Hussein's Escaped Mistress Useless to CIA

shockingly obese woman who claims to have been Saddam Hussein's mistress escaped from Iraq late last year, meeting surprisingly little resistance in a flight from bondage that International aid workers are calling "A Big Fat Miracle."

Lamoula Pamsolos says she was Saddam's mistress off and on for 30 years, and twice on Sundays. After escaping Iraq in a daring daylight bike ride over a year ago, she has learned to live in fear of anonymous death should Saddam's hit men ever find her. Assuming he has noticed that she's gone and didn't actually buy her the bike himself. Out of fear for her own life, she has disguised herself under a veil of disgusting, corpulent backfat.

According to Lamoula, she was a key component to Saddam's "collection" of women, which also included a ballerina, a basketball star and a black belt in judo. When asked if her part was the big fat cow or the whiny emotional cripple, she only responded with a cold stare. Saddam also collected women with missing appendages, women with extra appendages, and women who could do that dancing trick with a pair of forks and a couple of baked potatoes.

Pausing to either belch or swear in Iraqi (translators are divided), Lamoula explains that she was Saddam's favorite mistress, a claim supported by the faded tee shirt she wears, showing a naked woman handcuffed to a bed under a logo that reads "SADDAM'S FAVORITE MISTRESS".

Growing up, Lamoula originally thought of bondage as "fun" and thought herself lucky to only have to work twenty seconds out of the day. However, as she grew older and became gradually less enamored with Saddam's growing thatch of offensive back hair, Lamoula came to realize that she would never be able to leave him. Even if she wanted to, the door to her room locked from the outside. And though her window did open, it was a perilous one-story drop to the tall stacks of blankets that were stored on the ground below. Thanks to her acutely weak ankles and fear of modest heights, Lamoula's prison was complete.

Pamsolos later discovered that her door didn't lock at all, but rather stuck a little bit unless you jimmied the handle. And so, after 32 years of servitude, she stepped out into a hallway she had never seen and looked upon the world with the eyes of a free woman who didn't know how to do anything.

When asked to describe Hussein, Lamoula paints the picture of a big brown blob with seven legs. When asked to describe Hussein using only words, Pamsolos tells of a demanding tyrant with a weak spot for children's songs.

"Everybody do what Saddam say. He no have to ask nobody no two times. Saddam say 'Pull my finger.' I no want to pull finger. But, I afraid of Saddam. I pull finger. Yes, Saddam mean. But Saddam love Raffi. Saddam sing Raffi all times. All times, never stop never. People want to say Saddam to stop singing Raffi, but they no say so to Saddam. So Saddam still sing Raffi all times."

Lamoula describes Saddam as an up-tempo dictator who was always quick for a smile, except for a period in early 1991 when he seemed "bummered" about something, possibly something he saw on the news. Pamsolos isn't sure, it was a long time ago.

Western Intelligence sources back Pamsolos' claims, but have not yet been able to extract any tactically useful information from her memories of the 32 years she spent in close quarters with the Iraqi dictator.

"So far we know he's left-handed, probably, he's big into Elton John and he likes to have sex with the lights on, which personally is more info than I needed," CIA spokesperson George Hudson explains. "At this point it's premature to call the discovery of Ms. Pamsolos a strategic goldmine, but we're still digging. Just the other day she remembered that his favorite show is Malcolm in the Middle, so information on hidden nuclear weapons may be right around the corner."

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Hello, friends, and welcome to my dream. My name is Emil Zender and it is my mission in life to reunite the commune, to bring back together what fire hath torn asunder. What's the commune, you ask? Is it possible you have not lived before today? If it is, click on Archives up above immediately, read every last word, and then return. We'll be waiting for you.

