Mo not happy.

Mohammed heard the voice of a goat in the valley. It captured his attention. He was, in fact, deeply impressed. He ran back to his wife, the aged Khadija, and told her that he'd heard the voice of a goat speaking to him. She, being slightly deaf, thought he said he'd heard 'the voice of a god.' "Yeah," he thought, "that's what I meant." And the stone wheels of Mo's mind started turning.

Mo talked his nephew Ali into believing the revised 'goat story' and even convinced some other guys in the pit stop at Meccah. Being the guys who could never get a date, they followed Mo to Medina and set up shop as the new kids in town, financed by a bit of the ol' ultra violence, a bit of caravan robbing, a bit of snake oil sales, a bit of the ol' time religion. Mo found a new career. He laughed all the way to the river bank.

Not one to think small, he decided he could pull this scam on the whole world, from one end of the Arabian Peninsula to the other. And he did, cashiering the old dame for a brand new six year old on the way.

The rest, as they say, is histrionics. One day back in the back in the 21st century a Danish newspaper published cartoons of Mo.

Oh, Mo! He and his buddies were not happy. They laughed, they cried, they crawled on their bellies like snakes. They raged, howled, beat their chests and a couple of Danes, and held their breaths till they turned blue in the face. They this and they that and they la di dah. Did we mention that Mo was not happy? No, no one really cared.

Mo.'s scam fizzed because of the great cartoon kerfuffle. People around the world started sending out cartoons of this buffoon and soon the balloon was a little bit of bladder in the sand. Lo, Mo was no mo'.

Tomorrow's history lesson: Why Palestinians are like garden slugs.