U.N. Weapons Inspectors Want to Come Home

short letter received by the U.N. in the mail Friday stated briefly and succinctly that U.N. weapons inspectors were tired of "dumb-ass Iraq" and wanted "to go home."

The letter surprised most everybody at the U.N., who believed the weapons inspectors were all very happy in their duties in the Middle East. Weapons inspectors had been in Iraq in years previous to prove Saddam Hussein has kept the country free of nuclear material and other weapons outlawed by their post-Gulf War agreement. Just months ago, before their return, the weapons inspectors were practically "hitting the roof to go back," according to Secretary-General Kofi Annan.

"You know how weapons inspectors are," said Annan. "When they're here, they want to be there. When they're there, they want to be here."

Trouble started approximately three weeks ago, when weapons inspectors team leader Hans Blix called Annan at midnight and asked how long they expected the search to last. Annan said he couldn't be sure, and Blix suggested that they should return home and discuss the length of the trip to Iraq. After Annan refused, Blix called back four hours later and stated the whole team had agreed they were 100% sure Iraq didn't have any weapons anymore, even though they had only searched a handful of places.

Weapons inspector psychologist Danni Jersey said the behavior was not unusual.

"Most people expect this sort of reaction during the first weapons search," said Dr. Jersey, "but the truth is that the first trip contains more exploration, the discovery of new places, hopefully without weapons, and new friends. Although it's somewhat frightening for weapons inspectors, it is still exciting and keeps them involved.

"By the time a second trip comes around, expectations are raised, to unreasonable expectations sometimes. It is impossible to experience the same level of enjoyment and mystery all over again, and there's naturally some disappointment from the second search. Finding some weapons might make it more exciting, but if not, it's a matter of reconciling expectations and reality. No wonder they want to come home."

In the rest of Friday's letter, weapons inspectors told the U.N. that they had looked everywhere and found no weapons, everyone in Iraq hated them, and they found living conditions were "for shit." As part of the agreement with the U.N., a "host family" allows one weapons inspector to stay with them in a room they have set up. There have been no formal complaints on either side, but there has been much speculation about tension between host families and inspectors.

"I have nothing against the U.N., or the agreement Iraq has made after the conflict," said Iraqi Army corporal and host family patriarch Amani El-Abib. "But our weapons inspector, Terry, is quite a disagreeable boy. He never lifts a finger to clean up, he complains about the food, and sometimes I wake up in the morning and find he is searching our kitchen for weapons-grade plutonium. It's just bad manners to do so without asking permission."

Terry Gröfberg, a Swedish weapons inspector staying with the El-Abibs, felt similar antagonism for his hosts.

"They're nice and all, but old man El-Abib is always flying off the handle. He says I'm corrupting his children with my techno music, that I'm acting like an infidel when I ask if there's any electricity in the house, and that I keep looking at his wife when her veil is off. Dude, his wife's nice, but not my type at all. Just chill, muslim dude. Not everybody wants your stuff."

Secretary-General Kofi Annan had expectations that a little tough love would help the weapons inspectors stay focused on their mission.

"It's not the time for coddling now," said Annan. "I know they want to come home, but it will be better for them in the long run if they stay. They will fulfill their obligation, possibly help prevent more death from military conflict, and it will build character."

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Once upon a time there was a happy couple who could not, you know, have a kid. They went to doctor after doctor until they found one who told them he could help her get pregnant, but neither the husband nor wife were happy with his suggestion and she slapped him curtly. A magical fairy appeared to them one night when they had downed a quart of Vermouth each and made them a promise.

"I can give you a son," the fairy said, "but he will be a small boy. Though smallish in stature, however, he will have the biggest heart you have ever seen."

The couple profusely thanked the fairy and gave her a generous gratuity. Sure enough, within a month the wife was pregnant.

