American Planning Sequel to Hit Black Hawk Down

oosted by good numbers at the box office and positive reviews from film critics and the Bush administration, the White House and Congress have already begun planning a sequel to the hit film Black Hawk Down.

"The characters, the firefights, everything was so realistic," said President Bush, after a screening at the White House. "The only thing was I wanted to see a clearer victory for American soldiers. I'm sure audiences felt the same way. And by gum, I love to give the American people what they want."

Black Hawk Down is based on factual events experienced by troops in Mogadishu, Somalia in 1993. A spiral of events following a botched military operation and the loss of a MH-60 Black Hawk helicopter led to the death of 18 American soldiers in battle against groups of armed Somalis. The incident was a major setback for the Clinton administration and led to weakening public approval for the operation in Somalia.

Now, however, the Bush administration is highly driven by the powerful Ridley Scott film to put a happy ending on the story.

"It'll be ten years since the first movie happened next year," said president Bush, "and I say that's a great ol' time for a return to Somalia. We can call it Black Hawk Down 2: No Surrender. Ain't that somethin'?"

Trent Lott, Majority Leader of the Senate and fellow fan of Black Hawk Down, agreed. "Bill Clinton can't write a great war movie, I'll tell you that much. A sex and intrigue film starring Michael Douglas, I'll give him that one—let him work on Basic Instinct 2. But with a Republican in office, now's the time for a big fat winning sequel to Black Hawk Down. And this time it won't be so depressing!"

Bush has reportedly been trying to round up the original soldiers from the 1993 Somalia incident, but since few of them are still in the military, he isn't optimistic about the same characters returning for victory.

"More than likely it'll be all new guys," said Bush, drawing up plans to ship spare soldiers from Pakistan and Afghanistan to Somalia as soon as possible, "but we're going to do it right this time. Big, photogenic guys that look like Sylvester Stallone or Bruce Willis or something. And of course a wizened old general that could be played perfectly by Chuck Heston. Ooh! I could even play myself maybe in the movie going to support all the troops and all that."

Though Mohamed Farrah Aidid died in 1996, the Bush administration is optimistic another villain, perhaps even more dastardly, has taken his place. According to reports from the long-troubled Somalia, the situation could not be better for increasing military presence.

Before the release of the much-anticipated sequel, Bush is hoping to finish the current project he's working on in Afghanistan, which will hopefully make it to the silver screen later

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That's right, I said it: America's fat. You won't see Red Bagel challenge the readership like that, will you?

It's high time America took responsibility for its big fat weight. Doctors will tell you maybe you're eating too much and not exercising. Genetecists will tell you it's because of a fat gene, but what they mean is "fat jeans"—your ass has to squeeze in them. Ha. That's one for Ramrod.

What is the secret behind our obesity? Is it that we've become complacent watching TV and living high off our conveniences? Like the ancient Roman privileged classes, are we feeding off the sweat of underclasses and foreign labor? Never getting out to plant and reap our own crops, to pull our own chariots, to have to put on tight-fitting slave tunics instead of circus tent-style togas? Well, of course that's not it, I wouldn't have phrased it as a question if it was. No, it's something more insidious.

The Illuminati! That's right, you humps, I'm into the big boy conspiracy stuff now.

There is no fat gene, and you are eating too much, but that food is packed with surplus calories. And those non-fat cardboard rice cakes you eat, only to gain more weight? Pure re-constituted lard, dipshit. Don't think they can't get to you, too. They get to everyone.

Americans are being fattened up, like candy-seeking German kids wandering a forest. Except no witch is going to eat us, with some rare exceptions. We're not being made to be meals, although good luck with that rather on-the-nose conspiracy theory, Johnny Smallpicture. If you're wondering what other purpose it serves to fatten up America, I've got two words for you: Militia.

That's right, minute men. That's the two words I implied, hopefully you got that. America's is the only constitution anywhere that guarantees the right to form a militia—other countries may think their constitution does, but of course nobody ever actually reads the constitution but a small group of politics and history nerds and an even smaller group of revolution-era handwriting fetishists. Look again, Pierre—no militia for you.

