It’s A Tough Job, Raping Virgin Girls So They Don’t Get Into Jannah After Execution, But Someone’s Gotta Do It

by Kasaafat Bisharaf, Basij enforcer

Tehran, March 18 – Oh, the burdens we bear in the name of the Islamic Republic! As a loyal militiaman, I’ve spent years patrolling the streets, cracking skulls at protests, and ensuring the Supreme Leader’s vision remains untainted by these uppity women who dare to show a strand of hair or whisper about freedom. But let me tell you, folks, the real heavy lifting? That sacred duty we perform in the shadowy corners of Evin Prison: deflowering those virgin dissidents before we send them to the gallows.

You heard me right. It’s a tough job, raping virgin girls so they don’t get into Jannah after execution, but someone’s gotta do it. And that someone is me — proud, pious, and perpetually exhausted.

Look, it’s not like I wake up every morning thinking, “Gee, another day of violating fellow humans in the most intimate way possible!” No, this is a calling. Back in the ’80s, when the regime first cooked up this brilliant theological workaround, it was genius. See, according to some fatwa or another — don’t quote me on the details, I’m more of a club-swinging guy than a scholar — virgins go straight to paradise. Can’t have that for these counter-revolutionary harlots, right? They’ve been out there chanting “Woman, Life, Freedom” or whatever nonsense, poisoning the youth with their unveiled faces and Western ideas. So, we step in, like divine bouncers at heaven’s gate, making sure they’re… ineligible. It’s preventive piety, people!

The usual suspects whine about it. “Human rights abuse!” they cry from their cushy offices in Geneva or New York. But have they ever tried wrestling with a feisty 20-something who’s just realized her last meal was prison slop? It’s no picnic. The scratches, the screams — oy vey, as our Zionist enemies might say. And don’t get me started on the logistics. Scheduling these “sessions” around prayer times? Coordinating with the executioners so everything’s timed just right? It’s like running a twisted spa service: “Relax, sister, this is for your own eternal damnation.” Sometimes I even throw in a little pep talk: “Think of it as a contribution to the revolution. Your sacrifice ensures no pearly gates for you!”

Of course, there are perks. The camaraderie with my fellow Basij brothers — swapping stories over tea about that one girl who bled out mid-assault, or the time we had to improvise because the power went out. Builds team spirit! And the sense of purpose? Unmatched. Knowing I’m upholding the velayat-e faqih by any means necessary, even if it means my back aches from all that… exertion. My wife doesn’t understand; she thinks I’m out late “guarding the neighborhood.” Bless her simple heart.

The workload’s become uneven amid the war. We’re understaffed, overworked, and honestly, a bit traumatized. Where’s our union? Our hazard pay? I mean, laboring to keep Jannah pure — it’s heroic! If only the ayatollahs would recognize us with a medal or something. “Basij Rapist of the Year,” maybe?

In the end, though, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It’s the ultimate act of devotion: turning potential martyrs into soiled souls, one violation at a time. So next time you see me in my uniform, give a nod of respect. Because while you’re sipping your chai, I’m out there doing God’s dirty work. Allahu akbar, indeed.

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