Officials Report Ass-Rape of Iraq Going Well

mid reports of increasing U.S. casualties and slowed progress against Iraqi military targets, U.S. officials have made public assurances that the ass-rape of Iraq is proceeding according to schedule.

"U.S. Forces have penetrated Iraq's supple, moist labia of forces and are thrusting toward Baghdad as we speak," confided a disturbingly lusty Gen. Harold Jonas. "We're confident we'll have this bitch putting out by the end of the month."

However, critics of U.S. military planning, including several Gulf War veterans, have suggested that ground forces should have been fortified with at least one more big-dicked Army division before the attacks began.

"The U.S. is coming in like Frasier's wimpy brother Niles, when we should be coming in like Ron fuckin' Jeremy," confided retired Army Gen. Barry R. Wade, wearing a Fuck 'em all and let God sort 'em out tee shirt purchased at a recent gun show. "Frankly, I just don't see how this limp, flaccid attack force is going to strike ass-raping terror into the hearts of the Iraqis. The Iraqis should be wet with fear at the awe-inspiring sight of our throbbing, gargantuan member. Forces. Member forces."

When asked what in the hell he was talking about, Gen. Wade accused this reporter of being unpatriotic, and possibly homosexual. A long, uncomfortable silence followed.

Army Maj. Gen. Stanley McChrystal, vice chief of operations for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, assured reporters that the U.S. forces were doing fine as presently configured. "You'd be surprised, our boys are doing alright. We've presently got Iraq's skirt up around its waist, with some early reports of penetration. There's been heavy breathing around Nasiriyah and Basra. Iraq's firm, luscious tits have been thoroughly felt-up and it's only a matter of time before she's screaming 'America! America!' at the top of her lungs."

Asked to explain the situation without all of the dense military jargon, McChrystal looked confused for a second then made a vague "humping" motion with his hands and pelvis for the benefit of reporters.

"Besides," McChrystal added nervously, "the current U.S. forces aren't that small."

"The simple fact of the matter is, bigger is always better when it comes to the American military package," countered Gen. Wade with a slightly crazed look in his eye. "The military's current 'Motion of the Ocean' attack plan, based on superior training and battlefield intelligence, can never substitute for an all-out full frontal double-penetration. The whole works: Longjohn helicopter gunships, B12 Cockshocker missiles, Bradley Cherrypoppers… with that overwhelming military girth, Iraq would have no choice but to surrender to our rhythmic military maneuvers. Then that teasing bitch nation would get what's coming to it. Sure, there might be collateral damage to the panties of the region, but that's to be expected. As presently configured, we run the serious risk of prematurely ejaculating, militarily, before reaching Baghdad."

Before being allowed to leave his basement rec room, this reporter was obligated to bear witness to Gen. Wade's private collection of "military training" videos, which included brightly colored covers and titles like Bunker Busters, Operation Desert Sodomy and The Sexual Liberation of Kuwait.

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"A man's home is his castle. Mine happens to be White Castle."

We've all been locked out of our houses or apartments or dumpsters before—not a week or month goes by we aren't evicted or simply lose our keys. Maybe you step out to get the neighbor's newspaper and the door slams behind you, then locks itself. Now you're standing bare-ass naked out in the hallway, or maybe in your neighbor's living room, and you can't get back in the house! Shit! Pardon my language.

Locked out is no problem. When you get locked into your house, that's when the shit hits the fan. Pardon my language. What do you do then? You can't call anybody for help from inside your own place. Unless you have a phone. Sure, you can open the window and yell for help, but the first time you start using profanity they'll just send cops to ticket you. You can't get the door open, and they'll only kick it down. Now you got a broke door.

I've been locked in before. It's not pretty. I don't want a broken door so it's usually a survival mission until the end of the month comes and the landlord shows up looking for the rent. Sometimes that could be as many as 60 days. That's a long time to live on whatever's in your refrigerator, or growing under it.

No one wants to think about it, but at some point you have to seriously consider eating the dog. It's only fair—if he could talk and wear clothes, he'd eat you. Don't think about making it a fair contest, like drawing straws. They don't say "cheating dogs" for no reason. In a fair fight, just you and the dog, maybe it would be the right thing to do. But they bite, and that's cheating.

