Parable Of The Abrams Tank

I mean, an Abrams tank. You wouldn’t think it should be that hard to find. But here I was, stuck in the middle of BFE – running from a thug gang of pharaohs – looking for an Abrams tank so I could set up a defensive position and, what? Not a one to be found. Anywhere.

I stopped. Immediately. Because those are the rules.

Then I looked around and found a mullah smoking a hookah. And it looked like his left hand, somewhat withered and deformed, was sliding gracefully into a purple burqa.

“Pardon me, sir,” I said reluctantly, on the verge of desperation, “But can you tell me where to find the nearest Abrams tank?”

“Certainly,” he said.

And he stopped smoking his hookah. Strangely, his left hand continued to slide upwards into the young lady’s designer burqa. I pretended not to notice.

“You see that big desert right there?” He pointed.


How could I miss it?

“Well, you continue through that desert about fifty miles and you’ll come to a fork in the sand. It’s really a divining rod. Don’t touch it. Continue on another one hundred yards and turn left. Keep walking until you see an abandoned vehicle – a 1962 piss green Fiat 1300, or something like that – and go around it. You’ll come to a cactus, a mirage, and finally a large tree. Just past the tree is a big ridge you can’t see over. Once you get past the ridge you’ll see a big mountain pass that looks like a vagina.”

“A vagina?”

“Yes, a vagina.” The mullah looked at me like I was some kind of idiot. “You know, like a pussy.”

I nodded my understanding.

“You walk through the vagina and once inside you’ll see a giant door. It’s locked. But behind that door is an Abrams tank. Massive cock, too.”

For the first time the mullah removed his hand from the burqa. He sniffed it. I thanked him and continued on my journey. It took two days to go the first fifty miles and just as he said, there was a fork. I didn’t touch it. I went what I thought must have been one hundred yards and turned left. I walked past the abandoned vehicle – it was indeed a 1962 Fiat 1300 – and I went around it. I passed a cactus and a mirage, which looked a helluva lot like a shaved vulva. I ignored it and walked toward the tree. I climbed the tree and looked out over the ridge. Sure enough, there was a huge pussy on the other side.

I climbed down from the tree and crossed the ridge, made my way to the giant vagina and went inside. To my amazement, it contracted. The walls were pink and I swear I could hear it breathing. Right before me was a tunnel that seemed to curve into the darkness ahead, a sort of birth canal in a cavern.

Then I saw a door with a padlock on it.

I took a seat on a giant sand-colored turtle, tried to think of a way to get through the door. I placed my elbow on my knee and my chin in the palm of my hand, then I heard a voice.

“Hey, buddy. For a piece of lettuce I’ll help you get in the door.”

I looked around, but I couldn’t see anyone. Then I realized it must have been the turtle.

“Was that you?” I asked.

“Who’d you think it was, the mullah?”

“OK,” I said. “Enlighten me. How do I get in?”

The turtle said – and I swear he said it with a straight face – “Give me a piece of lettuce and I’ll unlock it for you.”

“You have a key?” I asked.

“Of course I have a key. You think I’m stupid?”

“So why don’t you just open it?”

“Because the price of admission is a piece of lettuce. I have to eat, you know.”

“And where am I supposed to get a piece of lettuce out here in the fucking desert?”

The turtle snapped.

“You idiot! You were supposed to get it from the mullah!”

first published at Moustache Club Of America