ust days before the scheduled transfer of power to Iraqi officials, the U.S. occupation suffered another major blow when radical Shiite head cleric and suspected U.S. puppet Boner Von Poppel was killed during a community uprising in Baghdad. The elderly fig farmers who stoned Von Poppel to death with unripe figs believed the Shiite religious leader has been installed by the United States to manipulate the local population and retain U.S. control of the region beyond the date of Iraqi sovereignty. While the U.S. denies claims that Von Poppel had been inserted into Iraq by the CIA to advance U.S. interests, local residents never completely accepted the cleric as one of their own, due in part to his B-boy style of dress and lack of facility with the Iraqi language.

When confronted with these suspicions Saturday in Baghdad, Von Poppel confused the gathered crowd and sealed his fate.

"Yo yo yo, lissen up, cuz I got somethin to say. This be straight from the heart, y'all," Von Poppel told the crowd, pressing 'play' on a nearby boombox for accompaniment before launching into a bizarre marionette dance. "I got no strings, to hold me down, to make me fret, to make me frown! I've got no strings, so I have fun, I'm not tied up to anyone! I got no strings, so you can see, there are no strings on me!"

Shortly after the completion of the song and dance number, Von Poppel was pummeled to death with figs.

While U.S. officials expressed shock at the violence of the uprising, many Iraqis were more surprised Von Poppel had lived as long as he did.

"I almost killed him last week," admitted Baghdad shopkeeper Hashim Ababneh. "There was just something not right about that boy."

Other locals expressed similar sentiments, pointing out that it was unusual for Shiite religious leaders to be completely ignorant as to the particulars of Islam, or to dress like an extra in a Jay-Z video.

"Yo, Iraqis, we gots to increase the peace and respect the police, you know what I'm sayin'?" Von Poppel was quoted as sayin' during a sermon last fall. "The U.S. is the best so don't mess with the rest, y'all."

Experts believe Von Poppel's complete lack of understanding of Iraqi culture or the Muslim religion may have sealed his fate. Earlier this year the cleric had created a stir by appearing on the holy day of Mawlid al-Nabi eating a pulled pork sandwich and talking with his mouth full. When the gathered crowd of Iraqis drew Von Poppel's attention to this grievous misstep in Muslim etiquette, the cleric answered "Yo yo yo, you gotta check yourself before you wreck yourself, Iraqis. We gotta increase the peace, Cochise. You know what I'm sayin'?"

In spite of widespread skepticism among Iraqi citizens, the U.S. has steadfastly denied any attempts to manipulate Muslim religious life, and was happy to announce the rise of Iraqi's newest anti-U.S. radical Shiite cleric Nihad al-Pacino over the weekend.

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I've always believed that a sense of play is paramount to the health of any long-term relationship. And though some times I may have doubted it, Dan, now I finally understand that you feel exactly the same way.

I have to admit you had me going for a while there, when you "broke up" with me, quit your job and moved to Tacoma. Things got a little weird when you didn't leave a forwarding address and I started to wonder if we were doing okay. But then I remembered how you loved to play-act when we were together, going home from the bar with other girls and conveniently "forgetting" to tell me that you'd changed the all the locks to the apartment. I have to admit; you sure knew how to keep a girl coming back for more! But your little "hard to get" routine didn't fool me then and I wasn't about to let it fool me when I was put to the big test. Before you could say "disappeared in the middle of the night" I was in a Seattle-area private investigator's office, proving just what I was willing to do for your love.

Of course, I wasn't naive enough to think that would be enough: after all, most any girl with a road atlas, a lock picking kit and a flexible career path could track you down in Tacoma and surprise you in your new apartment at three in the morning.

But only the true of heart would endure the endless trips to the police station and rounds of legal maneuvering necessary to prove their conviction over the next several months.

You knew I'd come through for you, Dan, and I did. No amount of door slamming, table-lamp swinging or screaming "Back to hell with you, bitch!" could shake from my mind the love I still saw in your eyes. Lesser girls probably would have given up after being shoved off the fire escape, but then of course they wouldn't have been worthy of your love.

