n an unprecedented decision in settling world deficits, Iraq's $4.1 billion debt to the United States will be forgiven in exchange for the labor of individual Iraqi citizens, the White House announced Friday. Starting in January of 2005, the hard work of the men, women, and children of Iraq will be paid to the United States and all outstanding monetary debts will be considered paid in full.

The announcement has earned both criticism and praise for the U.S. government, as well as a lot of questions from foreign powers on how to get in on that sweet debt-paying labor. According to the president, exchanging manual labor for on-paper debts is "good news" for the U.S. and Iraq both, allowing a people plagued with infrastructure damage, caused by us, and years of accrued financial burden, also caused by us, to give back to its debtors something they can afford, and "get some fresh air and work off a few pounds" in the doing.

The White House plan, not yet approved by congress, added a smirking Press Secretary Scott McClellan, is for Iraqi citizens not currently in the employ of the new puppet government or Iraqi police to join a U.S. "workforce" for three months at a time. During the period of employment, citizens are trained to "give something back" to the country that has given them so much, from free bombs to help getting their oil rigs up and running. Most work forces will join civil service outlets for returning the debt, operating at state or federal levels in open positions. Some individuals may join highway work details, litter patrols, or low-level security positions, such as post exchange night watchman.

Relatives who have family members serving overseas in Iraq, or who have lost family members in combat during the Iraq War, may apply to have one or more Iraqi workforce members put in their personal employ. While restrictions will exist, tasks such as painting houses and fences, washing cars, or cleaning out the crapper are all perfectly acceptable.

While naysayers call the deal "legalized slavery," proponents of the debtor workforce say, "lighten up, cochise." And those people sound like they throw much better parties.

Treasure Secretary John Snow finalized the debt plan on Friday when he set fire to a box full of handwritten Iraqi "I.O.U.s," some of them once written by Saddam Hussein himself, and announced the Iraqi $4.1 billion debt "gone for good." President Bush followed that tough act by asking all other nations out there to follow the U.S. lead in an effort to help Iraq enter a prosperous new age. Ambassadors from Rwanda, Honduras, Guyana, and several other African and South American countries among the most debt-ridden in the world began to ask questions in a confusing muddle of various languages until they were forcibly ejected from the press conference.

"Well, I think it's super," said conservative economist Howard Blocher-White, lighting a fat cigar hand-rolled by a small Filipino boy standing in a corner of the room. "Finally, no more welfare for these countries who keep asking for handouts. It's 'work-fare' time. I can't wait to get me a little Iraqi lady to fix up my recreation room. Do they know Feng Shui over there, or will I have to buy her a book? I say it's about time we get cracking on all them other nations, too. Do you know how many of them countries owe us a big fat paycheck? And all of them have empty pockets. When do you think Ethiopia's gonna pay back all that money Lionel Richie and friends gave them in the eighties?"

As this reporter attempted to leave Blocher-White's home, I was reminded I had greedily consumed two and a half cups of coffee without so much as a tip; but if willing, an arrangement could probably be worked out hanging some expensive European artwork in the den.

President Demands More Wheels on Airplanes

Today’s Hurricanes Not Worth a Damn, Say Elderly Southerners

New .eu Domains Popular Among Gross-Out, Childbirth Video Websites

Sharon Still in Coma, Phyllis Still Total Slutbag

"Check out my moves while my lawyer gets a written waiver."

Be careful when you tell people you are the best dancer ever, because some of them will call you on it. They'll be skeptical, they'll call you a liar, they'll ask to see your "moves" and shit. Then you either have to tell them you were lying or dance like the best person in the world.

I always try the second one first, but then I have to tell them the truth, that I don't dance. Unless I'm dancing for people who don't know dancing. Like the Amish or Republicans.

I wish I could dance, but not everybody was meant to dance. John Travolta and that fruity guy with the top hat in old movies. And old dancing was easier to do. It usually meant just finding a room that would turn upside down and then right side up and moving your legs around while holding a cane. New dancing is harder. You take a cane onto the dance floor nowadays and the bouncers thump you.

The hardest thing about new-style dancing is moving your arms and legs. At the same time! Sometimes I get the legs going with a good step-step sort of thing and then I realize my arms aren't moving. So I try moving the arms and then I see I'm just standing in one place. Sometimes I can get one arm and one leg going on the same side, but you do that longer than a couple of minutes and people know it's your only move. I can also get one arm and one leg on opposite sides working. One time I got all four working at once, but it was in my basement and nobody saw, so it doesn't count.

