Hamas Leader Demands One True Ring

heikh Ahmed Yassin, founder of the Islamic militant movement Hamas, came out of hiding today to reject calls for a cease-fire with Israel. Yassin instead issued an impassioned demand that he be given the "Ring of Power," with which the Muslim cleric would rule the hearts of men and bring about Mideast peace through the total annihilation of all who would oppose him.

The wheelchair-bound militant leader spoke at a Gaza City mosque, flanked by Hamas bodyguards while making his first public appearance since nearly being killed earlier this week during Israeli air strikes.

"The time for playing games has ended," announced Yassin, gesturing to his rickety wheelchair with a resigned shrug.

"Israel can take my legs, but we will take the legs of their country! And eat them, like they were legs of chickens. Delicious Israeli chicken legs!" shouted Yassin, rubbing his tummy in a satisfied gesture. The largely Muslim crowd present cheered to show their support for chicken.

"And we will eat their wings and nuggets when we are done feasting on the drumsticks of oppression!" Yassin continued, making a face described by several onlookers as "kinda goofy-crazy."

Hamas has refused to give up its arms and join the government of incoming Palestinian prime minister Ahmed Qorei, citing the August 22nd assassination of Hamas co-founder Ismail Abu Shanab as the latest unpardonable gaffe in Israeli-Hamas relations.

"In spite of the truce, the Israeli enemy did not stop its aggression, its massacres and its destructions for one moment after we bombed that bus full of children," added Yassin, refreshingly devoid of irony.

"Israel continues their aggressions and the United States has declared war on Islam," Yassin explained, referring to U.S. President Bush's recent "Let's Go to War with Islam" speech. "But Islam will be victorious, because it is stronger than Bush and his country. Or at least it will be once I have the One True Ring and take my place as the King of All Men. The infidels will scatter like cockroaches because I will be a huge Muslim man and they will be small like cockroaches, and I will be stomping on them. Look out."

Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat expressed regret that discussions with Hamas leaders had taken this unfortunate turn into Lord of the Rings-themed dementia, greatly complicating hopes for stability and a lasting peace in the region.

Meanwhile, a group of 27 Israeli air force reserve pilots signed a petition refusing to carry out air strikes against Palestinian targets, citing apprehension about being on the wrong side when Yassin "gets that ring and starts kicking wholesale ass like an unstoppable 9-foot-tall voodoo zealot."

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It is high time, as a teller of uncomfortable truths, I admitted one of the most obvious: the commune sucks. Or perhaps I should clarify that working at the commune sucks. The distinction might be thought important by some.

Shit you I do not, as Yoda might say. I admit my role in working at the commune has changed several times over the years, and more often than not I am a background character, like the old man who hung out at Cheers, but when brother Gay loomed his large, smarmy head in a few months ago and made a play to take over the publication, I put my nose to the grindstone and basically skinned the hell out of my nose. I worked extra hard, 24-7, 24 minutes of every hour, 7 hours a day, and this shit was not for me, sir. I am not made for a 7-hour work day. I don't know how everyone else here manages the five they do.

I will accept I perhaps have it better than some others, since I own the whole shebang, at least if I can keep Gay at bay, and I receive all the profits, should we ever make any. But it does not change the fact work completely sucks. The severe sucking nature of work cannot even be disputed at this point.

When I started the commune, or changed it from a quarterly Indian reservation newsletter to an alternative news publication, I only wanted to spread as much of the truth as I saw it as I could fit onto the back of pamphlets lifted from teen centers and free clinics. It was fun then, before I had a staff, a budget to be concerned with, and deadlines to heed. I sometimes wish I could go back to those days. Me and Sully, experimenting with mind-expanding medicinal herbs while I wrote my first column about how the 1969 moon landing was just an elaborate Tonight Show sketch aired out of context. Before I had snippy copy-editors knocking on my door to tell me I misspelled simple words and spilled bongwater on all my pages.