A restraining order can send a lot of messages, but if you really wanted me to stay away, I know you would have made sure it was for more than a mere 100 meters. That's practically a Valentine's card, an invitation to buy some high-powered binoculars and peer into your bedroom window from the parking lot of the Taco Bell down the street. You know these little lovers' games drive me wild, you tease!

After all, if you really meant what you said about the end of Fatal Attraction, why would you go to the trouble of installing those electronic sensors in my bed to monitor my masturbations? Or what about the wafer-thin cameras hidden inside the patterns in my wallpaper? That just doesn't make sense.

Everybody thought I'd for sure throw in the towel when you married Darlene, or at least when Alicia and Barnaby were born. But they just don't understand us, Dan. I'm in this for the long haul. My love only goes stronger with every additional test, and with every night spent sleeping on your rooftop, peering down through the skylight until my breath fogs the glass.

Say what you like to the papers, Dan. I know you love me.

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That guy thought he was so smart. If you're wondering who I'm talking about, pause a second to read the title of this column, up above. You with us now? Good. Now: Who wears their hair like that? Assholes, that's who. Only an asshole could pull off the "I'm so brilliant I don't have time to comb my hair or make an appointment at SuperCuts" look. Get over yourself, buddy. You wouldn't be fooling any of us if you had a crew cut. Crew cuts are like nature's shorthand for "dipshit." Smart of Einsteen to figure out the haircut ruse, I'll give him that but little else. And what's with all that relativity mumbo-jumbo? Any loudmouth off the street can make up some kind of magic formula and get praised for it, as long as he knows how to intimidate people and doesn't ever back down. Don't believe me? Fine, Q=xW34. Not so hard, is it? Now line up to kiss my ass, I'm the new genius on the block.

And let's not forget Mother Theresa and her whole ego-trip. "Oh, look at me in my cute little hat! I'm so fucking wonderful and giving! I help the poor with no thought of my own gain!" What a bitch.

And what about that Newton? Overrated. Those fig cookies suck hard. There, I've said it, somebody had to. Those things are so dry I bet if you added a drop of water they'd blow up to the size of an air mattress. Maybe that's what they're for, I don't know. I don't claim to be on the cutting edge of these matters. That does seem to be a lot of air mattresses to sell in one package, though. At the grocery store no less. Maybe if you were shopping for a whole commune in need of temporary bedding it would make sense, but there can't be that many of those people out there. Maybe there are. The thought kind of scares me, frankly.

If it turns out I've eaten over 30 air mattresses that are just waiting to inflate the next time I take a sip of water, somebody's going to be hearing from my lawyer. You can count on that. As a matter of fact, I'm leaving a note for my lawyer now in case the mass-inflation kills me, which it likely might. I don't want him to have to guess at what my last wishes would have been. Litigate, motherfucker! I don't pay you to look good in that suit. (Nice suit, by the way.)

While I'm at it, I'm going to leave a note for my chef as well. Don't want that smarmy bastard cooking my liver or anything untoward like that after I'm gone, just because I didn't leave behind a note specifically forbidding it. That guy has a hungry look in his eyes.

Who else was an asshole?

Did I mention Mother Theresa? God, she really sets me off. Sure, most of you out there in la la land probably buy into the cult of personality that says she was the greatest thing since shit on toast. And I'm sure some of those homeless orphans thought so when she was giving them backrubs and buying them big-screen TVs and what have you. But did any of you true believers out there ever play ping-pong with this piece of work? I didn't think so. Mother Theresa had a ping-pong mean streak as wide as Cecil Fielder's ass. You didn't dare ace a serve past that big-knuckled monster unless you wanted to see what one of those paddles could do to your tender butt-flesh. All those kids at the orphanage knew the unwritten rule: you let the Mother pad out her table tennis win streak if you want your porridge tonight, bucko.

Truth be told, I'm not that fond of Aristotle either, but that's a column for another day.

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