U.S. Suspects Double is Standing in for Hussein

.S. intelligence experts have raised questions as to the authenticity of a videotaped speech featuring Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein, which aired on Iraqi television only hours after missile attacks aimed at killing the dictator rocked a suburban Baghdad neighborhood. Iraqi officials point to the tape as proof that Hussein was not killed by the thousands of pounds of explosives that had been satellite-locked on his individual navel hairs in the attack, contrary to U.S. and British claims.

Intelligence analysts suggest that the man appearing as Saddam is actually Hussein’s double, a look-alike decoy known to be used by the dictator for certain unsavory public appearances and on particularly bad hair days. Off the record, at least one high-ranking U.S. intelligence intern believes the double to be none other than Saddam's little-known and slow-witted brother, Elmo Hussein.

Wearing a very silly pair of glasses and speaking with a slight lisp, the supposed Saddam spoke out Thursday morning against the U.S.-led attacks.

“Cookies, Cookies, Cookies. Saddam would like some cookies.”

CIA technicians began applying voiceprint analysis and other techniques to the video shortly after it aired. Early returns have been inconclusive.

“Lippety lippety lee, the bear climbed up a tree. When there was no porridge, he sucked on an orange and said ‘What a good boy is me.’”

“See the way he curls his lip when he says ‘porridge’?” CIA technician Luthor Retisma queried while pointing at a video screen. “Saddam doesn’t usually do that. He also usually doesn’t speak in such a sing-songy tone or pick his nose while the camera is running either.”

Iraqi officials vehemently deny the existence of any such double, claiming that Hussein has always spoken in nursery rhymes and was wearing the hilarious glasses because he forgot his contacts at a friend’s house.

“Whatever they’re alleging, that he got sand in his contacts or had an anvil dropped on his head or whatever, we’re doubtful,” explained an unnamed U.S. official, still bitter over not having a name. “They can come up with all kinds of creative ways to cover for Saddam’s idiot brother, but in the end technical analysis of the videotape will be the judge, jury and executioner.”

The unnamed U.S. official left the room before this reporter could ask what in the hell that meant.

As a result of Hussein’s first orders since the attacks, all Iraqi troops are to receive ice cream at once: two-scoop cones for ground troops and Neapolitan ice cream sandwiches for the elite Republican Guard.

“Well, there you go!” pointed out Iraqi ambassador Shamutz Gendal. “Saddam loves Neapolitan ice cream. Especially the strawberry part. I bet you feel silly about your silly theories now.”

Rumors of the supposed Saddam building a gigantic sand castle for his own protection could not be confirmed as of press time.

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Dear commune:

How come we don’t have no national holidays for stuff that’s happened while I was alive? Was the past so great we’ve really got to be celebrating that junk all the time? Gimmie a break. I don’t even like the president, what am I supposed to do on President’s Day? Go to work by myself? Fat chance. We should have a "Remember When the Cubs Won the Pennant?" day or a "Joey Knocked Up That Hot Blonde Who Works Down at the Bottling Plant" day. That’d be fun. I’d vote for it, if I voted. But if I thought I was filling out a rebate for batteries and then it turned out I was voting on accident, then forget that! Because shame on you guys for tricking me. Damn. So pass it on.

Yours,

Jack Hargraves
Hell’s Belt, NV


Dear Jack:

Wow, it’s rare that the commune receives a letter with that level of thought, or motor oil, put into it. We thank you for taking the time to dig a piece of scrap paper out of your trunk and writing to us. And we think you’ll be pleased to know that we here at the commune celebrate holidays for any conceivable reason, including "Lil Duncan Negative Prego Test Day" and "Griswald Dreck Says It’s Bastille Day Day." It doesn’t take much to get us out of the office and into a dry martini, let’s just say that. Or a keg filched from some uppity needlepoint magazine’s office party, whatever it takes. So you’re in good company Jack, as long as you don’t ever show up here or write us again. We’ll be sure to add "Remember When the Cubs Didn’t Suck Day" and "Joey’s Fucked Now Day" to our office calendar.

