espite anxious protestations from the Iraqi public upon hearing the president’s quote, George W. Bush vowed this week to push Iraq “out of the frying pan,� in response to a week full of bad news for the U.S. occupation forces. In the face of a continuing bloody standoff in Fallujah, record U.S. and Iraqi casualties in the month of April, and evidence that U.S. soldiers abused prisoners in Baghdad, citizens from across Iraq are telling occupation forces “Thanks anyway, but please stop helping us so much.�

This latest development is discouraging news for U.S. officials, who were encouraged by poll results last week showing that the Iraqi public feels their lives are slightly less horrible now than they were under Saddam Hussein’s rule. According to the poll, 32% of Iraqis prefer the George W. Bush regime to the Hussein regime, opting for the excitement of unpredictable daily bloodshed and abuse at the hands of U.S. soldiers, which locals rate as not quite as bad as the torture of Hussein’s Fedayeen militia. 28% of Iraqis polled instead preferred the predictable oppression of the Hussein days, while the remaining 30% said you could flip a fuckin’ coin.

Upon being reminded that Saturday was the one-year anniversary of his now-darkly ironic “Mission Accomplished� speech aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln, President Bush reminded reporters that he’d never specified exactly what mission he was referring to, and that the one he was thinking in his head was most definitely accomplished, no problem. Bush also stressed the necessity of ousting Hussein, explaining that “a madman cannot be trusted in a position of power.� Even Bush’s harshest critics nodded along with this statement from the president, though many admitted that they were thinking of a different war-crazy madman at the time.

Bush also expressed “deep disgust� over the images that surfaced on CBS’ 60 Minutes II last week, which show U.S. soldiers dressing up Iraqi prisoners in embarrassing Halloween costumes and forcing them to perform in poorly-written variety shows. Bush’s apparent revulsion to the photos was odd, considering he had reportedly known about the images for weeks, indicating that he was disgusted mainly by the fact that the pictures got out to the voting public.

While some Iraqis consider the U.S. occupation a nice change of pace in that their abusers are now white rather than the same old Arab thugs they’ve had for generations, many express concerns that without the stabilizing influence of Hussein’s regime, Iraq will descend into years of bloody racial and religious conflict. The president’s chosen figure of speech in his most recent statement did little to quell these fears.

“Is like... how you say? Out of cooking pot and ass is on fire? Is like that,� explained grocer Jalal al-Batayneh. “Things bad before, yes, but now? Oh shit.�

Mechanic Zainab Akram Kalaf agreed. “We Iraqi have saying, ‘I used to have sunburn, now am on fire.’ This is like trade of Saddam for Bush.�

“Once was screwing pooch,� added schoolteacher Ali Thaib. “Now pooch screwing me, this is saying. You have this saying?�

Residents of the embattled Iraqi city of Fallujah indicated similar sentiments through flag-based signals from apartment windows to the few binocular-toting reporters willing to get within ten miles of the city-shaped deathtrap.

In spite of the worsening situation in Iraq, president Bush has vowed to stay the course with his thus-far botched stab at nation-building.

“We’ve got to get this country out of the frying pan,� Bush explained, gesturing like a chef with his hands. “Once we do that, no matter what happens after, they’re better off. Because think about it, what could be worse than being in a frying pan?�

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Like many children, I was once a young boy. And as a lad, before I could even speak the language, I held a precious dream in my heart like a butterfly. A butterfly that wiggled and squirmed and eventually burst from my chest like an alien, but this one left behind no gaping bloody hole, at least none that was visible. For like many children, I had dreams of one day growing up and capturing a mythical beast to prove it existed.

My father would tell me, "Set more realistic goals for yourself, Mr. Bagel." Although now that I think about it, that doesn't sound like something my father would say at all, and there is the distinct trace of an accent when I hear it my mind, so it may have been a butler I had or an English tourist. But someone said it, and I would grow disheartened, before I remembered that only I could let the butterfly rip through my chest and leave myself bleeding to death on the floor.

During my teen-age years, my "Reckless Red" days, I let go of that dream and sunk into the hopeless despair only fit for songs by The Smiths. It's in the nature of a teen-ager to turn cynical, like the very butterfly I earlier metaphored sprouting its wings as part of its growth. However, I tricked fate, and as I got older I grew far more immature than even I could have imagined. I resumed my dreams, and it was like I had never stopped believing I could lasso the Loch Ness Monster or trap Bigfoot in a box with a carrot as bait. Of course, doing either one of those would have been silly. But last year, while the commune took that long sabbatical I didn't really know about, I took to New Orleans to pursue my dream. And the world's biggest butterfly.

