The Sanely Funny Humor Magazine



Suicide Bomber Shops For Life Insurance

A suicide bomber named Ali-Bye saw a commercial by Prudential of Iraq and became concerned about what could happen to his family after he completed his mission. He decided that the next day he would go shopping for life insurance.

In the morning, he opened the Baghdad Yellow Pages and leafed through them, an activity that required extraordinary dexterity, because the reference book was still smoldering from having been sitting nearby when a fellow practitioner of his life-abbreviating vocation swung into action.

Ali quickly noticed that, due to the self-inflicted precariousness of mercantile activity in the ancient city, there was only one insurance company to consider. He wrote down the address, tucked it under his suicide belt, and headed for Prudential.

As he walked along the bustling street, he considered the various innocent men, women, and children he might blow up as meritorious service to Allah, but decided to restrain himself until he was covered by life insurance.

After a time, he came upon the company, which was located in a storefront at street level, no doubt due to the shortage of taller buildings that were still standing.

He entered and found an unsuspecting receptionist.

She looked up, smiled, and asked, “How can I help you?”

“I want to buy life insurance,” Ali-Bye told her.

“Of course,” she replied, and picked up the phone. “We have a customer....Yes, right away.” She hung up and smiled. “Please, follow me.”

For a moment the thought of heading for paradise with her, because she was quite attractive, even if she might not be a virgin. But he reasoned she was only one person and he still wasn’t covered. So he just said, “Thank you.”

She led him toward the office behind her, knocked on the door, and opened it. “Please, step inside and talk with our insurance agent.”

“Welcome to Prudential of Iraq,” the agent said, rising and putting out his hand. “My name’s Al-Slicki.”

“Thanks,” Ali-Bye replied, and shook hands.

“How can I help you?” he asked, motioning for his new customer to sit across from him.

“I want to buy life insurance.”

“Good, good! Buy, say, you’re a relatively young man to be thinking about life insurance. What brings you here?”

“I saw one of your commercials.”

“Oh, wonderful.” He made a note. “So naturally you began to think about the big picture.”

“Yes, I became concerned about the welfare of my family after I am no longer here.”

“Perfect. Now, tell me a little about yourself.”


“So I can decide what policy is right for you. For instance, at your age you might want a plan that also functions as a long-term investment.”

“What else do you offer?”

“Oh, many things. At the other end of the spectrum, we have term life insurance.”

“What’s that?”

“It simply means we pay your beneficiaries when you die.”

“I like that,” the suicide bomber replied.

“Yes, but, if you have a normal life expectancy, you would be paying premiums for many years, and they wouldn’t accrue into any sort of nest egg that you might tap in your old age.”

“I’m OK with that,” Ali-Bye assured him.

“Say no more. Term life it is.” He leaned over, opened the file drawer, and took out an application. “Please, fill this out.”

“What is it?”

“An insurance application.”

“Can’t I just pay you and be covered?”

“First I need you to fill out the form.”


“I need to know things about you – name, address, occupation.”

“My occupation?”

“Yes, and who you want your beneficiaries to be.”

“My beneficiaries?”

“The people you want the money to go to when you die.”

“Oh,” he replied. “That’s my family.”

“Of course. But we need their names. Here’s a pen. You can fill it out right here or sit in the waiting room.”

“Here is fine,” Ali-Bye said, but only stared at the page, uncertain what to do. He became a bit upset about the form and considered avoiding the task by taking the agent to paradise with him at that very moment. But he restrained himself, and said, “I don’t want to fill it out. I just want life insurance.”

“I’ll tell you what,” the obliging agent replied, “just tell me the information, and I’ll fill it out for you.”

“Why can’t I just have the insurance?”

“Well, there are many reasons. For instance, I have to know what you do for a living.”


“Well, I have to see if there are, for example, occupational hazards, which might, of course, increase the cost of your policy. So tell me, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a suicide bomber.”

“A suicide bomber, did you say?” the insurance agent asked.

“Yes. It’s an honorable occupation, isn’t it?”

The agent noticed that Ali-Bye had moved his hand firmly to his waistline, and replied, “Oh, this isn’t at all about honor. It’s about occupational risk, and your field of endeavor does tend to increase the cost of insuring your life.”

“You mean my policy will cost more?”

“Actually, quite a lot more,” Al-Slicki informed him. “In fact, we might not be able to offer you coverage.”

Ali-Bye became somewhat incensed.

The agent noticed his ire and, apparently an old hand at managing the particular type of lunacy, asked,

“Sunni or Shiite?”

“Does that influence the cost?”

“No, our actuarial tables are the same for both. Just curious.”


“Wonderful,” the agent said, and stood up. “I have a young man in the office next door, who’s filling out an application. You two should meet. He’s a suicide bomber, too.”


“Yes. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

The insurance agent stood up and walked out of the office, while Ali-Bye considered what he would do in case the agent refused to insure him. Soon, Al-Slicki returned with the other young man.

“Ali-Bye,” he said affably, “meet Ali-Byebye. He’s a Shiite.”

“A Shiite?” Ali-Bye asked.

“Yes. And, as I said, a fellow practitioner of your relatively short-lived profession.”

“He tells me you’re a Sunni,” Ali-Byebye asked, gritting his teeth.

“That’s right,” Ali-Bye replied, and placed his hand on his exit belt.

“Say,” the insurance agent interposed, “why don’t I leave you two to get to know each other better? I’ll just step out for a poke of opium.”

With that, he turned and headed out at a brisk pace. He motioned for the secretary to follow him.

Soon, they were hurrying along the street.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To look for new office space,” he told her.

“Again?” she asked. “How many suicide bombers can there be?”

Just then a loud explosion and then a second loud one thundered from the direction of the agency.

“I have no idea,” he told her. “We can only hope there will always be another office.”

By Tom Attea