There are people who actually go to school to learn to dance. I call them money wasters. If they can't hear me I call them that. The point I'm making is I don't know why anyone would pay money to go to school when they can move all four limbs in a basement.

Those dances are the kind you use at aristocrat's balls and shit. The bossy nova, the flamingo, the goose step. They teach you how to do those by painting 50 feet on the floor—joke's on you, asshole. You've only got two feet. And by the time you get enough friends, or paid enough hookers, to come over and fill up all the foot slots, it's too crowded to dance. And you probably have to pay the dance teacher for all the hookers you brought into the class. I'm guessing that's how they stay in business.

You can learn to dance from watching TV. But not The Paper Chase. If you watch, like, Fame or something you can see them dancing and just copy the moves. With a little practice you can take it onto the floor and totally rule. I learned to dance from watching Mr. Belvedere but it didn't go as well as I thought. What can I say, I only like funny shows. Next time I'll try copping some classic Cosby steps or something.

º Last Column: Target Friendly
º more columns

Editor's Note: In lieu of Rok Finger's absence, he asked us to print a friendly filler message from his roommate Camembert.

Hello. I'm Camembert Morgen and I suppose I should introduce myself as Rok Finger's roommate. Since Rok couldn't fit a column into his schedule this week, he asked me to fill in for him. Well, he ordered me, but it's not like I listen to him. I'm not scared of him. My girlfriend can beat him up. He's small. Honestly, I'm not scared.

As I said, Rok couldn't do this column this week. Don't worry, it's not a bad thing—not for Rok, anyway. He married an unlucky woman named Ginger Baker over the weekend. Good for him, I say. Terrible for her. I guess she thinks he's rich or something. Maybe she's fooled by the velour suit he wears whenever they go on dates. I don't know. Maybe he has some inner qualities that make him attractive. Though I've never seen any.

I guess I should tell you a little about myself. I can't imagine Rok would waste time in a professional website column talking about his roommate. I'm Camembert, as I said, and I have a hot girlfriend, Loretta. Rok and I are distantly related. Very distantly. I'm his ex-wife's sister's son. But our relationship is a lot closer than that, really, since he paralyzed me, moved into my apartment uninvited, made me a mob target, got me kidnapped by pirates, and generally made my life hell on a daily basis. But he did introduce me to my girlfriend, so I suppose things are about even. Now that he's married, I'm hoping to get out on my own with my girlfriend and make a new life for myself. God willing.

I can't believe anyone really wants to hear about the wedding, but I'm sure if you're fans of Rok Finger, I can't believe you exist anyway. I'll describe the wedding so as not to embarrass myself further with revealing details about me.

The bride wore a lovely black dress, and the groom wore a tuxedo that he may have gotten from a ventriloquist dummy. But you can't tell—one of the better fitting suits in his little collection. They wrote their own vows, but I don't think I heard too many of his because the crowd was laughing very loudly. Rok never makes me laugh, personally, but if you had to live with him you probably wouldn't laugh either. I think the vows were very adamant about who washes the dishes, and he might have swore a little, but that's hardly shocking for Rok.

There was one slightly amusing part for me, I admit. The flower girl, Ginger's daughter Becky, was actually taller than Rok. You don't see that very often. Flower girls taller than the groom, I mean. Everybody's taller than Rok. Heck, even in my chair I'm a little taller than he is. But don't tell him—he gets outraged about it.

After the ceremony, which was mercifully short outside of the vows, we threw rice at the newlyweds. Rok threw beans back. I'm not sure why he had beans with him. He might have just anticipated the rice and wanted something to fight back with. Again, I'm not surprised. But they piled into his car with the special high-pedals and drove off on their honeymoon. He told me where they were going but I didn't bother to commit it to memory. I'm better off not knowing where he is. If the Feds ask me.

So what do they do here at the commune? I'm writing this from home, and although I've got internet access, I've never bothered to read the site myself. I get enough Rok Finger at home, thank you. For another thing, I can't swallow any of that news they put out each week. Does anybody actually believe that stuff? Ah, but I'm no critic. I'm just a regular guy trying to help out a maniacal roommate while he enjoys the silence in the house with his girlfriend, Loretta.

Did I mention I have a girlfriend? She is H-O-T hot, too. And she's real.

º Last Column: The Enemy Cube
º more columns