THE THREE LITTLE IMAMS

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Everyone has heard of The Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf. Everyone…Opie has, Arnold has; the gang at Sesame Street has. It was Peewee Herman’s favorite bedtime story; it was what got Dick Tracy interested in becoming a Plainclothes Detective. It has action; it has suspense; it has pyrotechnics. When Opie Taylor read the story at a sleepover chaperoned by Goober, Arnold Ziffle begged him to stop and Goober crawled under the bed. Arnold now considers The Three Little Pigs an American Literary Classic but Ole Goober still flinches and will leave the room rather than sit trough a film version of the classic.

But what about the Islamic version of The Three Little Pigs? What about The Three Little Imams? Never heard of them? Well, it’s out there and it is every bit as suspenseful and as spine chilling as the Western Classic. Political Correctness has forced it underground. Go ahead…ask Ibrahim Hooper about The Three Little Imams, ask Ingrid Mattson, ask John Esposito, one won’t get anything out of them.

There has been The Three Blind Mice, the Three Musketeers, the Three Stooges and The Three Little Pigs but no Three Little Imams. How could that be? If Jesus Christ had Twelve Apostles, Mohammed must have had a literary Three Little Imams somewhere along the line. Asma bint Marwan and Abu Afaq must have written about them. Muslims do not live by Ali Baba alone.

CAIR (Council on American-Islamic Relations) may deny their existence, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad might swear on a stack of Qur’ans that the Imams are a figment of Geert Wilders’ imagination but modern historical research conducted by www.maxflackreport.com has proved conclusively that the threesome existed. Yes, while poking around in his attack, noted paleontologist Arnold Ziffle discovered a complete unabridged copy of The Three Little Imams and the Big Bad Dhimmi tucked in his great-great-grandmother’s corset. Ziffle spent years interpreting his incredible find. With the help of God, his lawyer Oliver Wendell Douglas and the best brains at maxflackreport, his perseverance has paid off and Maxflack is proud to present the only official transcript of the Islamic classic tale. And here it is in all its unexpurgated glory:

Once upon a time there were three little Imams, Abu Hamza, Omar Bakri and Taj el-Din Hilali. They were terrified of the Big Bad Dhimmi, of his holy crosses, of his aspergillums and his smoking censors. They feared his chants and benedictions. And those horrid church bells—those terrifying pagan cymbals that broke the silence of the Islamic Gulag! Innervating! The endless te deums, the talk of the Holy Trinity and the Mother of God was enough to drive the fleas from the Prophet’s beard. It was blasphemy—blasphemy!

“I am gong to build a Fuhrerbunker to hide in,” said Abu Hamza. “I will be safe there from John Travolta and Britney Spears. I will be safe from their gyrating stomachs. I will be safe from rocking around the clock. My daughter will be safe and my daughter’s daughters will be safe…I will hang Nazi paraphernalia on the walls of my Fuhrerbunker to keep the Big Bad Dhimmi away. I will plot and plot and plan and plan and scheme and scheme. I will send my children out to blow up their school buses and pizzerias. I will be safe from the Big Bad Dhimmi.”

“I am going to build a palace so immense the Big Bad Dhimmi will never find me,” said Omar Bakri. “Its spires will reach to the heavens. There I will be safe. I will get weaponry from the French, technology from the Germans and money from the Russians. When Tony Blair drove me from the UK he slandered my manhood, deprived me of my welfare benefits, stole the jizya due me as a Muslim from the English Kuffars and reduced me to pauperism. If any Muslim wants to kill him, or get rid of him, I would not shed a tear for him. We should all glorify terrorism and we should incite religious hatred. It is war to the hilt. Therefore I will harp and harp and stew and stew and demagogue and demagogue until Islam’s allies in Cambridge and Berkeley and Oxford rise up and with the help of Ibrahim Hooper establish the First Islamic Republic of America.”

“I am gong to build a steel and concrete and chrome fortress in the Outback with walls ten feet thick surrounded by a moat,” said Taj el-Din Hilali. “The Big Bad Dhimmi will not dare look for me there. I will be safe. There will be no uncovered meat, no women walking about the fortress in all stages of undress, begging to be raped. No T’s and A’s; no B’s and B’s. There will be nikabs and burqas—nothing else. If I have said anything wrong in my uncovered meat pronouncements, I will say I have said something wrong. That’s the kind of man I am. In the meantime I will plot and plot and preach and preach and discourse and discourse until I have driven the Britney Spears and the Mary Pickfords from the face of the earth.”

