by DIMSUM AGGLOMERATIZATONALISTICALISM, Alternate Reality News Service International Writer
They came with their grotesque papier mache masks of Al Qaeda leaders. They came with a play scenario that portrayed Al Qaeda members as degenerate thugs who liked to smoke pot and have sex with sand crabs. They came with a devastating wit that had been honed by a collective 374 years work in improv comedy troupes.
What they hadn't come with was flak jackets and helmets. Which proved unfortunate when the Kabul theatre in which they were rehearsing their anti-Islamic radicalism musical extravaganza, Was That A Camel Fart, Khalid, Or Are You Just Glad To See Me?, was hit by an American predator drone attack. Seven of them immediately died, five fatally, and 12 were injured.
"Yes, that was rather a bad showing for our first effort," allowed Brigadier Reginald Blythe-Hirsute. "Still, we learned a valuable lesson: make sure our American friends are aware when the unit is conducting a military operation. Should have been bloody obvious, I suppose, but you don't usually have to worry about incoming rocket attacks in musical theatre!"
Brigadier Blythe-Hirsute is the commander of the 1st Light Satire Brigade, known as the Flying Pythons. Their job is to undermine Al Qaeda morale by performing satirical plays, sketches and vignettes.
"That isn't really what we had in mind," commented Jamie Bartlett, one of the authors of a report for the British government that recommended that satire and ridicule be used to strip Al Qaeda of its glamour and mystique. The report was the basis for the formation of the 1st Light Satire Brigade.
"Tosh," Brigadier Blythe-Hirsute responded. "Pound for kilogram, the average British fighting comedian can hold his own with any terrorist. I mean, have you ever listened to one of the tapes they make? Not exactly Noel Coward, is it? If the 1st Light Satire had been deployed earlier, this war on terror thingie could have been won years ago!"
Three weeks after its first action the Flying Pythons went door to door to perform improvised sketches on the general theme of how incredibly, amazingly, unbelievably, stupendously, reeeeaaaally uncool Al Qaeda is, with the subtext that Jihad is no fun. They immediately ran into the problem that none of the Flying Pythons spoke any Arabic, while the English that their audience spoke was too rudimentary to allow them to appreciate sophisticated wordplay.
"Double entendres and banter were keeping us from reaching our objective," Brigadier Blythe-Hirsute commented. "So, we jettisoned them. Poof. Gone. A good soldier adjusts to conditions on the ground, so we adjusted by performing mime."
"No, seriously," Bartlett objected, "this is not what our report recommended at all!"
Less than 20 minutes into the mission, it had to be scrapped when one of the performers stepped on an IECD (Improvised Explosive Comedy Device), killing her instantly, and again 12 minutes later, and injuring eight members of the troupe, four members of the audience and a yak that was grazing contentedly in a field of gravel.
At this point, the British public started to question the high casualty rate of the military unit. "Flying Pythons swallowing own tail," ran a headline in the Guardian. "Casualties killing comedy commandos," a headline in the Daily Mail proclaimed. "Bat boy has indigestion! Shouldn't have eaten raw clams, mother says," the headline in the News of the World screamed.
"Of course we had a high casualty rate!" Brigadier Blythe-Hirsute grumbled. "Our mission did not get any support. Everybody knows that a satirical troupe requires air strikes to soften up its audience!" After a moment's reflection, he added: "I was sorry to hear about bat boy. I hope he's feeling better soon."
"Look," Bartlett, exasperated, insisted. "The point is not to expose foreigners to the satire! The goal is to expose people in Britain to the ridicule of Islamic extremists, especially disaffected young men of Middle Eastern descent who might find Al Qaeda's extremist rhetoric attractive."
"Wait a minute!" Brigadier Blythe-Hirsute said in disgust. "Wait just a minute, there! Do you mean to tell me that you want to turn the British army against our own people? That...is...not...our way! If that is what you are saying, I shall have to ask you to meet me at dawn for a duel. And, I wouldn't take this lightly if I were you: I wield the fastest pie in the infantry!"
Bartlett put his head in his hands and sobbed quietly to himself.