When I was at a large university several years ago, I was in the school fitness room, working out, and there was a Muslim woman on the treadmill, with her hijab and the whole head-to-toe get-up on pretending to work out. It was so ghastly and unsettling I could hardly prevent myself from laughing out loud. Here were all these western women, healthy and lithesome and vital, in shorts and Lycra and form-fitting clothing, vigorously exercising, confident and assured of their lovely bodies, and there was a black, woolen blob, an anachronism of the first degree, right smack in the middle of this display of athletic, western femininity. Frankly, it was vile, and utterly incompatible with every sensibility, aesthetic and moral, of a civilized western man. She may as well have been carrying her chains around with her.
The image remains in my mind of why I find Islam so repellent at all levels. Give me western women, athletic and muscular, the cowgirls and swimmers and volleyball players, the girls of the US Army and Marines, and all the sexy tom-girls who can frame a house and shoot a 12 gauge, and drink straight whiskey over those poor black, blobs of wool any day. Islam is not a religion, it is a death cult.
