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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.
The New York Times (2025) reports thousands converging, boys whirling like their slings, dreaming of conquering the Israeli Goliath. Others put on their press bulletproof vests and charge the fence. Teens, bribed with $100, per the Washington Post (2018), roll flaming tires toward the fence, each a bouncing inferno spitting sparks and soot.
Kites follow—crude, devilish contraptions, their frames tied with petrol-soaked rags. Lit and launched, they drift over the border, igniting Israeli wheat fields in blooms of orange. The Jerusalem Post (2018) tallied 400 such fires, charring 6,000 acres. The mob roars, a guttural hymn of hate, as flames dance. Boys, some 12, wield slingshots to crack skulls; others, per Reuters (2019), brandish AK-47s or pipe bombs, egged on by Hamas handlers.
This is all Hamas religious drug theatre, no time to fix the roads or build a clinic, “Allahu Akbar!” erupts, a frenzied ululation blasted through megaphones, not worship but venom.
Women wail, men fire pistols skyward, and the air’s a fetid stew of rubber, sweat, and rage. It’s bedlam, a Hieronymus Bosch canvas animated, with Hamas cameramen weaving through the smog, hoping to find a dead kid to model for Al Jazeera.
Hamas bets on the blood; dead teens are PR gold. The Hamas religious druglord hangs by the bus, maybe if we get a few dead teens who tried to cut through the fence, they muse, those pics will help us get a few more million from the Dutch or, more likely today, the mad Irish.
This isn’t a protest; it’s choreography, a circus to breach the fence and make Israel flinch. But the IDF, forged in Intifadas and October 7’s butchery, holds fast. Tear gas hisses, rubber bullets thud, live rounds crack when the mob surges.
The Centre for Peace Communications (2023) tells of how Gazans say Hamas hides in tunnels, leaving kids to face the fire. The goal? Paint Israel as Satan while Hamas’s bosses—fattened on $100 million from Iran, per the Washington Institute—lounge at the Al-Mashtal Hotel, Gucci loafers pristine. The Financial Times (2022) notes 73% of Gazans see Hamas as corrupt, yet the mob’s too high on Jew-hatred, a drug purer than Gastown’s fentanyl.
Vancouver’s junkies, nodding off on sidewalks, are tragic—self-destroyers lost to heroin’s haze. Gaza’s dealers, though, are sharp, sober, peddling “blame the Jews.”
The New York Times (2025) reports Gazans blaming Israel even as they curse Hamas’s theft. Schools, per a 2021 EU report, drill it: Jews cause all woe, from blackouts to hunger. Al-Aqsa TV’s cartoons lionise “martyrs” killing Zionists. It’s a hit cheaper than crack, masking the $4.9 billion in aid since 2007, per the World Bank (2024), siphoned into tunnels and Ismail Haniyeh’s $4 billion, per the Jerusalem Post (2023). The EU’s €1.6 billion, Canada’s $50 million yearly, per Global Affairs Canada (2023), fund rockets, not roads.
When Gazans protested in 2025, per AP News, Hamas tortured Odai Al-Rubai to death. Blame the Jews, they snarl, and the mob, choking on tire fumes, obeys.
This drug is sanctified by faith. Islam, in Hamas’s hands, dangles 72 virgins (Surah 55:56) for martyrs— a strange religion so pious to tremble before an uncovered ankle, but obsessed with virgins, of course overrated, all tears and blood—while leaders dodge bullets. As Gibbon wrote in Decline and Fall, “The fanaticism of the sword outlives the fanaticism of the cross.” Hamas’s sword, steeped in scripture, thrives on chaos, not progress.
Meanwhile, the idiot West wallows in guilt, insisting all cultures are equal. No, they are not. The West is the best.
Saying they are all equal is like claiming Buckingham Palace matches your uncle’s mildewed tent from that doomed Cub Scout trip in ’78. The truth of course, a child would tell you, the palace’s stone and plumbing trump a canvas reeking of piss and collapse.
People? Equal potential. Cultures? Shaped by values, superstitions, and institutions. The West’s reason, liberty, inquiry—let you tweet self-loathing without a stoning. Gaza’s? Stunted by Hamas’s hate.
Pampered Gen Z, their life a continuum of 20-second TikTok intellectual bursts, vacuous slogans, and buzzwords de jour, think self-hatred puts them up on the moral high ground, but it’s just narcissism in a Che Guevara T-shirt.”
Morally lazy, historically illiterate twits. The West’s an old-growth tree—roots in Athens, Rome, Jerusalem—not a bunch of gas station flowers. If you cut the roots, the plant will die.
Yet we grovel, ignoring that fundamentalism and corruption, per Macaulay’s History of England, “go hand in hand,” as in Europe’s indulgence-selling priests or Hamas’s jizya-demanding warlords.
Israel won’t flee to Portugal. They’ll hold, knowing Hamas craves dead kids, not peace. Gaza’s inferno—fires, kites, “Allahu Akbar” shrieks—is a circus to keep the drug flowing.
The tragedy? A people doped on hate, blaming Jews for potholes while kleptocrats laugh in luxury. It will never end.
Luckily our clear headed eastern saviors voted in the great C who will definitely get Canada off the Hsmas/Islam groveling train and pointed back to clear western values.
No?
It’s a death cult, promulgated by Iran and financed by Qatar.