Monday, July 23, 2012

The Great Falafel Conspiracy

"Illumination turns out to be worse than darkness."  

     - John Robison, "Proofs of a Conspiracy against all the Religions and Governments of Europe, carried on in the secret meetings of Freemasons, Illuminati and Reading Societies"
(Edinburgh, 1797)

Speaking for myself, I'm glad it's nearly over. I can't stand this waiting any longer. They can have it. If you don't know what I'm talking about, I have only two words for you - Huma Abedin.

Let me explain. For most of my life, since I was of an age to remember anything I've been waiting for the world to be taken over. By someone or other, it didn't really matter to me who it was going to be. But at last they're baying at America's gates, with Michelle Bachmann and Glenn Beck ringing the alarm bell on the Final Chapter, warning of the imminent day when sharia law will supplant the good old Constitution and all the dreams of our Founding Fathers (of which Beck seems to be curator) will come to naught. Yet in spite of their finest efforts I fear it may be too little and much too late.

I don't claim to be an expert on sharia law, nor on the Great Falafel Conspiracy unfolding in our nation's capital. But if I might be permitted a little license to speculate here, I foresee sharia law gaining footholds in Minneapolis (Bachmann's hometown) and Oklahoma City, two places where visionary state legislatures have seen the threat and attempted to act accordingly. (In the first instance the lawmaker who introduced the bill withdrew it when Muslim groups objected; in the second instance the bill was overturned by a court. Which shows just how deeply this conspiracy runs.) From these Islamic strongholds on our very soil the Islamic onslaught will catch like a gas fire in a weedlot.

I'm not quite of an age to recall the Yellow Peril, though I'm told it was a heady time when fancies turned to exotic dangers, to the alluring incense of opium, the fond hope of forced attentions from vile and alien strangers, when Virtue was tried in the cauldron of Oriental vice in all its grisliest aspects. Where were the Bachmanns and the Becks then? Yet we prevailed, nay, triumphed. Well, I mean, that was then, of course, in the heathen days before WalMart.

But in my nonage in knee pants and sailor suits during the Wilson Administration, the threat of the godless Hun washing ashore in hairy waves from unseen U-boats was so palpable that the Espionage Act of 1917 came home to roost and has really never left. (The Obama White House still uses it to considerable effect - ask Bradley Manning.) The civilized world fully expected to be herded by large dogs, forced to forage for roots and berries like the peasantry of a benighted Europe, happy with the odd turnip and last week's funny papers. Once more our xenophobia proved our salvation.

After that it was just one thing after another, world domination ever knocking at our nation's door, threatening to destroy our livelihoods, to unchurch our one true religion, to suborn the sacred democratic process whereby we all agree that members of the Electoral College should exercise their consciences vis-a-vis our consciences.

The Cold War arrived immediately upon the release of some of our citizens from a benign national network of Japanese-only country clubs and gated "communities," raising again the prospect of another prophecy from the Book of Revelation in the person of Nikita Kruschev, who had the effrontery to pound his shoe in the faces of the world's leaders (to which British Prime Minister Harold McMillan responded without a trace of irony, "I'd like that translated, if I may.") The shoe, you will note, was a soft slip-on model, the sort of comfy mocassin favored by grandfatherly types who spend their days seated at their dining tables forwarding jokes and assorted political tripe via e-mail. In time we prevailed again, the danger passed, the shoe went back onto the stubby foot, and we realized that we had quite pardonably overestimated its gravity.

The old soft shoe

This time, I need hardly say, is different. America faces an enemy who can barely afford shoes, an enemy who turns shoes into bombs because his faith dictates world domination and the destruction of every religion other than his own. You can tell by looking at him . . .

. . . they all look the same, pretty much.

. . . hell bent on adding your women to his already overstocked harem, on refusing you service at your favorite Porky Parlor barbecue restaurant, on strictly enforcing the "last call rule," on refusing to grant your teenage daughter her driving privileges (well, I never said it was going to be all bad), ending your farm subsidy and commandeering your ration of fertilizer so he can make bigger IEDs.

Clearly, the inability of the Muslim Brotherhood to take over its own government in Cairo has merely steeled its resolve to take over our kind of foreign-seeming government in Washington. As I write, a Muslim sleeper cell lies embedded in the House of Representatives, two members of Congress duly chosen by a sleeping electorate. The very absence of Muslim members in the Senate only proves the stealth with which a shadowy Islam has infiltrated the highest ranks of government.

But I said I was glad it's nearly over, and I meant it. I'm old enough to remember elementary school air raid drills - everyone under a flimsy school desk, little butts in the air, right out where the shrapnel could rip you a new one. I'm not willing to go through all that again. Destroy this mad brute? I don't care when they get here.

But I know they're coming - else why no peep from James Dobson, to name but one luminary and defender of the faith? Because he's smart enough to keep quiet and preserve the not-so-remote chance of a caliphate, or at the very least a mullahhood in the New World Order. Ditto with Imam Pat Robertson, who knows which side of the pita the hummus is on. For my own part, I'm changing my life in small ways to prepare for the ascendancy of the Star and Crescent - I've given up beer brats (pork) and Coors Light (alcohol); and I'm putting all that air raid drill expertise to the best possible use - after all, you can't be too careful.

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