Chuck Bronson
Say you walk into the bathroom of said sports bar. The place is empty, so you pick out a stall at the far end, next to the wall so as to minimize any potential man-on-man adjacency. Just as you unfurl General Kong, some douchebag that you vaguely recognize from high school walks in. He sees you, smiles, and starts up a conversation.
"Soccer is forbidden except when played as training for jihad," says the Saudi Sheikh Abdallah Al-Najdi. Since we don't ever plan on engaging in 'holy war' or any such struggle, we guess that means no soccer for us if we choose to accept the fatwa. Dang.
Why we're on board:
Granted, Zidane head-butting that punk was deliciously retarded, and that 'Goooaaaal!' guy of indeterminate ethnicity is entertaining. Too bad the sport that he is so passionate about isn't. Low scores, tie games, and dudes ripping off their shirts are the norm (that last one is only acceptable for Hulk Hogan, and to a lesser extent, the Ultimate Warrior).
The only thing that's mildly entertaining about soccer is tangentially related to the game: drunken hooliganism. We have that in North America too, except that we call it rioting and instead of beating the soccer-induced boredom out of each other with our fists, we steal television sets.
It isn't just the game's intrinsic lack of appeal either. We can tolerate a lot of peripheral distractions in our sports: rampant use of steroids, human growth hormone and cliches. However, we cannot in good conscience condone a sport where teams practice faking injuries at practice. If we want our kids to learn such pansy-ish ways, we'll send them to a boarding school in France.
That said, we wanted to issue this fatwa simply as a preemptive measure against David Beckham's impending popularity.
Silk just plain looks wrong on a man. Unfortunately, somebody forgot to tell Smoothio, the guy that shows up to weddings wearing his silk shirt with the perma-pit-stains. And don't get us started on the hard-to-clean silk boxer shorts with optional polka dots or those novelty ones with the hearts.
Calm down, calm down. You can still let Grandpappy take you down to the ol' fishing hole. This rule allows for fishing, as long as it's for food and not catch-and-release style sport. To be clear, we support the ruling not so much because we are tree huggers, but rather because we are against the lame-ass pro fishing circuit, which is exactly like NASCAR except without the little bells and whistles like excitement and imminent fiery death.
We freely admit that the unfairest sex has had it relatively easy for most of Western history. There was a time when the only appropriate response to a woman saying "I didn't finish" was snoring, of the blissfully ignorant variety. Thankfully, we now know that women are multi-orgasmic. Genetically programmed to chase after high-scores in all endeavors, men are more than willing to take up the challenge presented to them by sexual science. The gauntlet thrown down by the popular "romance" novel, however, is a motherfucker.
For those who don't know, Pokemon is a contraction of the Japanese term "pocket monster." You might suspect that this is another nonsensical by-product of their cock-centric culture, but you would be wrong in that suspicion. The gameplay is akin to cockfighting, except with adolescent gamers playing "trainers," and cutesy anime creatures hurling poorly animated lightning bolts instead of cocks.
That's what she said.
Besides being the coolest Muslim since Morgan Freeman in Prince of Thieves, we think Ezzat is a visionary whose ideas are destined to spawn a brave new world where other Utopian thinkers will be reviled for their utter lack of imagination.
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