n autopsy of the internet-famous body of former Libyan dictator Muammar Gadhafi early Monday uncovered one shocking detail: the so-called corpse is in fact a sex doll likeness of Gaddafi, manufactured by the Middle Eastern RealDoll knock-off company, FeelDoll.

"We resent being called a knock-off. If anything, our models are superior to RealDolls, with suppler orifices, stretchier lips, and more voluminous skeet reservoirs," explained an incensed Roman Starsky, head doll fucker for FeelDoll.

"If anything, we’re a knock-up," Starksy added. "If you’re going to jizz into a big polyurethane corpse, we hope it’s ours."

The sex doll in question, an expensive high-end model a far cry from the inflatable emergency dates most commune readers would be familiar with, features a posable internal skeleton, lifelike silicone skin, interchangeable hairpieces for alternating between "stern sexy dictator Kadafi" and "fun on the beach Qaddafi," and numerous cute outfits in all the latest styles. There has been no word as to who ditched this particular love doll in the drainage ditch where it was found by revolutionaries on Friday, but judging from its condition, they were apparently finished with it.

"Ga-ddammit," mused National Transitional Council Executive Chairman Mahmoud Jibril, upon being told the news.

When asked how the entire world could be fooled by footage of a rubber sex doll flopping around and being shoved into a truck, psychologist Ben Wahbals explained the powerful role suggestion plays in the way our brains interpret the outside world.

"For example, all I had to do was tell you I was a psychologist, and because of that you never even noticed that I’m wearing an Arby’s uniform and we are, right now, inside an Arby’s," explained Dr. Wahbals.

The day went from bad to double-bad for Libya’s new government later Monday afternoon, when a closer inspection of the corpse of Qadhafi’s son Mo’tassim (Ed. Note: Seriously? Fact check that name), thought killed in fighting last week, revealed it to actually be a goat wearing a dress.

Monday’s shocking developments raise several disturbing questions, not the least of which is where the actual Qadhaffi might be if he’s not really having his anus measured in a morgue in Libya. The leading theory as of news time was that Gathafi has been hiding out for months as a member of the cast of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, though journalistic ethics require us to point out that this almost-certainly-true theory has not yet been backed up by hard facts or cursory examination.

Upon the first breaking of this story on news breaker site Zapshit.com, several posters in that article’s comments section admitted this news made them feel less guilty about having masturbated to the YouTube footage of Godhafi’s capture last week.

Possibly even more pressing, however, is the question of why in the holy Allah someone would make a sex doll to look like Malomar Kurdhafi.

"Male sex dolls are relatively rare compared to the female models, yes, and are mostly purchased by conservative politicians and for the rec rooms of women’s prisons," explained Starsky. "But there is a demand, and a demanding demand at that."

Sure, but why Gutthafih?

"Likenesses are entirely based on popular demand. And who is to say the sexual appetites of the public are wrong? Is being sexually attracted to Dick Butkus wrong? Just because I want to dip my wick in a life-sized plastic Ernest Borgnine, does that make me a freak? On a side note, our Ernest Bornine FeelDolls are all on sale this week, those things haven’t been selling worth a goddamn."

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A Washington bookseller I'd never heard of announced a couple of weeks ago they would purge details of a buyer's purchase upon request. This was in response to one of those 500 quickly-passed 9/11 laws which says the government can go through your sock drawer if they smell the stink of fear on you. I, for one, applaud the move. A lazy golf clap applause because even if it's a noble gesture it doesn't make a damn difference in the long run.

Just when I think people have accepted the government can get you no matter what you do, they show signs of struggling, thinking they can actually escape the Web—that's what I call it. That's mine, by the way, intellectual property.

Yes, the Web—part U.S. government, part Illuminati, all encompassing terror. Like the many-fingered centipede, the Web can put a pincer on you at any moment. The only reason you're walking around right now is because they don't give a damn if you're dead or alive. Occasionally, they think it's funny when you bitch about where the remote is because Baywatch is on in 5 minutes, but otherwise you're insignificant. Don't feel bad; so am I. Just slightly more significant at best.

If you think the government is closing its FBI file on you just because they have no store record of your recent purchase of Ass Monsters magazine, I'd love a toke of whatever you're smoking. You're delusional, Poncho. Store records are a tiny, tiny fraction of all the information they've already got on you.

Of course the government tracks everywhere you go on the Internet. If you need me to tell you that, go back to Conspiracy 101—hell, go back and your G.E.D. first, you're clearly a mook. And they don't care if you're checking out www.gayblackdicks.com, even if your wife would; they're more worried about your visits to the commune, folks. If I were you and totally lacked a spine I wouldn't come here again. Still here? I'm glad, even if I lost a bet.

