U.N. Weapons Inspectors Want to Come Home

short letter received by the U.N. in the mail Friday stated briefly and succinctly that U.N. weapons inspectors were tired of "dumb-ass Iraq" and wanted "to go home."

The letter surprised most everybody at the U.N., who believed the weapons inspectors were all very happy in their duties in the Middle East. Weapons inspectors had been in Iraq in years previous to prove Saddam Hussein has kept the country free of nuclear material and other weapons outlawed by their post-Gulf War agreement. Just months ago, before their return, the weapons inspectors were practically "hitting the roof to go back," according to Secretary-General Kofi Annan.

"You know how weapons inspectors are," said Annan. "When they're here, they want to be there. When they're there, they want to be here."

Trouble started approximately three weeks ago, when weapons inspectors team leader Hans Blix called Annan at midnight and asked how long they expected the search to last. Annan said he couldn't be sure, and Blix suggested that they should return home and discuss the length of the trip to Iraq. After Annan refused, Blix called back four hours later and stated the whole team had agreed they were 100% sure Iraq didn't have any weapons anymore, even though they had only searched a handful of places.

Weapons inspector psychologist Danni Jersey said the behavior was not unusual.

"Most people expect this sort of reaction during the first weapons search," said Dr. Jersey, "but the truth is that the first trip contains more exploration, the discovery of new places, hopefully without weapons, and new friends. Although it's somewhat frightening for weapons inspectors, it is still exciting and keeps them involved.

"By the time a second trip comes around, expectations are raised, to unreasonable expectations sometimes. It is impossible to experience the same level of enjoyment and mystery all over again, and there's naturally some disappointment from the second search. Finding some weapons might make it more exciting, but if not, it's a matter of reconciling expectations and reality. No wonder they want to come home."

In the rest of Friday's letter, weapons inspectors told the U.N. that they had looked everywhere and found no weapons, everyone in Iraq hated them, and they found living conditions were "for shit." As part of the agreement with the U.N., a "host family" allows one weapons inspector to stay with them in a room they have set up. There have been no formal complaints on either side, but there has been much speculation about tension between host families and inspectors.

"I have nothing against the U.N., or the agreement Iraq has made after the conflict," said Iraqi Army corporal and host family patriarch Amani El-Abib. "But our weapons inspector, Terry, is quite a disagreeable boy. He never lifts a finger to clean up, he complains about the food, and sometimes I wake up in the morning and find he is searching our kitchen for weapons-grade plutonium. It's just bad manners to do so without asking permission."

Terry Gröfberg, a Swedish weapons inspector staying with the El-Abibs, felt similar antagonism for his hosts.

"They're nice and all, but old man El-Abib is always flying off the handle. He says I'm corrupting his children with my techno music, that I'm acting like an infidel when I ask if there's any electricity in the house, and that I keep looking at his wife when her veil is off. Dude, his wife's nice, but not my type at all. Just chill, muslim dude. Not everybody wants your stuff."

Secretary-General Kofi Annan had expectations that a little tough love would help the weapons inspectors stay focused on their mission.

"It's not the time for coddling now," said Annan. "I know they want to come home, but it will be better for them in the long run if they stay. They will fulfill their obligation, possibly help prevent more death from military conflict, and it will build character."

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Sorry, kind readers, but I haven't the time to waste writing for you this week. I have managed to get back on track with the Biggest Conspiracy in the World (BCW, for you conspiracy fans) after losing my foot in the door so tragically this time. I speak metaphorically, of course, and my literal foot suffers nothing more than a dangly, unclipped toenail and a stark and pungent odor. But why am I wasting time like an unaccredited Dr. Scholl's? I have to catch up with all my new contacts, and my column is the quickest and safest way to do. But just in case someone is actually reading it, I'll do everything in the agreed-upon code for all my compatriots.

To the kind and stealthy Mr. Humphrey: It's all set for Tampon, right around Fluff-fifteen. Check the code book I gave you on how to translate those times. But I was lucky to get it set up, so don't go showing up at 4:30 or too early at 4:10. Thursdays are always hell in doctor's offices anyway. Oh, that's right, I forgot to tell you where it is! It's at Pigeon Michaels' office. Remember? Pigeon Michaels, the Ear, Nose and Throat Pigeon?

For Willie and Sanchez: I'll be there at midnight tonight, in the agreed-upon location. And I'll have my bass with me. That's not code. I will be bringing my bass, since my band is rehearsing shortly before the meeting.

Turnip, or Mrs. Turnip: Make sure you have the Glockenspiel properly lubricated. I don't want another rash on my sensitive parts because you didn't do it right.

