Special Investigator to Interrogate Al Qaeda Prisoners

he White House announced today that a special investigator has been chosen by Attorney General John Ashcroft to question Al Qaeda prisoners being held at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. After much consideration, Ashcroft's choice was San Francisco detective "Dirty" Harry Callahan.

"Callahan is one of the best interrogators anywhere," Ashcroft told reporters. "For an investigation of this caliber, we decided to call in someone outside the FBI and CIA to take over the questioning at this point."

Controversy surrounds Callahan, who has been labeled by the ACLU and Serial Killers' Trade Union as a "dangerous, reckless monster" who will stop at nothing until he gets what he wants.

"Say what you will," Ashcroft responded to the charges, "Callahan gets results."

Inspector Callahan, who has earned the nickname "Dirty" Harry among his colleagues, fielded a few questions after Ashcroft's introduction.

A reporter from the Washington Post confronted Callahan about charges of brutality and the disregard for procedure, particularly concerning First Amendment rights. Squinting, Callahan leaned into the microphone and whispered menacingly, "What about the rights of those two buildings?"

Ashcroft began chuckling under his breath until he tumbled out of his chair.

White House officials confirmed Callahan would be traveling to Guantanamo Bay immediately to begin his interrogation of the Al Qaeda "ragheads," in his words. Already Callahan has begun his plan, requesting five minutes alone with each prisoner unsupervised, which was immediately granted by the Ashcroft.

Assisting Callahan in matters of interrogation will be his recently-assigned partner, also from San Francisco, Ruiz de Santo. De Santo, a young officer fresh from the beat to the detective squad, is excited about his opportunity to work with Callahan.

"Sure, he's a little gruff," De Santo said with a cheery smile, "but underneath that I'm sure he's a good guy. You wait and see. After all this I'm going to invite him over to the house for dinner with the wife and kids. He'll be a family man by the time we're done, I'll bet my life on it."

Callahan has recently aroused controversy by calling the trial of alleged Al Qaeda terrorist Richard Reid a "sham" and proposing trials of terrorists be cut short so they could be taken out back and shot on live television. Civil rights advocates were outraged, especially at Callahan's suggestion that current airline policies for dealing with unruly passengers be replaced.

"When I see a whacko trying to light his shoe bomb on fire, I shoot the bastard, that's my policy," stated Callahan.

The White House is optimistic that Callahan will retrieve valuable information that could lead to the dismantling of the Al Qaeda terrorist network, and perhaps even the capture of Osama bin Laden.

"By the time Callahan's through with one of those guys," President Bush said, "we'll know everything from where he was born to how many times his girlfriend farts in bed. The terrorist being questioned, I mean, not Callahan."

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Greetings, communistas. First and foremost, I must apologize for my absence and the hellish disrepair this site has fallen into in said absence. I had an unfortunate run-in with a Taco Bell Volcano Box and have spent the past few months in the loving care of the Shanesly/Rupert Valley Regional Memorial Hospital. Some might argue that four months is a longer than necessary stay for a common case of food poisoning, but just like the anti-drowning safety labels on all the bottled water sold in town say, we like to be careful here in Shanesly. And really there was no harm done, as I’m sure my birthday party magician’s guild insurance will more than cover the expenses.

The story of how all of this happened is far too graphic for young and impressionable readers, but suffice it to say that Volcano box lived up to its name and turned my box into a veritable volcano, overflowing with flaming human effluvia, if by box you understand I mean my asshole. I realize the term is usually reserved for a woman’s vaginal area, but I imagine gay guys or somebody somewhere calls a man’s ass a box as well, so there you go. Here at the commune headquarters, the inmates were left to run the asylum while I was gone, and I suppose it comes as no great shock that the inmates did a real half-assed job of asylum running. It doesn’t look like we’ve published much, but the staff somewhat made up for that by adding a wet, rotting Nerf refrigerator to my back yard, which apparently has a pack of ferrets living inside of it. I’m afraid to ask where that thing came from, or why Nerf ever made flexible, spongy refrigerators. Whatever the reason, now it’s a collapsed floppy mess in the back yard that squeaks menacingly whenever you walk near it.