If you were the Illuminati, poised to take over the world and yet stuck with this "militia clause" in the handgun-filled United States, what would you do? Well, scratch that, you'd probably spend all your money on lottery tickets and marry your cousin. But the Illuminati has a serious group of strategists, and if you can't make them lie down and roll over like the French, you make them too fat to fight. Here, have some more Twinkies. Sure, they're low-fat. Unless you count the additives we injected at the factory! No, they're just for coloring! Ha ha ha!

I wasn't really laughing at you that time, just pretending to be the Illuminati. But that's what's happening, America. The Freemasons are sitting behind their brick-built desks and cracking up as your scale spins further and further to the right. Pretty soon all those precious handguns won't mean anything—you won't even be able to get your fat fingers through the little trigger circle thing, whatever it's called.

Even our right-wing reactionaries are getting too fat to do anything. Rush Limbaugh used to weigh a trim 240, now he's ballooned up like a… balloon. And you don't want to see Ted Nugent lately.

As for me, I'm in prime physical condition. This is all muscle. Well, yeah, some of it's not, but I'm working that off as soon as the weather warms up. I urge you all to get into shape, and arm yourself heavily. See you at the gym/gun show.

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Shinto the Pinto was the nicest car anyone could ever reasonably hope to meet. He drove at reasonable speeds, signaled for turns, and hardly ever ran down baby carriages on the sidewalk merely for sport. His interior smelled like a freshly unwrapped deodorant tree, and his seat covers were refreshingly free of diarrhea stains. But still, nobody liked Shinto.

The problem was, Japanese cars had a reputation for reliability. Everybody knew you could trust a Japanese car to get you from the pig roast to the methadone clinic with no problems whatsoever. No biplane noises coming from the engine, no carbon monoxide pouring through the air vents, and no busted-out seat springs stabbing you in the ass while you drive. Life was good in a Japanese car. Unfortunately for Shinto, all of the other Japanese cars out there were Hondas and Toyotas and Nissans and they generally lived up to the stereotype, driving long hours without giving their owners a lick of trouble. Shinto was the only Japanese car anyone had ever heard of who also happened to be a Pinto, the gold standard for shitty, unreliable cars for years.

If he had been an American Pinto, nobody would have thought twice about the fact that he never ran for more than ten minutes without overheating, or the way his brakes squealed like pterodactyls whenever the pedal was touched. But everyone could tell from Shinto's accent that he was Japanese, and that's where things failed to add up.

Whenever his tires wobbled or his windshield wipers flew off in the rain, leaving the metal arms to drag across the windshield and dig grooves into the glass, people thought Shinto was just messing around or being lazy. Whenever he idled hard enough to make the cars next to him at traffic lights shake, people looked down their nose at Shinto and shook their heads. He was seen as an incredible fuck-up who couldn't do anything right, especially not being a proper Japanese car.

Kids from around the neighborhood would sneak up behind Shinto and bash his rear bumper with sledgehammers on an almost daily basis, none of them believing that Shinto really had as fragile and poorly-located gas tank as he claimed. People of all ages laughed and called him a hypochondriac when he pleaded with them to stop smashing into him from behind, claiming that even a moderate rear impact could result in his fuel tank rupturing and engulfing his entire body in a ball of flames, while his passengers would be trapped inside by his ineptly designed doors. "Suuuure Shinto," they'd say, rolling their eyes and twirling their fingers in the crazy motion around their ears.

Things just got worse and worse for Shinto, and eventually everyone started calling him "Shitbox" instead of Shinto. Everyone thought that was pretty funny, except of course for Shitbox. I mean Shinto. Then one day, a kid on a bike ran into Shinto from behind and he blew up in the biggest fireball anyone living had ever seen. There was a story about it in the paper and a picture of the kid's shoe stuck in a tree. Everyone learned an important lesson that day: that you can't judge a book by it's cover, or by its nationality. But you can judge a car by it's name and for the love of God, don't follow a Pinto too close or even bump into it with your shopping cart at the grocery store. Good lord, if that isn't a recipe to have your ass blown out through the soles of your shoes, then I don't know what is.

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