(Couldn’t resist–PB)

Dear Journal Of Mine,

It’s lonely being a terrorist.  I miss those long walks in Mecca with Ari.  I miss those wonderful nights at the Sheik’s palace, counting money and listening to Bob Dylan.  Sometimes, we got to behead an agent from the IDF.  Those were the days.  I miss my camel and my Rolls.

You know, sometimes I wonder what it’s all about.  I’ve been having these Deep Thoughts lately.  If I were an American, I’d probably be rich and famous like Mitt Romney or Donald Trump.  Hanging out with sexy actresses like Jennifer Aniston and Sarah Jessica Parker.  Throw out the first bomb…I mean, baseball on Opening Day at Yankee Stadium.  Do a rap song with Common.  See Blue Man Group in Vegas.  Ahhhh…I don’t know.  I feel like I’ve wasted my life.  I could have been somebody, a contender, instead of just a terrorist, which is what I am.  The Sheik, he should have looked out for me.

But no, here I sit again with my Journal.  I feel like Emily Dickinson.  I can’t even go on Facebook.  Or blog something on BROADSIDES or COUNTERPUNCH.  Even under the handle I made for myself: progressive-in-vt.  Shit.  I’ve always wanted to go there.  Eat Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and hang out in Montpelier with Bernie Sanders.  Go to Charlie Os and be a pool shark like Paul Newman in The Hustler.  Take a horse-drawn sleigh ride in Stowe, and stiff Michael Colby on the tip.  But here I sit, waiting for the Sheik’s orders.  And he doesn’t contact me.  Not even a lousy Christmas Card.  Last one I got was almost 3 years ago, and all it said was:  “Happy Holidays, Binster!  Hang in there.  This is me and Bathi in our Matching Christmas Sweaters we got at Wal-Mart when Bush had us over to watch the elections in D.C..  Cool hanh?  Listen, don’t bomb D.C..  We may be invited back.  And don’t bomb anything in Alaska either.  Keep chilled, dude.  I’ll be in touch.”  And that’s it.  So I’m stuck knocking around all day in this mansion thinking about the meaning of life.  I’ve read all the self-help books and now I’m reading Kerouac and Bukowski.  I’m bummed.

I wonder if Allah is dead?  I wonder if you explode a bomb in the forest and nobody’s there to hear it, does it make a big ka-Booom?  Why is every explosion different, like snowflakes?  Is my glass half empty or half full?  And why don’t people care anymore?  How can I make somebody care?

“Dear Sarah,

I’ll bet you never expected to hear from me again, but I can’t take it anymore.  Lately, I’ve been thinking about 72 virgins.  I want to hold your hand and go shopping for clothes with you.  Just the simple things in life.  A little house or cabin in the woods outside Hardwick, Vermont.  Our own organic vegetable garden.  Maple syrup and fiddleheads on a properly slaughtered goat.  Running for the School Board.  Shoveling snow and bitching about the town Selectmen.  Talking to the Jehovah’s Witnesses on Saturday morning.  Going to yard sales.  And filling out the Doyle Poll.”  Ahhhh…

She won’t care either.  All right.  It’s time for the Quran.  But it’s so boooorrring!  Hey, I know!  I should do an updated version–Sex And The City And The Koran!  Something hip and now.  With a lot of pictures of Jennifer Aniston half-naked.  Make Muhammad a stud.  Hell, I’ll have half the men in America alone converting and beheading the other half.  And I’ll make a fortune!  Movie deals and TV.  I’ll be on Jon Stewart with Bernie Sanders.  And Julia Roberts.  And Dolly Parton–Yeah, what a pair of hooters!  Do you suppose Dolly would let me…hmmm?  Shit man!  And T-shirts and ballcaps and a micro-brew named after me–binBrewski, Laden Lager.  10 bucks a pint at the Three Penny Taproom!  And those sleigh rides in Stowe, listening to Colby rave about liberal fucks and revolution.  Beheading Ralph Nader!  Hell, I’m going to get right to work on this…

“What’s that, Achmed?”

“No, I wasn’t expecting company.  Oh hell, let them in.  They look like the Jehovah’s Witnesses.  They’ve come at last!  Allah Be Praised……………………………….

Peter Buknatski

Montpelier, Vt.

(Thank you, Salman Rushdie!)