frican politics managed a rare chance to draw the attention of the western world when good-natured white boy Mark Thatcher, son of Der Iron Girdle former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, finally answered accusations he and other exceptionally-Caucasian financiers backed a coup of the African nation of Equatorial Guinea.

Equatorial Guinea, a sub-Saharan country in Africa, established its independence in 1968 from Spain and has lived under a dictatorship ever since. In 2004, a group of mercenaries were arrested and charged with plotting a coup in the country when their plane landed in Zimbabwe, those on board demanding they find a movie other than Kangaroo Jack to play for the rest of the trip. Authorities in Zimbabwe, Equatorial Guinea, and South Africa charge a complicated web of white sugar daddies have fueled the coup attempt, and that Thatcher was among them.

Moss Chevalier, one of the wealthy foreigners implicated in the charges, denied personal involvement in a conspiracy, but praised the mercenaries and their efforts.

"Equatorial Guinea is a country suffering under the thumb of an oppressive ruler. Its people die in impoverished conditions while he channels the wealth of the country into his personal coffers. I have a great admiration for the generous—dare I say handsome—financiers who are risking their livelihoods to bring democracy to this long-suffering nation."

Coincidentally, Equatorial Guinea discovered off-shore oil in 1996, greatly boosting the country's economic value.

Overthrowing governments for oil are nothing new, even quite the rage in recent years, but the Equatorial Guinea case is a trendsetter for being a coup allegedly paid for entirely by citizens, rather than the traditional route of grassroots movements within the country or foreign governments. With the current U.S. administration trying hard to privatize Social Security and medical insurance coverage, could the privatization of colonialism be far behind?

"Obviously countries rich in natural resources have faced a history of invasion by private companies and corporations," said University of Trenton History Professor Bobby Shockes. "This goes back to the early days of capitalism, as well-backed private merchants brought their own bodyguards and miniature armies so they might claim native lands as their own. Traditionally, though, these eventually call for government intervention to protect them, such as the United Fruit Company incident in Guatemala, when the U.S. interceded on the company's half against the rule of that government in the 1950s. But this changes all the rules. The message here is a positive one for businesses and wealthy individuals: 'Don't wait for the people or our government to make for better business conditions—do it yourself!"

On Friday, Mark Thatcher left a South African court in Cape Town, saying it was "patently clear" he had no involvement in the attempted coup. The trial for the coup itself, ended in November 2004 in Malabo, Equatorial Guinea, while Thatcher's friend, Simon Mann, is serving a sentence in Zimbabwe for his role in the coup. Thatcher's involvement centered around the purchase of a helicopter that purportedly would have flown opposition leader Severo Moto from his exile in Spain to the seat of power in Malabo, upon success of the coup. Thatcher now plans on using the helicopter for personal Cape Town weather reports, or perhaps selling it to pay off the 3 million Rand fine he received for violating South Africa's anti-mercenary laws.

The White House chose not to respond to indignant questions from this reporter if they were interested in using the new privatized invasion style for Iran and Syria, or if they would prefer the time-tested CIA shadow-intervention plans.

Venezuela Adds Itself to ‘Axis of Evil’

Orleans Refugees at Home in Disneyland’s French Quarter

Who’s the Black Pit That Killed a Night Club Prick? Elevator Shaft — Damn Right

Apple iPhone to Contain Real Fruit Filling

Dear commune:

Every bulbous-nosed idiot out there knows that rules are made to be broken, so why does the commune insist on its silly, antiquated system of paying its writing staff in nearly obsolete paper money? If the commune's writers had half the brains we give them credit for here on our commune, they'd protest and demand to be paid in love and durable goods. With maybe some virgins for the real go-getters and top executives, as incentives. In these dark end-times, accepting paper money makes about as much sense as taking on a seventh wife before she reaches the child-bearing age of twelve. Girls younger than that, though delightful and easy on the eye, simply do not have the hip width necessary to successfully give birth. You might as well scatter your seed on a barren plain while you're at it, ha! The commune staff may have seed to waste, but we here do not. Not when the time of the Great Mumblebump approacheth. Good stead to you, friends.