When their son was born, months later, they were surprised as hell when the boy was no bigger than a Claritin pill. The father said something to the effect of, "Jesus, I know she said he'd be small, but I thought she meant Dudley Moore small, not Tom & Jerry small…"

The boy was very loving, but his parents neglected him. They were not cruel people, it was just so easy to forget about the boy no bigger than a Claritin pill. He slept in a matchbox, he drove a Matchbox, and trying to shop for him, well, forget it.

One day the fat evil landlord came to the old house and told the couple that they could not keep their son in the house, it defied some sort of anarchist zoning rule of the time and they would have to move or kick him out. It was unbelievable to the couple, who did not want to lose their son or their house, the house even more so.

Before they had a chance to make a decision, though, the boy no bigger than a Claritin pill jumped down the throat of the fat landlord with a toothpick in hand and began to wreak havoc on his gastro-intestinal track. The boy carved his way through the fat man's stomach, up though his lungs, and severed all the cords to his heart, though by that time the sheer pain of it all had killed the fat bastard.

Eventually the parents of the boy no bigger than a Claritin pill carved open the landlord's chest and retrieved their son, and by damn, sure enough, between his teensy hands he had the biggest heart any of them had ever seen. They were much appreciative, and more than a little terrified.

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It's about time to resume the "War on Poverty" that we started in the 1960's. And when I say "we," I mean soft-hearted liberals who needed a slogan for re-election. But this time, we do the War on Poverty right. I'm talking big guns.

After all, we can't eliminate poverty, any more than we can eliminate terror. That's been my objection to the president's War on Terror all along. And before you go thinking I've gone all NPR on you guys, that doesn't mean we should give up. Let's just refocus the War on Terror. Make it the War on Terrorists, which is what it already is. Wipe them all out from the face of the earth—if you're not wit' us, you're a'gin us. And that's what we got to do with the War on Poverty: Wipe out the impoverished.

It doesn't have to be a hateful war, but we've got to get rid of them all the same. They're just going to drag us all down with them. And even if they don't, they'll still make our lives hell—asking for money, especially around the holidays, starring in documentaries that clog our independent theaters, and just generally hanging around and making us feel bad. We can't let them run our lives anymore. Wipe out the impoverished.

We can get it started it easy enough—since they don't have houses, we can find most of them out in the open, where they're easy to get at. Eventually, though, we'll have to take it to the next level. Hunt them down in the housing projects, in the trailer parks, even in the mountains, where they're bunched up together 25-to-100 per house. Sure, my soft side wants to give them all a free ride, but it's by being pushovers we've been overrun with poverty all this time.

The best part is, we don't need a new army to do it. Put the police to work doing what they were originally created for anyway—to keep the poor out of our hair. But give them their teeth back, no more of this back-alley beating crap and telling people to "move along." We start the War on Poverty, I mean really start it, and the police can finally do what they were meant to do. Round 'em up and march 'em into the nearest large body of water. Or if that's too unsanitary, maybe launch them into space. Give them a chance to colonize a planet full of moochers and layabouts.

We'll need to set firm criteria so we don't have everybody out in the streets getting shot by people riding polo ponies and everything. Set a bottomline income bracket above which everyone gets to live, and then root out the nickel-and-dimeless. I used to think a metal detector of some sort would help find whose got money and who doesn't, but anybody walking around with pocket change is probably below the minimum income bracket, or just scraping together enough to stay above it.

People say I'm full of hate to suggest such a thing. I tell them to shut up before I choke them to death. Because I'm not full of hate. I just think everybody needs to pull their own weight, or pull whatever weight they're told to pull. The world needs workers and the world needs bosses. What they don't need is people who refuse to be either. I send my money to the government each week, and it's always more than I like, so they can keep the roads in good shape for me to drive on and to keep the kids from turning out retarded. Judging by the noise on the radio and the TV, I'm not sure that last part is working out. But I know I don't send my money to the government so we can support freeloaders, the infirm, or those who can't swing a hammer or a shovel or whatever for 8-12 hours a day. Or write a column, of course—angry columnists provide the most valuable service of all.

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