Good morning, despots of the world!
I write to you today from my Underground Lair at an undisclosed location in Tripoli, from where I am determined to fight like a tiger until victory is mine, or die like a martyr with the entrails of my petrified foes gripped fiercely in my lifeless hands.
That is assuming anyone can find me.
Overnight we have been laughing, my faithful sons and I, at the claims of the hapless drug-fuelled rats who have infested our great city. First they thought they had Mohammed, but, like the wind, he escaped their flimsy cages. Then they said they had Saif, yet here he is, Saif and sound (and underground).
Liberators? I think not. Liberace, more like.
So, what, I hear you ask, is that mighty sound bubbling up from the tunnels below Tripoli? That, my friends, is the sound of despotic laughter. Hear it and weep: Muah. Muahahaha. Muahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah!
There are those who say the battle is nearly over. But let me tell you this: this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. It is not even the first letter in a very long sentence which ends with an extended prelude to a long beginning.
To those who back the infidel hordes, I have only this to say: nerny nerny ner ner. To paraphrase your famous philosopher, Sir Montague Python, your mothers are hamsters and your fathers smell of elderberries. I fart in your general direction.
Goodbye for now.