Raoul Dunkin,
Embedded in Paris
commune wastebasket phones it in from the city of surrender
COMMUNE ART DEPT.
Femme Reporter Raoul Dunkin (lower left corner) reports from the savagely snooty premiere city in France.
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Raoul Dunkin, insert your own slanderous insult here, reporting for the commune from Paris, France. Somehow my job is to cover a war in the Middle East, though your guess is as good as mine on how to do so from Paris.
The best explanation for how I landed this assignment is that dullest tool in the drawer Ramrod Hurley, Acting-Editor and possible Bachman-Turner Overdrive member, thought anti-American sentiment runs so high here I’d be ripped apart upon stepping off the plane. Having already sent danger magnet Ivan Nacutcha-whatever to the front lines, this probably seemed like the best option for getting me rubbed out, as I have no doubt the lunatic thinks I’m bucking for his job.
Fortunately for this commune whipping boy, I speak fluent French and my own anti-American sentiment runs so high I fit in pretty well with the locals. I’ve joined in a few local protests at the local McDonald’s, but mostly I’ve been spending my time drinking the world’s best wine, smoking thin cigarettes, and living the high life on Ramrod’s expense account. Did you know you can actually buy some of the paintings at the Louvre? Surprised me, too.
Anyway, by the time Bagel gets back and has a look at all the damage Hurley’s done I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds himself the new public enemy number one. Fine by me. I’ve had enough shit from those yokels to last Bagel’s lifetime. Oh, by the way, if you should ever get to France and they don’t ridicule you back to the stone age for being American, you should try some of the cuisine. The women are exceedingly naughty, too. Hot mamas.
I suppose I should report on the war at any rate. Not much to say, to tell the truth. I’m looking out a window facing the western sky right now and I can see no sign of impending missile attacks or bombing raids of any sort. I thought I heard an air raid siren sounding an hour ago but it turned out to be a couple of cats getting familiar with each other. I threw a block of cheese at them (or fromage) and they ran off. No reports of any cat casualties or anything.
I asked the concierge and some other folks about the possibility of chemical weapons, and while there is some notable body funk in the air, I don’t think there’s too great a risk of attack. I’m still going to go down and buy a canary tomorrow. If there is a chance of a biological weapon attack, it will be an early warning sign, but mostly I just want to some company.
Yesterday I thought I saw a small group of Iraqis surrendering in front of the hotel, but they were actually just selling souvenirs. I bought a T-shirt with the Eiffel tower on it and they retreated into Baghdad. Baghdad Café, that is, a little coffee place up the street. Nice guys, very fair.
As you can see, it hasn’t been extremely eventful in this area. But I promise to stay with this story until news breaks, or until my plane ticket demands I return home. For the commune, this Raoul Dunkin, snickering his ass off.
the commune news is sending its heart out to the troops stationed in the Gulf—they’ll have to decide how to divide it up amongst themselves. Raoul Dunkin is possibly the world’s worst correspondent, and believe us when we say he’s got heavy competition on the staff.
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