he small remainder of the world that follows the news applauded the escape of more than 200 Iraqi hostages Thursday, who freed themselves from an unidentified terrorist group in the heart of the war-torn country. Just outside of Fallujah, U.S. military discovered a traveling band of 40 or so escaped hostages, and within hours began to receive word of other hostages who had also escaped the same small terrorist encampment, numbers totaling 213 freed hostages, who credited their successful escape to U.S. Army Captain S. Hilts.

Hilts, who was debriefed by U.S. military officials but did not speak directly to the ravenous western press, said the escape was the result of weeks of planning, tactical distraction, digging, and the production of some high-quality potato moonshine. Instead of taking credit for the escape himself, Hilts remarked on the bravery and ingenuity of his fellow hostages.

Added Hilts: "It's the duty of every freedom-loving military man to work day and night to escape." The statement marks a drastic turnaround from hostage philosophies of the past, including 1980 Iranian hostages Commander Shears, who was intent to ride out the situation without drawing attention to himself, or British Colonel Alec Nicholson, who actually aided the Iranians by building a bridge over a local river to aid terrorist movement.

Who exactly is Capt. S. Hilts? A son of an Indiana mechanic, Hilts served in the Army in both the original Gulf War and its poorly received sequel. Hilts was among the 213 hostages, both military and civilian, who had been abducted in recent weeks by terrorists believed to be allied with either Al-Qaeda, the Saddam Hussein loyalists, or one of the other 300 groups who simply like to kidnap and kill westerners. Hilts had been used as leverage in video taped messages urging the freeing of all Iraqi prisoners. While this strategy has traditionally worked remarkably well against all sorts of enemies, this time there was little to no response from U.S. or coalition governments. The lack of reply might have something to do with Hilts' outburst in the final frames of the video tape:

"Listen to me!" shouted Hilts, tossing aside the written statement he had started to read, standing up and resisting efforts of jackbooted Iraqis to hold him down. "We're Americans! We don't roll over and do something when we're at the end of a gun! Don't worry about us! We'll be alright—we're gonna walk out of here one day, into a free land and back home to our wives and families. You hear that, Susie? I'm comin' home to you before you know it!"

Though the tape abruptly ended, the message was clear: America didn't plan on being pushed around by the huge terrorist machine.

And sure as his word, Hilts was found wandering the desert, looking to reconnect with his unit as soon as possible. But not walking as he had promised, but riding a state-of-the-art Iraqi military motorcycle, with which he jumped the walls of the compound. According to the U.S. soldiers who recovered the escaped hostage, Hilts' first job was to eat a hearty plate of pork chops and apple sauce while giving military intelligence all the information he could about his captors, a group of 15 or so terrorist insurgents who actually did a keen job of keeping 200+ Americans hidden in a detained area of an occupied country.

What's next for Hilts and his fellow escapees? "I guess we'll be going back into service, those of us that can. We've got us an occupation to win!"

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OH MY GOD SNOW

Since the beginning of time, the seasons have intrigued, beguiled, and frostbitten man. With summer came the Sun, and with winter came the Sun's cold and evil brother, Stan. But why? Who among the Gods would allow Stan's icy reign over the nethermonths, shining his cold rays down on a helpless populace year after year? Is this the work of Bertle the Brown? Or Oscar the Finn? Who dropped the proverbial ball and kicked it so proverbially across the street? Ye Gods, why hast thou screwed us so?

As is the case with many questions, it turns out that the answer to this one is more scientific than one might expect. Disheartening as it may be to believe, mere fairy tailery alone can not account for the vast fluctuations in temperatures between the summer and winter months. Who, then do we blame for the profanity-inducing hot steering wheels of summertime or the millions of people falling down in hilarious ways during the winter?

For years, primitive peoples believed that the flat, disc-like earth rested in a giant celestial frying pan, and that in the summer months the flame was turned on, heating the earth. The Gods were then believed to wander away to check out a noise they thought they heard on the celestial roof, leaving the earth unattended in the frying pan. By late fall, the earth would get too hot and burst into flames, sending smoke billowing up through the heavens and setting off the celestial smoke detector, which beeped weakly thanks to the Gods being too damned lazy to check the celestial batteries in the thing more often than once or twice a millennia. Eventually, the Gods would hear the beeping and dash back into the house, screaming "Holy Shit!"

The Gods would flounder around the celestial kitchen for a little while, not sure quite what they were supposed to do, then in a panic they would hose off the earth with a gigantic fire extinguisher that they kept next to the celestial stove. Thankfully the Gods knew themselves to be shitty cooks and were prepared. Hencely, a soothing blanket of snow would cover the earth until the springtime, when the Gods would start the whole rigmarole over again. It's best to remember that in primitive times, the Gods were not revered for being exceptionally bright.

Thanks to satellite photography and advanced knowledge of physics, modern man and the occasional modern woman need no longer toil under the weight of such gross misinformation. Today we know that the seasons are actually the result of a power struggle between the two sons of the one true God, Muzamtecca Brown. Muzamtecca's twin sons, named Sun and Stan, were given the earth as a present on the event of their mutual fifth birthday. At first, they were overjoyed, and the earth was a paradise with sunshine and rivers of marmalade. But before long, the two brothers grew jealous of each other, and started fighting over the earth.

Sun, the warm and cheerful brother who was nevertheless a selfish little shit, would grab the earth away from Stan, hugging it close to his chest, causing the glorious summer months. Stan, the cold-hearted and rather slow brother, would notice a few months later that he was no longer holding the earth and would snatch it back from Sun, kicking him in the knee and causing the earth's bitter cold winters.

