U.S. Expects Iraq to Settle Down for NBA Playoffs

espite escalating violence across Iraq, US Marines remain confident that all will be well in the country once the NBA playoffs begin this week, distracting Iraqi insurgents from their anti-occupation agenda with dazzling basketball action. However, though the mesmerizing influence of fantastic NBA drama may likely sooth the current conflict, experts warn that new tensions could arise between the San Antonio Spurs-loving Iraqi populace and the largely Laker-friendly occupation forces.

The nation's Shiite majority is comprised overwhelmingly of San Antonio Spurs supporters, led by Muqtada al-Sadr, a Shiite rebel cleric and hardcore Spurs fan who is often photographed wearing a Tim Duncan jersey along with his traditional turban during basketball season. Experts are at a loss to explain Iraq's passion for the San Antonio team, which may be caused by that region's similarity to Iraq in arid climate and close proximity to hell. Despite their underdog status, Iraqis seem convinced the Spurs will prevail against the great white dragon of the Los Angeles Lakers.

"Fallujah my noojah, bitchaz!" al-Sadr mugged for television cameras on Monday, flashing some kind of bizarre Iraqi basketball gang signs.

"The thing you have to understand is that these fanatical loyalties in Iraq go back hundreds of years," explained Iraq expert and big eater Dr. Erwin Stagg. "Or however long the NBA's been around, that long. Imagine you were a Spurs fan and a bunch of Laker fans burst into your house and started bossing you around and eating your chip dip. How would you like that? Not much, I think. Now imagine they had guns and your house was the size of Iraq. Pretty weird, eh?"

In an effort to keep the peace, troops stationed in Iraq have been admonished to keep their team biases to themselves when dealing with Iraqi civilians, though President Bush did the coalition efforts no favors when he ended his news conference last week with a fist-pumping cry of "Go Lakers!" Pundits are calling this move a ploy to boost Bush's flagging public support, a desperate change in tactics after the president realized he had milked the tit of conservative Christian dogma drier than Phyllis Diller's snatch.

Complicating matters further, considerable pockets of Detroit Piston-loving Sunni Arabs dot the Iraqi landscape, increasing chances of further tribal violence in this already war-torn land should the Spurs and Pistons meet in the NBA finals.

"Yo, San Antone gonna smack you down when you come wit dat weak-ass shit," an Iraqi youth said through a translator, seeming to address more than the upcoming NBA finals. Though when asked to elaborate, he just pantomimed slam-dunking a basketball, which may or may not reflect upon the US's long-term prospects for democratic nation building in the region.

Even terror mastermind Osama Bin Laden wants a piece of the playoff action, offering an Arab cease-fire in exchange for US and European forces putting down a dime on New Jersey for him and maybe hooking up a little courtside seat action. Negotiations with Bin Laden apparently stalled out after coalition negotiators were unwilling to budge from their best offer of a generous satellite TV package and a game-worn jock strap from Nets point guard Jason Kidd.

The NBA finals are scheduled to wind down in June, which coalition planners feel will be close enough to the June 30th hand-over date for Iraqi sovereignty to allow US forces to get the fuck out of there before anything else blows up. Though if the Spurs are eliminated from the playoffs in an early round, the US may have to choose between extending their occupation of Iraq, or teaching the Iraqis to love baseball.

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'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
not one soul was stirring, besides the bodyguard Klaus
as noble Rok Finger and his Russian child bride
sought shelter from the mob with the ol' FBI
it started with gangwars, then things really took off
when the death threats rolled in, all addressed to Rok
"You've killed more Italians in your short troubled time
than a Coppola film and Mussolini combined,
pack your bags, little shit, you're going on a trip
to a room where your neighbors are plankton and fish."
Like a mousetrap sprang Rok from his tiny night bed
and crushed the skull of some poor mouse's head,
"Quick, dear Felchyana," he said to his wife,
"pack your shit quick and run for your life!
Those fat goomba bullies have put me on their list
and they all want a piece of the Rok from St. Nick!"
When who through the door should wondrously appear
but a big mick named Nicky and his black friend Amir.
"It appears you've pissed off the wrong people," he said,
"I'm afraid you'll be spending this Christmas quite dead."
Oh, shit, good people, things looked quite dim
for our three-foot hero and what-ser-name with him
when who should appear, right out of thin air
but Rok Finger's old pal, wheelchair-bound Camembert!
He was not armed, but Cam did scream so non-stop
every neighbor on the block promptly phoned the cops.
They arrived with guns blazing and clubs swinging free
unaware of the danger, but hey, they're N.Y.P.D.
Old Rok spilled his guts in a new record time
and begged for protection from the dear FBI.
They wasted no time, and hauled Rok away
to meet with J. Edgar or whoever runs it today
With the dirt Rok had on Yogi, Mario, and all,
the state prisons will soon be packed wall to wall.
Rok gets probation and time served—how cool!
"It's the way we reward you for being a stool."
And with those kind words the agent disappeared in the night
for survivalists in Montana waited to pick a fight,
For Rok and Felchyana, they planned the best Christmas yet
though they were as far from civilization as you could now get,
"But we'll enjoy the grim situation, no matter what 'tis,
or wherever the hell this 'Fargo' place is."
So with prospects all brighter, things turned out great in the end
except for poor Camembert, sentenced from five to ten.

