This one is courtesy of my buddy, Walt Wood…
Two Moslem mothers are sitting in a cafe chatting over a pint of goat’s milk. The older of the mothers pulls out her purse and starts flipping through photos, and they start reminiscing:
“This is my oldest son, Mohammed. He’s 24 years old, now,” says the mother. “Yes, I remember him as a baby,” says the other woman cheerfully. “He’s a martyr now,” his mother confides. “Oh, so sad dear,” says the other.
“And this is my second son, Kalid. He’s 21,” says the mother. “Oh, I remember him,” says the other happily, “He had such curly hair when he was born.” The mother says, “He’s a martyr, too,”
“And this is my third son. My baby. My beautiful Ahmed. He’s 18,” she whispers. “Yes,” says the friend enthusiastically, “I remember when he first started school.” His mother says, “He’s a martyr also,” with tears in her eyes.
After a pause and a deep sigh, the second Moslem mother looks wistfully at the photographs and says: “They blow up so fast, don’t they?”