Sept. 11, 2001. Nineteen Arab Muslim al-Qaeda pricks. Fifteen Saudi. Two from the Emirates. One Egyptian. One Lebanese. Four planes. Two towers. Pentagon. A field in Pennsylvania because the passengers said fuck you and took the cockpit back. 2,977 dead that morning. The dust kept eating people after.
Today is 25 years. Names get read in the hole. Trump is at the Pentagon. Vance is in Manhattan with Bush, Clinton, Obama, and Mayor Zohran Mamdani, the guy 110,000 family signatures told to stay the fuck home. He showed up anyway. X is passing a clip of him and AOC smiling and laughing while the names come out of widows' mouths.
Stop sanding it into a tragedy occurred. A tragedy is a bus crash. This was a death cult from the Arabian peninsula that spent years jerking off to the idea of cooking New Yorkers alive. They were not youths. They were not misunderstood. They were grown Muslim men who thought office secretaries were fair game because their prophet's fan club said so.
America's official religion after that morning was never say Muslim too loud or a diversity dean will piss himself. So we strip-searched Lutheran grandmas and let the same political class import the argument into Dearborn, Minneapolis, and Queens, then handed New York a mayor the families did not want standing on the granite.
If you flinch at Arab Muslim hijackers, you are not solemn. You are housebroken. The men in those cockpits did not flinch. They prayed and pushed the stick. Your job today is to say their names as a group and not as a weather report.
Mamdani giggling during the roll call is the punchline the city earned. You do not get to be the consolation mayor and also the mourner-in-chief. Sit your ass down.
