Monday, December 15, 2003
YOU CAN THANK me later for the whole Saddam thing.
Not for the information I provided that indirectly contributed to his capture, but for the fact that the celebratory bullets I fired into the air from the roof of my compound did not crash to earth into your pickup truck. I don't want to say too much more about this, but there may or may not be one fewer blimp patrolling the skies over LA tomorrow.
Demands Made by Saddam Hussein in Return for His Peaceful Surrender at the Bottom of that Eight-Foot Dirty Hole
--That the Great Satan immediately surrender to the newly-established Noble Iraqi Eight-Foot Dirty Hole Republic, headed by president-for-life Saddam Hussein
--That John Ashcroft represent him in his battle to wrest the trademark for "Eight-Foot Dirty Hole" from Paris Hilton*
--That his son Uday's gay tiger, Mandor, be immediately installed as a "man-eating" consultant on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
--That each week he be brought a Kurdish family to meet his personal gassing needs
--That he be awarded fifteen minutes in a janitorial closet with Strom Thurmond's seventy-eight year-old love child
--That Beyonce and Jay-Z stop playing coy and finally admit that they are in a loving, monogamous relationship, his "bitches n' hoes" frontin' be damned
--That he be advanced thirty-seven virgins on his posthumous seventy-two virgin martyr allotment; failing that, four nonconsecutive issues of Oui from 1981 for his jail cell
--That he receive one of those Howard Dean web sites so that he may mount a campaign for the Democratic presidential nomination; failing that, he'd like to attend one of those Dean house parties, bringing his trademark "wicked falafel"
--That George H.W. Bush and George W. Bush both be beheaded and that their skulls be used for a game of pick-up football in the streets of Tikrit if he is able to capture them in an eight-foot dirty hole in Potomac, Maryland
--That in the upcoming second season of Average Joe, the choice between a brain-dead, humorless hunk and a nice-guy millionaire be so painfully obvious so as to make all of America scream "you shallow bitch!" at their television screens as the comely bachelorette follows the shallow genetic imperative to engage in the act of procreation with the hunkiest reality-show contestant available
--That each of these list entries begin with the word "that" and launch into grammar so tortured as to render William Safire violently incontinent some three thousand miles away
--A DiGiorno pizza. He's really fucking sick of the pepperoni Tombstones he's been eating while in hiding.