By Dennis Al-Zobry as translated by Corinne Marshall -
As an America-born Iraqi man of style (and "Grace Jones" at Seattle's fabulous Drag Queen Palace), I wasn't surprised when Baghdad's new style magazine, "You're It!" (formerly "You're Dead: Names A-J"), wanted me to join their staff. I jumped on board thinking life would be one big party of champagne, celebrities, and Hezbollah brew-ha-ha. But let me tell you, if it weren't for the occasional bop bop of mortar fire, Baghdad would be more tuckered out than Jessica Simpson trying to do math. The latest crop of "A listers" is one smoke signal away from a suicide bomb to oblivion. And those A-list clubs? Please. I've seen hotter spots on my nana's back. To find the real trendsetters, I convinced "You're It!" that we needed to get down with the youth culture that's sweeping the region...and the world! That's right, Al Qaeda and its alpha dawg, the Ayatollah of style, Osama Bin Laden. But wouldn't you know, he's a hard man to get an interview with. So, what's an intrepid style reporter to do? Read on to find out!
My search for Osama began in Kabul at one of the hottest terrorist training camps around. These boys party hard and work out harder, sculpting their physiques into taut, well-oiled killing machines daintily wrapped in crisp camouflage jumpers. Al Qaeda campers burn calories by skipping through tires, climbing rope courses, doing trust falls, and chopping off their balls -- a sacrifice to jihad I'm told. Ouch! Think I'll stick to crunches to get into my "skinny jeans" this year. But training camps aren't all about fun. They're also about apocalypse. And according to these boys, Osama's hatching a doozy that will hit the streets sometime next fall.
At the camp, I met Yoshi, a Japanese-American currently passing as Afghan, who agreed to dish over lunch and talk of holy war. "I should totally not be telling you this..." he said, smiling impishly as he bit into his egg white frittata, "but there's a surprise party for Osama coming up. I could get you in but there's something you'd have to do first..."
A bunch of Yoshi's friends were shooting a movie and wouldn't you know it, their star had run away. Luckily for them, Yoshi found me. Next thing I knew, I was hanging from a leather harness in front of a video camera "begging" American soldiers to "pull out" or my "captors" would do naughty things to me. Frankly the plot was a bit contrived and, no offense to the filmmakers, I'm pretty sure I've seen it, rented it, and served time for being in possession of it near a public school. But, I wasn't here as a critic. I was here as a reporter and I was off to nab my scoop at Osama's party!
After days of travel, I finally hit the caves where I was met with a long line of bridge-and-tunnel riff-raff. Yoshi greeted me at the door with the underground Taliban "hello" -- a rifle butt to the head. When I came to, Yoshi was laughing, telling me I "should've seen my face" when I went unconscious--"So American!"
On Yoshi's arm, I sailed past the Qatar sultans in their Pabst Blue Ribbon tee-shirts and took in the scene. I must say, Kalashnikov rifles are clearly the little black dress of the jihadi wardrobe--never pack an overnight bag without one! These sleek weapons may be Soviet vintage but they still demand respect (and working knowledge of a musket). But sadly, this crowd didn't seem any more underground than a party at Vassar. Where was the real cutting edge style I had promised my editors?
Then Yoshi ushered me into a room that was classic Al Qaeda. Some men were dumping a strain of weaponized AIDS into the water supply of local pre-schools while others were setting their daughters on fire for learning to read. It was all so innovative and would certainly make a splash in the upcoming year.
Yoshi introduced me to two jihadi hotties, Mustafa and Kaleel. I asked them what was going on in the scene at the moment. Mustafa glanced his stoned eyeballs my way and gave a quick but tasteful glance at my butt. It would've been sort of cool if he hadn't had the fresh blood of babies all over his teeth. "My band is pretty dope," said Mustafa. "You can check us out on MySpace or whatever."
Moments later we heard Osama approach. He casually entered in army fatigues, his eyes hidden behind aviator glasses, his long hair tucked under a white head scarf, that I noticed was all the rage among Al Qaeda's top tier celebs.
We jumped up and yelled "Surprise!" taking turns rifle butting him to the head. Bloody and laughing, he rose, hugged his cronies, noshed on a baby arm and said a brief "Thanks" to everyone for coming.
"Come on OBL, make a speech!" yelled Yoshi. The crowd chimed in with "speech...speech." OBL had no choice.
"Okay, okay! You knuckleheads. Well, I've been jihading for what, ten-fifteen years now, and there's been some bumps in the road or land mines as some may call them..." He waited for laughter, which after a confused pause was incredibly forthcoming. "But I think overall we've done a great job mounting the upcoming apocalypse. So, uh, drink up to the virgin pussy in the sky! Oh and also fighting for Allah and all that. God is great!"
Osama raised a Bud Light to his lips and started to chug. There was just stunned silence until Kaleel spoke.
"Uh, OBL? We're like Muslim and don't drink. Plus your beer is American."
Osama lowered the bottle from his lips.
"Good brother! That was a test to see who among you remembers the teachings of the Koran." Osama chuckled awkwardly. Finally, he broke the tension, "Uh...so, fuck Israel, right?! Am I right?!" And with that the party was back on!
Through the crowd, I saw Osama disappear to a private room. I made a mad dash to follow. I needed my exclusive!
I cautiously opened the door and saw Osama on the phone. He shouted into the receiver: "I'm doing an interview on 'Voice of the Caliphate' Tuesday. I'm supposed to shoot another recruitment video on Wednesday. Thursday you have me in London doing a music video...I just can't keep going like this. I need some 'me' time." He hung up the phone and saw me standing in the doorway.
"Mr. OBL, I am so sorry. I'm a reporter for "You're It!" magazine and..."
"Please, no more interviews." Osama whimpered, "I'm exhausted."
"But sir, you're an icon of style. Millions look to you to know how to act, to dress, to talk...Please, what is your secret?"
He said this to me: "Always dress to flatter your figure. If you have hips, hide them. Hide them as if you were sneaking Mexicans across the Texan border!"
Well, you heard it here first! Wherever fundamentalism stamps out reason with blood and twisted interpretations of holy texts, I will be there, reporting on what to wear to the apocalypse! Till next time...