Anthrog Baker, Esquire: The Cake did not rise. Repeat, the Cake did not rise. Cancel the party.

Shaolin Henry: We're turning away all guests that don't know the Piper. If the Piper hasn't been paid, kick their ass to the curb. Forget them. Don't let them in if they got their hand stamped last night. It's a new night, a new Piper to be paid.

Ronald McDonald and the Hamburgler: The paddies are hot. Don't touch them. I'm not responsible for what happens if you grab the paddies.

Mrs. Turnip: I forgot to ask, can you show me how to bake a proper Cake? Ours didn't rise. It really sucks, because we had to cancel our party and everything.

Fantasia Martin: If you must, you must. But watch out if the dog is outside. He's sitting in the water dish.

Dickless and Assmunch: In regards to last week's queries, no, you can't have your nicknames changed. It serves you right for taking a smoke break while we were assigning names.

Pedro: The border is wide open and fully unguarded. Come home, and come home quick.

Bundles, a.k.a. Monsignor Bundles: Study the Rubicon. We have a schedule to keep, and every day those Chocolate Chips don't come in we lose another 5 million Cancers.

Og the Hog: Call me sometime. Remember me? This is Red Bagel, from Kappa Delta. We need to catch up sometime.

Franco and my Publisher Harold Mortensen: The book is finish and ready to be published. That's code for you, Franco. Normal talk for you, Harry.

Omar Bricks: Get your dead fish out of my office. This is not code, but I can't stand the wait anymore. I've measured it and you're not anywhere near the world's record, even for clear water pond catches.

Blanche: See what you can do about getting me a cell phone. I can't keep in touch with any of the gang. I've had to resort to using my column to keep up the conspiracy messages.

Everyone else: Bugger off. I'll have more to say to you next time.

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"As Jerry Springer said when announcing he was about to have dinner with a loyal viewer, 'It's time to take out the trash.'"

Is there a real Tony Soprano? I'm just asking because my neighbor says he knows him. And I've seen the TV show before and I don't want to get on the bad side of this guy if my neighbor goes mouthing off to him like he threatened to. Either way I guess it's in my best interest to stop throwing the garbage into the hall.

Garbage men are like Winston Churchill: They get no respect. A bunch of guys whose job it is to ride around on the back of a truck. That's the only highlight of their day. Then they have to haul your messy garbage to the truck and dump it in the back. In some cases. In other cases, the truck can do all the work. They hire Transformers or something, I don't know, but sometimes I watch through the blinds and see the truck pull up and the garbage can is lifted up by robot arms and dumped in the back. I always wonder what happened to the garbage men. I guess the real question is, is it a friendly Transformer or one of the evil ones? Like the Tony Soprano thing, I don't care to find out.

Being a garbage man is the worst job in the world. That's what I told myself when I was working at Trojan as a condom taster, and I stand by it. Sure, I went home feeling weird at the end of a long shift and you can't really get the taste of banana-flavored rubber out of your mouth, but at least only my tongue was worn out. With being a garbage man, that's probably a worse smell, and you have to move a lot. At least at the condom tasting job the other guy was the one doing all the moving.

What's even worse about being a garbage man, people always use you in negative examples. Some shithead kid doesn't do his homework and all of a sudden his mom is threatening to give your job to him. That mom better watch out. 'Cause if she's right and the kid becomes her garbage man one day, I bet she'll never get any furniture or boxes taken away. And the kid will be lapping it up. "I'm sorry, ma'am, that refrigerator box isn't officially in the dumpster, so we're not allowed to take it. Fuck you, mom. You should have shelled out the money for a tutor if you wanted your boxes picked up."

I wonder if you can even pick up garbage on your own home route, or if they assign you to some other route on purpose. Like it's a conflict of interest or something. Like a doctor can't operate on her own son. The garbage manager stops the guy as he's on the way out the door, all like, "I'm assigning you another route, Bill. You're too close to this case." That would be pretty cool, I guess. The other highlight of the job. Then you're right up in the ranks with doctors and lawyers. Because if your mom comes into the Burger King and wants a Whopper, you still have to wait on her. No matter how much she's making fun of you.

There's got to be some mobility in being a garbage man. Better routes or something. Like if you get in good with the boss or get a lot of letters of recommendation from people on your route, you can get reassigned to the rich people's routes or something. The kind of routes where people just throw out hundred dollar bills because they got dirty and shit. But then you probably couldn't even take them. Some kind of garbage collectors' code I don't know about. You see perfectly good sea food lying right on top, not even dirty, but you're bound by honor not to eat it. That's gotta suck.

There's so much I don't know.

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