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Journeyman
A Journal for the Inquiring Christian
Vol. 1, No. 3, February 2002
Britney's New Beau
| Overview: In the interests of national security, and at grave risk to his life, our intrepid stringer from the southern states accepts a dangerous assignment. (Codeword: gnu) |
As a reporter for an online magazine, I get many interesting assignments. Ever since I was lad, I've admired Britney Spears, and I figured it would be a good career move if I could arrange an interview with her. For quite some time I had been calling her office trying to set something up. I must have left a thousand messages on her answering machine, but I never received a single response.
I was just on the verge of giving up, when one day I received an unexpected phone call. The man said he was Britney's agent and told me he was offering me the opportunity for a beachfront exclusive with the famous pop singer. Apparently, her agent occasionally listened to his phone messages, and he thought it would be a good public relations stunt to have me interview her for the zine. Why I of all mortals was selected for this rare honor, I know not; but I unhestitantly accepted.
“Good!” replied the man, “but you'll never guess who she's been going with!”
“Who?” I asked.
“Can't say,” said the man. “You'll find out when you get there.”
We set up an appointment, and as indicated by her “agent,” I was directed to a secluded religious compound near Boca.
As my car approached the gate, I noted a sign by the side of the road:
Warning!
No Christians, Jews or other Infidels!
And beside it, another:
Ramadan Special!
Two-for-One Bingo!
I drove up to the guardhouse, and as I rolled down my window, I was greeted by a pair of thugs dressed in long robes and turbans. For some reason, I sensed the presence of danger, and I was careful not to comment upon their odd appearance. Instead, I got right to the point.
“I'm here for the interview with Britney Spears.”
“We will have to search your car,” said the first man.
“Why,” said I, “do I look like a terrorist?”
“No.” he replied. “That is why we need to search your car.”
I was about to drive on through, and would have done so, when I noticed the second man gesturing to me with an AK-47. I exited my vehicle and watched helplessly as the two of them began to search it. I then thought about my old Colt 45 that I kept under the front seat for safety purposes, and this thought put me into a rather grave demeanor. Indeed, the two fiends had already discovered the piece and were walking slowly toward me. I began to consider whether my life affairs were well in order, when one of them suddenly smiled and handed me my gun, saying,
“In my homeland this would be considered a child's toy!”
They continued the search, confiscating numerous items apparently considered contraband in their homeland. From my trunk they took my Bible, my pipe, a bottle of beer, and a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit magazine. I happened also to have a copy of the Koran on the front seat. This did not please them, but rather, incensed them all the more, and using a towel so as not to touch the object, they carefully removed it, remonstrating me fiercely.
“Infidel! You have defiled this Holy Book with your unclean hands. Now it must be burned in the furnace of fire!” With that, they concluded the search, gave me cursory directions, and waved me on through the checkpoint.
A few minutes later, I arrived at the beach where the interview was supposed to take place. A warm breeze wafted across the sand. The gentle surf lapped the nearby shore. A lone seagull glided above my head, landing intermittently to peck for morsels.
I saw before me a young lady in a lounge chair. She wasn't wearing your customary bikini, but was clothed head-to-toe in an old-fashioned, one-piece bathing suit with a hole in the knee. She was reading intently what appeared to be a copy of the Koran. At her side stood a female attendant in a long dress. Both women were wearing veils, and covered their faces as I approached.
Next to the women, in another lounge chair, lay a devilish-looking man. He had evil eyes, a sinister smile, pointy ears like Mr. Spock, a sharp narrow nose, and a long scraggly beard. At his side, a huge scimitar lay gleaming in the sand. Next to him stood a tall, turbaned attendant holding a lunch tray.
The devilish man was puffing on a cigar, and reading a glossy magazine. He studiously pondered a fold-out picture, smirking and muttering, “Disgusting!” “Obscene!” “Decadent!” The henchman was also peering at the magazine. The devilish man tapped a spot on the picture and said, “Look, Abdul, now that is a Gaza Strip!” After a few minutes, he went on to the next page, and remarked to his assistant, “Look at this one, Abdul! She isn't even wearing a veil! Decadent western trash!”
The devilish man looked very familiar. In fact, he looked way too familiar, and I decided that maybe this interview wasn't working out so well. I began to sidle backward, trying not to make any abrupt motion that might be picked up in his peripheral vision. Unfortunately, the young woman was either unaware of the imminent peril to my person, or she had a strange relish in seeing me split down the middle, Arabian Knights style. In either case, she began to strike up a conversation with me.
“Oh. You must be the man from the 'zine,' right? Hey, you're quite a hunk! I wish all my interviewers were so good-looking.”
This chit-chat had the unpleasant side effect of alerting the killer to my presence. He glanced sidewise at me and assumed a stern expression. After handing his cigar and his drink to his attendant, he threw aside his magazine, grabbed his scimitar, and started to get up.
“Oh, don't mind him,” said the lady, “Sammy can be moody sometimes. He subscribed to that magazine because he thought it would have good articles. But he says all the women in it are harlots — whatever that means. Anyway, he gets very excited about it. He says he is going to send the magazine company a nasty letter full of some special powder.”
I was about to make a last ditch attempt to excuse myself, but she held out her hand and said,
“Nice to meet you. I'm Britney Spears.”
I looked at her incredulously.
“Yeah,” she said, “nobody believes it's really me in this funny outfit.”
The chance of escape had now slipped away, and the devilish man was poised for my execution. He raised his scimitar above me and shouted, “I am Osama Bin Laden, mother of all terrorists! You are my next victim! Prepare to die, infidel swine!”
“No, Sammy! Don't!” cried Britney. “You promised me you wouldn't kill any more of my interviewers.”
