The Great Hamas Con

Gaza’s Inferno: The Jew-Hating Drug and the West’s Suicidal Guilt

They thought it would be a hoot—an orgy of hate capped with blood and burnt falafel. Picture it: a Hamas-run hate jamboree just across the border, one of those ecstatic Jew-loathing carnivals with kites, chants, and Kalashnikovs. Then October 7 happened. What began as another fetid “Return March” morphed into a genocidal tailgate party. They expected Israel to shrug, maybe mumble something about “proportionality” between sips of espresso—big mistake.

Try this on for scale: 1,200 murdered. For the U.S., imagine 45,000 slaughtered one morning—hippies, daycare workers, Holocaust survivors, teenagers dancing under stars. Then 5,000 kidnapped—tied, raped, burned, dragged through tunnels like meat. If Mexican cartels had done that in Texas? Trump wouldn’t just tweet; he’d turn Northern Mexico into one big, flaming, radioactive parking lot, and Americans, through tears, would cheer.

“Don’t come into our country and butcher our women and children,” they’d say. “Our blood isn’t cheap,” And who would argue?

Israeli blood is not cheap.

So let’s get this straight: October 7 wasn’t a standalone atrocity—it was a pep rally for the apocalypse. A Hamas-sponsored Jew-hatred fest that got out of hand. But here’s the punchline: they’re not holding another one.

No more flaming tire soirées. No more death marches disguised as civil resistance. The“fun day at the fence” ended when they mistook Israel’s restraint for weakness. That music festival? It wasn’t a battlefield. It was a massacre. And now the carnival’s over.

Gaza’s a furnace, so even the locals can cry their way to reconstruction funding, one might want to end the genocidal “family fun day” on the Gazan border, where Hamas, those sanctimonious peddlers of pandemonium, orchestrate a weekly bacchanal of fire, fury, and Jew-hatred. It’s no bucolic picnic with lemonade and gingham; it’s a Hogarthian nightmare, a choking maelstrom of burning tires, thick rubber black smoke, flying rocks, and kites rigged to torch fields, all scored by the hysterical shriek of “Allahu Akbar!” slicing through the haze like a scimitar.

The air’s a toxic slurry of carcinogens, the ground a carpet of ash, and the mob’s so crazed you’d think they’re praying the Israelis will gawk at this smoky, hateful chaos and growl, “Forget it, I’m off to Portugal.” They won’t.

And Gaza’s dealers? They’re not the same as those who nurture Gastown’s junkies, those who fall asleep slumped over fire hydrants, needles glinting in the rain. No, these bastards hawk a cheaper, deadlier drug: blame the Jews for everything—shower mould, cousin Ahmad’s gas-tank explosion, potholes getting deeper and never repaired, eight months now. It’s a scam, and we’re all suckers.

Let’s paint the scene vividly, like a Goya etching gone mad. Dawn cracks over Gaza, 2025, another Friday of the “Great March of Return” or its rancid spawn, per AP News (2025).

Hamas buses disgorge families—mothers in hijabs, kids gripping stones, teens with Molotovs and the odd set of wirecutters—lured by promises of patriotic glory. The border fence, a steel gash between Gaza’s squalor and Israel’s green, looms under a bruised sky. Tractor tires, scavenged from dumps, are piled like a giant’s black mouldy doughnuts, soaked in diesel, and torched.

Flames roar, rubber melting into a bubbling, viscous tar that oozes across the dirt. Black smoke billows, dense as despair, laden with benzene and dioxins that shave years off lifespans per a 2019 Environmental Health study. Eyes sting, lungs burn, but Hamas doesn’t care—they crave the chaos, the optics, the martyrs.