Afghanistan Northern Alliance Declares Jihad on America

he American people were shocked Wednesday, but not all that much, when Afghanistan's Northern Alliance declared a holy war or "jihad" on the United States. The Northern Alliance recently took power in Afghanistan from our most recent enemies, the Taliban, who were unseated due to efforts of the United States and a coalition made up of other NATO countries.

"This is a complete surprise, sort of," said president Bush, reportedly "fumin' mad" at the betrayal. "If nothing else, myself and everyone in my administration are amazed by the quick turnaround time. This has to be some sort of personal record."

Trouble reportedly started when a coup within the Northern Alliance replaced former strongmen within the organization with fundamentalists disappointed in the lack of support the U.S. has pledged the new government of Afghanistan in the distant future. General Jamir Guzakibad, the newly empowered leader of Afghanistan's new government, has promised America will learn to respect the new prominence of the country or it will face dire consequences.

President Bush, upon hearing Guzakibad's threats translated for him, simply rolled his eyes, his head slumped into a hand with his other hand tapping his fingers in a hum-drum order from left to right.

"Here we go again," said the president.

Guzakibad has only offered veiled threats so far, but has vowed that the Afghan people are powerful and are chosen by Allah themselves as the rightful inheritors of their country, as well as the land surrounding them. Including the holy land currently occupied by Israel.

"If the American people are resistant to the divine call of the Afghan people," continued Guzakibad, "we have instruments in our possession capable of defending ourselves, with extreme means, if necessary."

In response, Secretary of State Colin Powell has speculated publicly that it may be necessary to move troops into strategic positions outside of Afghanistan's capital of Kabul.

"Fortunately, we have some guys who were there anyway," said Powell, a little bored.

Thursday night, the president interrupted only ABC's weak Thursday programming lineup to assure the American people the current threat will be dealt with cautiously.

"We will, uh, persevere and… yeah, you know… freedom is sacred, all that. Those who died… l'see… enemies are cowards…"

The rest of the two-minute speech was similarly fragmented as Bush continued to refer back to notecards and sigh deeply. When all of his high points were addressed, Bush waved away the camera and left the stage, as ABC resumed an episode of Whose Line is it Anyway? where two guys were miming riding bicycles.

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Like that faithful old pisser of a national monument out there in them park, one could always set their watch to the Great Burping German of Pistro Falls, Pennsylvania. When Ned was a boy he would often go to see that German down at the bookstore or the dog track to ask him questions or just to stand there and stare in wonderments. People came from far and near and places too near to be far or too far to be near just to see that eighth belching wonder of the world, as he sat with a little schnauzer dog named Blueten on his lap and burped the merry day away.

Some said that one could peek into the future by listening careful to them reverberant conflagrations of air and sausage fumes, like lookin' close at tea leaves or the part in Teddy Wetzembaum's hair. Others waxed and waned poetic 'bout them ringers like they was the music of the night, a waltz of the human iced with the frosting of the divine. Still others called him a big fat pig of a slob and wished he'd eat his dinner in some other restaurant. But nobody not here nor there denied that he belched, nor argued that it weren't frequent.

Once a scientist-type tried to catch one of the Burping German's belches in a great big balloon, like the kind them kiddies tie to their half-formed fists with a band of rubber and then proceed to punch at the thing until one of them is the loser. Needless to say, once he had that balloon he didn't have to wait long for the German to belch, and when he did, that scientist was lifted up in the air like a hot air balloon pilot. And we didn't see none of him for eight more months until one day he floated on back into town dressed up like a geisha girl and with two black eyes. Nobody never did ask him what happened on his trip when he was riding that magical belch but nobody argued that he hadn't caught a burp in a balloon nor that he didn't fly away like a squirrel taped to a blimp.

Some folks, like the owner of the opera house who'd never once put on an opera that wasn't punctuated by rafter-rattling burps, or the dental assistant who'd had her fillings shook out when she got too close to one of the Burping German's grade-A rumblers, and possibly the German's upstairs neighbors also, thought that we should run that German out of town by torchlight for disturbing the public peace.

But the rest of us remembered all that the Burping German had done for us, ever since the day many a year ago when he arrived in town mysteriously, being burped up out of the belly of a beached whale and all down by the shore. And unlike the Sneezing Chinaman of Cinder Nook or the Flatulent Finn of North Tonken, the Burping German never stopped giving back to them peoples, teaching little know-nothing children how to burp whenever they asked, and delivering a special belch sermon in church on Sundays.

So them next time you hear a sound not quite like a goat and more roundish than a foghorn, one that gives your earlobes a tickle and makes your hair feel electrimafied, before you go to your cabinet for that elephant gun remember that it may just be the Great Burping German of Pistro Falls, stopping by to see if you have any baking soda to spare.

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Dear commune:

I’m an idiot. Let’s just get that out in the open right now so there’s no confusion on the subject. Judge me if you will, and egg my minivan if you must, I won’t put up any kind of lame, face-saving argument to the contrary. As you may have guessed, I completely forgot to send out thank-you notes for the Christmas presents I received last year. Totally slipped my mind. Didn’t even think of it until last Tuesday, when I was shopping for a Christmas bone for my dog and I suddenly realized I was the one in the doghouse. Figuratively.

My immediate urge was to correct this oversight, posthaste. I even had a box of thank-you notes and a pair of wavy border-cutting scissors in my cart when it dawned on me that Christmas, this year’s version, is less than a week away! So what should I do? Should I send out the belated thank-yous now, only to follow them in less than a week’s time with additional notes of gratitude for this year’s presents? What if they get the first one and think this means I didn’t get this year’s presents? What if they sent me the same thing two years in a row and they think I opened it early? That’s not very nice. Should I wait until after Christmas and send dual thank-you notes? Or would that just be rubbing it in their faces that I spent a whole year not appreciating their present? Or should I just consider last year’s gaffe water under the bridge and hope they didn’t notice? But then I might have to start pretending like I did send a note last year, should it come up, and that’s one web of lies that could prove sticky. Maybe I should just say piss on it and not send any notes this year either, rather than drawing attention to the fact I forgot to last year. I could even return to sender any notes I receive, like "What the hell is this? I don’t want your charity. Asshole." Yeah.

It’s times like this I often ask myself that timeless question: WWtcD? What would the commune do?

Larry Belfast
Lower Bend, MO


Dear Larry:

Thank-you notes? Jesus Pete! No time to write, Larry, the commune has about 30 years of poor manners to catch up on and time is short! Last thing we want is to get crushed under a bus tomorrow and sent to Emily Post’s own personal version of hell. Quick, how do you spell bar mitzvah?

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for any embarrassing misspellings or grammatical boners on the gravestones of your dearly departed. “the commune’s Gravestone Proofreading Service” was a woefully misbegotten brainstorm courtesy of commune stone-bleeder Gay Bagel, and we must stress that what goes around should come around specifically to him some time when the rest of us are all out of pistol range.

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