atastrophe struck Saturday when 275 random Iraqi citizens were sentenced to death by election to the General Assembly in the first free elections in Iraq’s history.

Somehow, amidst the threat of violence and the actual violence in which potential voters were killed trying to attend the polls, 275 individuals were selected for unknown reasons to represent the various designated regions of their country, condemning them to a life full of terrorist violence and victimization by fanatic groups. Some speculators say a few of the newly-elected yet-to-be-killed assemblymen actually wanted the job, as organized groups of Kurds and Shiites in particular voted despite the danger to capture a greater control of the country than they have traditionally had. Others say, that as may be, come the first meeting of the General Assembly, you will be able to count the number of people not being dragged to the capitol building on one hand—the hand of an Iraqi thief, as the joke goes.

An estimated 280,000 Iraqis living outside the country voted via absentee ballot Friday, marking about 25% of the vote. While the absentee ballot traditionally favors George W. Bush, the results have not yet been tabulated, so some of the poor bastards destined for bomb threats and random shootings don’t even know there’s a ballot with their name on it yet. Of those Iraqis living abroad, who had the luxury of voting without being subjected to random acts of terror, 60,000 were living in neighboring Iran—presumably for the safety the non-U.S.-occupied country provides.

However, some of Iraq’s new electorate could be determined by early results already, and were quite optimistic about the future.

“I believe I will live well past sundown,� said Abiri Al-Hussah, revealed as the winner of his district’s election, a small section just outside Tikrit. “Anything after that is up for grabs. I damn the son of dogs who nominated me for the ballot—a thousand deaths be handed down from Allah to the chronic masturbator.�

Others had a less rosey view of their future in Iraqi politics, such as Jukret Dutat, a newly-elected official from Kazul.

“Well, shit,� said Dutat, as a translator deciphered for us. “This is what I get for not getting a subscription to the newspaper. You sideswipe one [untranslatable]’s car on the freeway and—boom!—you’re elected. This is not fair. I have no interest in politics and have no hope for a democracy in Iraq. I am here not by the will of the people, but because I could not resist brandishing the sign of Chula to slow drivers. This, as they say, completely chomps the dicks of goats.�

U.S. President George W. Bush, himself a winner by a wide margin of a seat on the General Assembly, which he’s ineligible for since he’s not a citizen of the country, saw the best hope for the future by the comparatively terror-free success of the election.

“The Iraqi people finally have a governing body in places—several bodies, in fact,� said the president, with his always-enlightening poor choice of words. “These are brave, freedom-loving men who will be happy to serve their people in the legislative branch of their country—not that they have much choice in the matter. You’re picked, you serve. End of story. Your sacrifice will long be remembered by your country, when they’re one day no longer blowing up their leaders.�

In Baghdad, Nassawa Al-Badib, the majority leader of the Shiite party, likely to become the next president of Iraq as the representative of the party receiving the largest vote, had great ambition for the country’s steps into democracy.

“At last we will be able to show the world, Arab and non-Arab alike, that Iraq is not a place of cruelty and violence. I will embrace my new role in the government, and guide my country out of these shadows, into its bright future. I will do this, of course, from my new home in Sarasota, Florida.�

Al-Badib quickly boarded a jet leaving the country and gave the twin two-fingered “victory� salute made famous by Dick Nixon.

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Okay, I've been accused by my screenwriting teacher of writing movie scripts without plots. This would be forgivable if I could work in some major special effects, or maybe the illusion of a really complicated plot (what they call "Matrixism" now in Hollywood) but apparently I can't do anything like that. My screenplay is a small indie movie, meaning that I only have three car chases and I'm casting actors nobody's ever heard of—besides myself.

My first screenplay was the shark thing, but I got tired of being laughed at every time I read the shark's lines in class—and I admit I didn't think much about it, how hard it's going to be casting a shark who can act. Then I changed him to a bear, but "never work with bears" is, like, Hollywood rule #5, so that didn't help it at all. Then I found out Paramount and Dreamworks are both working on their own underwater bear-attack movies, so I dumped that puppy quick.

Next Nancy suggested I work on something more autobiographical, which I thought meant about the life of my car, but apparently it's a fancy word for just writing what I did today. I'm thinking easy street! But it's a lot harder than it sounds.

Most of the scenes are like: "Fade in. I'm going to the store and shit, just to get hamburger meat because I'm sick of eating at fast food joints because the burger is 90% bun, which is just their way of ripping you off. I also bought a big jar of hamburger-sliced dill pickles, because I'll eat those fuckers like Pez. Anyway, I get to the store and the meat guy—what'cha call 'em? Butchers? He's giving me the eye real funny, because it looks like I'm wearing just a bra and underwear in the store, but it's really a swimsuit, and if it isn't, what the fuck, he can't tell. So I say: "Why don't you do a wall-carving, caveman? It'll last longer."

The script is really flying now. It's just like writing for the commune, because no one's editing me. I figure, 89 more pages of this and I'll have the summer's feel-good comedy all banged out. But I take in about 30 sample pages and, the way everybody looks while I'm reading it, you'd think I brought them Hitler's book. What did he call that? Mein Kampf and Musings. Everybody thinks it's all over the place and not going anywhere in particular—like how I drive. That kind of crack is real personal, and upset me bad, but they had a point about the screenplay. I might watch a movie about me flirting with a mechanic to get out of paying for an oil change job, but you make it somebody not me and I'm walking out.

So Nancy introduced me to plot points. If you can point to a script in a couple places and say, "There, that must be the plot," then that means you've got a plot. You should be able to do it at least a couple of times. The first plot point is where you say, "Aw, shit, what's this asshole getting himself into?" Then the second plot point starts everything toward the resolution, or as the French say, the ending. It's when you can point at the screen and say, "Hey, asshole's got a plan to get out of this!" It's like the two plot points in a Scooby Doo episode are when the gang meets the old caretaker or whoever who tells them to stay away from the old amusement park. The second plot point is when Freddy comes up with the plan with the roller skates and beer barrel to catch the ghost. It's amazingly simple when you explain it in Scooby Doo terms, but that goes for just about everything.

I'm going to have to go back and fake a plot point in my script, and I'll see if that doesn't trick everybody into thinking it's good. If that doesn't work, I'll have to sketch out a new idea. It's a shame, though. I would've loved to act out that part in the script where I catch the drug dealer and break his arm for selling me cheap stuff. But fuck it, as the French say. Hollywood isn't ready for a true Coleman film yet.

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"I remember quite clearly the first girl I ever kissed. I was very young and inexperienced, no older than 13. No younger than 13 either. In fact, I was 13.

She was a very self-assured woman, slightly older, around 16. She wore confidence like a dress, and she wore her dress like a dress, so it was like she was wearing two dresses, but both matched her rose-colored shoes.

Her hair was long and feathery, golden, not real gold but just blonde, though calling it 'golden' makes it sound more poetic, I like to think. Her lips were fat, naturally so, not like mine that were still fat from that playground fight with the ugly kid a day before. No, her lips were beautiful, like sweet candy wax lips and you wanted to taste but not eat because that would be disgusting.

'Do you want to kiss me?' she asked. I'm no fool, so I told her I did, though I was very nervous.

I could tell she was very reluctant, wearing a shy smile and a twinkling sparkle in her eye as she tried to play all normal about it. And, kiddies, that li'l devil I was, that 13-year-old Sampson L. Hartwig, I leaned in and planted the most fantastic kiss on her lips.

'That's an extra dollar,' she reminded me, but it was worth every penny as she put her clothes back on while I watched to make sure no flatfeet cops were cruising by."

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