ollowing the Wednesday claiming of Baghdad by U.S. forces, pro-America sentiment has surged all around the media and certain circles in the city. Iraqis everywhere are extremely delighted to come and support the armed troops in their city and the possible death of Saddam Hussein. But the larger issue for most is the fall of Hussein's regime.

"It is the happiest day in the history of Iraq," said an unidentified translator. "For years Iraq was a free country under British rule, and then Saddam took over and we lived under his repressive, anti-American regime. Now we are liberated under America!"

Many Iraqi citizens showed support of the U.S. by liberating oppressed televisions, stereos, and office supply furniture from local stores. One U.S. serviceman said the sight brought a tear to his eye and reminded him of his hometown, Los Angeles.

Also liberated by days of American bombings are the country's electricity and water lines, countless physical structures, and many Iraqi people. Most notable among the missing and possibly-dead is Saddam Hussein and one or more of his two sons, Uday and Odai. Others that may have been in the bombed bunker with Hussein were cousins, uncles, nephews, and half-brothers Tumay, Uskay, Ajay, Ebay, Uxay, Umay, Igay, Ogay, Ugay, Imai, and Garfield.

When asked to clarify, field leader Gen. Tony "Iron Shoes" Credenza replied, "We believe it was a very large bunker, with lots of seating space."

The outpouring of public support for the U.S. strikes many as vindication of the war on Iraq. Despite the antagonism between Western countries raised by the invasion, the rift in the American population, the outrageous price tag to the war, the 100-plus American dead and many wounded and imprisoned, the countless dead and wounded on Iraq's side, the likelihood of producing stronger anti-Americanism in Arab countries, and the lack of attention given to domestic issues, many agree the footage of Saddam Hussein statues being torn down is quite impressive.

"It is an exhilarating feeling to destroy images of Saddam that have lorded over us for so long," said a 60-something Iraqi citizen with a good grasp of English. "Also I am glad the American troops are tearing down that George Bush welcome mat. I offered to destroy it myself with my sledgehammer, but they didn't bite."

Several in military intelligence are worried about reports that Hussein might not have been killed as believed, but escaped with key Iraqi officials into neighboring Syria. President Bush issued a warning to Syrian leaders in the wake of such reports that if they offered protection to Hussein or any top Iraqi leaders they would be considered no better than American protestors.

Elsewhere in the war, U.S. forces continued to search for chemical or potential nuclear weapons as the troops push northward and have yet to discover any proof of weapons of mass destruction. Early reports of chemical weapons found last week turned out to most likely be chemicals for agricultural purposes; however, the discovery of 50 "suicide bomber" vests gave the White House hope.

"We may have been misquoted in our statement of purpose," said White House spin doctor Murph Harris. "We were actually searching for weapons of meager destruction. And these definitely count."

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I am an old-fashioned guy, and by that, this time, I do not mean that is my drink of choice. I have traditional values, as anyone who knows me can tell. You know this, good people. And just as ice must melt back to its natural state, not-ice, I must find a woman to complete half of the Rok Finger/unknown woman couple. It is my natural state to be with someone else. As someone once said, "a man needs a maid," and boy, did it piss off feminists.

Unable to deal with the bar scene, or anything that would have "scene" added to its description, I sought the old reliable method of Internet dating. Of course, not at first. At first I attempted to write a classified ad. I consider myself something of a master of the classified ad. I unloaded over 65 free kittens, two old lawnmowers, and a refrigerator that no longer kept things cool through mastery of the classified ad. And I composed my most charming classified ad when searching for the most valuable property of all—a wife.

"Wanted: Woman, female only. BGOCMWCMWAH [Backyard Grill-Owning Currently-Married Whitish-Colored Man Who Adores Hyphenating] seeks SHITHEAD
[Single Highly-Interested Total Hottie Eager for Action and Dancing] to marry without meeting. Must be able to tolerate the handicapped and enjoy being bossed around. Owning a motorcycle a plus. Send pictures (of you on motorcycle)."
Since I received no responses, except for a few teens only eager for hi-jinks, I can only assume women have stopped reading the newspaper altogether. Thank you very much, Lifetime.

However, I will not be discouraged. After all, I met my last wife over the Internet, didn't I? And we're still married. What a strange and charming thing it is. The Internet, I mean—the wife is a foul-mouthed harpy. So I immediately hooked up with a matchmaking site, called WebTouch. With a name like that, how could it not deliver everything I want?

