earless commune drone and all-around lovable doofus Ivan Nacutchacokov was shipped off to Afghanistan in the wake of the Sept. 11th terrorist attacks, searching intently for news straight from the source in this hotly-watched speck of the globe. His first news arrives via short-wave radio: "Get me the fuck out of Afghanistan!"

"I'm not kidding in the least," said the fun-loving office cut-up. "It's extremely dangerous here. I've almost had my head blown off countless times. And the sweet sherpa Jimmy who escorted me here from the airport is now a pile of non-descript organic material."

Nacutchacokov, who described himself as wedged under a desk with a shotgun clutched to his chest like a suckling child, had no information on the whereabout of Osama bin Laden or top officials of the Taliban.

"I could give less than a shit," Nacutchacokov screamed in his consistent high-pitched whine. "If I had them here I could only carve them into some sort of bunker made of human bones and flesh, a shelter to hide inside. They mean nothing to me and I would gladly give up ever reporting on anything again to feel the safety of my own apartment in New Hampshire."

Also unknown to Nacutchacokov is whether or not the Al Qaeda, the organization believed responsible for the Sept. 11th attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, was planning retaliation for the recent U.S. wave of attacks. The Al Qaeda and its leader, Osama bin Laden, allegedly operate from within the country of Afghanistan.

"I don't know or care," Nacutchacokov said, firing two shotgun blasts for unidentified reasons. "I have one enemy: Red Bagel. Or whoever booked my flight over here and gave me this assignment. You know, next time I'll read my tickets to make sure they say 'Miami,' you sons of bitches. There is a warm place in hell reserved specifically for you, you gutless—"

Nacutchacokov's transmission was interrupted by a sound not unlike shelling from military planes, though the word, "castration" was audible over the din.

rade Center and the Pentagon, President George "Nightmare" Bush has urged for Americans to unite and create a "paranoid, trigger-happy America."

"Now, in this, our greatest moment," the President said Wednesday following the attacks, "it is important that our bloodlust reach critical levels. I'm so fucking angry I could shit a Buick. And I think all of America should follow suit."

Smoking a cigarette with an inch of ash still on the end, nervously loosening his tie and squinting through bloodshot eyes, the president promised swift and "all-out awesome" retaliation against "anybody; make that everybody. They're all going down this time."

"Some Americans have understandably tried to get on with their lives, to grieve for the victims and recapture some sense of normalcy. I urge restraint in this matter at this time. This is not the time to calmly and logically turn to religion, family, or community. Now is the time to pissing apeshit."

Bush finished his press conference by throwing up his desk and punching out a window in the Oval office.

Later, around 4:30 a.m., the president stumbled out onto the lawn with a pistol in hand, firing blindly at the sky and screaming, "I'm right here! I'm right here, you fucking monsters! Come and get it! If you dare!"

A visibly shaken, tearful President Bush was then escorted by Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld back into the White House, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

President Bush continued to encourage the nation from a small, dimly-lit room in an unreleased location three days later.

"The high demand for guns, firearms, flags, and gas has been spectacular. The call has been made for quick, thoughtless action. For rage and violence. The American people, as always, have answered the call.

"What was that?" the president asked with wide eyes darting about the dank cellar. "Did you hear that?"

He then fired several shots into a nearby secret service agent who reportedly had a "weird glint in his eye."

"In my childhood there was a penny-candy store on the corner, run by a rail-thin immigrant who was constantly in jail when the country was at war. I would stop by there with all my boyhood pals and we would plunk fat copper pennies on the counter and buy as much penny candy as we could afford.

One day I got my hand stuck in the penny candy jar, and I realized the only way I would be able to get it out would be to let go of some of that sweet, enticing candy. I thought how strange that I could barely fit the candy all in my hand and yet expected to be able to fit it all in my belly.

For the longest time, I couldn't decide if I had the heart to let all that penny candy go and just take what I could eat. Or if I'd hang onto it forever and maybe even grow old and walk around for the rest of my life with a penny candy jar on my clenched fist.

Then the immigrant came out of the bathroom and yelled for me to get my thieving unwashed hands out of the penny candy jar or he was going to grab his pistol. After that I was banned from the store."

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