fforts to rebuild Iraq achieved a success Friday when U.N. officials, voiced by Secretary-General Kofi Annan, pledged funding for the reconstruction from the official United Nations "swear jar."

The swear jar, instituted in the 1960s during initial squabbles between Israel and surrounding Islamic nations, became a staple of public negotiations at the U.N. building in New York. Familiar statements such as, "Please, ambassador—there are ladies present," or, "Does the Prime Minister kiss his mother with that mouth?" became outlets for relief of tension with the high-strung representatives of many nations.

The legacy of the swear jar since its inception has spawned many rumors with U.N. fans, or "Unies," as they are called behind their backs. In 1967 the popular story was the swear jar had accumulated $432,000, all of which would be used for a hootenanny-slash-barbecue that summer, until Cold War relations worsened and the jar was put aside for possible war reparations to the eventual winning side. In 1978, after years of U.N. members dipping in for candy bars and vending machine sodas, the swear jar funds were down to $1.3 million, despite accruing an estimated $3.9 million in the time since public discussion of its allocation, and popular sentiment at that time was to use the bounty to build a new recreation room with new pool tables, a 27-inch TV, and a sofa with its upholstry intact. In 1990, during the first Gulf War crisis, the U.N. elected to move the swear jar money to a ceramic Mickey Mouse bank so everyone would be less likely to replenish other funds from swear-earned income.

At Friday's donor dinner, which is fun to say, U.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell addressed attendees from the United Nations and requested approximately $35.8 billion through 2007 or "best offer" for the rebuilding of war torn Iraq, in which we did most of the tearing.

Angry nations and their angrier representatives expressed disinterest in springing for rebuilding out of their own pockets after explicitly making their aversion to the war public. Miniature squabbles resulted in the aftermath, adding an estimated $43 to the swear jar before lunchtime, but U.N. executives managed to chill out the crowd with a copy of Bob Marley's Legend album.

With the uproar squashed, Secretary General Kofi Annan sparked a quiet hush in the room when he turned to Treasury Secretary Candy and asked, "How much is in the swear jar?" After conferring privately with the secretary, Annan nodded and turned back toward the microphone, pronouncing, "I think we can swing it."

Most countries found the pledge agreeable, but the allocation of the swear jar funding did have its opponents. French ambassador Henrí Bois-Bois was quick to voice his dissent.

"If the U.S. expects the rest of the Western world to step in and pay to make its repairs when it gives us no voice in preventing a war, we are setting a dangerous precedent by agreeing to do so," stated the dignitary. "Also, there are many of us who had not given up hope on getting jackets with our names on the back done up. Those are not going to pay for themselves. Does the U.S. propose to pay for those in exchange? This is so unfair."

The swear jar allocation, if it happens, could be the largest expenditure of U.N. community bank since financing a pizza party to settle the Falkland Islands dispute with money found in the rec room couch cushions.

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Cancer's just not as funny as it used to be. I mean, seriously, remember when cancer used to be hilarious? Like dad would come home from work and you'd be like "How's your day, pops?" and he'd say "Just found out my liver's rotted through with cancer!" and you'd both laugh and laugh? Those were the days.

Nowadays you have to pretend like it's breaking your heart that somebody's going to start pooping out lungs soon and you can't even giggle when they're moaning "I'm dyin' here, I'm really dyin'!" It's a total drag. People just don't have any kind of sense of humor about themselves anymore, everything's all "Woe is me, I live out every moment in agonizing pain." Thanks a lot for bringing me down, asshole. I just spent four bucks on this ice cream for nothing.

When I was a kid, if one of your classmates had cancer you were allowed to push him down the stairs and say his dad's a fag; that made you popular. And I don't remember the kids with cancer complaining, they just appreciated the attention. That's all anybody who's got three months to live wants, anyway, is attention. It shouldn't matter if it's "pretending to listen to all your crybaby stories" attention or "pushing you in your wheelchair off a ski jump" attention, that's really splitting hairs. And hey, don't give me all that sore-loser bullshit about your wheelchair being all ruined now, if you hadn't bet on yourself you'd have plenty of money to buy another one. I know I do.

Don't forget that other cancer dude who smoked you on the ramp is living the good life over in the traction ward, and you know he's not complaining.

