Ivan Nacutchacokov, Embedded in Baghdad

oreign correspondent and champion lovemaker Ivan Nacutchacokov reporting, embedded at Baghdad with the 72nd Liquor Battalion. Which is not a true military battalion so much as a group of Iraqis heavily inebriated on 72 cases of wine and holding this reporter captive.

Originally the commune awarded me the assignment of traveling with the 108th Infantry, famous for their chili, a prize won in a raffle at the Washington, D.C. press party. However, growing suspicion's over this reporter's Russian background and "too many questions" about where we were and what we were doing led to a confrontation and eventual abandonment outside of Umm Qasar when the battalion moved on to other areas. Left to his own wiles, this reporter might have been fine had he not been found by the self-styled Iraqi defenders engaged in heavy drinking.

It has been a relatively painless five or six days of passing bottles of wine around a windowless bunker since then. Without the reaffirming vision of sunlight or the night outside, coupled with the sleeplessness as bombs and shells continue to wrack the city outside, time has become virtually meaningless to this reporter. Occasional games of Russian roulette with a group of unwashed civilians who don't speak English also add to the feeling of mayhem.

A small radio broadcasting the movement of U.S. troops as they approach the capital of Iraq is the only source of outside information available, but to listen to the rattling walls, breaking glass, and war-whoops from the surrounding drunken armed men, it's easy to believe the fighting has already begun here. Details as to what U.S. forces approach and from what direction are currently unavailable, but I can definitely describe the mood in Baghdad as foggy and raucous.

Though the Iraqi military impostors were initially mistrustful and showed extreme prejudice against this reporter, after the first few days they allowed me to be untied. It was at that point I was bricked up into a wall in the unknown Baghdad building I report from, though I thankfully learned enough of their language to convince them to leave a few bricks out so that I may breathe.

With enough ingenuity and an increased proficiency with the language, it is my plan to coax the intoxicated revelers to wire my report to Ramrod Hurley at the commune offices. There may be some confusing passages or grammatical errors, given the possibility of a mistranslation and the difficulty of carving a news report into a brick with a pocket knife, but it does seem to be going surprisingly well so far.

It is a troubling thing, to look the enemy in the face and not be sickened by the smell of wine and vomit. But after the initial terror and nausea subside, one cannot help but feel a kinship with the Iraqi people and a sympathy for their plight. In all likelihood Saddam Hussein will be overthrown and replaced with a more democratic leader, and it should be everyone's hope that despite years of disagreement all Americans will hope for these people, who have endured so much hardship, to find peace and prosperity under new leadership, as well as seek a 12-step program or something.

In the remaining days before the arrival of U.S. troops, and the intense ground fighting begins, this reporter still has enough time to find out more about the weapons, tactics, and morale of these challenged soldiers, and hopefully can change their mind about the intention to use me as a human shield.

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There are a couple of different ways to go about getting yourself a new car. What most people do is they exploit the underclass until they've got enough greenbacks to roll up on Mr. Mercedes or Mr. Benz and slap one of them in the face with a stack of $100 bills. "Booya, bitch! Where's my wheels?" or however the classy blueblood expression of that sentiment comes out. This doesn't work so hot for the members of the exploited underclass, who lack the sufficient Benjamins to make for an impressive slap-stack, so most of them have to stick a gun in somebody's face to keep from having to take the bus to church on Sundays.

As for the rest of us, the poor suckers stuck in-between who are too cheap for caviar and too soft for prison, we have to get creative.

For a while I thought I might be able to screw The Man (or at least The Man's fine trophy wife) and increase the Omar Bricks Needs a Goddamned Car Fund by playing the stock market. Seemed easy enough, since it's basically just like a horse racing with companies, except you don't have to worry about any of the companies banging their funny bone on the starting gate and throwing the jockey into the stands when the buzzer goes off. I knew I never should have bet on a horse named "Buyer's Remorse."

Plus on the stock market they don't give the companies misleading names like "Jailbait" that make them sound really fast but then it turns out they're just not fully-grown. I've always thought the FCC should step in and require that they give the horses accurate names, like "Shithead," "Slow as Fuck" and "Money Pit." Some kind of truth-in-advertising type thing. I guess when they vow to protect consumers they don't include degenerate gambling consumers under that umbrella, the self-righteous pricks. Sure, the racing form's not going to look as cool when half the horses are named "Shitbird" and "Gonad," but that's a small price to pay not to have the horse you bet on get lapped in a one-lap race. It's especially rough on the kids when they shoot a horse before the race is even over. But what in the hell are little kids doing betting on horse races, anyway? They should be off betting on cartoons or some shit.

