fter thrilling America with exciting, action-packed tales in the hours after the May 1st raid that took Osama bin Laden’s life, White House officials have issued a series of statements gradually correcting and de-awesomeing their story as additional details have arisen from talking to people who actually know what the fuck happened.

"I may have gotten carried away in my initial statements about the raid," explained White House counterterrorism head John Brennan, source of many of the erroneous stories. "It turns out that bin Laden wasn’t actually killed by Matt Damon and Christian Bale, as I originally indicated, although that would have been awesome, but rather by faceless Special Forces goons you wouldn’t know if you were drinking right next to them in a bar. Sorry. Also, the Black Hawk helicopter that crashed during the raid was not brought down by an awe-inspiring salvo of RPG rockets as I first stated, I think I was thinking of that Ridley Scott movie on that one, but anyway, a five cent nut snapped and that piece of shit came down like a Chevy the day after your warranty expires. I know, I know. Reality is boring."

Brennan’s corrections were accompanied by noticeably fewer sound effects and animated hand gestures than his initial statements had been.

"I know I also said bin Laden was holed up in a mansion on a million-dollar compound like the drug kingpin in Commando, but yeah, it was actually a shithole. That place had like two windows and there were stray dogs all over the place. C’mon, it’s Pakistan, you guys should have called bullshit on that one yourselves. If I’d known you were all writing down everything I said I might have dialed back the pizazz a bit, you know? But whatever. Anyway, what else? Hold on, I’ve got a whole list here. Whooboy."

"Uhm, yeah we shot bin Laden’s son and his wife, but there was a guy down the street with a machine gun… pretty sure on that part… President Obama did not watch the raid live on TV, that photo I referenced was actually the president and his cabinet watching The Human Centipede and I think you’ll all agree that’s some sick shit… And no, we didn’t bury bin Laden at sea to prevent his gravesite from becoming a shrine for terrorists, actually this is kind of funny, but apparently when they were flying back over the sea, the guys in the chopper got in an argument about Lost and they wanted to re-create the scene in season 4 where the chopper’s running out of gas and Sawyer jumps out into the ocean to save everyone else… anyway, they said it was pretty awesome… uhm… Look, did you guys hear bin Laden had like 100 gigs of porn on his laptop? Holy shit, right? Let’s talk about that."

After original reports from White House officials indicated that bin Laden was shot while charging Navy SEALs with a blazing Uzi sub-machinegun in each hand, using his own wife as a human shield, this story was later amended to remove the wife and arm Bin Laden with a sack of poisonous vipers instead. After several subsequent corrections, the sack of vipers became a little girly derringer pistol, then stack of tax audit paperwork, and finally a really snotty Kleenex. Later in the week, the story was further amended when White House officials admitted that bin Laden was actually unarmed and in his pajamas at the time of the killing, and may or may not have been playing with a newborn kitten. Just before press time, the story was again corrected to indicate that bin Laden died of a head cold in 2003.

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Strychnine Dog Food: Where Can You Buy It?

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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Dear commune:

You ever get the feeling that someone’s constantly watching you, monitoring your every move, censoring your every word? Like a cold, oppressive hand is closing around your windpipe as you speak? Like every freedom you’ve taken for granted is eroding away like a life raft made out of table salt? Like the cold bicycle seat of injustice is stuck to your ass and upper thighs? Is it just me? Am I just paranoid? Or can someone else out there feel my pain?

Sincerely,

Dabney Koonz
Bellknob, TX


Dear Dabney:

We here at the commune can most definitely relate to your feelings. If you think living under the oppressive yolk of a braindead cowboy regime with little regard for public opinion or world unity is tough, try getting a paid vacation day approved by Red Bagel or his stooge of a lapdog, Ramrod Hurley. Now try doing both at once, it’s like a double-decker club sandwich of shit. Our only reprieve is the fact that neither the powers that be in this country nor the powers that be at the commune care much for reading, so we can speak our minds as long as we don’t ever form those ideas into a slapstick cartoon with mass appeal or a country song. So, in short, Dabney: No, you’re not paranoid. The world really does have your ass in a cold metal vise.

However, we couldn’t help but notice that your letter comes to us from the fine state of Texas. So, in all likelihood you weren’t talking about the government at all, you were probably just recently married. In that case: Don’t worry, those feelings will pass in time. Eventually either you or your spouse will die, and you’ll feel a lot better. Thanks for your letter.


the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for all those cheetos ground into the carpet in the break room. We think we saw some dudes with turbans snacking in there the other day, swear to God. They looked a little Syrian to us, if that helps.

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