Osama scowled, lowered his weapon, and sat down. He frowned at me and said, “Very well, then, Infidel. For her sake, I will spare you.”
Britney nodded smugly. “Allah is merciful,” she declared, “praised be Allah!”
The tension eased somewhat, and Osama gave a sign to his attendant, who handed him a ham sandwich off the lunch tray. Osama then sat down and started eating.
I found myself in a strange situation. Here I was on the beach with Britney Spears and Osama Bin Laden — or so they claimed. I either could leave now, never knowing the truth, or I could stay, probably still never knowing the truth. But if they were who they claimed they were, I had before me the opportunity of a lifetime. Granted, this lady was not dressed like Britney — not even her belly button was showing. But she was about the same height as Britney and her voice sounded like Britney's. Was her newfound cohort really Osama Bin Laden? I don't know, but he was doing a pretty fair impersonation, and I was in no position to argue with him. So I asked Britney if she was ready to start the interview.
“Sure,” she said, “fire away.”
I cringed momentarily at her choice of words. Regaining my composure, I asked Britney if she could introduce me to her attendant.
“This is Shariah,” she explained. “She and I are best friends. She is very religious, and it was through Shariah that I met Sammy.”
“Really?” I asked. “How did that happen?”
“Well,” said Britney. “Sammy had always been a very religious fan-“
“No!” Osama interrupted, “I never said I was a religious fan; what I said was a religious fanatic.”
“Anyway, Shariah said she knew this older dude named Sammy. She said he was really religious, but that he was also really cool. So we got introduced, and ever since then he and Shariah have been showing me all this way deep religious stuff. You know, the Koran and all. Praised be Allah!”
“So Britney,” I asked, “was it any problem for you to dump Justin for a man twice your age? Do you ever feel like Osama is a dirty old man?”
Before Britney could speak, Osama scowled, and interrupted. “You are one to talk, Infidel! What about Bill Clinton? How come it's okay for an American president? As I remember, Billy boy had quite an intern fetish, didn't he? Now that was a dirty old man!”
I groped for words. “Uhhhh …”
“Besides,” he continued, “Britney is a virgin.”
Apparently interested in our juicy conversation, the seagull lighted nearby, and began to look alternately at Britney and then at Osama. But Britney seemed confused.
“Well, aren't you a virgin?” I asked.
Britney flushed. “That's a very personal matter. It's like really a hard question.” She shrugged. “Okay, maybe I'm a virgin, maybe I'm not. I don't know. The important thing is that I'm like a virgin.”
As Britney spoke, Osama had fixed his beady eyes upon the gull, and had fallen into some sort of trance or self-hypnotic stupor. Then suddenly, without warning, he grabbed his scimitar, whipped it back and —
Britney gasped and covered her eyes. “Sammy, no!”
But it was too late.
In an instant, Osama brought the blade swooshing through the gull's cervical vertebra, surgically severing its cranium. As the poor headless creature hopped around in a dance of death, Osama chanted, “Allah be praised! Great is Allah! Great is his prophet Mohammed!” Then, just as if nothing had happened, he returned to “normal” and apologized to Britney. “Sorry, my dear,” he said with a grin, “sometimes I forget myself.”
I stood aghast at this unbridled display of violence.
“Sammy never did care much for marine life,” Britney explained.
Osama shuddered. “Did someone say Marines? Where? Abdul!” he shouted, “get me my binoculars.” As Osama began to survey the shoreline, I turned to Britney and asked,
“Doesn't it bother you that your new boyfriend is a terrorist?”
“Terrorist? Where'd you hear that? Has MTV been spreading rumors about us? Oh, yeah. Maybe you're right. Sammy does have this thing for late-night horror flicks. But he's a holy man of Allah. He says that if I show myself worthy, he will consider making me one of his wives — or at least a concubine. Indeed I am blessed. Praised be Allah!”
At this point I was becoming frustrated. I was beginning to lose control. In an elevated voice, I said to her:
“Let me explain something to you, you dumb airhead: Osama is famous for being the most evil man in the entire world!”
“Then by dating him, I'll be famous too!”
“Certainly you don't want to be like Monica, do you?”
“Wow! Me another Monica? That would rock!”
“Maybe so, but they'd never let you back as a Mousketeer.”
“Why would I want to go back to the Mousketeers? Can you picture me in one of those dorky mouse hats! And I'd have to wear a skirt! Yuk!”
Silence ensued, and once again Britney and Osama took to their reading. After a few minutes, however, Britney declared, “Sammy, this book is boring. I'm not going to read it anymore. It blows!” With that, she laid aside the Koran and began to peel an orange.
Unfortunately, her little demonstration made a negative impression on Osama, for he slapped his magazine down on the sand and glowered at me with the same eerie expression he had when he wasted the seagull. “Infidel!” he cried, “You have poisoned this child's mind with your cultural delusions! The holy Koran is the word of Allah! Mohammed shall have vengeance! I will slay thee, son of Satan!”
I stood petrified as his sinewy hand reached once more for his scimitar. Then, inexplicably, his fingers relaxed, he moved his hand past the scimitar, and he picked up a margarita. He closed his eyes, brought the goblet to his mouth, and took a slow, satisfying sip.
At this point I had to make a decision. I could either play the coward and hightail it — or I could stay, risking death, but filling my notebook with rare observations that would be cited by historians for decades to come. I turned to Britney and said,
“Excuse me, Britney, I think I'd better leave. But before I go, I have one personal request.”
“Sure,” she said, “what is it?”
“Could I see your navel?”
“Sure!” she replied. She reached down into her lap and brought forth the half-eaten orange. She held it out to me, and said, “You can have the rest. I've had just about all I can take.”
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