On the bright side, several more commune regulars wandered blindly back into the fray during my absence. Vernon Hooper accosted Raoul Dunkin at a local Denny’s, mistaking him inexplicably for Rick Santorum. Freelance freeballers Ella Dipthong and Chals Woodland both sent in columns via the teletype system for deaf people that Mitch Kroeger stole from the old folks’ home he had been pretending to be old to live in, rent-free, for the last few years. In other words, we’ve got all your old non-favorites. When it comes to re-configuring the commune, corralling the old staff has proved to be much easier than expected, since they all seem to be drawn to no pay and ill repute like fat, juicy moths to a house-sized bug zapper. Getting them to do their goddamned moth jobs once they’re incapacitated and twitching on the ground is another story entirely. But at least they’re fumbling their way through the door, even when I’m not here to explain that the doggie door is for dogs only and that Mountain Dew Code Red in the fridge is most certainly not for the dog, as evidenced by the jittery red sprays of dog urine everywhere.

I even received a telegram from Red Bagel the other day, which simply read "HE’S COMING." That’s literally what it said, apparently Red still believes in the power of referring to himself in the third person. The telegram was most impressive for the fact that no telegraph services exist any more in modern times, apparently Bagel had to email the message to some local chunkhead, who then typed it out on some telegraph paper he bought at a garage sale.

The excitement around here would be even more palpable if I wasn’t the only one who remembers who Red Bagel is.

Anyway, it’s great to be back. I’d love to say this will never happen again, but Taco Bell has recently added a Dorito-shell taco to their menu, and we both know it’s only a matter of time before that thing is making babies in my stomach. Until then, we here at the commune will endeavor to provide the high degree of timely journalism you are in no way accustomed to from the commune. Set your eyeballs to "stunned"!

Zincerely,
Emil Zender

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That's right, your honor, you heard the title. I've prepared this statement in my defense because this country's legal system is inherently biased against the kind of "shock and awe" courtroom antics that would most memorably and quickly prove my innocence, and so I've been forced to make humble words, and periodic karate gestures, my servants. I stand here before you today a man innocent of the baseless accusations that I personally bred and trained a small army of vicious and lightning-quick monkeys to keep government ninjas out of my house.

These charges are untrue, your honor, and I bear no responsibility for the power company meter reader who was torn to shreds by these cunning, genetically-modified apes. The berserk primates that witnesses saw fleeing my home on May 17th had invaded my innocent dwelling only moments before, possibly descending by rope from a blimp, or creating an elaborate series of underground tunnels leading to my basement, or possibly both.

The prosecution will be calling two witnesses, Reginald "Dickface" Tungstein and Charlize "Dirty Lying Bitch" Overborn, who are both professional liars hired to gain my trust, plant monkey-breeding evidence in my home, and to fake video footage of me running frighteningly-swift killer monkeys though training drills in my own back yard. Neither of these individuals, you will note, has ever seen the movie Congo. As your honor obviously knows, this seriously calls into question their knowledge of killer ape matters and the relevance of their testimony. Also, "Dickface" Tungstein once slept with my ex-girlfriend. Draw your own conclusions from that.

And I'm sure your honor will also be hearing a lot about these so-called "Velocimonkeys." That they have eyes dark as night and slender, scheming fingers. That I bred them by crossing insane howler monkeys with a Tasmanian devil. That when cornered, they go for the nuts like a nut-hungry piranha, and that three of them can skeletonize a bull in fourteen seconds. That at night, they sing beautiful, high harmonies to lure in birds and children for snack and sport.

I'm sure you'll also be hearing that after they tore the meter reader into confetti, the Velocimonkeys escaped, terrorizing a Dairy Queen and hijacking a 1998 Toyota Camry moments before driving it off a nearby bridge and into the river, where they all drowned at an alarming rate of speed. That no Velocimonkey bodies were ever found, because I rescued them with scuba gear and a tuna net, bringing them home and locking them in a titanium footlocker in my basement that nobody knows about. These charges and more, your honor, are horseshit times three.

I saw these monkeys, your honor, as they invaded my home while I was praying and working on the cure for childhood cancer, and I didn't think they were all that. I even hit one with a bottle of scotch and it was clearly phased, as all normal monkeys are when hit with booze. It wouldn't surprise me if that meter reader in fact suffered from a medical condition that predisposed him to falling apart like sloppy joe meat when threatened by apes.

Furthermore, your honor, in my defense I plan on exposing the powerful racism at work within our local police force. This case is clearly less about the facts and more about my Dutch-Irish heritage, and the painful stereotypes that persist about the Dutch-Irish and their love of breeding killer primate hybrids with a taste for blood. This is the case that might very well change the way we think about race in this country, and hopefully it will do so in the next 34 minutes since I've got tickets for Nickelback. Case dismissed.

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