So playing the market sounded easy enough, at least compared to betting on horse races. That was like having a license to print IOUs. But any old idiot can predict what products are going to hit or flop, or at least that's what I thought before all my stock in the Swiss Piss powdered lemonade brand tanked. I'm just glad I didn't invest in those chocolate logs you float in the punch bowl for when you throw a party, those things didn't do very well at all. At least I got out from under Swiss Piss before the lawsuit hit.

I guess my broker truly lived up to his name, since I did end up broker than when I'd met him. But he said it was probably all for the best, since I didn't stand to earn much from only owning one share of stock. And that's what pissed me off, why even call it a "share" when you're going to reward some rich prick for gobbling up thousands of the things then and give me the shaft for only having one? That doesn't sound much like sharing to me, the greedy bastards.

But that was all water under the dyke when I realized that all I needed to get my car funds together was to hold a really bitchin' raffle. People go apeshit for a raffle, and it's better than the lottery because I don't get any money from the lottery. So a raffle was definitely in order.

I went down to the bus station to talk to my good friend and local raffle organizer Poontang Douglas, and we got the particulars in order. The tickets sold out fast when people heard the prize was something in a "mystery box." Raffle freaks love that shit.

What they didn't know, and this was the brilliant part of the plan, was that it turns out the prize in the box is a shitload of tickets to the raffle. That ought to keep 'em guessing, right?

Well, I don't know about you, but when I'm guessing I usually sit there and scratch my head a little, maybe look up at the ceiling or something, you know? I sure as hell don't set the bingo hall on fire. Goddamn degenerate gamblers.

Bricks out.

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Ah, hello! How'd it happen? Yes, yes, Boris is good too.

Already Boris feel American like John Sinatra. Louis teach about football, andcheese in can. What wonderful thing! Boris press button on can, and cheese jumpout like "Here I am to eat!" Boris is master of cheese.

Boris eat much can cheese while watching thing that is Superbowl. So much sothat fun is had and Boris cannot make toilet for week! What way to save time. Notoilet time wasting for Boris, who is busy doing Superbowl.

Talk about fun things that are Superbowl! Men in costumes who run outside, thisis football. What great things this is, or as Louis say shit. What great shitswe are having when men run with little turkey thing that flies. "Shit!" saysLouis when turkey flies long way. "Shit!" says Boris who is having Superbowlfun.

But there is more than costumes to Superbowl, there also have nice men fromgovernment tell stories of football while wearing suit. They tell rules why menson field not getting up. Nope! You stay down on field, you are dead. You arefootball dead, sorry. Boris love this part of excitement.

Louis love dancing girls who are girlfriend of players on sides. "Hello!" hecheer when they are dancing in small clothes. Louis want give them babies inass. Ho ho! Louis is generous robot.

Boris like dancing girls, too, but they are bad at catching turkey, almost neverthey get that thing. But they are girls, so persons understand. No persons yellat them and they are on T.V. and happy.

Boris favorite football part is wonderful commercials which do funny thing. Alltimes there is dog talking or little animals doing magic. Aha! Who teach thosebeers to play football? Boris does not know! It is a funny magic.

Speak of magic, Boris thinking America have magic beer. In Homeland, beer makesBoris fat and go home with ugly woman. But not so America! America beer makepersons strong and have sexy womens and fun all times, not never woke up in dogpounds. Persons run and jump and have beer fun but not chuck up beer in backseat of taxi. And also them are on T.V.

Boris have so much fun doing Superbowl, why not invite all persons for Superbowlparty? Large fun to have with many persons doing Superbowl and sharing can ofcheese. So Boris press numbers on phone until persons talking to Boris.

"Hello! Boris is Superbowl party!"

Many time Boris call robots who speak not Boris language and instead answer"Baaaaaaaaaaaah…" in robot voice. Hello? Is this yes? Only robots know is thisyes. If Louis home he could ask robots is this yes, but him out getting robotmoney.

When Louis come home Boris tell of Superbowl party and invited telephone personsand robots. Louis excited!

"Boris, you inbred beer fart, the Superbowl was last month! It's only once ayear!"

Oh, ha ha. Louis is funny with robot jokes.

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