olice announced Friday that they had apprehended a suspect in the murders of up to 10 killings, the notorious BTK killer, as DNA evidence may prove. The alleged BTK killer made no confirmation of his accusations, but did call national news media “fuck ups� who couldn’t even “get a simple three-letter name right.�

The suspect, Dennis Rader, blasted newspapers and television media for screwing up the killer’s chosen name since the earliest days of the first BTK victim. Between 1974 and 1986, or possibly even as late as 1991, the BTK killer (BTK standing for “bind, torture and kill�) compiled 8 victims, with two more potential victims being examined by police, and went through at least 6 public name changes as the media attempted to pigeon-hole the serial murderer.

Upon the death of the first four victims, an entire family, early pioneering journalists attempted to name the perpetrator “the Family-Size Killer.� When the next victim was discovered, three months later, the media hoped they had a serial killer on their hands, and dubbed him, “The Wichita Stabbing Strangler.� City officials glowered at the negative publicity, and demanded they change the name. Newspapers were in favor of “The Jayhawk Stabbing Strangler,� while news media won out with “Mr. Poky-Squeezy.� Upon the serial murderer being confused with a local birthday party clown of the same name, they changed his name again to “The Country-Fried Killer.� Around the same time, police confirmed letters being sent to them were likely from the perpetrator of the crimes, requesting the title “The BTK Killer.�

Even then, the news media fucked it up. A typographical error on the police memo lead to the killer being called “The BK Killer� for the rest of the year, and scared off many people from eating at all local Burger Kings. Other residents, who received their news from the radio, were misinformed about the “The DQ Driller,� and stormed area Dairy Queens to dig in to the new treat.

Angrier, even more irate letters arrived for the police and national media, all in caps, with the name “BTK Killer� underlined, and specifically noting the meaning of the letters in very contrary language. Some broadcast news outlets then, possibly on purpose, released the name as “The Beady Cake Killer.� Allegedly pissed off, the perpetrator sent even more contrite letters to police and the media, using some especially nasty words that rhyme with “rocksuckers.�

The BTK Killer continued to have trouble with his public name over the years, as media outlets alleged different meanings of the BTK notation, including “Bloody Tick Killer,� “Brown Taint Kicker,� “Bottled Tar Keeper,� “Billionaire Testicle Kruncher,� “Black Titty Kisser,� “Barmaid Toasted Kelp,� “Bunched-Toe Keds,� and “Blacula Tossing Kid.� Some even speculate the BTK Killer ended his string of murders when he did because he was sick and tired of being confused with Wichita tire merchant Birchfield Thomas Kinnear. This reporter was then asked to quit speculating and leave the police press conference if I had nothing worthwhile to contribute.

Suspect Rader did address the subject of the BTK Killer’s many names, while not admitting any connection to the murders themselves.

“Birchfield Thomas Kinnear? Please,� said Rader, in a statement released by Wichita police. “That makes no sense at all. If the BTK Killer was Kinnear, why the hell would… whoever he is… call himself that? If he murdered Kinnear it would make sense. And probably the only reason he wouldn’t have gone ahead and done that, not that he didn’t think about it, was he didn’t want to be forever confused by a callous, forgetful, illiterate industry of news people.�

Rader had been sought by police for questioning about the crimes, and was pulled over in a routine traffic stop when the police found his car parked illegally on the shoulder as Rader spray-painted the words “It’s Bind, Torture, Kill! IDIOTS!� on a Motel 8 billboard. The alleged murderer, however, refused to explain how the killer could stand having a name as redundant as the Bind, Torture, Kill Killer.

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Well, looks like we're still bombing the Iraqis out of the Stone Age and back to whatever the hell came before that, when all the stones were blown up and everything was on fire. Serves 'em right for living in the desert though. I lived in the desert outside of Albuquerque once and there were always rednecks out there blowing shit up. Usually it was road signs and small animals and the like, but Iraq's a bigger desert so it stands to reason the rednecks would think bigger.

I was driving up the road the other day when I came up on a man who was standing half in the street, yelling at no one in particular. At first I thought he was yelling at me, but a quick check of my person confirmed that I was wearing nothing more offensive than an L.L. Bean dress shirt. Even if I had been wearing a novelty shirt stating "SHUT UP, BITCH" or other such amusing obscenity, it would have been hard for him to spy that in an oncoming car quickly enough to take offense and express it verbally. I thought the guy was just crazy until I realized he had one of those ear-bud cell phone things in his ear and he was yelling at his stockbroker or his concubine or whoever.

This got me thinking. I predict that cell phones will eventually get so small that we'll have problems with scores of people being committed to mental hospitals for yelling out grocery lists in public and hearing "voices." And personally, I can't wait. I hate those damned phones. And their damned operators.

Looks like those silly sons of bitches that blew up the U.S.S. Cole Porter escaped from jail again. Just goes to show what I've been saying all along: the honor system is great and may work in certain isolated kindergarten classrooms, but jails need real locks, real fast. Some people just don't take to shaming like they should, and lines painted on the floor don't work like they used to. Sad but true.