Gay Bagel, of course, challenged the commune to show profit as part of his new job as Ulterior Motive Manager, Class VII, and I thought the natural solution was to do what we do that wasn't showing a profit more often and at greater expense. So I took the commune to a weekly schedule and included extra pairs of irregular-fitting jeans as an pay incentive every week. All that has done, it seems, is give me more work to do. Gay doesn't know the first thing about publishing an alternative news website—have fun! The second thing being, of course, never malign Carol Burnett without ample photo evidence to back you up. But the first thing has been completely lost under Herr Bagel. Herr Bagel being Gay, instead of me, for once.

These days I'm in the office up to six days a week, instead of six times a month with the old commune management style. In a way, I suppose I feel I have to answer to Gay now when before I had no boss, I was able to just hang out in my office whenever I felt like it, pants or no pants. After all, if I don't show a major increase in profits, meaning make a profit of any type soon, he'll resume his legal battle to take over the commune again.

Bah. If I had half a brain in my head, which my staff is quick to assure me I do, I would let him have the damn commune. Dig Sully out of those boxes I packed him up in and light up the peace pipe once more. Go back to the old desktop publishing guerilla-style journalism I started with.

Still, I suppose things aren't all that bad. After all, if I can reach one reader, inform him of the deadly conspiracies and hidden injustices of this world, all my work has been worth it. And according to last month's website statistics, we finally successfully reached that one reader.

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Look out, everybody, I'm on the war path. And if you're on the war path we better be going in the same direction or I'm going to roll right over your sorry hindquarters.

And my path leads to Carl Tomlin. Does that name mean nothing to you? It didn't mean much to me until I recently started my war path.

Carl Tomlin is the insurance agent who sold us our life insurance policies, me and my soon-to-be-ex-wife Arvelyn, back when she was my as-yet-unknown-soon-to-be-ex-wife. Put short, Carl sold me a sweet insurance policy in which my survivors received quite a substantial financial settlement if something happened to me. If I am eaten by a large fish, my family receives $200,000. If I am kicked in the groin by a non-family member with such force as to cause my death, my family receives $500,000. If I am poisoned by a mysterious, undetectable poison, my family receives $1,000,000. This was shortly before my wife tried to poison me and we broke up.

As is the custom, I drove over to mine and Arvelyn's house around midnight to sneak in and watch her sleep for a little while. But she had company—Carl Tomlin's car, complete with his TONG ASS personalized plates, was in my drive way. That's right, at midnight. Of course it was then I realized I have unfinished business with Carl Tomlin.

My best guess is that I never signed the insurance policy we agreed on. I suppose he could've stopped by urging me to get a physical or something, perhaps offering to do it himself as he was always a helpful insurance company servant—he even examined Arvelyn for her policy. I know I at least have some form of unfinished business with Mr. Tomlin. I could call Arvelyn and ask him what was so urgent he stopped by so late in the hour, but talking to her only brings up the heartache of my attempted murder and our breakup. I'll just call Carl at his place of business.

Okay, I just tried the number for Carl's office and they said he wasn't there, he was taking the day off and could be reached at a new number, which they gave me. The curious thing, and see if this doesn't make your jaw drop, the number is my home phone number, or the number I had before I moved out of our house. Do you believe that?

There are two possibilities as I see it: One, a little far-fetched, is that Arvelyn changed the home phone number and Carl coincidentally got a new phone number that happened to be our old one. Right, I don't buy that either.

Or the second possibility: The unfinished business I have with Carl Tomlin is of such an urgent nature that he is taking all his free time up going to my house to await my arrival, and he has left my own number for anyone to reach him there.

What service!

Carl Tomlin is the last of a dying breed, I tell you. The dedicated insurance salesman, the service-oriented salesperson who puts the customer first before all else. I'm impressed beyond all measurable English phrasing. I could only hope that Carl Tomlin is representative of all the other insurance agents at his company, for Rokwell T. Finger is in awe.

I must call Carl right away, at my house, and settle all unfinished business so he can go back to serving his other customers. The universe does not revolve around yours truly. Carl has other places to see and people to be, and they are just as fortunate as I am.

I've needed to call him for some time anyway, and ask him to quit fucking my wife until she at last succeeds in killing me.

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