New Osama bin Laden Video Shooting Up Charts

he latest video from self-styled "gangsta wrapped in a bedsheet" Osama bin Laden appears to be the most successful offering yet from his recent album. Produced and directed by Mullah Omar tha Hit Maker, from 2001's "Ol' Dirty bin Laden in da Hizzouse," the video, "Don'tcha Fuck wit Ma Allah," is the third single to chart. It is now in heavy rotation on VH1, has been shown many times on that network's popular Pop Up Video program, and is number one with a bullet on Al Jazeera's afternoon show, Fundamentalist Dance Party. It is also rumored that a twenty-second clip of the video was aired on MTV at approximately 4 AM Tuesday of last week, but those rumors could not be confirmed at the time we went to press.

Following on the heels of the first two singles from "...in da Hizzouse," this latest single promises to make it his most successful album ever, and could garner him a nomination for Comeback Artist of the Year.

Not many people would have predicted that when the first video from the album was released. "Wha' da 911?" suffered from poor production values, and many critics thought it ran overlong, causing viewers to quickly lose interest in the muddy sound mix. The second video, "I Ain't Dead Yet, Bitch," showed more promise, but topped out at number 37 on the charts and disappeared after just a few short weeks. "Don'tcha Fuck wit Ma Allah" appears to have staying power the first two singles lacked.

There are some dissenting voices, however. On the East Coast, especially, a few insiders who preferred to remain anonymous commented that "his shit is dead, man, it ain't fresh." In response, noted Marin County, California, critic John Walker Lindh was quoted as saying "That Al Qaeda beat is funky stupid, dawg, and Osama is Playa Numbah One. It's phat, it's phresh, it's... uh... it's phluffy. You can totally dance to it."

This album marks only the second release for bin Laden since his move to Al Qaeda Mob Records. The first effort, 1993's "Truck Bombin' NYC," failed to generate much critical acclaim, and dropped out of sight soon after its release due to poor sales. Prior to that, it had been a number of years since any product had been put out at all. In the late '80s and early '90s, bin Laden collaborated with former U.S. president George H. W. Bush (the one that was actually elected) in a series of forgettable albums for the now-troubled label CIA Assassin Records and Wiretaps. Their most notable release was titled "Tha Enemy of Ma Muthafuckin' Enemy," and prominently featured Bush, performing under the name Pukeface Killah GH-Dub, with his minor hit, "Nitty Ditty Gritty Big Bird." Bin Laden's contribution to that song was the turntable-scratching and chanted background chorus, "Yo, muthafuckah, yo muthafuckah, yo muthafucka, yo." The only other song from that mix to chart at all was a cover of Tone Loc's "Funky Cold Medina."

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I really should consider changing the titles of these columns. The cEC (commune Enthusiasts Club, for all of you acronym-watchers!) has had way more than six meetings as of the time of this writing. About 125, according to my notes. Of course, only about half of those were attended by someone other than myself, usually my friend and cEC Torch-Bearer Sandy. Around five have had more than ourselves present, including our latest members. So that's roundabout right then… six meetings. I'll just keep the chronology in order. All of my friends know how anal I am. Which has nothing to do with being gay, so don't send emails.

We had a disastrous time with the Easter parade float, don't even ask. Let's just say we won't be contributing to anymore community affairs for a while, by order of the Shanesly city council. I probably deserve all the blame, it was my idea to watch Animal House at the meeting before the parade. Some of the more inventive members may have taken it as some sort of secret message on what I expected from the parade. In fact, that's what they told me. But we did fish the Toyota out of Lake Murty and we've seen Sandy's brother driving it around town, so the damage couldn't have been as bad as he claimed. Heh… listen to me! I make it sound like we're a couple of Omar Bricks in the club. Nothing so dramatic, really. We've only wrecked one… maybe two cars, but that's a high count.

It did get us some free attention, on the front page of the Shanesly Observer, and you know what they say about bad press. Well, Sandy says it's ruined all chances of her (and me, but mostly her) having a normal life, but she was soaking wet with lake water, so you have to give her some room for a lousy mood. I think we'll get a few new members out of it. We've already got one, if you can count the deputy who's been sitting in on our meetings ever since. He says he's there out of genuine curiosity, while Sandy (Little Miss Negativity) says he's there because he thinks we're communist insurgents.

"Where would he get that idea?" I asked her when she said that.

"Duh," she said, which is about her favorite response.

