Fatwas Will Get You Laid

I begin today with some sad news. I regret to inform the blueneck community that my bloggin' brother, the venerable DLR, has passed away. He was enjoying post-op life at a nude beach for transsexuals in Rio when he inexplicably crammed a fatal amount of sand into his new vagina. As per his wishes, his remains will be donated to the Society for Ex-con Necrophiliacs With 11-Inch Penises (or RAMBLA). Donations can be made in the form KY Jelly or nipple clamps. No flowers, please.

(DLR, 1922-2008, Mourn ya 'til I join ya)

Moving on, I've realized that we spend a lot of time trashing Christian fundamentalists on this page but have completely overlooked batshit weirdos of other faiths. This will not continue, as I've come to find out that pissing off Islamic fundamentalists is a surefire way to score ungodly amounts of high-class trim. Case in point, my new hero, pimp of the millenium and official mascot of the Blueneck Writers Who Enjoy Boobies Club, Salman Rushdie:

(Rushdie, stylin' and profilin' with his most recent wife, Chick From Top Chef)

Four-times divorced and probably smelling like Ben-Gay and baby food, this aging lothario rose to fame in the literary world with the publication of Midnight's Children in 1981, but didn't gain attention amongst non-nerds until he released The Satanic Verses in 1988. The Islamic world, specifically Ayatollah Khomeini, responded with less than glowing reviews, issuing a fatwa against Rushdie and decreeing that it is the sacred duty of any Muslim to kill the author on sight, due to his irreverent portrayal of the prophet Mohammed in the book. It's been some time since I read The Satanic Verses, but if I recall, Mohammed shows up and presents Peter Griffin with a fish and a football helmet. Or maybe that was the episode of South Park where they make fun of Family Guy. Either way, it was HI-larious.

Time went on, Rushdie lived in hiding and Muslims decided that since Stephen King and Tom Clancy were permitted to continue to live and write shitty books, they would let the fatwa matter drop. That was until earlier this year when Khomeini's predecessor (some other dude with some long Muslim name that I don't feel like looking up right now) issued a public statement that the fatwa is as alive and well as Rushdie's Viagra-induced erection (has anyone else noticed how much we write about dicks on this site? I mean actual dicks not religious people).

So you live underground for years, rarely appearing in public. You finally emerge from hiding only to find that millions of very pissed off people still want you dead. Bummer, right? Not if you're Sally Rush. Having recently divorced his last wife, Hot Chick From Top Chef With the Scar on Her Arm (why did her parents name her that? What if the scar healed, they would've looked stupid.) Rushdie has been spotted around London with a number of fine-looking younger ladies. Nothing new, considering the guy's been a notorious playa for decades, but he reached a new pinnacle last week when he appeared cannodling with Scarlett freakin' Johansson in her new music video.

("It's okay, baby, I don't understand my books either.")

There's only one explanation for this phenomenon: chicks love fatwas. Yes, Rushdie probably has money and he's relatively famous, but he's also old as hell and you don't see John Updike or Phillip Roth dropping panties the world over. No, clearly the element of danger is the aphrodisiac here, which leads me to the simple conclusion that if millions of Muslims want you dead, you will get more ass than a toilet seat. So, in closing I would like to remind the Muslim community that I once whipped Mohammed's ass at Connect Four, then I intentionally stepped on his foot, effectively scuffing his New Balances. There, that oughta do it.