Bush Unveils Martyr Prevention Hotline

n the face of wildly escalating violence in Israel and Palestine, political commentators the world over have been looking to American President George W. Bush for a sign as to the path America will take in dealing with the Mideast crisis. After making an early dismissive statement about how at least the Palestinians don't have flight schools, Bush had been conspicuously quiet on the issue. Some observers theorized that the president was carefully weighing America's options before he made a public statement, while others argued that his attentions had been split between a new model train set and the Fox prime-time drama 24. Today's announcement might have proved either side correct.

In a press conference this morning, Bush unveiled plans for a new Office of Martyr Prevention, headed by syndicated radio call-in therapist Dr. Judy Kuriansky and manned by a staff of 300 licensed suicide-prevention professionals who will be available via a toll-free telephone number 24 hours a day.

"I have created the OMP in response to the internationalary outcry for American action to address the Mideast peacelessness," Bush stated. "Suicide bombers are threatening world peace and the time has come to find a solution. These young men and women need to be shown that there are other, better ways to express their anger and frustration than blowing up a Circle K with explosive underpants.The answer is not to perpetuate terroristical attacks of an inhumanitarian nature. I understand that the people of Palestine, and other miserable places I need not mention by name, need a shoulder to cry on. Now they know that America is there for them, over thousands of miles of telephone wires. No need to come here, we'll pick up the phone bill. There's nothing to blow up here that you couldn't blow up back home, anyway. Operators are standing by."

Dr. Judy Kuriansky accepted her appointment with a brief speech on the Mideast situation. "It's time to break the cycle of violence. The time has come for Palestinian youth to understand that the dark, dead pit of bile in their chests is not the bitterness of living in a relocation slum or the dull ache of hunger, nor is it some tiny embryonic Jew implanted in their chests that's gnawing at their internal organs, regardless of what their newspapers tell them. It's the all-too-familiar ache of feelings yearning to be expressed.

"What we need here is communication. Palestine needs to stand up and say to Israel: 'It hurt my feelings when you kicked the snot out of our armed forces back in 1967.' And Israel needs to say to Palestine: 'Hey, asshole, if you hadn't attacked us then you wouldn't have lost all the land you're bitching about now. What's your freakin' problem, anyway?' And Palestine needs to say back to Israel: 'Listen, we never agreed to let you guys move in here in the first place, and now you're trying to force us all to move to Jordan. Fuck Jordan, Jordan sucks.' And then the UN needs to come over and slap them both on the back and say: 'Alright, you're all a bunch of assholes, but we need to do something about this or the rest of the world is going to run out of explosives.' Then the UN can take them both out and get them drunk and hope they have sex together and we end up with a bunch of Jewrab babies so nobody can tell who they're supposed to blow up any more. But my point is that communication is the key."

National reaction to today's announcement has been typically harsh, with many critics pointing out that there aren't any Circle K stores in the Middle East. At press time, OMP staffers had received three phone calls: two wrong numbers looking for Sears AutoCenter and a call from Iowa asking if it was possible to overdose on mini-marshmallows.

Reactions from Palestine have been even less promising, with Hamas leader Zaccaria Walid Akel promising a large cash reward for the family of the first suicide bomber to blow up OMP headquarters.

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I've had it, that's the last straw hat I'll ever wear.

It's not like it would break the bank for them to put some kind of cheap, flame-retardant coating on these things. A small price to pay to save some serious embarrassment at tiki-torch parties, that's all I'm saying.

I've generally been having clothing problems all day. I swear, if I spill one more thing on these pants, people are going to think I work at a pet store. Toothpaste, frosting, and now pure distilled hemoglobin. Where the hell did that come from? And I know what you're thinking, God forbid I should have to wash my pants, right? Well, maybe where you live you don't find a dead hamster in the lint filter of the apartment dryer, tiny eyes locked in frozen terror as it stares up at you from its fuzzy grave. Maybe you do, maybe you don't, but I'm not going near that laundry room again until the nightmares stop. I think in about four years I might chance it.

