raqi terror chief Abu Musab al-Zarkawi, known alternately as "The Commish" or "Chief Proudblow" to bored American journalists, made headlines this week by not being captured, inspiring the envy of millions worldwide whose lack of achievement failed to attract any media attention whatsoever.

American soldiers report that they thought they had el-Zarqawi in the bag after trailing a car with his distinctive vanity license plate "KABOOM3" for fifteen minutes one day back in February, but lost the Iraqi dissident when he ducked out of the car and sprinted into a back alley. The soldiers continued to give chase on foot, but were foiled when al-Zerqawi pulled off one of his famous Bugs Bunny disappearances.

"We thought we had the target for sure when we cornered him in that alley," explained Capt. Lance Dank. "But then he ducked into a door in the alleyway, and when we opened the same door, there was just a brick wall there. It was the weirdest thing. Like the Twilight Zone or something."

"Or a cartoon," added Pvt. William Stussenweld. "That kind of thing happens in cartoons sometimes. I've heard."

The resulting non-story took the world's newspapers by storm, pre-empting the news that U.S. president Bush had almost choked to death on a hot dog, but did not because in the end he decided to eat some applesauce instead.

In other news, scientists in Vancouver nearly cured cancer on Thursday, only to find they had instead created a new flavor of hickory-smoke-flavored dogfood. The rock band Jimmy Eat World also almost wrote a great song, and actress Bette Middler nearly delivered an Oscar-worthy performance on the set of her latest project, the chick flick tear-jerker Runaways.

Internationally, lasting peace came so close to breaking out in Palestine that you could smell it Wednesday, only to swing back the other way when some dick blew up a children's hospital with a nail bomb. Japan also almost made news this week, when government officials announced they had perfected the world's first crash-proof commuter rail system, then suddenly got very quiet about the whole thing and refused to talk about it.

Closer to home, the commune was nearly recognized for its Pulitzer-level reporting this week, only to be disgraced at the last minute when the fickle fates decided instead to award the organization for its tireless efforts at truth-saying with the Golden Tit, a sexually-arousing trophy acknowledging excellence in the field of completely fucking up news stories beyond all recognition.

Asked about the secret of his success during a recent satellite telephone call that al-Zarquawe placed to our offices in hopes of getting the commune to stop spelling his name wrong, the Iraqi terror chief was philosophical.

"You just have to take it one day at a time, don't try to do too much. In fact, don't try to do anything. The press attention will come to you, my friend. Pluck up, your time will come."

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Things have been gloomier than usual here at the commune offices, as Flatbush, New Jersey goes through another rain-drenched March. Some have always admired rain, looked into the gloomy darkness overhead and the water fluttering down from the sky and seen it as some kind of cleansing of the earth, a washing-away of the dust and grime coating the planet and the nourishing of its lush green life. I say that's horseshit. Rain is nothing but the entire population of a city, state, or country being thrown into the swimming pool a teaspoon full at a time.

God's laughing at us when it rains. That's right—I accept the Judeo-Christian concept of God, and sometimes He's a right asshole. If He's so perfect, couldn't he find a more productive way of doing whatever rain has to do? Why make plants that grow in the middle of a landlocked mass need water at all? It makes less sense than a movie starring Adam Sandler as a romantic lead. God's capable of making spiders, who reproduce with hundreds of offspring and spin elaborate webs to feed themselves, but the best he could do to get water around to all the soil is just to drop it out of the sky. I'm surprised He stopped there. Why not just have chicken wings plunge from the clouds whenever people need feeding? Hold your mouths open like turkeys staring at the sky, spit out the bones, there's no need to even take lunch. It's better than getting soaking wet through some ill-conceived water delivery system.

Imagine the scenario, good people: You've put on your best work suit, combed your hair into a stylish pompadour that's a magnet for the ladies, and you strut out the door early in the morning. Then some obstinate little shit pelts you with a condom full of mineral water. I suppose you addle-minded hippies would look up at him and blather on about the inherent beauty of getting pranked by a little preteen bastard. You'd write songs about water balloons and lovers would curl up next to the fire telling each other they sure like the smell in the air after you get socked in the face with a swishy prophylactic. To hell with that. You've been punked, nature-lover.

