Osama bin Laden Captured After Rubber Band Connecting Torso to Legs Snaps

inally bringing to an end weeks of guano-infested cave searching by American marines, along with weeks of slightly anxious channel surfing by the American public, Osama bin Laden was captured by U.S. forces on Saturday. After months of successfully dodging U.S. military efforts and covert-ops "snatch and grab" missions, bin Laden was ultimately done in by a faulty rubber band in his midsection, which snapped, causing his torso and legs to separate. Escape was then near impossible for the Saudi militant.

Reports differ as to the reason behind the failure of bin Laden's rubber band. American military personnel claim to have witnessed and awesome battle to the death between bin Laden and anti-terrorist ranger Beachhead, a former Advisor at the Covert Ops School in Central America. According to eyewitness accounts, Beachhead found bin Laden's secret sandbox base, and caught him off guard with the butt of Sci-Fi's laser rifle, which he'd been carrying ever since Sci-Fi's legs got chewed off by a dog. (Ed. note: Sci-Fi is currently carrying Spirit's arrowhead gun, since Spirit never came back from a sleep-over and Joey Dombrowsi's house and nobody really understands how that gun is supposed to work anyway.) After stunning the terrorist mastermind, Beachhead reportedly scissorlocked bin Laden's head and flipped him over onto a rock, the resultant stress snapping bin Laden's rubber band and reducing him to a separate torso, pair of legs attached by a little hook, and a free-floating crotch segment. Some eyewitnesses claim that a Beachhead pile driver was actually the culprit, but these reports are in the minority.

Taliban supporters have taken great issue with the U.S. reports, however, and are unified in their claims that bin Laden's rubber band snappage was the direct result of "the weight of the monstrously awe-inspiring Arab donger that Allah saw fit to bestow on him as a reward for his courage in facing the infidels." Preliminary coroner's reports have made no mention of such a donger, though part of bin Laden's free-floating crotch segment is said to have resembled a moderately-sized donger, according to some witnesses.

Yet another opinion is held by the American Red Cross, who's workers have gone on record saying that this tragedy could have been averted with proper rest, a little oil and far less sandbox duty for bin Laden himself.

Regardless of the cause, U.N. medical personnel are working around the clock to reattach bin Laden's legs, and may have to resort to an elasticy hair thingy or twist-tie if an appropriate replacement band cannot be found in time. A panel of impartial Arab doctors are overseeing the operation as well, to make sure that bin Laden's crotch segment is not mistakenly left out of the reconstruction process.

In a speech carried live by all major networks Sunday afternoon, President Bush called development a major victory in the war against terrorism, and added a personal message for Cobra Commander himself:

"We know you're out there, you lisping freak of nature. The American people will stand for your aggression no longer. You may have brainwashed Stormshadow, but now we have one of yours as well. You can only hide behind that weird bald guy for so long. We're going to kick you in the ass so hard you poop kidneys. You heard me. Give up now and we'll see about digging up some magic spores to turn you back into a dude, or if that fails, we'll get you into the reptile house of a nice zoo. If I have to fly out there and pull that tea cozy off your head myself the deal won't be nearly as sweet, I guarantee you. Sleep tight on your heating rock, jerkballs."

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Before you say I'm paranoid, or a skank, like some have said before, hear me out. It's a crazy story, but it's true. Scarily true. Lindsay Wagner is trying to kill me.

That's right, the Bionic Woman herself. If you think I'm delusional you've obviously never been woken up at four in the morning by the pound of glass breaking with a bionic shatter. This is what happened to me yesterday.

I was just minding my own business—I don't know what the hell else you expect me to be doing at four in the morning with Shenanigan's closed. I was resting peacefully after turning in early at 2 when I heard a window shattering, slow-motion like. I jumped out of bed and yelled I had herpes, I was nervous and figured the intruder would know I didn't have a gun. But by the time I could make a bomb from baking powder to defend myself, the assailant was gone. Bionically gone!

At the time I didn't put two and two together, but eventually I did, and came up with six.

Lindsay Wagner has been a Hollywood staple or some kind of paper binding instrument since the 70s, and sunken into the entertainment trenches little by little over the years in order to avoid the infomercial truck stop on the way to oblivion. She's been fortunate, finding success on the Lifetime channel doing movies for a female audience with indiscriminate tastes. Wagner alone was the unchallenged Lifetime diseased abused murderer mother star for years. Until now.

