I Understand Suicide Bombers 04/09/2010I have no trouble understanding the suicide bomber. Hmm, maybe I am one, a suicide bomber of the soul?
People who blow themselves up don’t do it out of hatred for their enemy so much as to achieve status within their group.
If I felt like a loser in the Gaza Strip, as I often do in Pico-Robertson, and I felt like I could become cool if I blew myself up, then, well, sitting here in plush America, I totally understand the motivation to blow myself up.
My strongest drive is to feel important. I want sex and love and luxury and success, but most of all, I want to feel important. I want to feel at the center of things. I want to feel like a big shot.
I feel important when thousands of people read my blog and take to the streets and chant my name. I feel important when hot chicks talk to me at parties. I feel important when I walk down Pico Blvd and people yell out of their cars, “Luke Ford!” There are many things I’ve striven for in life, such as God and goodness and Dennis Prager’s approval and money and fame and sex and friends and fast cars, but most of all, most of the time, I’ve wanted to feel important.
Throughout school, I hung out much of the time, perhaps most of the time, with the losers. I was rarely in the cool circle. I was rarely popular. I was a freak.
I still am a freak. I’m like the Elephant Man. I remember hanging out on the set of Taboo 22 from Metro. It was directed by DCypher and starred Ava Rose. And most of the people on set weren’t particularly thrilled to have me on set, but they respected the reach of my blog and so I got an invite.
And throughout the day, Ava kept telling me, “Luke, you are not an animal.”
The only time she stopped saying this to me was when she was tied up and had a big red gag stuffed in her sweet mouth. What **** is all about is revenge on all the hot chicks who’ve rejected you over the course of your life, all the unattainable girls, the cheerleaders and the haughty high-powered executive chicks, oh, how they laughed at you, you pathetic little worm, you tiny tiny boy, you could never do a man’s job, get away from me with that thing.
At least, that’s what I’ve heard.
I know how much I yearn to be loved and to be admired and to hang out with the cool kids, with the Monicas and Davids of the world. That’s where I want to live. I want to breathe their rarified air. I want their good graces. I want their social ease.
I want to be cool. I desperately want to be cool ...
Luckily for me and for the world, Jews don’t tell converts that they can become cool by blowing themselves up.
If they did, I’d probably be up in smoke.
Well, now that I think about it, I blow myself up regularly when I start blogging. This blog post is my suicide bomb.
I understand why little people want to do big things so they can feel better about themselves. I too have this yearning.
... I understand people who make computer viruses and light forest fires (even though I don’t have this yearning). I understand the thrill of standing there and watching the vast destruction you have created. I can see the flames for miles and the sirens going off and thousands of people evacuating their homes and I can think, wow, all these people’s lives are shifting because of me. I am like God. I can create worlds. I am woman, hear me roar. Gay pride. Crips forever. Let’s roll.
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