Sharon Plans to Build Personal Walls Around Palestinians

aking a page from the Bush playbook, Israeli Prime Minister Ariel "The Little Mermaid" Sharon promised unilateral action against Palestine if any more Israeli civilians were victims of terrorism. Among plans proposed by the angry, vodka-swilling P.M., severe financial sanctions, cutting off all contact with the Arab state, and building individual "people-sized" walls around its citizens.

"This is, how you say, horseshit," grunted the frustrated P.M. at a press conference Friday. "For too long Palestinians have turned a blind eye to terrorists and terrorist collaborators, and they must be held responsible for the actions of those who commit these acts. Israelis are a peace-loving people and we’re going to bomb terrorist states into oblivion if that’s what it takes to get peace."

Released to the press at the time were drawings of several plans Sharon had reportedly stayed up all night making in a drunken stupor. When asked if one of the pictures of a monstrous tank rolling over a tiny Palestine was drawn to scale, Sharon retorted, "What do you think?"

In addition to the world’s biggest M-1, other administration plans displayed in bright 64 Crayola colors included stick figures, presumably inhabitants of Palestine, with individual walls around each one. Sharon refused to answer many more questions on the individual plans, and kept nodding off with persistent inquiries. Others in the administration offered to explain proposed ideas as best they could.

According to Homeland Security Advisor Yuri Gatoton, each individual walled cell would contain a hole that attached to a refrigerator, not pictured in the drawings, as well as separate buckets for poop and pee. The design was presented by Sharon as the best way to assure against terrorists connecting with residents of Palestine to form larger terrorist networks. Gatoton also explained some of the other plans Sharon drew.

"That’s a horse, that’s an A-bomb, that’s a man with a football helmet. I imagine the man with the helmet is provided protection when the A-bomb is set off over Palestine. The horse, as you can see, will have to be able to jump clear over the Palestinian borders without setting foot in the actual state—keep in mind these are rough sketches, and hopefully we’ll never need to test these in real life if Palestine cooperates in efforts to stem terrorism."

Nine out of every 10 individuals in the world condemned Sharon’s plans and questioned his stability, even longtime Israel buddy the United States. In a press statement, president Bush stressed Israel should avoid taking unilateral action until all other measures have been explored, and professed "extreme disappointment" Sharon so frequently colored outside the lines in his drawings.

Even the usual critics of the president agreed with his assessment of the Israel situation. Vermont Governor Howard Dean, the leading Democratic candidate for the 2004 presidential nomination, expressed his opposition to Israeli action.

"We all sympathize with Mr. Sharon’s struggles against terrorism, for they are our own. But a country not the United States cannot act on its own authority against another country without providing any sort of proof or going through all options first. Also, Bush is a moron."

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Here's a phrase I've never said before: Good work, police. It goes against everything I stand for at heart and everything the stoner counter-culture who makes up our fanbase believes, but in this particular case, the five-O did their jobs well in apprehending Malvo and Muhammad, the famous snipers of last year. Some have called them the East Coast Killers, but myself, finding it distasteful to so lightly treat the subject of murderers, prefer to call them the Deathmasque.

But I package that compliment with a chiding, for no extra charge. For the snipers, whatever you call them, have only been two-thirds apprehended.

Gasp, if you're inclined. Then close your mouth before the flies take up residence. Bagel shits you not, Americans. A third sniper is out their running around loose, or possibly ambling, I make no bold statement concerning his walking speed. But this third sniper is free still, and if you need any more proof, check out the recent shootings in Ohio. Police may say they're unrelated shootings, but what have the police ever done for us, besides catching the first two snipers?

Who is this sniper? Do I look like the cops to you? Not my job to wildly speculate on the identities of snipers, folks, only to wildly accuse them of being larger in number than they've previously indicated.

I suppose you want to know my source, source-nosers. You would think after all this time I have more than earned your trust. After all, I've delivered pretty amazing information over the years—information so amazing, would I were to hear it for the first time, I certainly would be too agape to ask for proof. But I understand your need for verification—we live in a hard world that demands facts rather than rhetoric.

And this source, if I am at liberty to say, is among the most reliable I've ever consulted. I was reluctant to believe such an outrageous tale as the three-gunman theory, but my source revealed to me such conclusive evidence I could not refute it. Trajectories, shell plating, sight lines—all such confusing forensic jargon I had no choice but believe. One-hundred and ten percent proof two people could not have, under any normal human circumstances, committed those crimes alone.

