Search for Joker Continues in Iraq

ontinuing efforts to keep the peace in we-torn Iraq turned for the worse with the White House revelation Sunday that the "top card in the deck," the nefarious "Joker," was still running around free in Iraq.

"We have attempted to protect the public from the horrible truth until now," said Pentagon spokesperson Gen. Amos Halftrack. "As is often the case with corrupt fascistic governments, prettyboy figureheads—like Saddam Hussein—are made frontmen for the real enemy. In Iraq, the real power is, and has always been held by the Joker."

With no other name for the suspected Iraqi dictator, U.S. forces and Iraqi police have begun circulating cards with the only known picture of the fugitive, to be added to existing packs of Iraq's "most wanted" cards, and possibly placed in special protective packaging since they're quite collectible. According to the White House, the Joker is behind Saturday's Fallujah jailbreak and other acts of resistance following the capture of Saddam Hussein.

"It was previously believed Saddam Hussein was behind the resistance cells still waging attacks on our troops," said press secretary Scott McClellan, "but that information had been gathered by U.S. intelligence, and we all know how that goes. I'm not saying they're two steps behind or anything, but the latest information they've obtained says Ruben Stoddard is the winner of last year's American Idol."

New information about the Joker sheds a new light on the war in Iraq, the White House claims, and election strategists advise the war on terror could be severely complicated by the revelation. Efforts to find the Joker might be accelerated to locate and arrest the superstar terrorist between now and November.

Reporters lucky enough to get a front seat at the press conference, while some of us were jammed up near the exit door in the back, asked McClellan about rumors he started that the Joker and 9-11 mastermind Osama bin Laden were linked.

"Almost certainly," McClellan agreed. "We have intelligence verifying it."

Saturday brought more bad news out of Iraq, as an attack on a county jail by resistance forces killed at least 25 people, mostly Iraqi police, and wounded more than 30. The number of prisoners freed numbered in the "plenty" range, but at least a quarter of them were speculated to be town drunks and parking violators. The Saturday raid was also believed plotted by the Joker.

"We're talking about an insane criminal mastermind," the Pentagon confirmed Sunday. "Most of those who were wounded were overcome by his deadly laughing gas, while several were killed by exploding pumpkin bombs. Or something. Make no mistake, the Joker is the greatest threat to world peace since Hitler—no, no! Napoleon. Napoleon. He was a sick bastard."

Even the arrest of number 41 on the most-wanted Iraqis list brought no joy to U.S. forces. The so-called "four of spades" Mohammed Zimam Abdul Razaq was picked up in a Baghdad suburb Sunday for the misdemeanor offense of threatening a cash machine that ate up his ATM card. The Pentagon expressed mixed feelings about it.

"It's number forty-one, for crying out loud," said Gen. Halftrack. "Nobody shits their britches over the forty-first NFL draft pick."

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Good people, I'm experiencing the most unusual feeling of my entire life. You might call it respect. In fact, I believe that's what it is called, I've made a study of it over the years and I'm 99.9% sure. But it's new to me, and I must say, I like it.

No doubt you believe I've lived with respect every day of my life, but good people, in the interest of telling the truth, I have an admission: I've never been a well-respected man. I know I carry on loudly and speak with conviction like a man rolling in oodles of respect, but it's all been a charade. A big, gay-sounding charade. I've usually been the butt of other people's jokes and nothing but a big joke to those I know, all my life, and it's time I admitted it. Why now? Well, because now I'm getting respect, of course!

As many people will agree, joining the mob was the best thing that ever happened to me. I get 10% off on all my Amoco fill-ups and the organization pays for all my suits. And, it's a subtler difference to most, but people look at me in a new way wherever I go. Except for here at the commune or inside the confines of my own home. But on the way to work or home again, respect! R-E-S-P-E-C-T. You tell 'em, Aretha. I'm feeling you now.

I've always been one to live a humble life, though not by choice, of course. I never knew I had any alternatives. And until putting a hurtin' on Boguslaw Sadowski last week, I didn't. But my fresh new position as mob lieutenant has brought me something I never thought obtainable, and I'm not just talking about a well-fitting suit. People on the street look up to me, even as they're looking down. Store merchants give me "tabs" now, and ask for my help in influencing the mob. Children run up to me and ask if they can do me any favors, instead of knocking me down and stealing my shoes as in the old pre-mob days. And little old ladies remark how nicely dressed and threatening I look. It's an amazing change when just two weeks ago they didn't know my name, and called me "the gargoyle" behind my back.