That's right, I've recently thrown my feathered hat into the ring and called it macaroni. Clarissa Coleman has been storming the Lifetime auditions and making a lasting impression on the men who run that women's network. I'm so close to getting a lead role I can taste it, and it tastes like chicken.

I haven't received any official notice yet, but I think with these attempts on my life it's pretty clear someone feels threatened. That someone has to be Lindsay Wagner. Who else could get up to my window and smash it with the rock I found lying amongst the broken glass? I have no fire escape, which all my neighbors and firemen tell me will surely be my death in the event of a fire. But fire is the least of my problems right now, with no fire in my apartment. I'm more worried about the Bionic bitch murdering me in my sleep.

I parked my car illegally the other day and was on my way into the commune offices when I heard a familiar "sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh" sound like bionic jumping. At first I thought it was the man in the hockey mask and butcher knife getting out of the car parked next to mine, until I realized that was just commune reporter Ted Ted once again pushing the boundaries of the casual Friday policy. Apparently I had missed the Bionic Woman as she leapt out of sight, her plot to kill me foiled by Ted Ted's inappropriate office wear.

I suppose we'll see soon. I'm flying out to L.A. this weekend to audition for The Pursuit of Skinniness: The Carla Dupree Story. How bad does Lindsay Wagner fear the competition? Would she actually take out an entire planeload of people with her bionic abilities? I guess we'll find out.

If nothing else, I figure I've got a fantastic story to write for Lifetime for me to star in. It's a win-win-or-die situation.

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Once again we are celebrating the best kind of weekend, good people—a 4-day weekend. Is there anything better in the great scheme of things than having to work one day less than usual. Of course. There's the 4-day weekend. Praise be to whatever genius created this thing, having only three days of actual work at my job before another, if somewhat disappointingly short weekend, comes around. And there's always that one week when the commune was shut down for Red Bagel's circumcision—that was a sort of gloomy vacation, but the kid survived and our fearless editor was cleared of all charges. Still, I have an idea that will blows your socks all the way up to your hands so you look like a lazy puppeteer: The 368-day weekend.

Are you aware that 2007 ends on a Monday? Good people, this gives us an amazing opportunity to demonstrate that America still knows how to have fun. Let us take that weekend before the last Monday in 2007 and start the longest weekend the world has ever seen. A 368-day weekend! I'm not joking, I wouldn't even know how to joke about something like that, I take my weekends far too seriously. Do you know how many barbecues you could have in 368 days? How many exhibitions of dangerous fireworks? How many days you could mow the lawn, shirtless, enticing the female neighbors? Just think about all the nights you could stay up researching bus tickets to Albany until 3 in the morning, carefree about the stack of work waiting for you on your desk back at that miserable office?

Believe me, I love my job. If it wasn't for my job, I would feel I lacked definition, and had no purpose in the world. It's doing whatever it is I do that makes me who I am. Still, that aside, it's a soul-sucking, worthless, abysmal darkness having to work day-in, day-out. It saps the very will to live out of me thinking of the things I love in my life and how I can't do any of them because I have to spend 40 hours a week performing some bullshit function to keep our crass commercial society steaming along, crushing the innocent under its tracks. So nothing perks me up like a long weekend! And a 368-day weekend would be the longest ever.

Imagine: You leave from work on the evening of December 29, 2007 (and it's been a wonderfully short Christmas week anyway) and you return on Thursday, January 1, 2009. Wait—coming back to work on New Year's Day? I don't think so! By necessity, this plan has to be a 369-day weekend! Good Snapple, this plan keeps getting better by the minute! 369 days it is.

I'm not blind to the practical difficulties of such a plan. I'm well aware that if the banks don't function in 2008, if the farmers don't grow food and the grocers don't stock it, if the power company just shuts down for the entire year, it might cause a less-than-enjoyable weekend. I say bullocks! Which is British for bullshit. Whenever I have a long weekend I can just do a few columns ahead of time, or play catch up when I get back. Why don't we do that? Everybody stock up all the food you can in December 2007, and buy a lot of batteries and gasoline generators. I have a laptop with a battery, so I should still be able to get on the computer. But who wants to? It's a weekend! This prettyboy's not working for the weekend.

Forget the dreary drag of the office, let go of that boring drive to work every day— we can hold the presidential election in 2009. The president can't do the country any more damage if we're all at home watching The A-Team on TV Land. All I'm saying is think about it, Americans. I just might go ahead and take the "long weekend" myself if no one else wants to do it. Feel free to stop by the regal Finger estate to see my wife, Ginger, sunning in the deck chairs and good ol' Rok himself mowing the lawn. Check out my pecs.

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