As the non-clueless among you already know, the world's finest online newsmagazette came to a fiery end but a few short years ago, after their palatial Flatbush, New Jersey office building burnt to the ground mid-way through 2007. Urban legend has it that columnist Omar Bricks burnt the building down by setting potatoes on fire and shooting them indiscriminately off the roof using a propane-fueled potato cannon. That urban legend was likely begun by Bricks' own column stating this fact, and the videos of this event he later posted on YouTube.

Either way, after the building burnt down and the commune folded, its staff scattered to the four winds like dandelion spores farted out of God's mustache. For the first couple of years I figured this was just the way of life, everything must die, for each thing a season, turn turn turn. But recently I've realized that is bullshit, and have decided to take it upon myself to reform the commune or herniate myself trying. I vow to track down every last commune employee, dead or alive, and whine at them until they help me. You heard it here first.

My dream is that the commune will ride once again, if at all possible functioning out of my very home. I've literally had this dream hundreds of times. Now before any naysayers get word of this and try to debunk my bona fides, I will freely admit that it is not my house alone. The deed is indeed in my mother's name. But the entire basement level is my sovereign domain, not to be intruded upon even by my mother or her boyfriends. True, they do sometimes invade regardless, when the satellite goes out and they want to watch my wisely redundant cable TV service, or when my mom's main boyfriend Doug wants to have sex in my bathroom. This is because my fuzzy toilet seat cover is quite a bit nicer than theirs upstairs, mostly because I don't have a lot of sex on it.

Anyhow, as you've probably noticed, the commune's downstairs neighbors at Crochet! Magazine have persevered and thrived, moving to swank new digs in Asslatch, New Jersey, and continuing to publish their fine periodical. I've been a loyal subscriber for years, if only because their magazine smelled kind of like the commune offices due to their close proximity. That unique cocktail of aromas, one part Boris Utzov's Russian bologna, one part the smell of plastic burning, one part Rok Finger, was an intoxicating brew that made up for the fact that I don't know anything about crocheting. True, their current editions smell nothing at all of the commune, and are much the poorer for this. But I keep up my subscription purely for the memories, thrice-removed as they may be.

A special thank you to the folks at Hipsoda.com for providing me with this space to re-launch the site. As you're surely aware, Hipsoda.com was able to archive the contents of the commune in its entirety shortly before the devastating fire, and God bless them for that. I don't know the site's owners well, but I imagine them to be intense commune fans second in their devotion only to yours truly. In the one conversation I've had with these fine gentlemen, they claimed to have archived the site to use as evidence in an upcoming lawsuit. But I'm a commune fan, I know sarcasm when I hear it. The thought has crossed my mind that they may just be allowing me this space in the hopes that I will succeed in tracking down the commune's far-flung prodigal sons and daughters, making the serving of subpoenas all the easier. Actually this thought crossed my mind shortly after one of Hipsoda.com's owners told me this is exactly why they were providing me with this space. But, once again: sarcasm.

Sarcasm, you are a wily bitch.

Stay tuned to this space for much, much more.

Zincerely,

Emil Zender

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If there's one thing the whole world hates, it's a whiner. That's why I've got no patience for these jokers who stand on the street corner and yell in a big whiney voice about Jesus coming and the sinners had better repent now or have one hell of a long wait while operators are standing by. Blah blah blah, on and on, always whining about something. The end is near, society is in decline, and mister, you can't park your car on the sidewalk. It's always something with these guys. Dressed up in their little outfits with the "kick my ass, please" hats and their little ticket books. Everybody wants a minute of my time to hand me a bible or a violation for backing over a park bench, whatever the racket is this week.

The other day I came out of the African drum store to find a whole smorgasbord of tickets under my windshield wipers. A couple were for sex shows, but most of them were parking tickets for some bogus rap about blocking the exit to a drive-thru. Like Wendy's is going to have a big lunch rush or something. I carried a stack of them over to some guy on the corner who was yelling about accepting collect calls from Jesus, some damn thing, and demanded that he waive the tickets since there were no signs posted about not parking in the drive-thru lane.

