Iraq Being Rebuilt By Cast of Three’s Company

n a move that seems designed to stun the administration’s critics into silence, President Bush announced yesterday that in recent weeks the task of rebuilding Iraq has been turned over to the cast of the popular late-70’s ABC sitcom Three’s Company. This unprecedented move drew a total blank from the nation’s political commentators, many of whom were seen checking the calendar to see if it was April 1st. The announcement also served to quell the rising tide of allegations that Bush invaded Iraq without the slightest idea of how to build the country into a democracy or even a legitimate desire to do so, as many of the allegators (Ed. note: a larger cousin of the crocodile) were seen buying tickets for the midnight train to Canada.

“Mr. Ritter, Ms. Somers and Ms. DeWitt were carefully hand-picked by the administration for their nation-building skills and their position as some of our country’s most expendable celebrities,� explained outgoing White House press secretary Ari Fleischer. “They have the skills, and more importantly, they had the time. Mr. Knotts was not chosen for this assignment, but hid in a sack of rice on the plane and has thus far refused to be sent back.�

“We’re a nation of ass-kickers, not babysitters,� explained the president during yesterday’s press conference. “I have every confidence that Jack and Mr. Furley have this situation well under control, and are delighting the Iraqi people with hilarious sexual double-enchiladas as we speak.�

When asked if by “enchiladas,� he meant “entendres,� President Bush explained that thanks, but he wasn’t in the mood for Mexican.

“Ms. Somers has already quelled several attempted uprisings by the Shiites and Kurds, and her iron abs and hellcat personality have proved to be a more-than-adequate replacement for Saddam’s iron fist in keeping Iraq under control,� noted Fleischer. “Let’s just say Saddam wasn’t the only one who knew how to bury his problems out in the desert. In addition, thanks to Suzanne’s program of mandatory daily abdominal exercises, the people of Iraq have never looked Tripper. I mean trimmer!�

The press secretary’s clever Three’s Company-themed pun elicited guffaws among the press corps and several non-English-speaking Iraqi bystanders who hate to feel left out on a joke.

“It’s really too bad Norman Fell died back in 1998, because Mr. Roper really would have been the perfect post-Saddam leader for Iraq. I’m sure even the Iraqis would have loved him. That guy was the cat’s ass,� skylarked diehard Three’s Company fan and collectable tumbler collector Sidney Torres.

The interim government was tested last week when a local villager, whose daughter had been shot in the neck with a harpoon gun during the lawlessness that followed the fall of Baghdad, came to Ritter and DeWitt for help.

“John, this is just like the episode where you broke your tailbone teaching Chrissy the hula but you couldn’t ask Mr. Furley for a ride to the hospital because he’d think you got hurt being gay!� offered DeWitt with her trademark spunk.

“Are you saying we wrap a scarf around the harpoon and tell people it’s a new fashion craze?� questioned Ritter.

DeWitt responded with an affirmative wink and gun-cocking gesture that had the audience of Iraqi bystanders rolling with laughter, all except for the farmer and his harpooned daughter.

Ms. Somers refused to be interviewed for this story, as she had retired to a secret underground bunker with her inner circle of advisors to discuss the “rebuilding� of neighboring Iran.

Several Newscasters Fired for Reporting Death of Don Ho

5 Million White House E-Mails Missing, All About Low-Cost Cialis

Sanjaya Unites Indian Fans, People Who Hate American Idol

IRS: Excessively Needy Girlfriends Can’t Be Declared “Dependents”

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!

º Last Column: The Passion of Camembert
º more columns

Rest easy, faithful commune reader, and any friends you might have: the commune is once again back in our hands.

If the spate of month-long repeats we've been running haven't clued you in, the commune was in a bit of a sticky situation as of late. And it wasn't, contrary to popular belief, just an attempt for us to catch a few winks while our competition stomped us into the ground. I had planned a little time off for the loyal commune staff, and everybody else we employ, but something more like a week, or even a few hours with me just not poking everyone to keep them working at top speed. But it didn't turn out as expected at all. Not at all.

To sum up, terrorists invaded the commune offices. Nothing less than Al Qaeda terrorists, or at least it appeared to me when the small group of foreign men stormed our offices with machine guns and demanded we all choose who would die first. We all chose my brother Gay Bagel, of course, unanimous vote (can you beat Gay voting for himself? What's up there?) Raoul and Ramrod tied for second, somehow beating out my favorite, Ivana. I placed a distant fifth, and I think it has something to do with putting real caramel in the caramel apples at this year's commune Days fair. But anyway, back to the terrorists.

If you think we're going to sit around and let third-world demagogues gun us down, you're sadly mistaken. To stand there and let terrorists kill you would mean the terrorists have already won. So I "flipped out," in the modern vernacular, and began to toss body after body against the wall. Many were Ivan Nacutchacokov, always in my ever-loving way, but I'm sure I got a few terrorists in there, too. We had just enough time to vacate the offices and taking our most valuable possessions with us. I had just enough time to unleash my deadly security force of weasels for the bastards to choke on, while Gay Bagel had just enough time to change the website programming and select a variety of articles for a few "best of" issues, so we wouldn't lose precious advertising revenue after we fled the terror. You never know when you might be able to use ten bucks, I suppose.

The fact that Omar Bricks did not follow us, and was in fact found at his desk, business-as-usual upon our return, speaks volumes about the perceptive depths of Mr. Bricks. We did find he had strapped one of the terrorists to the back of a grizzly bear, but upon closer inspection it's apparent he had mistaken the infidel for Ramrod Hurley.

I could thrill you endlessly with tales of our life on the run, searching out hiding places from which to build a new commune and the way our reporters cobbled together stories out of dust and scraps so we could continue to get the truth out to you. But thrilling you would be contrary to the usual routine of this column. Let's just say we were stumped for days on end on how to get our offices back and rid ourselves of the invaders. Well, I was stumped. Everyone else told me to call the police, the FBI, or any number of establishment-serving official organizations who hunt terrorists for fun. I was convinced this was not the right path. Until I got sick of living day and nigh with my staff in an abandoned building. So a quick call to the feds and we had our offices back, and a hefty reward as well.

It turned out, by the way, that the "terrorists" were actually nothing more than some Middle Eastern mercenaries hired by Crochet! Magazine to end our longtime dispute once and for all. Needless to say, Crochet! gots to pay for its major league fuck-up. And if you see Omar Bricks on the street, thank him for that insightful 10-part investigative report on ben-wah balls he did, but tell him I can't publish it because he submitted it to the faux Bagel mercenary. Who is planning to publish it in a prison newsletter, I think.

º Last Column: The Adventures of Red & Rascal
º more columns