What really gets me though, are all these bleeding-heart liberals who don't even have cancer but still get their Volvos in a bunch when I think something's funny. Like when that commercial comes on in the theater, before the movie, with all the bald little kids talking about cancer research and blah blah blah. Now that's some funny shit! You see those kids? They're balder than my dad, and they're only like five! Where do they find those freaks? I'm telling you, I could watch that shit all day if I didn't have a theater full of Good Samaritans pelting me with popcorn and booing and shit. Please. Like any of them had cancer when they were kids.

I tell you, the world's full of people trying to ruin my good time. If it's not some pastel-colored killjoy petitioning to cancel a hilarious show like World's Greatest Police Chases, it's some other curmudgeon telling me I can't visit the fat camp unless I'm a family member. I tried telling that guy they should charge admission, because I know at least a dozen guys who would bust a nut watching those lard-assed little kids try to run an obstacle course and falling down and having asthma attacks and shit, but wouldn't you know he's one of those lost-cause fruits who puts a child's "dignity" ahead of profit. Like any of those little butterbutts wouldn't trade his or her dignity for a big slice of pie. He didn't think that was funny either, and the bastard confiscated my pie.

I tell you, it's a lonely life, being one of the only guys out there with a sense of humor. And hey, it's not like I fail to see the humor in my own misfortune. Just last week, some lady's little yappy dog ran out in front of my truck and just creamed the thing, made a real mess of the front end. And I had just washed the damn thing. But did I mope around, like the world had just crapped in my salad? No way, I laughed my ass off! Did you see how far that little dog flew? Jesus Christ, I thought that thing was some kind of rubber dog for a second there! Holy shit that was funny.

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Can you believe those cheap ass pants-handlers at the commune? I just found out they're paying us the same this year, despite the double-barreled workload increase that comes with the switch to the weekly schedule. That is the Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger of bullshit. If I'm going to be doing twice the work this year, I demand at least an increase in the number of surplus novelty calendars we get to take home every month. Like the saying goes, "Time is calendars," and you know I deserve to be compensated for mine.

And then to add insoles to injury, I accidentally emailed that last paragraph to Randy "Machoman" Savage yesterday, while writing one my weekly emails about how he sold out when he stopped doing Shakespeare and joined the WWF (sue me, panda-fuckers). Goddamned Windows is all I can say about that. If you're gonna put the "send email" button right next to the "kill" button on Minesweeper, shit like this is just going to keep on happening to good people. And I was pissed about that times two, since not only did I send Machoman the beginning of my new column, which was likely going to sell for hundreds on eBay within the hour, that also blew a golden opportunity to break my Minesweeper record for blowing that little guy's ass up in under a second.

Weirdest thing of all, though, was that Machoman actually wrote me back. For the first time as far as I can tell, unless his previous messages got smurfed by my spam filter. Whatever happened, this one got to me and really put my colon in a twist. That meat mountain actually had the balls to suggest I've got an easy job, then he pressed his luck all the way by asking what in the hell I do the rest of the time if I've only got one column to write a week. What do I do? Shit man, what don't I do?

Who do you think writes Quentin Tarantino all those letters about how he never puts backwards-talking midgets in his movies any more? That's right, Roland McShyster. But who do you think mails that shit? Bludney Pludd, usually. Stay with me here. Who do you think covers the stairwell in grease-coated marbles before all this happens? Omar "Don't Tell Me You Didn't Know It Was Greased Marble Day" Bricks, that's who. Didn't think about that when you were so busy laughing at Bludney Pludd's hilariously broken body, did you? Somebody's got to put in the work behind the scenes to make this world go around, man.

Damn, that Machoman chaps my ass. Leave it to an ex-Shakespearean actor to underestimate how much this extra column cuts into my prank-calling time. I had to abandon an elaborate plan to sell Rok Finger the deed to a Nigerian gold mine just to give me the time to procrastinate about writing this column. And it just doesn't sit right with me, the idea of Finger spending his commune paycheck on bread and electricity instead of the commune in-office scam of the week, or Griswald Dreck's 1-900 answer line. Fucking Machoman.

It's time Omar Bricks proved to the world that he earns his paycheck, times two. I don't care if it takes a fake beard, fake tits, or imitation Alaskan king crab, Omar Bricks is going to find a way to get paid like he was two people, while maintaining the workload of a small child. This victory shall be my crowning achievement, making up the bulk of the text in my eventual obituary, and helping to pay for the ski jump I've been wanting to put in my back yard. Even better, the effort will likely kill the rest of the down time until they finish building my neighbor's new house and I can get all up in that biatch. Bricks out.

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