Hussein's Escaped Mistress Useless to CIA

shockingly obese woman who claims to have been Saddam Hussein's mistress escaped from Iraq late last year, meeting surprisingly little resistance in a flight from bondage that International aid workers are calling "A Big Fat Miracle."

Lamoula Pamsolos says she was Saddam's mistress off and on for 30 years, and twice on Sundays. After escaping Iraq in a daring daylight bike ride over a year ago, she has learned to live in fear of anonymous death should Saddam's hit men ever find her. Assuming he has noticed that she's gone and didn't actually buy her the bike himself. Out of fear for her own life, she has disguised herself under a veil of disgusting, corpulent backfat.

According to Lamoula, she was a key component to Saddam's "collection" of women, which also included a ballerina, a basketball star and a black belt in judo. When asked if her part was the big fat cow or the whiny emotional cripple, she only responded with a cold stare. Saddam also collected women with missing appendages, women with extra appendages, and women who could do that dancing trick with a pair of forks and a couple of baked potatoes.

Pausing to either belch or swear in Iraqi (translators are divided), Lamoula explains that she was Saddam's favorite mistress, a claim supported by the faded tee shirt she wears, showing a naked woman handcuffed to a bed under a logo that reads "SADDAM'S FAVORITE MISTRESS".

Growing up, Lamoula originally thought of bondage as "fun" and thought herself lucky to only have to work twenty seconds out of the day. However, as she grew older and became gradually less enamored with Saddam's growing thatch of offensive back hair, Lamoula came to realize that she would never be able to leave him. Even if she wanted to, the door to her room locked from the outside. And though her window did open, it was a perilous one-story drop to the tall stacks of blankets that were stored on the ground below. Thanks to her acutely weak ankles and fear of modest heights, Lamoula's prison was complete.

Pamsolos later discovered that her door didn't lock at all, but rather stuck a little bit unless you jimmied the handle. And so, after 32 years of servitude, she stepped out into a hallway she had never seen and looked upon the world with the eyes of a free woman who didn't know how to do anything.

When asked to describe Hussein, Lamoula paints the picture of a big brown blob with seven legs. When asked to describe Hussein using only words, Pamsolos tells of a demanding tyrant with a weak spot for children's songs.

"Everybody do what Saddam say. He no have to ask nobody no two times. Saddam say 'Pull my finger.' I no want to pull finger. But, I afraid of Saddam. I pull finger. Yes, Saddam mean. But Saddam love Raffi. Saddam sing Raffi all times. All times, never stop never. People want to say Saddam to stop singing Raffi, but they no say so to Saddam. So Saddam still sing Raffi all times."

Lamoula describes Saddam as an up-tempo dictator who was always quick for a smile, except for a period in early 1991 when he seemed "bummered" about something, possibly something he saw on the news. Pamsolos isn't sure, it was a long time ago.

Western Intelligence sources back Pamsolos' claims, but have not yet been able to extract any tactically useful information from her memories of the 32 years she spent in close quarters with the Iraqi dictator.

"So far we know he's left-handed, probably, he's big into Elton John and he likes to have sex with the lights on, which personally is more info than I needed," CIA spokesperson George Hudson explains. "At this point it's premature to call the discovery of Ms. Pamsolos a strategic goldmine, but we're still digging. Just the other day she remembered that his favorite show is Malcolm in the Middle, so information on hidden nuclear weapons may be right around the corner."

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OH MY GOD SNOW

Once again the current political climate has brought out the worst in the spend-o-crats. In case you're thinking that's another name for a real political party, don't be stupid. It's my funny way of saying Democrats that makes all my fans hoot and holler and make farting noises in approval. They know what I know—the spend-o-crats just like to spend our money on useless socialist programs, money that could be much better spent on bombers and tanks.

As my die-hard fans know, I decided to go into the job of professional right-wing personality when listening to the radio one day and hearing an out-of-context quote from that hippie socialist Robert Redford about how if we took all the money we were using to kill people overseas we could use that money to feed those same people. And I'm thinking, of course, "Cu-ckoo!" Am I right, readers? Why in the name of Jeepers H. Crackers would we want to feed the people we're trying to kill? What a spend-o-crat! The idiot totally doesn't get the idea of warfare. Unless maybe he was talking about poisoning the food we give the enemy or something, which I don't agree with. It's much more civil to shoot someone in the face than poison them.

I knew at that moment I could be a spokesperson for the "unpopular" view in Hollywood. I began to appear on radio programs, blowing away my opponents and sounding very handsome indeed. I would go on television programs, where I overcame the natural disadvantage of how I really look to out-argue such spend-o-crat linguistic acrobats as Pamela Anderson and Carrot Top. Slowly, one by one, I built up not only my following, but also my '83 Imapala's engine. Now I drive from city to city, lecturing to sold-out crowds of wealthy people who like to have what they already know reinforced by expensive speakers. And I make a pretty penny doing so, let me tell you! It's the American way.

But that doesn't give me the right to relax and let any nobody who happens to have a congressional job tell the president how to spend his money. And once again those spend-o-crats are going back on their word. They promised W. (my little nickname for him) that they would go all the way on this War on Terror, and like a scared teen-age girl who changes her mind at the last minute, they need a little coercing. That's what I'm writing about.

