People often ask me: "Oh Your Benedictyness, why does only Islam have Suicide Bombers?" To which, I say -- because you Christian youngsters are so lazy!!

And now, a recipe for Acetone Peroxide, the explosive used in the London bombs of 7th July 2005. You'll find all the ingredients at your local beauty supply shop or salon!

Jesus Christ HIMSELF orders you to kill yourself and others:

To quote from the New Testament (ignoring that older Jewish bit of the Bible).

1. "Honour all men as brothers." 1 Peter 2:17

2. "If any man come to me and hate not his father and mother and wife and children and bretheren and sisters, yea and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple." Luke 14:26

3. "And I say to you my friends, be not afraid of them that kill the body and after that have no more that they can do." Luke 12:4

4. "I am come to send fire on the earth ... suppose ye that I am come to give peace on earth? I tell you nay; but rather division." Luke 12:49-52.

Clearly, ipso facto:

All men are brothers; you must hate all men; don't be afraid to die; Jesus wants fire and division on Earth.

Clearly, suicide bombing is the only rational Christian response!

Well, DaVatican Code and the Nocturnal Emission is really hotting up! Now for Chapter Five -- fasten your pews!!

CHAPTER FIVE – The Pussy in the Penthouse

In ‘Penthouse Pussy’, on the 160th floor of the World HQ of Lipstick Lesbians – with panoramic views of downtown Tehran – Vantessa rummaged vainly in her vagina. She had already massaged what the kibbutz girls called the "Israeli's inch" ...with no result. Where was it? Where was it? Both hands were scrabbling hopelessly among the erogenous residue in her passion passage. Even after using the wet/dry DustBuster attachment on her vulva it was still a damp job.

There was no other option. Using just a hairpin, a tampon applicator, lip-gloss – and her special training with the Bull-Dyke Foreign Legion – she converted her pocket G-spot vibrator into a CAT Scanner and surveyed Paddy’s entire body. He looked devilishly handsome as he lay pronely prostate on the shag-pile in the form-fitting yet fashionably voluminous puce, magenta and goldenrod uniform of the Plainclothes Israeli Secret Service Undercover Police (PISS-UP), hipster flared combat pants around his knee-high pin-striped orthopaedic riding boots and auburn pubic region exposed.

Vantessa’s scan yielded no result apart from Paddy’s silicone buttock implants. Where was it? Where was it? Despite her miserable, interminable, inexorable, unendurable, catastrophically doomed-laden and hopeless despair, she could not help laughing. As she spat in his one-eyed-trouser snake she remarked, “Ha – a small dick! The eternal curse of the Jew for murdering Our Lord!”

“That was the Italians.” A voice snarled from the open door. Muffy spat a wad of still warm semenuous joy juice into Vantessa’s eye, then revealed the small silver capsule clenched between her incisors. “Looking for this? That’s why I never swallow – despite the delicious flavour of week-old sushi! Lucky that the Israelis are premature ejaculators, the elevator ride is only two minutes.”

Before Vantessa could riposte with, “Oh no! – coming too quick, that’s the curse of the Irish,” Muffy put two slugs between her eyes.

(The slugs were soon eaten by the resident and ravenous pussy in the Penthouse.)

***

Unobtrusively, shouting “Zionist dog!” at the Metro ticket inspector and slashing at passengers with his glinting sabre, the third identical twin, Prince Ibn N’Gorogoro (like the crater in Tanzania) led his camel out of the Bastille station, the blood-stained, shrivelled trophy still tucked in his cheek. Something has bothered him on the journey from the airport … a strange familiar smell … not the sweaty bodies of all those French people … women with hairy armpits … not the camel shit. As he spat out the Vice President’s penis he identified the familiar odour emanating from the Small Satan ... that was it ... the taste ... Muffy's fragrance! The pong of Muffy’s pudenda clung to it! She had betrayed him! As he squeezed the flaccid excrescence in anger a tiny silver capsule popped out and dropped to the cobblestones.

“I’ll take that,” came a thick Tel Avivian brogue, from nowhere. Damn! The Prince could not see the tall, thin, muscular, well-proportioned, crew-cutted, red-haired agent with a bruised head in knee-length orthopaedic boots and cum stains down his crotch, the man’s PISS-UP uniform camouflaged him so perfectly from the grey brick of the Metro! Curse those clever French designers!

In a trice, the gefilte-eating Paddy was gone.

So was the capsule.

So was the Prince. Georgie W. the camel hadn’t been fed for days; he found only one thing inedible, a left nipple that was, actually, a midget trans-warp time-travelling flying saucer with a crew of 10 million ruthless human-eating planet conquerors ruled by a merciless, blood-lusting Soil-Association-approved Organic greenfly (but that’s another story).

***

On that night’s Paris Orly to Paris Charles de Gaulle EasyJet flight, First Class was full.

Muffy … Vantessa … Madame Madonna … Mik Al-Jakeson … Prince Ibn N’Gudu … Prince Ibn N’Gecko … Prince Ibn N’Gororo … Paddy O’Finnegan … Fifi Gilightly … Vice President von Bulow.

None of them were on the flight! It had been block-booked by a party of very, very, very stupid Catholic priests who couldn’t work out how to hail a taxi.

***

A few minutes into the future … everywhere was empty …

Mik Al-Jakeson’s Champs-Elysess pied a terre was vacant. He had been extradited to California to face unfounded paedophilia charges due to mistaken identity.

A cleaning boy at Lipstick Lesbian HQ noticed a black furry chimpanzee foot under the desk – and another assortment of disgusting stains on the rug.

Blood congealed on severed muscles of a hidden neck under a Rive Gauche brothel mattress. It was not business as usual at Chez-Madonna. The chess set was still missing.

A most unusual photo lay in his VPs annual health report atop the President's In-Tray.

A tent stood empty, door flapping outside Abu Dhabi, sheets drying crustily in the aridity.

Federal Aviation Administration inspectors argued over who got to go to Paris to inspect the stains on Air Force Two.

Rumpled yellow burkhas lay in the dust of Islamabad bazaar.

A lonely, hungry camel sauntered in the Metro Galleria, unable to exit through the revolving doors. Shop-owners grumbled as they swept away yet another day's dung.

Prince Ibn N’Gudu’s limo sank slowly in the Sea of Galilee. His footprints could still be seen in the water, heading for shore.

Four Likud members were surprised to find their poker table full of bullets.

All psychokinetic and psychoenergetic roads were leading to Katmandhu.

To be continued....

Oh God it's getting exciting!!!

Slurpy - yet celibate - mushynesses,

Ratzy