n autopsy of the internet-famous body of former Libyan dictator Muammar Gadhafi early Monday uncovered one shocking detail: the so-called corpse is in fact a sex doll likeness of Gaddafi, manufactured by the Middle Eastern RealDoll knock-off company, FeelDoll.

"We resent being called a knock-off. If anything, our models are superior to RealDolls, with suppler orifices, stretchier lips, and more voluminous skeet reservoirs," explained an incensed Roman Starsky, head doll fucker for FeelDoll.

"If anything, we’re a knock-up," Starksy added. "If you’re going to jizz into a big polyurethane corpse, we hope it’s ours."

The sex doll in question, an expensive high-end model a far cry from the inflatable emergency dates most commune readers would be familiar with, features a posable internal skeleton, lifelike silicone skin, interchangeable hairpieces for alternating between "stern sexy dictator Kadafi" and "fun on the beach Qaddafi," and numerous cute outfits in all the latest styles. There has been no word as to who ditched this particular love doll in the drainage ditch where it was found by revolutionaries on Friday, but judging from its condition, they were apparently finished with it.

"Ga-ddammit," mused National Transitional Council Executive Chairman Mahmoud Jibril, upon being told the news.

When asked how the entire world could be fooled by footage of a rubber sex doll flopping around and being shoved into a truck, psychologist Ben Wahbals explained the powerful role suggestion plays in the way our brains interpret the outside world.

"For example, all I had to do was tell you I was a psychologist, and because of that you never even noticed that I’m wearing an Arby’s uniform and we are, right now, inside an Arby’s," explained Dr. Wahbals.

The day went from bad to double-bad for Libya’s new government later Monday afternoon, when a closer inspection of the corpse of Qadhafi’s son Mo’tassim (Ed. Note: Seriously? Fact check that name), thought killed in fighting last week, revealed it to actually be a goat wearing a dress.

Monday’s shocking developments raise several disturbing questions, not the least of which is where the actual Qadhaffi might be if he’s not really having his anus measured in a morgue in Libya. The leading theory as of news time was that Gathafi has been hiding out for months as a member of the cast of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, though journalistic ethics require us to point out that this almost-certainly-true theory has not yet been backed up by hard facts or cursory examination.

Upon the first breaking of this story on news breaker site Zapshit.com, several posters in that article’s comments section admitted this news made them feel less guilty about having masturbated to the YouTube footage of Godhafi’s capture last week.

Possibly even more pressing, however, is the question of why in the holy Allah someone would make a sex doll to look like Malomar Kurdhafi.

"Male sex dolls are relatively rare compared to the female models, yes, and are mostly purchased by conservative politicians and for the rec rooms of women’s prisons," explained Starsky. "But there is a demand, and a demanding demand at that."

Sure, but why Gutthafih?

"Likenesses are entirely based on popular demand. And who is to say the sexual appetites of the public are wrong? Is being sexually attracted to Dick Butkus wrong? Just because I want to dip my wick in a life-sized plastic Ernest Borgnine, does that make me a freak? On a side note, our Ernest Bornine FeelDolls are all on sale this week, those things haven’t been selling worth a goddamn."

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Once again we are celebrating the best kind of weekend, good people—a 4-day weekend. Is there anything better in the great scheme of things than having to work one day less than usual. Of course. There's the 4-day weekend. Praise be to whatever genius created this thing, having only three days of actual work at my job before another, if somewhat disappointingly short weekend, comes around. And there's always that one week when the commune was shut down for Red Bagel's circumcision—that was a sort of gloomy vacation, but the kid survived and our fearless editor was cleared of all charges. Still, I have an idea that will blows your socks all the way up to your hands so you look like a lazy puppeteer: The 368-day weekend.

Are you aware that 2007 ends on a Monday? Good people, this gives us an amazing opportunity to demonstrate that America still knows how to have fun. Let us take that weekend before the last Monday in 2007 and start the longest weekend the world has ever seen. A 368-day weekend! I'm not joking, I wouldn't even know how to joke about something like that, I take my weekends far too seriously. Do you know how many barbecues you could have in 368 days? How many exhibitions of dangerous fireworks? How many days you could mow the lawn, shirtless, enticing the female neighbors? Just think about all the nights you could stay up researching bus tickets to Albany until 3 in the morning, carefree about the stack of work waiting for you on your desk back at that miserable office?

