This book might never have been written had I not spent a night
eating goat testicle soup with tribesman next door to the snow-covered
mountains of Mongolia. Let me introduce myself. My name is Maxim Efimov,
Russian émigré and adventurer in the tradition of the Austrian Baron
von Munchausen. Dearest readers, you might say that Munchausen greatly
exaggerated his travels – that he was even a liar. But let me assure you
that when you travel around the breadth of this extraordinary world and
live to tell the tale, that you have the most extraordinary adventures
which go beyond the imaginings of most human beings.
I was only half way into my goat testicle soup, when I
came across a dark haired, ravishing beauty with very large breasts. She
had sparking dark eyes that enchanted and amazed. I felt as light
headed as a young school boy experiencing love for the first time. She
reminded me so much of that gypsy song, “Ochi Chernye” – “Dark eyes” for
my English speaking friends – about a man who has seen such a great
beauty, only to be denied her affections. That was a depressing thought
and one I decided to get used to, because surely this impressionable
girl would not set her sights on me. But as Fortuna would have it, she
chose me as her companion and lover for an exquisite night of the
pleasures of the flesh.
Yet it was also on this night that I had the great
misfortune of contracting Islamophobia, a terrible disease that ravaged
my soul and played malicious games with my neurons. How do I know that
it’s terrible? Well just watch the television and you will see Imams,
religious scholars, believers, social justice warriors, and Russell
Brand tell you how terrible this Islamophobia is. I also experienced the
terrible symptoms first hand. I began to question whether Islam was
perhaps flawed in some way and may have inspired terrible things, like
the apostasy law, the blasphemy law, female genital mutilation,
oppression of women, and the persecution of religious minorities. These
were terrible thoughts to have – and the sad reality is that many of the
people with Islamophobia suffer in silence.
So to prevent such a fate from befalling me, I searched for a cure…
on the internet. Lo and behold, I came across the Saudi Foundation for
the Eradication of Islamophobia. This Saudi Foundation was determined to
cure all of humanity of the Islamophobia STD. It provided each patient
with a multi-room apartment in a palace overlooking the Persian Gulf. I
was fed grapes, dates, Persian caviar (which had to be smuggled in
through the port of Dubai, because Saudi Arabia’s foreign relations with
Iran are terrible on a good day), falafel, beef with that lovely sesame
sauce, chicken, and many other things by a cabal of the most beautiful
concubines. I did not need to use any forks, spoons, or knives or get my
hands dirty, because the hands of these gracious creatures were my
utensils. Sometimes I got brief indigestion, because I got into the
habit of lying back on pillows of red silk while feeling the cool sea
breezes from the Persian Gulf. I am sure you can understand my
predicament.
Then for half an hour of each day, I had my therapy session with
Sheikh Qaradawi who very slowly convinced me of the errors of my way.
You see, I wanted to stay in this palace for a very long time. So after
two months of this, Sheikh Qaradawi started paying me more visits. He
did not want to do more therapy sessions with me, but was trying to
figure out how my treatment was progressing.
“Are you cured yet?” He asked with a raspy voice. “Because this is
getting very expensive. You have asked for sixty pyramid trays of
Persian caviar while you were with us and our smugglers have been
working overtime in trying to dodge customs.”
“I am sad to hear that,” I replied. “Are they alright?”
“Yes, they are fine,” Sheikh Qaradawi grumbled. “So are you cured?”
“Well I thought I was cured just a fortnight ago,” I said. “But then I got these urgings to start scratching the Kaba stone.”
“The Kaba?”
“Yes, that black stone from Allah that looks suspiciously like a
meteorite and that Muslims pray to while on their pilgrimage to Mecca.”
“Oh I see,” the Sheikh said.
“What do these urgings mean doctor?” I asked, deeply concerned (wink, wink).
“They mean that you will have to stay with us for a long time,” Sheikh Qaradawi said.
Then one of the concubines of unsurpassed beauty approached me and said, “You’re such a handsome man.”
“I agree,” I said, with a wide smile on my face.
“You are beaming with a vast intelligence,” she went on.
“What you say is true,” I replied. By this point in time, a sorrowful looking Sheikh Qaradawi had departed from the scene.
“I look at you and see Zeus, the great god of Roman times,” she said.
“I have a very shrewd idea where this line of conversation is going,” I said.
“I have always wanted to be ravished by a god!” She declared.
Well dear readers, I am afraid I cannot divulge to you the events
that followed that interesting conversation. I am a gentleman and a man
of honor and what follows in my intimate dealings with the more
attractive members of the opposite sex is between me and them.
While in one of my therapy sessions with Sheikh Qaradawi, a brilliant
idea came to me like a thunderbolt. I would write a book about 24
fatwas in order to counteract a common criticism about Islam and
hopefully cure humanity of Islamophobia. For those who do not know, the
fatwa is a religious ruling by a Mufti based upon Islamic principles and
Muslim precedents in legal practice. Perhaps the most famous fatwa was
the one issued against Salman Rusdie by the Iranian theocracy for
writing “The Satanic Verses.” Another was Tahrir-ul-Qadri’s fatwa
against terrorism which did not appear to frighten the Taliban or any
other terrorist group. This definition may create the impression that
the fatwa is central to Islam, but actually nothing could be further
from the truth. The fatwa does not represent mainstream Islam.
Since Qaradawi was ecstatic about my idea, he allowed me to spend the
next year in the palace in order to complete my cure, research fatwas
on the internet, and of course write the book. He even made sure that I
got more Persian caviar. I reckon I must have written 10 words per hour
on average in order to make sure that my tale was conveyed to my readers
as high poetry – much like the great poetry of John Keats, Lord Byron,
Alexander Pushkin, Mike Jagger, and Lady Gaga. Without further ado, I
present to you the twenty-four fatwas.
Would like to continue reading?
You can buy my book :https://www.amazon.com/Ridiculous-Islam-Maxim-Efimov-ebook/dp/B01LXH03E1/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1473606151&sr=1-1
