he small remainder of the world that follows the news applauded the escape of more than 200 Iraqi hostages Thursday, who freed themselves from an unidentified terrorist group in the heart of the war-torn country. Just outside of Fallujah, U.S. military discovered a traveling band of 40 or so escaped hostages, and within hours began to receive word of other hostages who had also escaped the same small terrorist encampment, numbers totaling 213 freed hostages, who credited their successful escape to U.S. Army Captain S. Hilts.

Hilts, who was debriefed by U.S. military officials but did not speak directly to the ravenous western press, said the escape was the result of weeks of planning, tactical distraction, digging, and the production of some high-quality potato moonshine. Instead of taking credit for the escape himself, Hilts remarked on the bravery and ingenuity of his fellow hostages.

Added Hilts: "It's the duty of every freedom-loving military man to work day and night to escape." The statement marks a drastic turnaround from hostage philosophies of the past, including 1980 Iranian hostages Commander Shears, who was intent to ride out the situation without drawing attention to himself, or British Colonel Alec Nicholson, who actually aided the Iranians by building a bridge over a local river to aid terrorist movement.

Who exactly is Capt. S. Hilts? A son of an Indiana mechanic, Hilts served in the Army in both the original Gulf War and its poorly received sequel. Hilts was among the 213 hostages, both military and civilian, who had been abducted in recent weeks by terrorists believed to be allied with either Al-Qaeda, the Saddam Hussein loyalists, or one of the other 300 groups who simply like to kidnap and kill westerners. Hilts had been used as leverage in video taped messages urging the freeing of all Iraqi prisoners. While this strategy has traditionally worked remarkably well against all sorts of enemies, this time there was little to no response from U.S. or coalition governments. The lack of reply might have something to do with Hilts' outburst in the final frames of the video tape:

"Listen to me!" shouted Hilts, tossing aside the written statement he had started to read, standing up and resisting efforts of jackbooted Iraqis to hold him down. "We're Americans! We don't roll over and do something when we're at the end of a gun! Don't worry about us! We'll be alright—we're gonna walk out of here one day, into a free land and back home to our wives and families. You hear that, Susie? I'm comin' home to you before you know it!"

Though the tape abruptly ended, the message was clear: America didn't plan on being pushed around by the huge terrorist machine.

And sure as his word, Hilts was found wandering the desert, looking to reconnect with his unit as soon as possible. But not walking as he had promised, but riding a state-of-the-art Iraqi military motorcycle, with which he jumped the walls of the compound. According to the U.S. soldiers who recovered the escaped hostage, Hilts' first job was to eat a hearty plate of pork chops and apple sauce while giving military intelligence all the information he could about his captors, a group of 15 or so terrorist insurgents who actually did a keen job of keeping 200+ Americans hidden in a detained area of an occupied country.

What's next for Hilts and his fellow escapees? "I guess we'll be going back into service, those of us that can. We've got us an occupation to win!"

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OH MY GOD SNOW

I'm fucking miserable. What an asshole I've been.

Sorry for the Turkish, good people, but Rok Finger's hit rock bottom. No fuckin' pun intended. In fact, if I did intend a pun in any slight or possibly intentional way, beat me to death with a dirty broom handle.

As you'll no doubt know, I've separated from my wife of 30 years, Arvelyn. Things came to a head and blew up after the whole possibly poisoned food incident, I won't go into the lousy stinking details, but just to cut through the bullshit, we're broken up. I've been living in my office at the commune since then, drinking from the water fountain and Ramrod Hurley's hidden Jim Beam bottle and eating the plants growing in the window sill of Omar Bricks' cubicle. Sure, I feel a lot better once I've eaten, but I always come back to here. Rock bottom. No pun, yadda yadda.

I'm sure I've expressed how large and impressive a bitch my wife is. Not that I'd totally recant that statement, but as of late I think it only fair to mention I'm no prince to live with either. Let's face facts, loyal readers: I'm a huge prick, and not the good kind of huge prick ladies talk about. I'm the awful kind of insane, self-destructive huge prick who drives away good-hearted women who love him.

There is no God. That's obvious. What kind of God would make a huge prick like me and then give him a perfect woman just knowing I'd drive her off just like I did all the other good women in my life, and small children as well? A huge prick God, of course. Satan, I think he's called. Yeah. God is Satan.

Oooh! Shit. This song, this song is so true. No shitting you, this is dead on the truth. I've heard it before but it never made sense like it does right now. Indeed, we're all stars in the dope show. I'm turning it up, Nacutchacokov and all his shushing can shove themselves up his ass, which would be a physics nightmare. He just works here, I have to live here. I don't think he's from this country either.

Sometimes I think maybe I should go outside, since there's always a better chance of being hit by some sort of traveling vehicle or being struck by lightning. Earthquakes, they're rare but they could happen. Something could fall out of a window, like my desk, and crush me flat under it. Arvelyn would get all the insurance money and I'd finally do something worthy of her, what a fucking prick I am. The bitch. Oh, shit, I just remembered, I made the cat my beneficiary. You see? This is the kind of humongoid prick Rok Finger is, no denying it.

I'm thinking of getting out The Catcher in the Rye and reading it again. Christ, I haven't read that book in thirty years now. In fact, I don't think I ever read it. I burned it once. It's hard to remember now what all that was about, I think I was just trying to be cool.

Bagel can shove his deadlines up his ass. I'll turn in a page full of randomly pressed keyboard markings before I write another column. I'm on contract, dammit, they can't hold me. Besides, I don't think they edit these things at all.

Anyway, I'm muddling through, good people, loyal friends, fans of a huge prick. I'm sure by next time I'll have a column better prepared or something. Or, with luck, I'll be dead and it will no longer be an issue. Fuck me.

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Dear commune:

If "God Don’t Make No Junk," then how do you explain the Oak Ridge Boys? They suck.

Sincerely,

Norman Turner
Falling River, VT



Dear Norman:

The paradox you’ve hit upon is one of many caused by a shoddy translation of the Bible from its original Aramaic. The passage you’re quoting is thought by most modern scholars to be more correctly translated as: "Good God, how much did ye pay for this shithole?" which is what the lord said the first time he saw Peter’s house. Scholars think Peter’s place must really have been a dump, as it was vile enough to offend a savior who had been born in a barn. Speaking of which, "Werest thou born in a barn?" is another popular Bible quote, which referred to Jesus’ annoying habit of leaving the door open wherever he went.

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for curds, whey, or any other ethnic divisions which may be present in your cottage cheese. As the saying goes, you bought your cheese, now eat it with apple slices.

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