He played it off real cool like he didn't know what I was talking about and tried to give me a bible, the smug prick. But I got him back. I made like I was all excited about the bible and the big J and whatnot and started to walk away, then I turned around real fast and was like "Oh! Wait, I forgot! I can't read!" and handed it back to him just to mess with his head. Then, out of nowhere, he whips out this pop-up bible that's all pictures and no words, like he was just waiting for me to say that! Talk about a smooth operator. I hadn't planned out a comeback for that situation so I just took the pop-up bible and went back to my car.

Since I already had as many tickets as would stick under my wipers, I decided I might as well leave the car there and catch a movie up the street at the Value View.

Trust me, wait for it on cable.

After the movie was over I went out to my car, careful to walk around the opposite side and get in the passenger-side door to avoid Mr. Bible Boyscout. And that's when I saw it. Straight along the passenger-side door like an ass-crease in a vinyl seat: that motherfucker had keyed my car! I grabbed a rolled-up newspaper I keep in the glove compartment and hopped out, ready to swat some ass. But you know how these stories go, by then he was long gone.

I spent an hour or two checking out the scratch from all angles and looking for evidence around the crime scene. I thought maybe the bastard might have dropped his keys in a rush to jack up my car and get out of there, and then I could walk around town and try the keys in all the cars until I found the right one. Then I could key the shit out of it with his own keys. That's what the Greek called poetic justice. But no such luck, he didn't even drop his wallet or any telltale personal affects like a matchbook with a phone number in it or a glass eye or anything. Like I said, this cat was smooth.

After a few days of brainstorming brilliant detective techniques and reading a Hardy Boys novel, I gave up on the idea of finding Mr. Bible Boyscout and decided to concentrate on getting my car back into presentable condition. Some might question what exactly counts as presentable condition for a sky-blue 1972 Dodge Dart, and to be honest I'm a little in the dark on that one myself, but whatever it is it sure as hell includes getting rid of that gigantic ugly-assed scratch running up the side of the door.

I checked around at a number of reputable local auto-detailing places, but they all wanted at least 200 clams to repaint the whole damn car, and Omar Bricks isn't made of money. That's practically new car money right there. I was starting to get a little worried when one night, while I was watching TV, a commercial came on that solved the conundrum for me. I picked up the phone and dialed.

Four to six weeks later my order of Miracle in a Bottle arrived, postage paid, for a cool $23.95. According to the infomercial, you could wipe this shit on any old junkyard duster and within seconds you'd be blinded by the sun glinting off the finish. Or by the fumes, something, the yokels in the infomercial were blinded by something. Even better, this stuff ate up paint scratches like dingoes on an Aussie toddler. Shit yeah. But the kicker was this: Miracle in a Bottle is so bad-assed, after you put it on you could set your car on fire and it didn't make any difference. You could drive around with your car on fire all the time, just for effect, and it wouldn't harm the paint at all. Consider me sold, you know?

Five minutes later I was out in the driveway, going at the Dart with a little wax-on, wax-off action. Before long the entire car was covered in a milky white residue. I didn't remember this from the infomercial and I was worried for a second, but then I remembered that I did get up to take a leak about halfway through, so I must have missed the residue part. I decided to cut the crap and jump straight to the fire test.

I figured one flick of the barbecue lighter should be enough, and I was right. The next thing I knew I was waking up in the bushes in front of my neighbor's house. Talk about a headache! The Dart was gone. Not in the sense of having disappeared, but in the sense of now being a burnt-out husk collapsed on my driveway. The firemen told me I was lucky to be alive, and that it's not safe to be driving around without a gas cap on your car.

A what cap? What'll they think of next, boat cars?

Anyway, it all just goes to show you can't trust guys who spend all their time yelling about Jesus and whatnot, or guys who hang out in the junkyard setting things on fire. Mark my words though, if anyone scratches my bus pass, there's going to be hell to pay. Bricks out.

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