at Robertson, the American founder of the Christian Coalition who in the past has called for the bombing of the state department and the assassinations of Kim Jong Il and Saddam Hussein, announced this week that the democratically-elected president of Venezuela, Hugo Chávez, must be assassinated because of his potential to spread Marxism and Muslim extremism across South America.

"These violent religious fanatics cannot be tolerated," Robertson explained, ducking under a salvo of gunfire from supporters of this point of view. "And so God has told me he must be murdered."

"What the fuck?" responded Chávez, when reached in Cuba for his reaction.

In a later interview Chávez theorized that Robertson must be thinking of a different Hugo Chávez, since it he and his entire country are either Roman Catholic or Protestant, and Chávez is a very common name.

"I know for a man like Robertson, the entire non-white world must be very confusing," offered Chávez charitably.

After a week of being shit on by the press, and nearly killed in daily assassination attempts, Robertson announced that the world must have misunderstood his comments, or taken them out of context or something.

"When I said 'the United States of America should assassinate Venezuelan president Hugo Chávez,' some people unfortunately misinterpreted this comment to mean I thought the man should be taken out by American covert-ops assassins or something crazy like that," Robertson explained. "This couldn't be further from the truth. Anyone who was really watching The 700 Club that day knows what I really meant: that Jesus loves everybody. End of story."

When confronted with video of the show, Robertson changed his tune, begrudgingly revealing that the episode in question was filmed on the The 700 Club's annual "opposite day."

"You got me! The cat's out of the bag," admitted Robertson. "We were going to have a big contest for viewers and award all kinds of great faith-based prizes for the viewer who could figure out which of our shows had been on opposite day, but not any more. You blew it! Good job, dingus!"

However, this was not the first time Robertson has denied his own remarks in the face of damning VHS evidence.

Last year Robertson claimed that President Bush told him before the invasion of Iraq that there would be no casualties, but that Jesus thought it was going to be messy. This came a few years after the reverend claimed that God allowed 9/11 to happen because the American government allowed abortion and pornography, and because people stopped buying Pat Boone records.

In 2003 came Robertson's infamous 21-day "prayer offensive," when Robertson took a break from being his normal offensive self to beg God to kill three members of the Supreme Court so they could be replaced with justices who would re-criminalize sodomy, thereby ending homosexuality forever.

At the age of five, Robertson organized a kitchen-table meeting to call for the head of his own mother, for the crime of naming him Marion Gordon Robertson, and thereby necessitating the use of a gender-neutral nickname like "Pat" so as to avoid being traded for cigarettes in elementary school. Robertson would later regret not taking on a more masculine fake name, like Bruce, Lance or Barry.

Duke Prosecutor Disbarred, Accepts New Position as National Scapegoat

High Gas Prices Threaten Tradition of Setting Homeless People on Fire

Bob Barker Ceases to Exist After Retiring From Television

Tree Bark Face Turns Out to Be Likeness of Jesus Lookalike Vance Waxman

If there is one thing we are guaranteed as Americans, failing all else, it's the right to sue. Even the prisoner in the darkest and dingiest cell has the right to file a lawsuit through a two-bit shyster claiming the prison conditions have done irreparable emotional damage which requires financial compensation.

I'm going to exercise that right, fellow Americans, because I have just seen a play so obviously based on my life that they should have called it Ching! Ching! I Owe Red Bagel a Lot of Money. Oh, sure, they tried to disguise it, calling the play instead Ching! Ching! I Owe Fred Scarsdale a Lot of Money, but I recognize my life when I see it re-enacted for me in proscenium stage setting.

First off, and this is so obvious it doesn't bear pointing out: Fred Scarsdale? It rhymes with Red so plainly I needn't go any further. The judge will hear that and throw the book at the playwright, and it will be a Michener book, I can tell you that much. Plus, I've been to Scarsdale one time to research my theory about the Grand Canyon being the ass crack of a giant rock creature, though that didn't really pan out. But that's in the play, too, if you were wondering.

Second, the play is about a tyrannical journalist and editor (me) with a mysterious background (me) and high standards that none of his staff can meet (also me) and who they plan to murder in his sleep for his reign of tyranny (bound to happen), and, as a subplot, fails in all his relationships with women because of strong mother issues (me, too) and his inability to maintain an erection. This final part is the only fictional element in the play, though if the judge starts to doubt the authenticity of my claim I can perhaps produce a couple of doctors who would verify the similarities.

The playwright is some hotshot former journalist and M-TV veejay just known as R. Dunkin. Though the name sounds a little familiar, I must admit, I have no idea where I would cross paths with someone who could write. My business usually limits me to meeting with conspiracists and Washington insiders, publishing experiment results from scientists with poor methodology, and bossing around reporters and columnists. Rok Finger attempted to write a play once, but I hear it was so poor he ended up giving it away, and it reappeared years later as Rent. Even if I thought Finger possessed the babymakers enough to write a play about me, I know it wouldn't be as powerful and well-written as the Fred Scarsdale thing, and it also completely lacked music.

I'll get to the bottom of this before too long, and when I do, there better be a big fat change purse waiting for me. I am not the sort of man who displays his life to the public for a minimal price in a community theater setting. Someone out there owes me a fat shiny copper and I'm going to get it or my name isn't Fred Scarsdale. Or Red Bagel, I mean.

In the meantime, as much as I hate to admit it, you should really go see Ching! Ching! I Owe Fred Scarsdale a Lot of Money at the Appleberry Theater in Vlanch, Pennsylvania. It is a well-done rendition of a man corrupt with power until, like King Lear, he is reminded of what is important by the hero of the play, Rafael Tumpkin. And if you're not big into drama or anything, you should still check it out because of the hot love scenes between the main character Fred Scarsdale and his strumpet reporter Jill Tumken. This stuff is too good to be true.

º Last Column: The Cold Dish on Reality TV
º more columns

Vegas is heaven for the plain Czech. "Can you believe I get fashion advice from a burst of cheerful sunflowers?" he asked me upon arriving. "We brought the outside indoors by having gallons of clean gasoline sloshing around inside a giant plexiglass dolphin," he explained, showing me around the lobby. "Jesus Christ," I thought. "No wonder these things get stuck in tuna nets." I took my leave of him while he was riveting fresh ideas to the banister. "Genius," said a little person who was pissing on the wet bar. "I feel it in my related pieces." His image fuzzed by white smoke, I took him for a pauper and gobbled him down with jalapenos.

Your mettle will be tested, when the stainless steal. Try again later.

º Last Column: Fortune 7
º more columns