They say that writing angry letters to people and them burning them is good therapy. Now, if I understand that line of reasoning, then blowing up a scale-model of someone's house has got to be even better. Hypothetically, anyway. In practice, I find that you get pretty attached to a scale-model house after you're done making all of the little trees out of pipe cleaners and have spent a few weeks on the whole thing. It ends up being a lot harder to light the fuse than you'd imagined when you started out, and before you know it your shitty little apartment is crammed full of these scale-model houses and there's nowhere to set a plate of hot biscuits. When it comes to the therapy I guess I'll have to settle for leaving angry voicemails from Ramrod Hurley's phone when he's not here. I think that'll be pretty healing.

According to this book I'm reading, the first sign that you may have a serious problem with schizophrenia is that you're constantly being followed around by a little three-foot tall companion named Jeffy. No kidding. Of course, Mr. Oh-So-Helpful Field Guide to Common Schizophrenia doesn't bother to let us in on exactly what this little Jeffy looks like. Thanks a lot, guys. For nothing. How in the world are we supposed to know if the little Jeffy that's following us around is the Jeffy, or just some little kid we met playing hopscotch down in the barrio who coincidentally happens to also be named Jeffy. Real helpful.

Anybody else out there see a trailer for the upcoming movie Ghost Ship? I'm hoping the answer to that is a resounding "Uh… think so." because otherwise I'm going to be worried. I'm just really not in the mood right now to find out that I'm being haunted by the ghost of a bad movie, like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. That is, I'm like Jack, The Shining isn't the bad movie I'm talking about. It's actually pretty sharp, in it Jack plays some landlord kind of guy who's seeing a bunch of ghosts and perverted rabbits and stuffs on a big abandoned tanker ship. Or is that Ghost Ship? Now I'm starting to get worried. If it turns out the rest of the theater was watching a trailer for Sweet Home Alabama when I saw that, I'm going to have to call in sick and go see a Ouiji therapist or something. Whatever it takes, I just don't want to wake up in the pantry kissing my dead grandmother or anything, that's all I know.

Column at you again later, I need to go see what Time-Life has to say about this whole situation.

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"I won't join any club that would penetrate me with a member."

I've never been much of a joiner, on account I've never been let into a group. But I haven't given up on the idea of being part of an organization of some kind, especially the kind that makes me money or friends.

When I was a kid my mom tried to sign me up for everything, from 4-H to the Cub Scouts, but I kept failing the entrance exams. I was in some other youth organization my dad got me into for about a week, but my hand kept cramping up trying to do the sign. I think they were extra hard on me because of it when it came time to run the gauntlet, I didn't even get past the first sixty guys.

In school I tried to get into all the clubs, but they all had special requirements. You had to be good at something or popular or something, it was all rigged. I did find a group of kids to hang out with and everything, but they said I couldn't get into their group without a doctor's note saying I had a learning disability. Which really sucked, 'cause my doctor said I did have a learning disability, but he wouldn't write me a note since he was pissed about me eating all his tongue depressors. I say don't stick anything in my mouth if you don't want me to eat it.

I got out of high school and thought all my chances to be in a club were over, then I heard about the Kiwanis Club. They're some sort of charity or something, who cares, really, if they all get together in a building. I don't care if they worshipped goats by sticking thumbs up their asses, as long as they were a club and I could join, showing that guidance counselor once and for all who was right.

The Kiwanis were not as cool as they sounded, though. I showed up in my Kiwanis suit, complete with a little pouch on the front, and I pulled leaves out and ate them and everything, trying to fit in. Not one person in that place was dressed like a Kiwani except me, and some people even asked me what I was supposed to be, like they'd never seen a Kiwani before. Even talking with an Australian accent didn't make them any smarter. You'd think these jackasses would know the animal they named their club after. Next time I'll show up dressed as a jackass, just to embarrass them.

It probably doesn't need saying I didn't make the Kiwanis Club, but I did make bail, so everything works out alright in the end. I've had it with trying to get into a club, I'll tell you that. I've always wanted to be a part of a group of people, the kind of joes I could make friends with and share a real sense of community and shit. But I suppose I'll have to do that by starting my own club, with me as president and founder and everything. And I won't let any of those assholes in.

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