Back and forth they have gone through the years, repeating the same routine that has resulted in the predictable pattern of the seasons here on earth. The discovery of this celestial struggle by scientists has understandably caused a rift in the religious community, as many consider it heresy to suggest that Muzamtecca's two sons are total assholes. But the reasonable man cannot argue with science. Assholes, they are.

Over the years we on earth have developed a useful calendar based around the struggles between Sun and Stan, creating our years, months and days. Except for the Mayans, who couldn't get with the program and had their own bizarre calendar with cookies and birds on it just to piss off tourists and neighboring countries. Eventually the Mayans were killed off by a mob of irate tourists who were being overcharged for not checking out of their hotel rooms by cookie-bird-moon day. The Mayans called to their neighbors the Incas for help, but the Incas answered back that they wouldn't be able to send anyone until the day after radish-spoon-donkey day, and nobody knew when that was going to be.

So the next time you awake in February to find your car encased in ice like a Jello snack, blame not the cooking-challenged Gods or the fickle freezing point of water, instead reserve your one-finger salute for that pudgy little bastard in the sky. No, not Neil Armstrong. You know who I mean.

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I want to take a moment to apologize to my faithful reader body, every last loser, pimp, pervert, bum, slob and drip. I know you've all been anxiously awaiting the thrilling conclusion of "Mickey Does Vegas," and if you aren't, hey fuck you. However, there's a more pressing issue that has recently crept up the leg of American society like a date rapist with a garbage bag full of roofies. I fear that if it isn't recognized and brought to light, it will destroy the universe as we know it. Or at least the part of the universe that I like.

Now, I'm not sure what the hell happened in the 20 minutes I was on the shitter, but that's about how long it took for the whole goddamned world to go pastel baby pink on me. Every article of clothing I steal lately: baby goddamned pink. And in case none of you guys got the memo, Mickey Hanes don't truck with men's clothes in girl colors. Not since the cradle, and even that wasn't my idea. I can only hope this problem is still contained in the bizarre country of Californiaworld, and hasn't spread like the clap to the other 37 states.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't pink been the undisputed color of the chick population since the beginning of time? Why do you guys feel the need to sissy yourselves up to feel cool? Did you run out of ideas? I don't care if it's a badass leather jacket dude, it's still pink leather and you look like a fruit! What the hell is next, purses? Over my dead fuckin' body! I don't have any shoes that go with that shit. I'll walk to the nearest bell tower I can find and Lee Harvey Oswald my ass into the history books before I let that happen. If guys wearing pink is truly considered cool, then welcome Mickey Hanes as the antichrist of cool. I will be the uncoolest motherfucker you ever laid eyes on. And if you're wondering how this is going to be a change, then hey, fuck you too. Call me what you want, but I will revel in my closed-mindedness while waiting out this limp ass fad from the comfort of the Vietnamese opium parlor in the basement of my apartment building. Fuck all this noise.

When I first noticed men starting to wear pink, I thought nothing of it. Probably just another huge influx of homosexuals, you know, like the 80's or whenever Ricky Martin comes to town. Good for them. But as the ether started to wear off, the world I'd known and comfortably disgusted suddenly morphed into a Terry Gilliam-style pink nightmare.

I was so angry when I got home that I went straight to the dresser drawer where Nevil sleeps, jerked his snoring ass out of his sock and went all Cambodian style switch happy on that undergrown munchkin. Man that felt good. For me, anyway, I can never tell about Nevil since he just giggles maniacally whenever his life is threatened. When I was done with him, that midget looked like a pound of raw hamburger meat that had been rolled in broken glass and hair, then set on fire with a magnifying glass and put out with a fire extinguisher. And not the chemicals inside, but with the actual can. For a second I felt bad, until I remembered that fucking midget had been using my razor to pretend-shave the other day. Serves him right.

There are so many things that I just can't wrap my brain around. Why I was born. Why I'm still alive, and why my neighbors call me anti-Semitic names for locking Nevil in the community oven while it's turned on. He's my goddamn midget; I'll cook him until I think he's learned his lesson! But guys… fellas… men… we did not emerge as the dominant and far superior sex on this planet just to skip around and make pretty like a bunch of giggly five-year-old schoolgirls. We are the alpha males! Haven't women taken enough from us already? They're probably laughing their asses off in their secret chick societies while they hand-knit sweaters that are too big for everyone, and yet we still hand them our testicles on a pink platter. Well not these testicles! I'm not letting them out of my sight for a second, even if it means never wearing pants again.

Don't jeopardize your manhood for the whim of a fad, guys, because these kinds of things are fleeting, like a tax return check. It's sand through your fingers, or if you prefer, tiny greased pigs through your fingers. Don't compromise the strength and domineering nature of all that is man, but embrace it, cherish and protect it till the end, and then use it to oppress someone smaller and weaker than you. You know, like a real man. Now go out and lie to some chick to get her to sleep with you before you piss me off further, you prancing pack of girly chimpanzees.

If I offended anyone with this column, good. Then I didn't bake my midget in an oven for nothing. Maybe you can run home and cry yourself to sleep on your overstuffed pink throw pillow and write about how Mickey Hanes was mean to you in your faggy little journal. Don't forget the part where I compared your nads to Skittles, princess.

What's that you say? Maybe I've got this whole thing wrong? Maybe I should go get myself a frilly pink jumpsuit, pick up some flower-oil skin moisturizer while I'm at it, and plaster my walls with happy teddy bear and ducky wallpaper? Never gonna happen. I'm never going to accept or believe that being a pussy is stylin'. Just like I'll never believe that George W. can read, or that Michael Jackson is really black. You people are sick.

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