Not that I want to eat my dog. We're just talking if things go from bad to worse, or bad to good and then to worse—you can't plan routes for bad. It goes it's own way, like a rebel. Seriously, I only plan to eat the dog if all the condiments are exhausted and no birds land on the windowsill.

Yeah, I got a plan, no shame in that. I sneak up on him while he's chewing his crotch and smash him over the head with a lamp. Not the good lamp. Or plan B. Throw the tennis ball right into the oven. You got to be fast, though, or he'll just bring it back to you and not give it back. Then that plan's history.

If you do somehow to make it until the landlord comes around, with or without eating the dog, I know some tricks to make everything work out okay. First off, you got to make him think you're dead so when he opens the door with his spare keys he'll be happy to see you're alive and not pissed because he hasn't gotten the rent. You have to make a dead person smell. I give this off naturally, the landlord says, so I don't know what to tell you—find a website. I'm sure there's a website that tells you.

It always helps to turn the fridge over on to yourself. Not only to pretend you've been pinned and not just couldn't figure out the deadbolt mechanism. It helps keep you warm, too, or a good place to hide from the dog if he gets the upperhand.

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This is becoming the Rok Finger motif as of late: Taking a rocky path, somehow surviving most of the way, coming to a bump in the road, inhale a huge breath and successfully jump over the bump in the road, just to land in dogshit.

Am I exaggerating? I've known for quite some time God Himself has it in for me—once again, look at the face. But this seems a little sadistic even for the Almighty. To use me as a tool to scare children with this scrapheap of a punum, to break up my 30-year marriage through my paranoia and impulsive temper, to do the same to my second marriage, to make Camembert paralyzed just so my future apartment would be inconveniently filled with ramps and railings, all of it is just so cruel as to make me doubt the existence of God, if I thought someone evil enough like Kathi Lee Gifford had enough power to affect my life. No, there's a God, and He most certainly gets his kicks drowning puppies and kicking Rok Finger's backside like a black and white Spalding.

Now my one little past discretion has come back to haunt me. No, not my out-of-wedlock children—they are neither singular enough in number nor small enough in individual quantity to count as one little indiscretion. I speak of the three month span in the 1980s where I was a professional wrestler.

It's nothing I'm proud of. Even my ex-wife Arvelyn and all my previous column publishers know nothing about it. It's hard to explain why in today's culture, where wrestling clearly is considered a mental disorder rather than a lifestyle choice. Let's just say I needed the money and was going through an unpleasant phase where holding half-naked men down to mats was what was important to me.

My wrestling league, the Dandies of America (D.O.A.), was small and cheap, but so am I; we were a match in heaven, where, I might remind you, the God who hates me so much lives. Our matches were quick and exciting, the way wrestling should have been, and boy, were our costumes fancy! I liked it, but I was always wise enough to wear a mask, to protect my journalistic career and save my cat from abuse on the streets. None of it helped.

I came home from, let's say a massage parlor, the other day just to find Camembert and Lee sitting on the couch and watching some home video wrestling tape. They rented it from a video store under the auspicious title, "Douches of the Ring." You can imagine my surprise when I saw a familiar costume appear in the midst of these badly-edited clips of smaller wrestling events. It was me, under my ring name of The 4-Foot Nightmare, wrestling with an old foe called "Amazing Sack" Ryan. I shuddered in fear, but the next words were what stopped me dead in my tracks:

"Damn, Rok, he's as short as you," Lee said, deadpan face on the TV. "Well, a little bit taller."

That was Saturday night. I haven't been home since. Curse that Lee! He has it all: A handsome face, long, luxurious hair, except for the top of his head, a beautiful apartment with fantastic roommates like me and Camembert, abundant bass playing ability, a never-ending supply of funny weed, and his mother likes him. Now he wants everything I have, to boot—my commune stipend of $36 a week, my fancy desk, my lousy craphole of an apartment with my turd roommates, and worse yet, my pride. I imagine, I didn't really give him time to make any demands after he made me in the video.

Well, I'll be damned to be victim of blackmail! I'm coming out, right here in my commune column, so at least Red Bagel will be reading it. Probably. Yes, America, I used to be a pro-wrestler. It's nothing I'm proud of, though the "Stamp of Approval" move that was my signature was pretty sharp. It was a long time ago. I ask for your forgiveness, and to let me move on. And be quick about it, they won't let me live in the office another day so I've got to get home again.

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