The spend-o-crats approved the War on Terror months ago, when it was a popular idea and the right thing to do. They knew if they didn't, if their stupid liberal pacifism showed its ugly head at that time, they would be ousted right from office by the public! I'm not sure exactly how that would be done, I'm not an expert on the law, the constitution, or how the government works in any fashion, but by God, we would have done it. Now that the war's been going a little slow they figure they can flip-flop and talk about spending that War on Terror money on domestic issues. I say to hell with that! That's War on Terror money! If I were the president (God willing, someday) I'd chew on that money like a dog with a bone. "No ya don't! That's my Terror money! Get off, bitch!" Though maybe without the street lingo.

And though nobody likes an argument, except most of us, the president knows darn well he has to be firm and unyielding with those War on Terror funds. The spend-o-crats gave 'em, now they can't take 'em back. You know what we call those people? Indian spend-o-crats. Or injun take-backers. Drunken redskin bastards. Something truly offensive to Indians. I say don't take it, W. We started out to level and destroy any country that doesn't like us, that's what the War on Terror's about, and by golly, we need to stay with it. Even if it means Iraq or Iran is next. And hopefully, eventually, France.

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One night several weeks ago, I got home after a grueling day of communing to find a strange-assed envelope in my mail box, wedged between the usual offer for Sea Monkeys and a Carmen Electra poster catalog. At first I thought I might have won a Harley or maybe my report card from the third grade had finally shown up. No such luck. When I studied the return-address more closely, I realized it was from the Jury Commissioner's Office, and that could only mean one thing.

The game was on.

Ever since the I was in shortpants, watching my dad do battle with unseenfoes over the telephone line, I'd waited for this day. The time had come to do what any honest, red-blooded American would do when they got the call: to match wits with the American justice system and try like hell to get out of jury duty. This is what our fathers have fought and died for time and time again, compadres: the right to outsmart The Man and avoid having to find parking downtown.

I decided to warm up by trying my old stand-by dodge. I called the number listed on the back of the summons and, in a bone-chilling facsimile of my mother's voice, told the jury duty operator that Omar would be unable to make it, because he had the measles or some shit. Looking back now, it was probably throwing that "or some shit" on the end that sunk my subterfuge, because the operator said I'd have to reschedule for another date. I thought fast and tried adding on that I had whiskey-dick as well, but she seemed pretty unimpressed by that improvisation.

I knew then that the old stand-by wasn't going to cut it this time, not by a long-shot. It was like trying to carve a jack-o-lantern with a piece of cooked spaghetti: damn useless. I was pretty surprised, too, because the exact same ploy worked wonders that time when I had to get out of a date with the ugly-assed daughter of one of my uncle's business partners. Shit, by the time I got to the whiskey-dick part I don't even think she wanted to go on the date any more, but these jury duty mugs had far tougher nuts to crack.

Several subsequent calls to the jury duty line proved equally unsuccessful: it turns out that swearing like a motherfucker, being a Communist or having a thick Mexican accent are all honky-dory if you want to be a juror these days. Go figure.

I went to the drawing board and read the pamphlet that came with my summons, figuring I had to beat these hard-asses at their own game. According to the pamphlet, there were only three excuses that would get you out of jury duty: you don't speak word uno of English, you're so damned old you scare little kids, or you've already been on a jury in the last two years. Now I know what you're thinking, and believe me I thought of it first: between that wet pajama contest I judged locally and being in the audience for that taping of Divorce Court last year, I should be good for another four years at least. Not so, claim the Jury Nazis.

Since they had to be such assholes about the whole two-year thing, I decided to play a little hardball and spent the next two weeks answering the phone in a made-up nonsense language that was like some kind of cross between German and the ingredients of a Snapple. Once again, those clever motherfuckers got the drop on your friend Omar by calling at eight in the morning when I was dead asleep and had momentarily forgotten about the whole "No English" ruse. So much for project "Nein Sorbate Verboten."

I briefly considered making some kind of old-man suit out of croissant mix and talcum powder, but after a particularly nasty talcum mishap I got pissed off and just called those uptight pigfuckers and told them that it's my constitutional whoozumwhatzit to have them kiss my pale white ass, with whipped topping if you please, and that in the mean time I hoped they all choked on a turd. It was a bold shift in strategy, I admit, but for a while I thought it might have worked and that I'd scared them off.

Then one day I received a notice in the mail saying that if I didn't show up for jury duty, I'd be held in contempt of court and fined $121. Woah. Now, I don't know how they arrived at that figure, I suspect they were peeking into the old Bricks Checking Account again, but suffice it to say they were now officially speaking my language. These were some stone-cold bastards.

After a rousing rental of "A Few Good Men", I decided that jury duty probably wouldn't be that bad, and that maybe I'd luck out and get some kind of case that involved a dude being smothered by fake boobs or something. Really, any case that involved topless testimony would've been cool by me, I'm flexible.

And to tell you the truth, in the end, I actually had a good time. And man was I glad that I'd thought to wear my judge costume from last Halloween, because they treat those regular jurors like assholes. I got a much better seat and even got to give some dude the chair for eating his neighbor's horse in some kind of funny-assed cultural misunderstanding. The rest of the day probably would have been a blast too if the real judge hadn't shown up and had me re-assigned to some boring damned murder trial. Since when does it take a whole friggin' week to figure out that the dude with the chain-saw did it? I'd planned on two hours tops, with maybe a break for a romantic interlude in the middle. Some fussy sacks of juror-scat might argue that it would have been over sooner if I hadn't been playing the "Do you have a verdict?/Your honor, we have a dickfour" game with the judge, but that only added twenty minutes, tops.

And the memories, as they say, will last a lifetime. I think the taser scars probably will too.

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