Of course, there is a downside to joining the mob. The risk of long-term prison sentencing and the morally taxing life of brutal murder and extortion. And frankly, I can tell you, good people, but I've never been much for Italian food myself. It's a superfluous complaint, given my mob is more Eastern European in origin, but if I ever get into some kind of mob exchange program I'm afraid it will be something I have to confront. But when people tell you crime doesn't pay, don't believe it. I have achieved a golden new era of respect thanks to my newfound criminal cohorts. Unless, of course, you are a young and impressionable child who happens to enjoy reading my column. In that case, crime never pays! And drugs are for dopes.

All this is not to say I have given myself over to the mob without reservations. I called far in advance. Forgive my little joke, it's mob humor. All the mobsters really do laugh when I make jokes now. Another little nice addendum to my newfound respect. But there is a nugget of truth in that pearl, and I am still not convinced a life of crime is meant for me. Sure, it's fine if you're a criminal, or aspiring gangsta rapper. But I'm too straight and narrow for these clothes to fit too well for too long.

I lament the day I ever married Felchyana against her will. After all, if you live far enough in denial, this is all her fault, in a way. Still, I don't blame her, or maybe just slightly, and realize Rok Finger got himself into this, Rok Finger will have to get himself out. With Camembert. I'll make Camembert help.

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If I go into a restaurant at ten o'clock at night, and they are not closed this time, I should be able to order a venison sandwich and get it. I have said it before, I'll say it again.

Good people, is this America, or communist Italy? We live in the richest and freest nation on earth. Freest? That doesn't look right. Free-loving? Wrong implications, but I see little alternative. You know what I mean—we love freedom. We have endless resources and, Lord knows, if I can afford a venison sandwich, there is no good reason why I should not get it.

Don't tell me it's Christmas Eve, missy. I didn't order a calendar. I ordered a venison sandwich. Venison has to be the fifth or sixth most popular kind of meat in the world. How can a national chain like McDonald's run out of it so fast? That's pretty ridiculous.

As you can guess, this really did happen. I had something called a "Big Mac" instead, some kind of cow meat or something, with salad dressing slathered all over it. I prefer my meats not to be slathered. Basted, or painted, perhaps. Never slathered, and certainly not drenched. Unless it's with barbecue sauce, but this wasn't. So yes, a nasty cow meat sandwich with slathered-on salad dressing. I promptly threw up. That was my Christmas present.

Camembert and his girlfriend Elvis were quite embarrassed. I think they just like to challenge me now. I'm paying for Christmas dinner, I reminded them, I'm the one who should be embarrassed about throwing up. But I wasn't. Because as I said, they didn't give me what I originally wanted—my stomach doesn't compromise. It wanted venison, and it knows the difference between deer meat and cow meat slathered with salad dressing. McDonald should be ashamed of himself. I tried to get him on the phone, but those disrespectful slacker employees just kept calling him a clown. In my day, we respected our wealthy corporate founders.

I'm not sure, good people, what it is about Christmas that puts me in the mood for a tasty venison sandwich. It has long been my cross to bear. That and the large cross in my backyard, but I'm not finished building that quite yet.

Jesus had a cross to bear, too. It was called being the son of a popular Fellow. It's not easy being God's son. Everybody expects a lot from you, and they will not stop mentioning all the great things your Dad has done. And what have you done? That's all they want to know. And that's why Jesus made the venison sandwich—his gift to mankind.

Well, to make a bad column short, I got my venison sandwich finally, no thank you, McDonald's. It was Camembert and Elvis's gift to me. I was touched, right to the very heart. Girl Elvis apparently went and slaughtered a deer in the middle of the night just to make it for me. That's what Christmas means to me—deer meat, wrapped in a bow.

Their gift? I got them a subscription to Friday Magazine, the magazine for people who really like Fridays. It was the only thing I could get on Christmas morning at 7 a.m., they have a 24-hour subscription hotline. But I believe they both like Fridays.

What? Should I knock myself out for a gift on Christmas morning? I don't even have the sandwich anymore. I thought it was quite generous of me, considering.

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