Hey. Muhammad here. Full name Abū al-Qāsim Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib ibn Hāshim. But that’s a hell of a mouthful, and it makes me tired even to think about it. So you can just call me Mo.

And you don’t need to add that “peace be upon him” word-burble whenever you say my name, either. I never said anywhere that people needed to do that. It’s not in the Quran. Try there to find it. You won’t. And it certainly never happened while I was alive, people gabbling my way “peace be upon you” every time they spoke to me. If they had, I never would have heard anything. All the shit said to me would have been all clogged up in “peace be upon you’s,” and I would have had to just say fuck it and go back in the tent. It’s annoying. Cut it out. It’s like some kind of weird freaking Tourette’s syndrome. Dudes: if you find you simply must add an appellation, for Christ’s sake try a little variety. Toss in a “bees be upon him.” Or “peas be upon him.” Or “fleas be upon him.” Something. Anything.

You know what else isn’t in the Quran? Any horseshit about it being forbidden to portray me pictorially. It just ain’t in there, hoss. Try to find it. You won’t. Paint, draw, sculpt likenesses of me. I don’t give a shit. Hell, if I were down there now, I’d probably be snapping selfies, and zooming them all through the tubes. Fact is, there are millions of likenesses of me down there on the planet, even as we speak. They’ve been churning them out in India, for instance, for eons. The Shia version of people who think they know what I’m about, pictures of me are quite common among those folks. The idea that it’s some massive no-no to depict me is a relatively new and not at all benign brain-fart of those stone-mad stick-butt Wahhabist nutholes, who’ve gone so barking from snorting all that oil they’re now separating men and women even on airplanes and lashing some blogger 1000 times because he “insulted Islam.” The fuck? He didn’t insult me.

And neither did those Charlie Hebdo people. Some of those cartoons about me, they’re pretty cool. Take that one up above there. Where I’m covering my eyes, and saying “it’s hard to be loved by idiots.” That’s true. And in fact, I say that up here all the time. We all do—Lilith, Shakti, Oshun, Jesus, Zeus, Buddha, Cybele, Aphrodite—all the boys and girls. All of us have to deal with people doing what it is they want to do, and then claiming it’s because we want them to do it. It’s enough to drive a man to drink. Which, yeah, I do. Every now and again. Because you know what else is not in the Quran? Any full-bore prohibition against drinking intoxicating liquors. So yeah. I take a nip. Here and there. Like when sad little brain-damages who think they’re of me shoot up a bunch of anarchist pacifists who drew pictures of me that I nowhere prohibited and that I actually like. You ought to take a look at this little documentary called Je Suis Charlie, from the Leconte father and son. You'll there learn that those assassinated Hebdo humans, they were good people. They knew what it was like, to be me.

The sad little brain-damages who killed the Hebdo people, they just wanted to kill. That’s all. They wanted to kill, needed to kill, were going to kill; when they finally did kill, they just lied like motherfuckers they were killing for me. Take the Cherif brain-damage: originally, more than a decade ago, he wandered around everywhere with a massive Thanatos boner wanting to kill Jews. Some Jews, any Jews, so long as they were Jews, and he could kill them. But then some yeehaw who thinks he knows me told the Cherif brain-damage he’d be better off killing Americans in Iraq. So then he was going to do that. But, like a dope-ass, the Cherif brain-damage missed the plane. His brother, the brain-damage Said, later did manage to catch a plane, to Yemen, where an American yeehaw showed him a list of people the yeehaw thought I’d want killed, and one of them was the Hebdo editor Charb. So, the Thanatos being upon them, the Cherif brain-damage, and the Said brain-damage, they burst into Hebdo, and blew the boys away.

And girls. They blew the girls away. The Cherif and Said brain-damages, when they were on their would-be Bonnie and Clyde run, several times bloviated that they didn’t kill women. But they lied. Because back there at Hebdo, they’d killed a woman. Elsa Cayat, psychoanalyst and Hebdo columnist. But to them, she wasn’t a woman. She was a Jew. “You dirty Jew,” Cayat had been told in phone calls in the months before her assassination. “Stop working for Charlie Hebdo. If you don’t, we will kill you.”

