Commentary: Osama bin Laden's last journal entry

Carl Hiaasen is a columnist for the Miami Herald.
Carl Hiaasen is a columnist for the Miami Herald. MCT

Final journal entry of Osama bin Laden.

Really, Amal? Goat burgers for dinner again?

This is the best you can do for the world’s most wanted outlaw, the most infamous terrorist of all time?

Here I am trying to plan the extermination of Western culture, and it’s always frigging goat meat for dinner!

Ah, but such is my destiny, ever since Sept. 11, 2001. It’s a life of daily prayer, personal sacrifice and cowering like a mouse. Every night I go to sleep wondering if a CIA drone is going to drop a missile on my bed and atomize my supreme holiness.

By the way — is this really a fair fight? The Americans send remote-controlled airplanes with night scopes and I’m sitting here with a rusty AK-47 and, like, eight bullets.

Not that I’m complaining.

Al Qaeda built me this swell hideout — high walls, concertina wire, a nice courtyard where I can walk around in circles for hours and hours and hours. Today I stepped in some camel dung and ruined my only pair of Tivos, but so what?

The house is nothing fancy but it’s very, very secure. I keep pestering al-Zawahiri to build me a gym, so get this: Yesterday his courier shows up and says they’ve got a line on a second-hand Bowflex machine for two hundred bucks on eBay.


I know the money’s tight, but come on. Today I was supposed to do another inspirational “Death of America” video, but we ran out of batteries for the Flipcam.

Meanwhile, my wives and kids are all over me because there’s no phone and no cable. So, now, on top of the drone problem and the frigging goat burgers, I’ve got five mothers-in-law who hate my guts because I won’t let them talk to their daughters or come to visit.

They don’t seem to appreciate that I’m the MOST HUNTED MAN IN THE WHOLE UNIVERSE, SO LIGHTEN UP ALREADY!!!

Okay, now I’m going to take a deep breath and get a grip. Well, not too deep a breath, since we’re burning our garbage again tonight. Yuk!

But I suppose things really aren’t so bad.

Al-Zawahiri sent a laptop so I can stay in contact with the valiant al Qaeda warriors, from Yemen to Somalia. Every few weeks, faithful couriers deliver flash drives that are downloaded with the latest terrorist plots and also recent episodes of Danci ng with the Stars.

(Only in this most private journal can I confess to Allah a powerful attraction to this Kirstie Alley person. She is a wicked American, I know, but she moves like a feisty gazelle and her hair shines like honey. Perhaps we will meet in another lifetime!)

Am I getting cabin fever? It’s possible.

Some days, I stare wistfully through the opaque windows of my villa — I hate the word “fortress” — and watch the Pakistani army cadets playing soccer. Often I fantasize about putting on a clever disguise and leaving the compound, maybe catch a cab to Islamabad for dinner and a movie.

Then I lose my nerve because, frankly, I’m a huge coward. That’s the dirty little secret, the one thing about yours truly that must remain locked in these pages.

For all my bold talk about the glory of martyrdom, I really don’t want to die. It just doesn’t interest me in the least.

Never in a million years would I hijack a jetliner and crash it into a building, or strap on a suicide vest and blow myself up in a nightclub. Are you kidding?

All these young gung-ho jihadists who get talked into doing that crazy stuff — all I can say is wow! I tip my kufi to you.

Looking back at those historic events of 9/11, I sure didn’t expect my own comfortable life to change so drastically. Being a notorious fugitive sucks, to be honest, but it beats the alternative.

Every day I thank Allah that I’m still alive and safe from the Yankee war machine. If only I could get my hands on some fried chicken, or a pan pizza.

As I write these words, I am hearing helicopters in the sky. It’s probably the Pakistani air force, which sometimes buzzes the compound just for giggles.

Whoa — are those firecrackers? That must be my son Khalid, who is quite the prankster.

No way would the Americans send commandos when they could blow me to bits with one of those invisible drones, right?

Unless, of course, they wanted to get my actual corpse so the world would know I was really dead.

Nah. They don’t have the . . .

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