How I know Islam is a Violent Religion
Despite the propaganda, Islam is not a religion of peace. In fact, whenever Muslims declare Islam a religion of peace, the exhortation is immediately followed by either a giggle or a snort. Every time. Check it out, tell me I’m not right.
Islam is such a violent religion that it’s divided into two factions, the Shia and the Sunni so that Muslims have someone to kill while waiting around to kill infidels. Intramural jihad. The rift between the two is irreconcilable. Basically, the beef is over who replaced Mohammed. It’s Leno-Letterman, with beheadings in place of snark.
But forget ancient history.
When I was a youth, there was a Muslim pop star named Cat Stevens. Mr. Stevens had a melodic style that was somewhere between Joni Mitchell and a brain aneurysm. It was the kind of music guys would play so they could bang girls that were into Sylvia Plath. It also provided white noise for nerds rereading “The Hobbit,” but had a debilitating effect on nearly everyone else. To this day, if I hear “Moonshadow,” I experience vertigo. But at the height of his fame, Mr. Stevens stopped recording albums in order to dedicate his life to serving Islam and people with good taste in music.
Fast forward about ten or fifteen or forty years later and I’m traveling between Dubai and London with a layover at Abuddin International Airport.* I walk into the TGIF by the boarding gate and, lo and behold, who do I see at the bar but none other than Cat Stevens. How ironic is that? Cat Stevens in a TGIF?** Holy shit, Cat Stevens! Wow! Facebook selfie here I come.
I pull up a seat next to him at the bar just in time to hear the former pop star mumble to the barkeep “another.”
“Jim Beam and Diet Coke?” Cat Stevens nods his head.
Jim Beam and Diet Coke? Jesus. What happened to this guy? This man was once one of the biggest pop stars in the world and now he’s drinking cheap bourbon and diet soda? (Fake editor’s note: Jim Beam and Diet Coke is not a proper cocktail. It’s something the bi-curious drink to wash away the taste of ass play and shame.)
Anyhoo, when the bartender delivers this affront to mixology, I coolly lean over, hand him my Capital One credit card (yes, my credit score is that low) and say “It’s on me. And I’ll take a Woodford Reserve. Make it a double. Neat.” I’ve made a new friend.
“You’re Cat Stevens. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name’s Tony. I’m a big fan,” I gush. “Loved Tea for the Tillerman,” I lie.
“Thank you, my friend but I no longer recognize that name. My name is Yusuf Islam.”
My whiskey is delivered as I process this. Yusuf Islam? Wasn’t he one of the Central Park 5? Maybe Muslims need more names to choose from. Someone could probably make a fortune publishing a baby name book for Muslims that contained more than five names.
“Yusef Islam? Seriously? That makes about as much sense as the phrase ‘Andy Dick’s girlfriend.’ That’s like converting to Judaism and calling yourself ‘Hymie Jew’,” I opine. “Are you trying to set the record for secondary security checks?”
Yusuf ignores my insightfulness. “Well, Tony…”
I cut him off. “I no longer recognize that name,” I tell him. “My name is Bob Cock. I changed it a few minutes ago when I became a pescetarian.”
The artist formerly known as Cat downs the remainder of his complimentary swill gives me a look like I was blood he found in his stool and gets up to leave. “Nice talking to you. Thanks for the drink. Ma’aasalaama.” Cat picks up a guitar case and, for some inexplicable reason a Hello Kitty backpack, and heads for the exit.
I gulp down my double Woodford like the heathen infidel that I am. “Oh, by the way, trim the beard,” I yell out. “You’re seventy years old. Your face looks like a GILF’s minge. One more thing (and this was where it all went south)…’Teaser and the Firecat’ sucked.”
That was a fatal mistake.
I am sipping my deliciously soothing whiskey when I hear it. A bloodcurdling, guttural sound. A sickening, hideous yawling that make the hairs on my arm stand on end. Fingernails on a chalkboard.
It was “Sad Lisa” all over again.
I wheel around in my barstool to see Señor Islam standing in the middle of the dining area. Seething. The guitar case no longer in his hand. The Hello Kitty backpack by his feet. The entire place froze. No one dares make a sound.
You’ve heard of the thousand-yard stare? Well, that’s what he had but in metric, because that’s what they use over there. So he had like the 915-meter stare. To this day, I can’t forget the look in his eyes. His were like shark eyes. If a shark liked fucking goats and little boys.
“Morning has broken, motherfucker,” he said. “It’s on.”
With that, he charged me with all the force and power of a 110-pound (50 kg) man who hasn’t bathed in a while. 110 pounds (50 kg) of rage and stank. He was on me like Donald Trump on a 13-year-old aspiring model. That smelly little son of a bitch threw me a beating I shan’t soon forget. I am still haunted by the memory of an animalistic rage (his) and an almost feminine weeping (mine). In my defense, I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, not to mention the fact I may have had a touch of the flu, food poisoning, and Zika, the dog ate my homework and it’s Hillary’s fault. But the point is, if a man who gave up fame and riches to dedicate his life to Islam can be so easily provoked towards violence, it dispels the notion that the religion itself is inherently peaceful. Period.
To be fair, Islam isn’t the only violent religion. Christianity as well. And not just the crusades. I’m talking about the pope. Did you know that in his youth Pope Francis was a bouncer at a nightclub in Buenos Aires? That means there are actually people out there who have had the shit kicked out of them by the leader of the Catholic Church. How fucked up is that?
And Judaism. Please. Don’t even get me started on Judaism. Sometime I’ll tell you about my encounter with that punk ass bitch, Elie Weisel.
*Abuddin is a fictional country in the television show “Tyrant”, you dumb fuck.
**Friday is the Muslim holy day, you stupid asshole.