I'm not sure why I alone have this special insight, that rain is nothing but an amateur April Fool's joke. Perhaps standing at 3-foot-eight-inches and being particularly vulnerable to floods and watery basements makes me warier of water falling from the sky than most people. I don't accept all of the Bible as a literal interpretation, but I do believe there was a flood. I admit, I skipped around through parts of it, but I think I have the general gist—40 days and nights of rain (yeah, God, real funny), build a monstrous boat, take two of each animal. I'm not sure the wisdom of that, taking a couple of dinosaurs that are bound to eat the rest of the animals, instead of taking your hundred or so best friends. But I'm not concerned with that, I only want to keep a close eye on rain in case it gets the wise idea to do the same thing again. I haven't exactly kept up with my boat-making skill, and if I were hard-pressed to start collecting animals right now, I would only be able to find a couple of diferent breeds of dogs and a cockatiel.

However, let's make one thing clear: I will not hear a word against snow. Snow is the antithesis of rain—it's light and flickering instead of pelting and obstinate; it's pure and charming, instead of cruel and clothes-ruining. Plus, it sticks together and makes snow men. Anything that allows itself to be shaped by men into mock people cannot be bad. You just try and make a rainman, see where that will get you—a watery retarded man who counts matchsticks easily. Yeah, that was a great idea.

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I'm madder than a skunk who smells like flowers. 'Cause they usually smell like ass, is what I mean.

I just found out there's a usurper to my crown. That's how my sister, Cassandra, phrased it, and it seemed to fit pretty well. Really Branaghian or something. A usurper, for those of you who don't have a smart lawyer sister to tell you, is a real bitch who thinks she's hot shit and tries to steal what you own right out from under you. Picture Christina Aguilera snaking Britney's number one spot with a cheesy cover of some New Edition song.

The tart's name is Jayme Kristofson, and I know that's totally made up. Her real name's probably Shirley Hemphill or something, but she's all showbiz-smart and is trying to steal all my thunder. Her first target is the Metallichick comic book I do. I was too late to notice and before I knew it she went from being some kind of rabid comic book fan—I should have known something was wrong when a girl said she liked comic books—to Nat Herschel's girlfriend. Nat, if you're reading this, if I got the website address right for the first time, she's playing you, dude. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you to your face, but you were ignoring me and had your ears covered and shit. It's called denial, dude—look into it. But you should know better—no one with a body like that really thinks an Elfquest T-shirt is cool. Face facts, man.

I've had my share of hot-to-trot actresses trying to horn in on my business over the years, I'm no newcomer. There was this short teen-ager who used to stand in for me when I was on Who's Your Daddy? and she was always saying she could rehearse a scene in my place when I was too hungover to do it. She knew how to climb the ladder, always getting coffee for the other castmembers and complimenting the director on his work. But I was a smart kid, and Dusty had friends in the cement business who made sure she broke her leg and couldn't stand in so well afterwards. It's a rough game, that's all I got to say. Don't walk in to a fight without someone covering your back.

There are other examples, too, but some of those I was well over 18 and could legally be considered an accomplice, so let's just skip to the point: I know hardball. If this bitch wants to play, I'm bringing my ball. So to speak.

She may be pinning Nat's tail on the donkey, and suggesting costume changes and cover ideas and whatever, but if she thinks she's going any further than that, she don't know Clarissa Coleman. I can bide my time, I can wait in the shadows, but I'll get you in the end. I don't need Dusty's friends to keep you from stealing my role. Especially not since they're all in their mid-90s by now.

Besides, just between you and me, she'll never fit into the costume. Not without hoarding half the world's supply of Kleenex. Not that I'm scared or anything. The fans wouldn't accept it. They're used to my angry growl on the cover of that book each month. Some people may argue you can only see the bottom 25% of my face, like Nat once did, but I say it's enough to tell the difference between a genuine talent and a hack sleeping her way to the—well, slightly elevated above the bottom, anyway.

Truthfully, I'm not even all that happy with this assignment. Posing in a goofy vinyl/plastic costume with a big-ass sword in a freezing basement is good when you're just starting out, but I can do much better, as I keep telling people. But at this point, even if I wanted to leave the job, I wouldn't. She needs to be put in her place but good. If I let her steal this from me, even if I don't want it, the next thing I know she'll be showing up on the Archipelago Law reunion ten years from now. Then I'd have to get that sword out for real.

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