Of course I can’t relate to suicide bombers. I would have a hard time listening to my “block warden” or whatever they call Islamic terrorist generals as he explained to me how wonderful it is to strap on twenty five or thirty pounds of ultra sensitive dynamite and handed a small button which, when pushed, will signal the end of my body as I’ve grown to know it.

            “By exploding the dynamite and blowing yourself to bits you will be held in good stead by God and you will insure a quick and pleasant trip to heaven, where we will arrange to have sixty or seventy virgins waiting for you. What do you say?”

            “I’ll tell you what I say, general. This is craziness. If you think I’m going to put on that dumb jacket with all those sticks of dynamite sewn into it you’re nuts. As far as the sixty or seventy virgins waiting for me, tell them to go about their business, I don’t plan on meeting with them anytime soon.”

            The general, whose official title is “Commander of Suicide Bombers and Director of Root Canals” for Al Qaeda, offered further incentives to his reluctant combatant.

            “Look, if you will agree to wear the dynamite and explode yourself all over the farmer’s market we will give you twenty five thousand dollars in addition to the sixty or seventy virgins which you will meet later.”

            “Nope. I’ve always had this dream of dying with my arms, legs, uvula, lips and scalp in one piece. Keep your money, keep the virgins.”

            Like I said, I can’t relate to anyone who volunteers to have their body minced and then have their last words spoken over their remains which reside in a small plastic sandwich bag.