“A fortress?” scoffed Abu Hamza. “Are you crazy? A Fuhrerbunker is the way to go. If it was good enough for Herr Hitler it is good enough for me.”

“Bah!” said Omar Bakri. “A Fuhrerbunker is for a poor man, a goatherd. A palace is more befitting a man of my stature and culture. I am not afraid of the Big Bad Dhimmi.”

“Suit yourselves,” said Taj el-Din Hilali. “I will be safe in my fortress.”

“I will put up a surveillance camera,” said Abu Hamza.

“And I will hire the Hells Angels to patrol the walls of my palace,” said Omar Bakri.

“And I will fill my moat with crocodiles,” promised Taj el-Din Hilali.

So Abu Hamza hunkered down in his Fuhrerbunker, Omar Bakri in his palace and Taj el-Din Hilali in his steel, concrete and chrome fortress.

And it came to pass in the 712^th year of the Anointed Swine that the Big Bad Dhimmi, surrounded by a sea of apes and pigs and black dogs, appeared before Abu Hamza’s Fuhrerbunker.

The Big Bad Dhimmi got right to the point. It was Judgment Day. “If you do not come out quietly, I will huff and puff and blow down your pathetic little rathskeller.”

Rathskeller! Pathetic little rathskeller! It was an insult of the worst kind! “Huff and puff and be damned!” raged Abu Hamza.

The Big Bad Dhimmi huffed and puffed and Abu Hamza was soon standing in the ruins of his pathetic little rathskeller. “Take him away,” said the Big Bad Dhimmi and Abu Hamza was taken away.

Omar Bakri was lolling in the master bedroom of his palace studying photographs of his daughter, the belly dancer, when the Big Bad Dhimmi came calling with his phalanx of apes and pigs and black dogs. “If you do not come out quietly,” said the Big Bad Dhimmi, “ I will huff and puff and blow down your wretched little dogtrot.”

Omar Bakri was insulted. “Puff away—I dare you,” he said. “This palace can withstand winds up to 150 miles per hour.” Omar Bakri was mistaken. The Big Bad Dhimmi huffed and puffed and long before the wind velocity reached 150 Omar Bakri was standing in the wreckage of his dogtrot.

“Take him away,” ordered the Big Bad Dhimmi. And the black dogs and the apes took Omar Bakri away.

Taj el-Din Hilali was feeding his crocodiles when the Big Bad Dhimmi arrived at the steel, concrete and chrome fortress. “Are you after the crocodiles or the sauna?” asked the Taj el-Din Hilali. The Imam had mistaken the Big Bad Dhimmi for the Repo man. Taj was not always prompt in paying his bills.

“I’m the Big Bad Dhimmi,” said the Big Bad Dhimmi.

“You? The Big Bad Dhimmi?” blinked Taj el-Din Hilali. “Don’t make me laugh. Go away, you little twirp! Can’t you see I am feeding my crocodiles?”

“If you do not come out quietly,” warned the Big Bad Dhimmi, “I will huff and puff and blow down your precious little toy fort.”

“Toy fort?” snarled Taj el-Din Hilali.

The Big Bad Dhimmi huffed and puffed.

“Alllahu akbar! Allahu akbar!” cried Taj el-Din Hilali.

And the fort came down. “Take him away,” said the Big Bad Dhimmi.

On the 7^th Day the Big Bad Dhimmi rested.

It was many days later—or maybe it was years—when Tom Sawyer passed through these incredible scenes of death, desolation and destruction—no, wait, it wasn’t Tom Sawyer, it was Thomas Jefferson—no, wait, that would be ridiculous, it wasn’t Thomas Jefferson, it was Tom Arnold, the sometime comedian, sometime actor and one time husband of Roseanne Barr. Yeah, it was that Tom.

He was poking around in the ruins when a voice came at him from out of the blue. “What are you doing here, Tom?” it asked.

Tom Arnold peered into the gloaming. “Arnold? Arnold Ziffle?” he said. “Is that you? You’re the Big Bad Dhimmi? You did all this?”