Iran Student Protestors Clash With Anti-Protestor Protestors

riot ensued Friday in Tehran as Iranian student protestors were met violently by those protesting the protestors' right to protest, referring to themselves as "pro-troops." The violence marred ten days of anti-government protests throughout Iran that were only slightly less violent.

The country, under the rule of a fundamentalist Islamic regime, has faced a surprising bout of student uprisings within its borders starting the previous week. In a country where even reciting anti-government slogans is seen as a challenge to Allah and carries swift judicial reaction, the protests are seen by some as extreme domestic unrest, and others as the perfect excuse to try making off with some TVs and electronics in the confusion.

Shortly after the initial series of protests erupted around Tehran University's Amir Abad campus, waves of pro-troop demonstrators, often dressed in military garb and heavily armed, arrived to shout down the protestors. The shouting down frequently involved assault with batons and occasional gunfire.

The violence served to undermine Iran's position in world politics as well this week, inviting a warning from the United States that it reserves the right to invade any country that starts with an "I" if it deems that country to be a threat to its security. Efforts to stand firm as a country against perceived U.S. aggression are diminished by internal disagreements of such a public nature.

"These who demonstrate against the clerics do injustice to Allah," said Iranian official Ayatollah Mohammad Kaddidazi, "but they are a small pocket of naysayers among the most-favored children of Allah who make up Iran. Those who choose to speak heresy shame us all, but are free to do so. Of course, I kid—they will be stomped into organic puddles and destroyed most painfully by us all. After that, whatever happens is between themselves and Allah."

The way Iran elects to respond to the protestors is particularly important in the aftermath of the U.S.-Iraq war and other situations in the Middle East region. Iran seeks support of the entire Islamic world, but if reaction is seen as too harsh by more moderate Islamic countries, they run the risk of alienating themselves; conversely, allowing the protests to gain popularity or go without reaction would signal a weakening in the country's posture to dissidence and could be construed by the U.S. as an opportune time for intervention.

One solution, points out Tehran University professor of African-American studies Yul Haddid, is to allow independent military protestors to quell anti-establishment rhetoric.

"The government is fortunate that it does have so many supporters willing to step forward and defend it with their own demonstrations," said Haddid. "Their reaction is swift and merciless, and very patriotic indeed. It's a well-organized response, obviously, but that is no surprise since many of the protestors are police and have a methodical precision protest in reaction. It is obvious that in such large turnouts where emotion runs high the occasional incident of violence will break out between groups. Again and again. It might even appear to some it's a state-sponsored crackdown, but I assure you it's just Allah's will taking on the form of a structured backlash."

The professor then treated this reporter to tea and bread, which was fortunate as, upon leaving the campus, I was mistaken for a protestor and met with harsh disagreement by a non-state-sponsored "pro-troop" demonstrator. The local hospital is quite competent and helpful, and they tell me my meal of bread was the last solid food meal I will have for a week or two.

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51. 2? That's what constitutes a rating from you, my loyal readers? I would say "go to hell," but I'm bigger than that. Not much bigger… that unwashed rabble Omar Bricks receives more readers than me? I would cry recount, if I were not staunchly conservative. But forget the injustice… I already am. Let's forget my poor readership and likelihood of losing my job forever.

Not much can clothesline my good mood today (though 51.2 came awfully close). I am in love, good people! An event that happens very rarely for me, every three or four months at the most. The moon goes crescent more often than I fall in love. And I think this is the real deal. Ginger Baker is loud, opinionated, and not very tall at all—can you think of a more perfect match for yours truly? Or myself? I think not.

Good people, love is like the pollen that keeps flowers and bees doing obscene things to each other. It is a sweet nectar, the very blood of life itself, except you can get it out of carpets. And I am so in love I'm ready to throw up. No joking. She is like the wife I've been married to twice before. A little more like Arvelyn, my second wife, than my first wife—Wyfe. And boy, does she have a hot body. Built like a brick ship.

Perhaps I've become a little arrogant with my hip new relationship. We keep kissing in front of Camembert, holding hands, rubbing our noses together—he's even started locking his bedroom door so we won't wake him up in the middle of the night just to do that stuff in front of him. His girlfriend Elvis isn't very happy about it either, and threatened to put the karate to us. But our love is stronger than karate. Melee attacks, that's another question. I'll have to evaluate it in closed conditions.

You're probably thinking, "But Rok," as all 51.2 of you is apt to say quite a lot, "Don't move too fast. I've had my heart broken by a Bangkok hooker, who also stole my wallet, and I don't want that to happen to you." To which I say: That's a little more information than I needed! And then I laugh in a forced manner. But I assure you, I'm moving at my usual cautious romantic speed. I have yet to even book the place for the wedding, I'm still shopping around. Heartbreak won't catch hold of me again.