Believe me, I love my job. If it wasn't for my job, I would feel I lacked definition, and had no purpose in the world. It's doing whatever it is I do that makes me who I am. Still, that aside, it's a soul-sucking, worthless, abysmal darkness having to work day-in, day-out. It saps the very will to live out of me thinking of the things I love in my life and how I can't do any of them because I have to spend 40 hours a week performing some bullshit function to keep our crass commercial society steaming along, crushing the innocent under its tracks. So nothing perks me up like a long weekend! And a 368-day weekend would be the longest ever.

Imagine: You leave from work on the evening of December 29, 2007 (and it's been a wonderfully short Christmas week anyway) and you return on Thursday, January 1, 2009. Wait—coming back to work on New Year's Day? I don't think so! By necessity, this plan has to be a 369-day weekend! Good Snapple, this plan keeps getting better by the minute! 369 days it is.

I'm not blind to the practical difficulties of such a plan. I'm well aware that if the banks don't function in 2008, if the farmers don't grow food and the grocers don't stock it, if the power company just shuts down for the entire year, it might cause a less-than-enjoyable weekend. I say bullocks! Which is British for bullshit. Whenever I have a long weekend I can just do a few columns ahead of time, or play catch up when I get back. Why don't we do that? Everybody stock up all the food you can in December 2007, and buy a lot of batteries and gasoline generators. I have a laptop with a battery, so I should still be able to get on the computer. But who wants to? It's a weekend! This prettyboy's not working for the weekend.

Forget the dreary drag of the office, let go of that boring drive to work every day— we can hold the presidential election in 2009. The president can't do the country any more damage if we're all at home watching The A-Team on TV Land. All I'm saying is think about it, Americans. I just might go ahead and take the "long weekend" myself if no one else wants to do it. Feel free to stop by the regal Finger estate to see my wife, Ginger, sunning in the deck chairs and good ol' Rok himself mowing the lawn. Check out my pecs.

º Last Column: Rain, Rain, Go Straight to Hell
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If there's one thing Ned hates, it's dribbling baby eyeballs. Seemingly everywhere: in Ned's taco, spreadable on toast, and in the wheel-well of his car even! Cereal boxes so jam-packed that there's not even room for the cereal itself. Drooping out of his glove compartment, sloshing around in his underwear drawer, filling up his rain gauge like they was invited!

Who can Nedder blame for this plague of ocular proportions? Quebec? Yes, most likely so it is Quebec who is fallen asleep at the wheel. Long has Ned trusted them Canadians to keep his living space clear of such annoyances, and for another time they have let Ned down. First it was the day he found his deep-freezer to be full of crickets, a sure sign that Quebecans is slacking off on the job. Another time it was all the slimy basketballs in Ned's pool, and yet another the day he woke up with his sinus cavities packed full of rice crispies.

Long ago was the day the King of all Lands appointed them Quebecers the guardians of all things irregular and entrusted them with keepin' the world stable and whatnot. And more often than not, they've done their jobs. But today, Ned is calling them to the carpetbagger on their failure to keep things right.

But what does a boy do now? Does Neddle send them a bill for having all them drooping baby eyeballs flushed out of his radiator? Is Ned to expect a letter of apology for the Eye McMuffin him accidentally bit into this morning? What about the goopy, gelatinous eyeball muck currently clogging up his roof gutters? One is afraid to even address that issue, sure enough.

How about the time that Volkswagen pulled up in Ned's driveway and those thirteen identical Martin Shorts got out and insisted on staying as Ned's guests for a month? What with all their juggling and dirty joke-telling and whatnot. Who's to reimburse Nedder for that trauma of an emotional nature? And who's going to compensate the local pee-wee league football team who had their knickers dusted by the All-Martin-Short team in the championship game?

There's a smell on the wind and Ned's nose tells him it's the smell of Canadians. Time for them to get them maple-syrup-slurping bottoms on down here and pay the piper. He's been noodlin' on that pipe for a good four days straight now, and Ned sure as hell didn't hire him, and so is not likely to be too up in the teeth about paying him his owed due wages. Let me tell you.

So come on, folks of Quebec. Time to get with them programs! No more raining lobster bibs, no more child seats full of walrus meat, no more erector-set birthday bees. You know how them things is likely to happen and how they aint. No more celibate tuna policemens or nerf balls that come out the governor's mouth when he talks. No more deep-sea flute recitals or monsters bearing witness to the conversion of pope Archibald. No more, says Ned! Them shindiggeries has gone on long enough.

º Last Column: Flush it Down, Charlie Brown
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