Chapter 20 - "Tea with Taliban"

Who's the Taliban, anyway? There's more than enough mentions of them ever since the chappie of the Ground Zero hit, so I might as well do some decent research. It turns out that they're the Islamic military. They're not all bad folks, I've realized, as I read the conversations between Mortenson and his Taliban allies. Most of them do not have the choice to decide what they want their occupation to be, growing up as boys who learn in the only school set in their villages for enforcing military codes, etcetera. Mortenson's approach to ceasing terrorism by building schools is understandable, because every time he implants a school of his own that does not encourage barbaric teachings, a group of students learn something that is not related to or pertaining to mass-murdering Americans. This is definitely an improvement that takes one step back from the traditional, uncivilized "solution" of wreaking havoc through childish bombs.

"The Taliban just closed Afghanistan to all foreign reporters."

Well, gee, isn't that a great thank you for all the years America has allowed foreigners, including the masked folks of Central Asia, permittance through its gates and past our Lady Liberty in the welcoming Battery Park? Just because ya'll feel a bit insecure after you bullied us (U.S., haha—okay, I'll stop pulling the puny jokes) with your threats and your attacks, afraid that we might retaliate, closing your airports to foreign reporters does nothing but harm your image. Yes, we're looking at a bunch of cowards, people.

"'I was on the phone with my editor in New York when the second plane hit the tower and filed a few stories before they 'escorted' me out.'"

You mean whupped your butt out? (Total Chocolat Meilleure influence right there.)

"Mortenson sat at the table for forty-five minutes, along with an American flag and a large portrait of the president who'd taken the oath of office ten months earlier, George W. Bush. 'I knew what they were trying to do,' Mortenson says."

D'oh! It's so obvious what they want you to do. To activate the secret portal behind the portrait, you must shout, 'You dog!' in an Iraq accent and throw a shoe at his face, just like Muntadar al-Zaidi. Scorch! :P

"And Faisal, who would spit on a picture of Osama Bin Laden any time he saw one, would shudder at the thought of what people under those bombs must be going through and raise his hands in dau, asking Allah to spare them any unnecessary suffering."

Aha! I knew what the interwebz had fed me were lies! All lies! I will now cry and detach my hair in fistfuls of agony! ....No, that was dramatized. But I knew that the girl from the apartment couldn't possibly be blessing me. She was damn right looking down on me. What? Was I missing the scraggly beard and "top hat"?

"'I wish some of our bombs had hit you because you're counterproductive to our military efforts.'"

Alright, let's pretend that I am the magical and mythical Wish Faerie (I refuse to spell it 'Fairy' because Disney abused that term with those giddy goody two-shoes). With my oh-so powerful wand, I can bonk you on the head with it and bada-boom, there's your granted wish. Oh, and what's that? A letter with the sender wishing a bomb had hit Mortenson? Bada-boom, ding, boop, and bam, you've got yourself a Mr. Greg Mortenson dead corpse with the option of sending the body to either your mailbox or porch, mister. Do you sincerely want a bomb to A) decapitate his body, B) dislodge his bones, and C) down-right murder him, and it'll all be all of your fault, from your one careless wish? Your guilt will eat you alive. And ah, let's end it with a chilling adage: Careful what you wish for.

"'Our Lord will see that you pay dearly for being a traitor,' it began, before warning Mortenson that 'soon you will suffer more excruciating pain than our brave soldiers.'"

By "excruciating pain," I infer that you mean that he'll roast like a marinated turkey in the pits of Tartarus. Wow; threatening with hell is so old school, you cross-waving geezer. I believe that God, at least, doesn't dump someone into those flames because you said so. I don't think you have a VIP pass hanging by your neck, missie. Oh, right, and is your lord the type that wants to torture men that do good deeds?