Contrary to what the previous paragraph might indicate, the biggest news this week is that absolutely nothing is happening in the world outside of Iraq. Nada. Zip. Nothing. Open up the paper and it's all about who blew up what where in Iraq and who might be dead but we'll never be sure and what kinds of cookies Iraqis like to bake. Who knew that dusty-assed place was so interesting? It just goes to show that nothing works wonders for your public visibility like being invaded. It's like when Poland's PR guys paid Germany to invade them back in the 1930's. Sure, some churches got blown up, but like magic Poland was back on the map again. Previous to that people were forgetting the country even existed, it was just some smudge on the map where trains got lost.

Apparently there is a bit of news in the dolphin world, however. Seems that El Presidente wanted to roll back the rules on what kind of tuna can be labeled "dolphin safe" or not. I know, like the president doesn't have better things to do than fuck with dolphins. I don't know what his problem is, but he's always struck me as a strange man. Anyhow, current rules state that you can't label tuna "dolphin safe" if you go so berserk while trying to catch fish that you machete or blow up any dolphins with grenades or you run any down with a speedboat just for fun. I believe there were also provisions for machine-gunning or hanging dolphins, somewhere in the fine print.

Seems fair enough to me. The president wanted to change it so you could call the tuna "dolphin safe" as long as any of the dolphins you decapitated or blended into a milkshake went to dolphin heaven, where they'd theoretically be safe. The environmentalists thought this was so much dolphin shit so they sued. And won while they were at it. I guess there's less legal precedent for the concept of "dolphin heaven" than many assumed. But I don't know, it sounds kind of nice to me.

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I have been accused in the past, not here, of allowing my immense ego to get in the way of the profitability of my ventures. Not here, as I said—usually just outside the pages of the commune. Not in the park, I mean, or my personal estate, except for in the office part. Usually, it happens inside the walls of the commune offices, from around 6 in the evening to 7 p.m. Okay, Gay says it. It's all Gay saying it. He has accused me of ego-centric management.

It was not meant as a compliment either, dear readers. Gay Bagel may be my beloved brother, but it's more than clear he has a personal ax to grind with me. He believes the internet is a place to make money—clearly he has not followed the internet news since 1997. He points to successful sites and asks, "Why can't we do that?" And usually he's talking about making money. Or he poses interesting questions, like, "How does selling Romanian dick growth pills interfere with our objective journalism?" I can't really answer questions like that. I laugh way too much. But it is plainly Gay's intention to take over the commune and make it his golden ticket to Willy Wonkaville. If that makes any sense. I guess you have to see the movie or read the book.

I have been trying to keep it under my hat, where I keep my Jolly Ranchers, but Gay and I have basically settled out of court. I have agreed to allow him on staff as the Ulterior Motive Manager, Class VII, under the condition he drop the lawsuit and he can keep 50% of any profit the commune shows under his guidance. I figured it was a done deal. He would get in here, become infatuated with the slack work ethic everyone else here has, and it would rub off. But he's not rubbing the right way. He's still 100% Gay, as far as I can tell.

He has been such a depressing presence in the office many members of the staff have taken to calling him "buzzkill," because of the way they want to cut him up with a rusty saw blade. The only one who gets along with him at all is Ramrod Hurley, and we all hate him. Even eternal wart on the commune's ass Raoul Dunkin has said it is no fun to work here since Gay came aboard. But then again, he said that day in-day out before Gay arrived, too. But now I believe he means it. So we have two problems: How do we get rid of Gay Bagel? And how do we keep him from reading about our plans to get rid of him while he's editing our columns?

Of course, when I say "edit" our columns, it's more like an honorary position, like Britney Spears' vocals on her own albums. We changed everything back to how we want it after he has made his changes, and I don't believe he's noticed. We still maintain some control of the office, since I have told him the monkey has the only other spare key, and I'm not about to wrestle it from his hands. But sooner or later Gay will think to ask for a duplicate of my own key, and he might be crazy enough to wrestle me for it. Sir, I am backed up against the wall, and not like Michael Douglas in that sexy movie.

At first, compromising the commune to settle things with Gay seemed like a good idea. That was before I realized I would have to do things in a way we were both agreeable to. I won't have it, sir, I won't. If it were up to Gay, we would check employee references, write only stories based on valid sources, and buy real office furniture instead of hiring non-English speaking people to fill those positions. In short, the entire fabric of the commune as you've come to know it will unravel.

I have only one real plan to defeat Gay's aims without complication: the commune readership must drop by at least 50%, so I can justify ousting his ass. So stop reading the commune—stop right now! And tell a friend to stop. If you have told a friend to read the commune before, tell them you were mistaken, it's not all it's cracked up to be. Our research is very poor and I'm not convinced Roland McShyster even watches those movies. It's entirely possible some of our income goes to support terrorism. It's not all that far-fetched, given the amount of drug use around here.

Any way you can help will be most appreciated, loyal reader.

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