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any of the many creative ways your lover left you, we were just humming that song in the elevator and it appeared to strike a chord. So please, give the commune a break, Jake.

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Did I mention I had to break down and get a job? Yeah, turns out the New Mexican tit isn't as milky as I had assumed and they actually expect me to drag my own load here. What a bummer. But the upshot is that I'm not entirely sure what it is I do at my new job. Hard to get too stressed out when you have no idea what's going on.

I'm working for a company that makes the nameplates that go on a certain brand of walkers for the elderly. I couldn't make that up. I'm in the office, but downstairs there's a warehouse full of boxes of little metal tags that say "GERIATRIX" on them. I wandered down there once when I was trying to find the can and it was like remembering a Twilight Zone episode where you can't quite remember what the twist was. But I did survive my brief foray across the white-collar/blue-collar divide, possibly because my fuchsia shirt denoted me as a neutral party.

I definitely started here on the right week, since yesterday I just got paid to attend the company picnic. The pic-a-nic (I've been possessed by the spirit of Yogi Bear lately) was a raging blast, before it was over the lawn was soaked with keg beer and vomit. Frumpy CEOs and buttoned-down executive-types got naked and rode the mechanical bull, which turned out to actually be the third-shift supervisor from shipping. There was a contest to see who could hit a marshmallow the furthest with a golf club, and traffic was stopped on I-25 due to an unusually heavy marshmallow coating in the right three lanes. I ate three chicken sandwiches and an orange dreamsicle, then spent the rest of the afternoon practicing stomach-stretching yoga postures to keep food from squirting out when I opened my mouth to speak. Viva la picnic!

My access card stopped working today. I feared for a second that Big Brother may have made me an unperson for my transgressions against the greater good, but it turns out there's just a server down. This seems to only effect me, so it makes me feel pretty cool to think that I have my own server. I wonder if it could bring me a club soda? *ding ding* Stewardess!

So far I've gotten in twice with other people, and once I snuck to the back door and did the secret knock and some Hispanic guy let me in. Next time, I'm going over the wall with both guns blazing. Either that or I'll just hang around by the door until someone with a working card decides to go in. Still undecided on that one.

So between the pic-a-nic thing and the access card thing, so far I've managed to go three days without learning what my actual job is here. I'm hoping to make it a month, but hey, you know I like to dream big. And in two hours I have my half-hour nap, which should seem like a thick, juicy, two-pound steak to an underfed Ethiopian boy. Come to think of it though, I could also go for a thick, juicy, two-pound steak, which would seem like a long nap to someone who stayed up too late bowling last night.

Tonight it's me and the bed 'til the cows come home. Then, it's me, the bed, and the cows. The possibilities are needless. I mean Endless. Yeah. But seriously, the thing that gets me through the day is remembering that no matter how long the day is, I know that it will end with me naked in bed, with about a half-dozen codfish. Wait a minute.

Though Mr. Timeclock tells me that I have an extra 15 minutes from Monday (though I think this is bullshit and I have at least an extra hour, but it's not been good to argue with Mr. Timeclock since his wife left him, he can be a little rough around the edges), so I should be able to cut out of here like a pair of retarded left-handed scissors at 5:15, for an arrival time at Umbrage International Apartment of 5:35pm. And you can be sure my tray tables will be in their upright and locked position (any idea how to get the tray tables DOWN in my car?) and I most certainly won't be locked in the lavatory, smoking a blunt and leafing through a porno magazine, with my socks hung over the smoke detector, muffling its cries for help.

God, I hope that clock isn't fast. And I hope a guy in a big fiberglass Droopy Dog suit gets elected president and his inaugural speech consists of grabbing the microphone in both oversized paws and shouting "LET'S GET LOOOOOADED!!"

We've all got to hope.

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