It's all very warm and personal, as you sit at home in a dark room lit by a glowing computer screen and fill out the blank spaces on a form to find the woman of your dreams. Actually, the woman in my dreams is 9-foot tall and chases me while swinging a cat by its tail, trying to strike me down, so I'm seeking someone better than the woman of my dreams. There's quite a lot of choices, too, so don't go overboard. I found when I put made "doesn't go to the bathroom" one of my requirements, I got very few responses. I suppose we all have to be a little open-minded. So I changed it to "seldom goes to bathroom."

I also told them I didn't want any foreigners, no one of a different religion, must be very pretty, must be very trim and shapely, without opinions, or at least keeps all opinions to self, will worship me with every step I take and keep her head bowed as I walk ahead of her, and if possible, will let me name her.

I'm too demanding, you say? To hell with you, good people. I say there's no point in listing all your desires in a perfect woman if you're going to wimp out and "accept" flaws. I also say "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" Because I think that's quite funny, and my father once owned a cow.

And to those of you who say I'll never get any responses when asking for so much, I say shows what you know. I've already received a wonderful opening email from the elegant Lady Buttsfree, who lives in Somewhereland, England, or as I know her, the good lady writing from 2funnypricks@hotmail.com. She's a princess, and though it's early in our email exchange, she's already suggesting I move into her castle. I'm waiting for her to send a picture, of course, and she will, once they come in from the beauty contest she just won.

True love, you've found Rok Finger again!

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Every true conspiracy-buster like myself has one big, secret wish: A real inside source that can't stop talking.

To which I say: "Be careful what you wish for!"

Sir, I have such a source, and this guy simply can't shut up. I don't know if it's a psychological ailment or just a simple case of verbal diarrhea, but I've found the source that can't stop giving. It's like that duck that can't stop laying golden eggs, and if there isn't such a fairy tale, there should be. Honestly, I never thought there was anything worse than a source that stonewalls you, that gives you nothing (we in fact call these sources "non-sources"), but this blabbermouth has got the dirt on everybody and can't wait to share it.

It sounded like my fondest wish when a connection of mine, let's call him Scottie, because that would really offend his Scottish heritage, calls me up with what he calls "the greatest source in the world." I should have known something was wrong, because the last time I talked to this connection he was quite pissed off because I kept calling him "Scottie." But I've run cold on the trail of the Biggest Conspiracy of the World (or BCW, as us fans call it), so I was anxious for anything to start me up again.

I met with this guy, and first it was like that golden egg-laying duck, and I was like the duck's owner, and quite happy. This was last week, and with all that stuff in the media about the "real Deep Throat" going around, I thought it might be highly complimentary and something of an honor to call this guy "Deep Throat II." By the way, for those of you who don't know, that guy Mark Felt has also claimed to have flown from New York to Paris before Lindbergh and has also taken credit for carving Mount Rushmore. He's a bit of an attention hog, so don't believe the hype.

Back to my Deep Throat—this guy started talking faster than I could write it down. And as my hand cramped from taking long, life-endangering notes, I kept waiting for this guy to stop and tell me to "follow the money," or some such snappy, cryptic advice. No such luck. He had everything. He talked about Bush's involvement in the Illuminati in detail, showed me the "late" John F. Kennedy's tax records for the past 30 years, and even detailed who won last week's bi-election to select a new treasurer in the Illuminati's super-secret inner circle, which even the rest of the Illuminati doesn't know about. And I'm thinking, after a minute or two, "Shut up!" I mean, sir, do I or do I not have to have something to unravel myself?

There's a fine art to being a whistleblower. You give the whistle a low toot, a short, yet sweet and satisfying quick breath's worth. You don't keep blowing until everyone's eardrums are shattered and you've worn out your welcome. I tried, again and again, to subtly suggest to this guy maybe his life was in danger by giving me so much information at once, but he probably couldn't hear me over his outlining of the under-the-table deal with the U.N. to hand over the West Coast to the Serbian Empire. Fuck this, I thought, I can only take so much juicy information.

I told Deep Throat II I'd get back with him, and since then I've just tried to stay away from my phone. Does me no good—he keeps leaving bits about the New World Order on my answering machine. I'm like, take the hint, jackass! No wonder the real rulers of this world want him dead. He probably ruined every secret conspiracy he was ever invited into.

As for me, I think I'm just going to tear up all the notes I took from him and start back at square one. It might take me a lot longer, but at least there's some real game involved. Nobody likes having it all handed to you, am I right?

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