It's true, we're called the commune Enthusiasts Club, and we've made up emblems and everything and stated our club name proudly when we entered the parade. But I don't know where you get communism out of the name commune Enthusiasts Club. That's just ignorance. I told Sandy that, and she said I can tell the cops how ignorant they are while they're beating the hell out of me with rubber hoses in the back room of their "Special Terrorist Interrogation Room." Little Miss Negativity indeed.

So that's a new member. I suppose, though, if I'm going to count him I should also count Ray's parole officer. So it's either two new members or we're still at the same number. Ray, Vera, Lucas, Homeless Gary, and Sandy, who asked again not to be counted. I'm an optimist, so I say two new members! That puts us at 8, and I think once the city ban on public activity is forgotten, we'll probably double that with all the shy commune enthusiasts coming out of the woodwork.

Boy, here I am prattling on about club business and I haven't even heaped any praise on the commune yet. I wanted to commend the editors and reporters for keeping their head together on all this "Pope's dead" business. I suspected even before I read the commune's coverage that it was all a sophisticated ruse to pump up the stagnant media and hide the world-weary Pope from the public, and I was proven right, as usual. The nice thing about being a commune fan is, sooner or later, you're always proven right.

See you all next time, commune Enthusiasts!

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Ah, my sweet Nancy. Another year, another anniversary, and our love endures. Why does it last? Is it because ours is a love meant for the ages, without judgment or fear of reprisal, a shared connection between two people who are soulmates? Yes, a smidge. Mostly it continues to grow stronger because we never let ourselves lapse into staleness.

As you know, Nancy, I am not simply a heart that never stops loving and a mind that never stops obsessing over our love. I am also a penis. I am a testicle. Two testicles, in fact. I am a body, the throbbing impulses of a man. And you are more than love to me. You are the rounded hips, the supple breasts, the plush lips, the honeyed cave hole of a woman. We satisfy each other's bodies as we do our eternal longing for companionship. Yes, Nancy, like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, we express our love with constant humping.

The years pass, Nancy, but our physical love continues to bring us closer. No matter how many times we do the nasty, my darling, I never tired of the act, and I know you feel the same. For no matter how we may copulate in familiar ways, when things grow too familiar and comfortable for us, we always choose to raunchy it up with a little romantic experimentation. Your leg here, our backs bent this day, dangle these here and lick them—our imaginations are limitless when it comes to our storied love-making. Even if we were blithering retards, dear Nancy, we still have that dirty Japanese comic book with all the pictures of weird positions to try.

What a treasure the fables positions of the Comic Sutra has been to us. We've tried all of them, I believe, Nancy, some of them in other rooms of the house. Some say there are only 103 positions, but you know what I say to that—do them twice. And then do them underwater. There is no spice for a relationship like an aquatic sexual adventure, and as long as our neighbors leave their gate unlocked, we will continue to follow our inner Neptune and Neptilla.

Sometimes, dear Nancy, what we hide is more exciting than what we reveal. A sheer negligee may give a breathtaking hint of the beauty of your naked body, inspiring more excitement and ecstasy than I have ever known. Just as the small football helmet on my wang does the same for you. Sometimes, for an added touch of sensuality, we may play our own erotic game of Blind Man's Bluff, feeling our way to each other's bodies in the dark. At least once we remove the furniture, there's no way I want my dick in a sling again, but that probably goes without saying.

What does not go without saying is that I always prefer your naked body in the light. Do not think my talk of concealing your goodies or making love in the dark means I'm ashamed of your body. Though both of us have aged, Nancy, I find you just as sexy as you were ten years ago, on the sliding scale that we've both aged and, sure, you're not as hot as you used to be. Your sister has your body from ten years ago, but I would not sleep with her Nancy, since I love only you. I may think of her to inspire my erection, but I will make love to you with that erection, Nancy, and almost all the time I'm picturing your head on that body. That could not possibly be cheating.

No matter if you have gained a little weight, if your thighs now rub together in a disconcerting way, and if your breasts do not rise like fluffy couch pillows as they used to. If you have pancake boobs now, it's all the better for me to lay on top of you and cram my love inside. You complain about your cottage cheese buttocks, but I say those indentations are the dozens of dimples from the many wrinkly smiles your ass gives me whenever I look at it.

It's for our erotic life together, and no other, that I keep all those pornographic magazines in my workshed. I don't know why you're getting so bent out of shape, Nancy—you should only be bent out of shape for our coupling. The magazine may be called Chicks With Dicks, but the reason I have those is obvious: A chick with a dick is still a chick. I don't need chicks with vaginas. That's why I have you, my love.

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