And then, when the Cherif and Said brain-damages were cornered in a print-shop in Dammartin-en-Goële, their sad little brain-damage pal, Amedy, burst into a kosher market back in Paris, killed him some Jews, then announced he was holding more Jews hostage, until Cherif and Said were released. The Amedy brain-damage said he had intentionally targeted the market, because he was intentionally targeting Jews.

Go to the Quran and find where it is written that sad little brain-damages acting in my name should harm or hate Jews. You won’t find it. In fact, there it is written that Jews, as well as Christians, are entitled to special protection.

Sometimes we go off together, Jesus and I, and shoot up. Because we need to go on the nod. Because we just can’t take it anymore. All the Jews killed, over all the centuries, by people claiming they’re acting in our names. I mean: we stole their god, Jesus and I, just flat ripped off Yahweh from the Hebrews. You'd think these nitwits who claim to be our followers, they would understand that. And show a little respect.

Another thing that isn’t in the Quran that various fuckwads and numb-nuts who claim to speak for me take upon themselves to Command is this horseshit about women having to be veiled or even burqaed. Ain’t in there. Try to find it. You won’t.

I admit there is at one point a note that wimmins should cover their bosoms.

But now, I gotta say, after spending all this time around wimmins like Aphrodite, I take that back. Now I say: women can uncover their bosoms. Please.

A word about this Quran. See, the way it worked, is that Allah—god, to you—spoke to Gabriel, who was an angel, and then Gabe spoke to me. I vaguely got some of it. But I never wrote anything down. People just listened to me bullshit, about the some of what I vaguely got. Some of them made some notes. I can’t really remember who all these people were now. Curly, Moe, and Larry, I think. Maybe also Shemp; also, maybe, Fake Shemp. Somewhere in there I died. Then Curly, Moe, Larry, Shemp, Fake Shemp, and the rest of the crew, they got together and bickered over whose rendition of what they thought they remembered I allegedly said was Most Right. Then a guy calling himself Caliph Uthman bulled in, separated the stooges, and decreed his own personal version of the Most Right Quran. Which only mentions me directly by name four fucking times, incidentally. Which should tell you something.

But then various bigshots felt like they knew more about me than even the Moes and Shemps and Uthmans, and so they started slinging together these smelly diarrhetic strings they call hadith. It is in the hadith where much of the worst horseshit resides. But I don’t pay any attention to any hadith, and neither should you. That's where you'll find the craziness like Stanley Kubrick faked the moon landing, and ZOG sprinkles Jew-dust on the Cocoa Puffs.

It should also be pointed out that, in the transmission of info from Allah through Gabriel through me through Curly, Moe, Larry, Shemp, and Fake Shemp, through Caliph Uthman . . . well, things got lost, and even fucked up. This is natural, when shit’s passing orally from one to another to another to another to another, even if some of the anothers are people like god, an angel, or me. As a result, mistakes were made. For sure. For instance, in the Quran can be found various indications that at times it’s okay to fight and even kill. I know now that’s totally wrong. We’re all up here in agreement on that. I can’t remember where and from whom the Thanatos crept in, but it doesn’t belong in there, and I repudiate all of it. Wherever in there you might find anything that might look like it says it might be okay to kill somebody, replace it with this, from the prophet Kenneth Patchen (peas be upon him): “I write along a single line: I never get off it. I said that you were never to kill anyone, and I meant it.”

The brain-damages weren’t able to execute Hebdo cartoonist Luz because January 7 was his birthday, and he was kinda celebrating, so he came in to work late. And so it is he who drew the cover for the Hebdo that appeared after his fellow anarchist pacifists had been assassinated. I really like it. You can yourself regard it, there, just above these words.

Luz, he has said:

“I had the idea to draw Muhammad because he is my character. Because he exists when I draw him, because he is a character that caused our premises to be firebombed, and later to be treated as irresponsible provocateurs—while we are above all cartoonists who love to draw little guys, like when we were children.”

“The terrorists have been children, too. They drew like all the children do, and then they lost their sense of humor.”

“It’s not the front page the world wanted us to do. But it’s the front page we wanted. It’s not the front page a terrorist would have wanted us to do—there are no terrorists on there.

“There’s just a guy who’s crying. It’s Muhammad. I am sorry, we drew him again. But this Muhammad is, above everything else, a man in tears.”

In all those words, Luz speaks for me.

yours,
Abū al-Qāsim Muḥammad ibn ʿAbd Allāh ibn ʿAbd al-Muṭṭalib ibn Hāshim