harsh Georgia winter. Right after she got through ironing, he jumped up and claimed the warm spot.