º Last Column: I Sure Hope it Was the Kiss of Death
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Strangely enough, it seems at least one person who isn't rich has benefited from the election of George W. Bush—that person is me. Make no mistake, politically, I am on the left and voted for Kerry, who is already fading from the memory like the name of that band that did the "Mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm" song. But the election of Bush, as much as I hate to admit it, helped me, because Red Bagel failed to show up at the appeal hearing last week for my "indentured servitude" case, due to his barricading himself away from humankind in his bunker, and the judge actually ruled in favor of yours truly.

What does this mean? I'll cut to the chase: "Free at last, thank God almighty!" That's right, my torturous time at the commune has come to a close.

For the quick summary, I worked here once, left quite happily, then made the mistake of writing a thinly-disguised off-off-Broadway play about my time here. Bagel sued, I lost, and I couldn't pay all the odd "emotional damages" I was sued for, so in one of those creative sentencing deals, I came to work at the commune. Not happily, and not without plans for escape. Friday my escape became reality. I turned in my resignation to Gay Bagel, serving in his A.W.O.L. brother's stead, who said he was sorry to see me go. I called him a fat-headed penny-pincher who is out to turn every good thing, and bad thing, in the universe into an immoral profit.

It's all part of my "let's burn my bridges on the way out" policy. That's right, I'm leaving, this time for good, and wanted to make sure I never come back by finally blowing my stack at this inept bunch of geeks and freaks. Promote Raoul Dunkin, will you? Two can play the name-calling game.

First off, my friend Lil Duncan, of no relation to me. Lil, everyone knows you've had every man in this office—even Stigmata Spent, who is definitely a man—yet I'm apparently too good-looking, too normal, or possess no hideous body parts like Ted Ted's tiny wings, so I'm not good enough for your bed. Or your chair, your desk, the area under your desk, your kitchen, your apartment hallway, Bagel's desk, your parents' bed, my desk, or any of the other numerous places you've danced horizontally. So to hell with you. And everybody knows you stuff your bra more than Stigmata does.

Ramrod—I know just where that rod's rammed. You're a miserable tight-ass and all your business ventures fail because everybody, including the God you don't believe in and your own mother, hates you. I don't fear reprisal from your "evil twin" either because I live too far on the other side of town, and you can't afford the bus fare on what they pay you here.

Ted Ted… you're short. There, I've said it. If you're thinking of jumping me as I leave work tonight, you angry little fairy, I warn you right now I'm packing a flyswatter. Bring it on, I say.

And let's not forget Bludney Pludd… oh, too late. Actually, Bludney, I think you're a decent, if pitiful, member of this staff. I'm leaving some spare personality in my wastebasket when I leave, I don't need it anymore. Feel free to scrape it out.

My friend Shabozz Wertham, I'm going to say something truly devastating to your African-American pride: The Internet was invented by Al Gore, the world's whitest man. I don't care how many documents you provide, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar had nothing to do with it.

Ramon Nootles will stick his dick in anything that moves, and quite a few things that don't, if he hasn't scored in a while. You're the best reporter here, now that I'm leaving, but you still report about as well as I do after a case of beer and five whiskey sours.

Boner Cunningham masturbates, and no one here will admit it. He's doing it right now, pretending to do a chalk drawing of Ivana Folger-Whatever. And she knows exactly what he's doing—I can hardly say anything more incriminating about her than that.

As for her ex-, Mr. Nacutchacokov—Bagel's never going to bring you home. Just accept it.

I realize I'm leaving some of you out, and take that as the final insult—in an office full of pure abnormalities of human existence, you don't stand out well enough to be mentioned. And I save the finale for my lovable father figure and arch-enemy, Red Bagel himself. Red, you are a spectacular douchebag. You haven't ever come anywhere near the truth with any of your theories—if the truth were a fart, you couldn't even sniff it, that's how determined the truth and you are to avoid each other. I would wish death upon you, but it would rob me of the joy of seeing this little two-bit operation fold without my talents.

As for you, commune reader—I've got no beef with you. You've already suffered enough. Good-bye, so long, and see you nevermore.

º Last Column: A Vote For Bush is A Vote For Bush! Bush!
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