Every time you go into your gym, even if it's just once a year, they have a recorder that keeps track of it. Every time you cross the street against the light or run a stop sign, there are built in sensors recording your license number (or DNA pattern) and reporting it to Washington. There's a chip under the counter at McDonald's that keeps track of how many hamburgers you've ordered—you didn't think McDonald's counted all those burgers themselves, did you? From all that information they can know everything from your political views to the estimated date of death from cholesterol-blocked arteries. But that's not all.

Okay with all that, as long as they don't know your purchases? The important stuff? Try this on for size—it's a reality suit, one size chafes all. The government has specific machines that can sort your trash, record who owned it and categorize it by importance. You think your garbage is in a landfill deep in the earth somewhere? Dream on, buddy. It's in a file cabinet in Wyoming. After all, something has to be taking up all that space, right? Your garbage is alive, well, and waiting to show up as evidence in your trial if it's ever needed by Uncle Sam.

So what are your options? You don't have any. Are you going to burn every piece of garbage? They'll be able to reconstitute it in original form, I'd guess. Or they will be soon, maybe before the end of this article. Well, I'm doing my part to thwart them as best I can—this article ends now! Boo-ya!

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I have never before been interested in music. Music is like water, as far as I'm concerned, and me being mostly oil, we do not mix. But this has changed recently now that Lee is part of my scene.

In addition to all his other talents, Lee is, as he put it, a wicked bassist. Some thump the bass, Lee says, some prick it; Lee makes love to it. He has been thrown out of numerous bands for this, especially Christian rock bands, but he sees it as an asset. And whatever Lee sees, Rok sees, good people. That's why I have decided to form a rock musical band.

It's a good idea—anybody can see it's a good idea. Building a sharp power trio around our infallible bassist Lee. The only problem is that the other members of our power trio have, how Lee phrased it, "absolutely no musical ability." Not that this will stop us, it merely slows us, like the molasses swamp in Candyland.

I thought it was genius to put Camembert on drums, since you always see drummers sitting down in musical videos, and Camembert is always sitting down because he is paralyzed. Well, guess what? Drummers use their feet for something. I believe it's some kind of big drum they kick or something, traditional in rock music. Camembert informed me we could avoid this by playing bluegrass, but if you think I got into music to end up on some Coen Brothers film soundtrack, you're dead wrong. Rok plays rock, or nothing at all. So right now we're playing nothing at all. But Lee said Camembert can rig up some electronic cheat like the drummer from Def Leopard who only has one arm, or John Bonham, who was drunk into oblivion most of the time he played.

Which leaves me as the problem spot on this hard-to-clean sofa. I play nothing. I do not even play video games, which is just as well since that would be the strangest band since Devo. So while Camembert has a chance of playing drums in our band very well, I have no chance of playing anything. True, I own a grand piano, but that's always more for lying seductively on and enticing the ladies rather than playing piano-style. I tried playing it once and the neighbors sealed all exits and set the apartment on fire, which doesn't bode well for trying to learn again. And the last time I tried playing a guitar I tightened the strings too much and lost a finger.

My best luck so far has been in reading my spoken-word poetry while standing in a box full of cats. I find that if I do a little two-step in the box I produce noises, in no certain order or tone, but it is a sort of tenor that sounds good with the bass and drums, at least how I imagine the drums will sound. Our sound is sometimes defined as punk, post-punk, proto-punk or alternative. At least that's how Lee defined it, our neighbors say it is pure shit, post-vomit, proto-garbage or gangrenous cock.

Not that we're letting it stop us. You don't let a little thing like a horrible sound stop you from forming a band with a tremendous bass talent. I'm not ashamed to say with our big drumless drumming and cat-stomping poetry-reading sound that Lee is carrying our band. Without Lee, there would be no band.

In fact, this is so true that, upon reflection, the band has no need for me. I think I'll hang up my box of cats strap and call it a career. That still makes my time in the music spotlight longer than Taylor Dayne. Camembert can do what he wants, but since I forced him into this venture with thinly-veiled threats anyway, he'll probably drop out as well. Which leaves Lee to carry on with the band, a band only in namesake, basically a front to showcase his talents.

That bastard. The least he could have done was meet with Master C and me before kicking us out of the band. Screw him. Camembert and I will form our own band. He thinks he's the big talent, eh? That we're not the spirit of the band itself? We'll show him.

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