I speak of none other than the Baton Rouge Butterfly, one of the most famous local legends of all time. Though no one in New Orleans or Baton Rouge had ever heard of it, so don't bother asking any of them. This local legend about Louisiana is only famous in part of New Jersey and, I understand, some areas in Europe. I uncovered a book on it at a yard sale, only partially colored by the previous owner, that sparked my childhood interest in the legend and I assembled my mythic creature-hunting team of old with renewed vigor.

Loading my equipment into my customized Hummer XXL, a vehicle unfit for travel on earth roads, I traveled south to that beloved region with my loyal manservant Rascal and my faithful friend of many years, Sully. It seems like only yesterday the news just wouldn't shut up about Hurricane Katrina, yet when we reached these battered shores the whole region appeared to be in the midst of wonderful reconstruction. I'm sure the several buildings my Hummer XXL knocked over or crushed were helpful losses to paving over the city of old, they didn't look very new at all. We researched the existence of the Baton Rouge Butterfly in New Orleans, since I was much more familiar with that city and its many fine houses for gentleman tourists, but I have to admit we knew a lot more about the legend than any of them did. They mocked our faith in the unproven and a few of them made fun of my fine white suit. But were we dissuaded? Sully was, and he napped in the passenger seat for most of the trip. I was not, and nor was Rascal,as I pay him handsomely.

We surveyed the entire city of Baton Rouge and its surrounding areas, the world's largest moth net in tow. Did we find the creature of my youthful dreams? No. Did we discover even minimal proof of its existence? That's difficult to say, but everybody says no. Let's change that question however: Did we chase a dream and discover something even bigger than ourselves in the process? No. However, I think I can dare to say we displayed uncommon faith in the unseen and changed the hearts of the people of Louisiana, even helping the rebirth of the cities damaged by the hurricane. They would also say this is a big negative, too, but they can shut-up and stop pissing on my dreams.

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Dear readers, I have never been a religious man. I have trouble believing in anything I cannot see, unless it is revealed to me by a trustworthy patron of a familiar bar. But all that has changed—I am now a believer, for I have been touched by an angel. Or not quite touched. Pulverized might be the word for it.

Yes, there is a God, and he deemed I should get the beating of a lifetime to prove it. Or, it's possible, there isn't a God, there's just the dead. Bodiless apparitions hauling ass here and there in our corporeal world, and occasionally taking time out of their schedule to kick our asses. Maybe there's a God, and if that's what he wanted to impress on me, just send me a warning. Not the full-blown throttling I already received, just a slap across the face or something. Just to really drive home the point.

Come to think of it, I'm not really sure what the angel wanted to impart to me. He didn't say much. More of the "talks with his fists" type. But you can't really make a point that way, not a coherent one anyway. He growled and ranted and muttered things here or there, but they mostly concerned some guy named Donnie and the money Donnie owes him. I suppose he thought I was Donnie, it was hard to tell with a ghostly fist boxing my ears.

You may be thinking I have surely seen ghosts before, or had otherworldly encounters—aliens, the sasquatch, time-travelers from the future. And then there's my dead reporter friend Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown, but frankly I've never believed he was really dead, it all just seemed like a tax dodge. None of that prepared me for seeing a real, actual ghost in my bedroom, demanding from me money I didn't have, and then wiping the bedroom floor with me.

It began as a simple enough evening, in my matching red pajamas and nightcap, monogrammed, of course, turning in for bed. I had clapped off the lights and turned my TV to the late-show reruns of M*A*S*H that I so love. I must have dozed off, because I woke up to complete darkness and the sound of drunken mumbling. I could hear also, beneath the drunk talk, the sound of footsteps. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing but darkness. Then, I saw the outline of a hunched-over figure, and heard him dragging his heels toward my bed. At first, I thought it was Rascal, my manservant, playing another prank, but then I realized Rascal is quite the big fellow, and this figure was more of a modest size, like myself. Then I thought it was me, playing some gag on myself, but that made no sense.

Before I could figure out exactly what was happening, a cold hand grabbed my leg. Then, I was yanked out of bed and pummeled. Icy dead knuckles, like the hand of a skeleton, smacked the hell out of my face, fattened my lip, blackened my eye, and held me down against the hard wood floor. I tried to get up, but he couldn't hear my pleas while he was rambling about his money.

Being the investigator I am, I immediately went to find out as much as I could about the penthouse apartment I live in. Quite a fascinating history, if you must know. It turns out a very successful man named Gatsby once lived there, a long time ago, and may have even been the Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald based his character on, at least I've heard great things about him. He was a well-to-do-man, like myself, and very generous, which is where the comparison ends. But those who remember him, like the door man to my building, stress that while Gatsby had been a very generous man, he didn't just give things away. He expected to all debts to be repaid, and apparently had a hell of a drinking problem. I grew excited right away, and was asked to step away from the door. A ghost of a man much like myself! I can't wait to find out more.

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