Ezeikiel Fontaine
Rumble Creek, UT


Dear Exeikiel:

We struggle to find the worlds to adequately thank you for your letter. It has reached us in a time of dire need like a gift from the heavens. We haven't had a good, hard laugh like that around here in a long time. Hearing Red Bagel read your letter in a funny lisping "religious" voice really brightened our day and provided some much-needed stress relief. You'll be happy to know that your letter has been blown up to poster size and is now proudly covering the spot in our break room where Ramrod Hurley punched a hole in the wall. Also, we don't know who told you the commune pays in paper money, but suffice it to say you're paying too much for your information. the commune has paid its staff in canned goods and karate lessons from day one, as Bagel needs to have the actual cash on hand for shake-downs and bribes for officials who don't accept canned goods or karate lessons. Good luck on your Circlejerk or whatever it's called.

the commune

---

Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for any adverse after-effects from our recent black tie love-in, including but not limited to dementia, genital rash or gradual abdominal swelling. Also, would the staff member who left his or her dentures floating in the "Dunkin' for Duncan" bowl please stop by and pick them up along with your pink slip.

º Last Column: Volume 22
º more columns

I have really done it now. And "it" is not a good thing in this case.

Exhibiting an unusual lack of foresight, I signed away the rights to my and Rascal's likenesses to television producers from way out west in Hollywood. Knowing Hollywood as I do, I expected some sort of daring and intellectual, if fictional, account of our conspiracy-cracking and maybe, just maybe, a few life lessons worked in between our hardline journalistic efforts. Well, needless to say, by my outraged introduction, I got nothing of the sort!

What I got, sir, was nothing but a moronic cartoon, called at this juncture, The Adventures of Red & Rascal. I was mortified. I had to look up what it meant just to be sure, and indeed I was.

Being a cartoon is bad enough, but you haven't heard the worst of it. Apparently in this show, if you can call it that, we are portrayed as quite the buffoons. Like a couple of ninnys, Rascal and I, the cartoon versions, traipse around wildly looking for Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, carrying high-powered laser weapons made to subdue either of them, should we catch them. All of which is just plain ludicrous, since current laser technology is insufficient to detain Bigfoot, of course, and if you're going to try to kill him, you'd better have more than a net and a little laser gun, I'll tell you that. Not to mention the show grievously overlooks all the Loch Ness Monster's charity work and simply paints her as a heartless beast. But we're forgetting the larger point, which is this thing makes me look dumb.

I checked with my lawyer, Whistles Goldman, and found out I have absolutely no recourse, since I didn't verify in my contract I wanted complete control of the project. I figured, in my defense, that they knew I was Red Bagel and would want nothing less. But apparently "should've expected it" doesn't count for anything in contract law.

I've spent years building up my reputation and now it all has to end like this. What kind of fear am I going to instill in the puppetmasters who lurk in the shadows if every Saturday morning I'm seen falling hundreds of miles into a chasm and crashing in a puff of smoke? For one thing, they'll have unrealistic expectations on how to kill me, which might not work in my benefit like you'd think. The Red Bagel they all knew beforehand was a clever and cunning adversary, not some disproportionately fat and angular idiot who shouts "Fiddlesticks!" when he's confounded. I shout "Fuck!" and anyone who knows me can tell you that.

I did get a percentage of the merchandising rights in all this, which are worth an estimated $24 million, but what does that mean to me? I've already got so much money I give boxes of it to staff members in lieu of actual birthday gifts. If that doesn't tell you how meaningless it all is to me, I don't know what will. No, the money is nothing to me. My reputation—that's stainless steel, and before now, positively uncorruptible. Not to mention it's going to make Rascal look bad, too, and I will stand for that only slightly more than the damage done to me.

Rascal is a loyal and fearless manservant, always has been since whenever I hired him. Seems like years ago, but the pay stubs don't back that up. Rascal would follow me into the gates of Hell, me safely behind by at least 30 feet, and would only come out when I okayed it. That's how dedicated he is to my service. It breaks what you might call my heart to see him maligned in such a fashion.

Still, I have to admit, that Australian accent they gave him is both dead-on and hilarious. They really did their homework, these Hollywood slimeballs.

º Last Column: A Throat Too Deep
º more columns