This is the most unusual relationship I've ever been in, not quite "traditional," but hey—I'm mod. I know for whom the bell tolls, cat. So what if Ginger makes more money than I do. I'm cool with that. I've even taken an interest in her career, as a veterinary talent agent. I've been scouting several local stray dogs, who all seem to have a pretty impressive screen presence, judging by my novice eye. I'm also in negotiations with a math-savvy peacock. Not that I'm naming names—I don't think it even has a name, and I'm not entirely sure it's anything more than a lawn ornament. But cut me a break, I'm not doing this to get rich (but if it happens, I won't complain). This is all in the name of love, as any number of songs might say.

She's into all the same things I am—lifts, non-professional wrestling, home ownership, chasing new interests with maniacal fury, complaining, and not paying a lot of money for things. In the short time we've been going out, we've already done all the "relationship things"—getting drunk at family reunions, accusing each other of infidelity, arguing about having kids, and of course, miniature golf. She is quite the lady, and looks less like a man than any woman I have ever dated. And it goes without saying the sax is great—we're both altos.

If you never hear from me again, don't fret, good people—I am being bound and gagged and abducted by the greatest of all terrorists… love! And it shouldn't surprise you, with low numbers like 51.2. You complete shits.

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Let the word come down from the Mountaintops, which is Red Bagel's nickname for the commune offices: Clarissa Coleman needs work. Sure, anyone who knows me knows I want work, but now I need work. My legal troubles are finished now, you may have seen the segment on Court TV or read about the out-of-court settlement in the paper, or The Guinness Book of World Records, the page on outrageous payoffs. Damn Jerry Nascar, that's all I'm saying. As for you-know-who, the nice lady who filed the lawsuit, I'm not legally allowed to mention her name ever again. So let's pretend I'm referring to someone else whenever I use the word Skankabitch.

Getting back to work, which is what I'm here for, let's just say the settlement is bad enough, but I've got legal fees by the buttload. Before all this, work was just some way to have fun and a shortcut to fame. Now it's do-or-die. I'm not having luck finding too many high-profile film and television roles to pay the bills—of course, that was the story before Skankabitch sued. So now I have to shorten the list of stuff I won't do even more. It's a talent clearance sale—every one must go.

It's a great sale for producers of weird shows. C.S.I., you listening? I'll even play a dead body. Bullets fly through my head, shatter brain and bone and crap—it looks like it hurts, but I'll try anything once. Any shows where I have to wear a prosthetic piece or a mask or anything, I'll do it. Put me in a gorilla suit, who cares? I don't even need any speaking lines. I'm eager to work. None of it can be any more humiliating than playing the ukelele with Taco on Conan O'Brien.

I turned down a reality series last year, before this bullshit came along. If you're one of those producers of Help! I'm a Celebrity, Don't Give Me a Sexually-Transmitted Disease I'm ready to talk contract terms now. Maybe you'll get on the air this year if you get bigger star power than Willie Tyler and Lester. So put me on the show. I'll call house meetings and everything, pretend like my feelings are hurt and stuff. I watch all those freak shows.

Not everybody's a producer, I know. Some people aren't involved with the wonderland that is television, not officially, but that shouldn't stop you. You want to make a funny home video? Have your kid swing a croquet hammer, hit me in the nuts—I don't have nuts, of course, but for a good-size paycheck I'll act like I have nuts. Rig a house to fall in, I'll make it look like it all happened by accident, I'll even make the funny noise so the video people don't have to do that. Or we'll sing some duet like Barbra Streisand and Neil Diamond, I'll make them really believe you don't bring me flowers no more. Hell, I'm not picky. Don't send the video in, let's just make it for your own entertainment, you and your friends. We'll recreate all your favorite episodes of Who's Your Daddy?.

It's not limited to shows either. I can do the stage. We'll put on a burlesque act, like they used to do in France when it was classy and cool, or like they do now in Alabama. I do tame shit, too. I'll sing the Fabulous Thunderbirds at your daughter's Bat Mitzvah. I can do birthday parties, private Labor Day telethons, whatever your big deal is. Have a friend who's in the hospital and think it would be funny for a celebrity to visit them? Let's do it. Let's make it happen.

What I'm trying to say is, I need money, and I'm not picky. Just in case I didn't make it obvious. And just to save anybody else the troubles I've gone through, don't ever hire Jerry Nascar as an attorney. He knows dick about the law, like the judge says, and his "Thirty Minutes or it's Not Free" offer is trickier than it sounds.

I have to go over to Nascar's office right now. I'm doing a commercial for him to help pay off the legal bills.

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