Revisiting Osama bin Laden’s Final Day

He picked the wrong day to quit sniffing glue.

He picked the wrong day to quit sniffing glue.

 

A source who is intimately familiar with the day-to-day inner workings of Osama bin Laden’s fortified compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, has released an account of the Al Qaeda mastermind’s last day. The source spoke on the condition of anonymity, on account of I made him up. Here is his report:

Sunday, May 1, 2011. 5:15 A.M.
[a bedside clock radio clicks on]
“Let’s get mooooooving, Abbottabad! Wakey wakey, eggs and bakie! Well, not real bakie, of course!”

“No way, date-breath, because we don’t eat bacon! It’s swine! Hey, it’s your morning tractor crew zoo, Jarangi and Qalat, coming to you on Super FM 90, Bahawal Nagar. The only station in the Bahahwal Region!”

“That’s right, Jarangi, it’s another beautiful day in Pakistan, and this morning we’ll be prank-calling Prime Minister Gillani…”

[A hand slaps the snooze button on the radio, and it goes silent.]

“Oh, great and giving Allah, just five more minutes of sleep. I was just about to unwrap a virgin in my dream. They are so fast!” Osama bin Laden removes his dental mouthguard and drops it in a glass of filmy water on the nightstand. He reaches under the sheet and scratches at his groin. “I need some coffee.” He pulls on a dirty bathrobe and walks down the stairs to the second floor kitchen. He passes his one of his wives in the hallway.

“Close your robe, Osama,” she says. “You look like you are smuggling a badger.”

Bin Laden obliges, and gives her a dirty look. “You will pay for your insolence, filthy wench. One day Allah will rain down…”

“Yeah, yeah, rain down fire and demons on all the infidels who have mocked you, blah blah blah. Whatever. Hey, where is that messenger, Abu Ahmad? When he gets back here send him back to the market because I need some feminine products.” She walks away from bin Laden and locks herself in the bathroom.

Bin Laden pulls the belt tight on his robe and continues walking to the kitchen. “Crazy chamcha,” he mutters.

6:05 A.M.
[bin Laden is seated at a small formica kitchen table, drinking black coffee from a promotional travel mug bearing the logo of a Russian arms manufacturer, and working on a laptop.]
“Durani!” he calls. “Where is Abu with my paper? I can only listen to these old NPR recordings for so long. I wish there was some way we could hook up to the internet without being detected. I miss the Twitter. I haven’t updated my Facebook page in years. I would kill a village of Kurds just to see one funny video on the YouTube. Ah, the good old days. But I still need my daily copy of the Mahasib, see if those American bastards are still looking for me. ”

[A lackey runs quickly into the kitchen.] “Yes, Lion Sheik, I will find the courier immediately.” He bows obsequiously and backs slowly out of the kitchen.

“I need to drop off a socialist at the pool, and I’ll be in there for a while,” says bin Laden. “And make sure that sheep-for-brains doesn’t forget my breakfast burrito! No sausage,” he yells after the minion. He shakes his head and mutters to himself. “Allah, why is it so hard to find henchmen with a decent work ethic these days?”

6: 50 A.M.
[Bin Laden is back in the main bedroom, sitting at a desk, looking at a computer screen. Several small children are running in and out of the room, playing, and a middle-aged woman is picking up clothes from the floor and putting them in a hamper.]
“Sam, are you going to just play Asteroids all day, or are you going to get to work on the Amtrack attack in Detroit?” she says, stuffing a soiled burnoose into her basket.

Bin Laden, tapping furiously on the keyboard, yells, “Hyperspace! Hyperspace! Ah, damn it. That was my last ship.” He turns to the woman. “Relax, woman, the Americans are busy watching the Jersey Shore and eating Rolos while their children starve in the streets. And stop calling me Sam! These attacks take time to plan and they must occur on dates that are significant to those capitalist devils. Like July of the Fourth, or Grandparent’s Day. You need to be patient. And how about a little respect? I am the most wanted terrorist in the world, you know!”

The woman holds a grubby article of clothing up to her nose. “Shew! This dishdasha smells like you have been wrestling with a diseased ibex. Why don’t you take a shower once in a while? You might be a little more wanted around here, if you catch my drift. And when was the last time you dyed your beard? You look like that man in ZZ Top, the silly one who plays the khartaloon.”

Bin Laden turns back to his computer game, grumbling about having too many wives. He’s in a bad mood, and his day is starting out poorly. The cacophony of the children has reached a deafening pitch, and he throws his hands up in the air. “Enough! You little beasts go play in the basement! I can’t even hear myself terrorize!” He mutters to himself: “Oh, if only I could go back in time I would trade one thousand goats for a single package of condoms.”

7:25 A.M.
[bin Laden is seated in a small broom closet on the third floor. A board hinged to the wall creates a desk, and he is writing in a spiral notebook.]

“Dear Diary, it is a sad day in the Muslim world when a man has to escape into his own storage room to have some peace. No internet, no telephone, no escape from this mansion. I am like the Gilligan of that American sex show, Gilligan and the Two Whores. Only my whores are shrews who only complain and make my life a living Jahannam.

“I long for the simpler days, when that Texas oaf George Bush was the supreme leader in United States. I could have lived in a large recreational vehicle on the White House lawn and he still would not have found me. But this new man, Obama, and his shrewd minions like Hilary Clinton and Oprah Winfrey, they are making my life very difficult. Hounded by women! It is so embarrassing. Sometimes I feel like I am still a little boy in Saudi Arabia, being pushed around by the girls in primary school.

“I don’t know what it is about today, just a weird feeling that things are just not going to go my way. Like that! I just heard a tremendous crash outside. It is probably my son, trying to back the Mercedes out of the compound. I love that boy, but I swear, he could not find his asshole with a funnel. How many cars has he wrecked just driving down to the sandal factory to pick up couple of flash drives full of Al Qaeda gossip? Ach. On days like this, my head hurts as if my kufiyyah is too tight.

“Was that a gunshot? Impossible. It is probably the kids, playing cricket in the living room. If I have told them once, I have told them a thousand times to take it to the basement. I would hate to send one of them to his afterlife reward with his own bat, but a man can only take so much, right, Diary?

“Hold on, someone is coming up the stairs. I hope it is the brothers with some new Adam Sandler DVDs. I know, I know, he’s a rich American imperialist goat dog, but he makes me laugh so hard I almost pee in my kurta!

“Hey, someone’s at the door. What the…?”

[End of transmission.]

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