Not to belabor the point, but when I think about it a little more, I really have earned a little more credit than you're giving me. I announce to you some of the most amazing conspiracy news of our fresh young century and all you want to hear is names, names, names—of sources, sources, sources. Thanks for the credit, he sarcastically remarked. But I think I've made my point.

Anyone examining the current talk of insanity pleas in the Malvo trial, or studying the Muhammad trial transcripts carefully can see (and it doesn't take my pointing out) there is subtle reference to a third individual. The question is: Who is this third individual, and why have the Malvo-Muhammad duo and their lawyers kept silent about it until now?

You know, what does a source really prove? Oh, someone else knows about this information as well. But what does that matter to you, Mr. and Mrs. Middle America, you wouldn't know some D.C.-area librarian from a Hoboken mental patient. A big-time Washington-area insider could mean complete legitimacy to those in the know, but if you don't know him, I could totally make up a name and you wouldn't be able to tell. It just pisses me off. You should know I wouldn't bring you a third-rate source. All this time, all these endless column inches—for what? I could've been writing about the time I diddled that girl from Subway. It certainly wouldn't lessen my credibility, would it? Shams.

Let's suppose, on this one occasion, I might have neglected to get the name and occupation of my source. Roughly translated, forgot to check my facts. Would that kill an otherwise spotless record? I think not. What do you think? Hypothetically. Of course it wouldn't.

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I recently acquired a manservant, and let me say, it's about time. I don't too often dredge up the personal details of my life—few people have the stomach to face the horrible truth about the emptiness of my world outside the commune. It's all work, work, work, although not quite as much work as all that. I tend to spend my time chasing conspiracies, like a lone Fox Mulder, only in the attire of a riverboat gambler and with more incoherent yelling.

I hired Rascal in an attempt to do more with my free time than work. Frankly, I don't think the Ultimate Conspiracy is unraveling any time soon, but I'll keep my eyes on it—never let it be said Red Bagel isn't vigilant. I can just be vigilant in fewer hours, because it's wearing my ass out.

If you looked up "manservant" in the dictionary, you would see a picture of Rascal right there on the page. Actually, the picture is next to the entry for Mansi, a people of the Ob River in Siberia, and I was looking in an encyclopedia. But that third fellow back looks dead on like Rascal. I hired him for his wonderful English accent, so classy and uptight. Then he told me he was from Australia, but it's close enough, as far as I'm concerned.

So finally, I have managed to tear myself away from the office. In a metaphorical sense, this is not another complaint about the vinyl seats on those summer days I wear short shorts. Rascal suggested we go out and update my wardrobe, get something with more earth tones. I don't mind telling you I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman that day, if that's not too weird. It was fun trying on all those clothes and seeing how dapper I could look, like a real gentleman, when I went crazy in the most expensive stores in town. Of course, we didn't buy anything, their prices were shithouse, but when they found out I had tried on the underwear they let me keep every pair.

A man of many talents, Rascal also cooks. His Eggos are the finest to be found anywhere, and he makes all his syrup himself. Actually, he makes it by combining stolen bottles of syrup from IHOPs and Denny's, but as far as I'm concerned that's his creative license. True, it would be nice if he made more than Eggos and syrups, or the occasional burnt pop tart, but never let me be called greedy, sir.

One of the best things about Rascal is his thirst for work. Yes, no one works harder if you stand right there the entire time while the task is to be done—and don't take your eyes off that one, or he'll slip off to nap under a sequoia. But assuming you keep him under constant surveillance, no one works harder. We worked together all day last weekend building a chicken farm, including the chickens, from the ground up. At least we did until Rascal mysteriously disappeared. I found him at the end of the day, but in spite of all that work, he looked well-rested. Put two and two together with me, folks.

But I don't want you to think the Red Bagel house is a dictatorship. It's at least as democratic as the Bush administration. Rascal and I spent all Saturday partaking of his favorite pastime, underground death racing. It's not quite as fun as building a chicken farm, but there's a certain amount of exhilaration watching a car explode right in front of you, showering you with shrapnel and body parts. Suffice to say, we'll be a dictatorship from now on. All the same, I highly recommend getting an English-Australian manservant to all of you who are not poor.

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