n the days since the National Tragedy of September 11, when real estate prices in lower Manhattan took a tumble, every business and home in the U.S. has been displaying the American flag in an effort to show their patriotism and shame anyone without a flag into running to their local Wal-Mart or Raley's in hopes of finding some cheap Taiwanese facsimile of the Stars and Stripes. Here in San Francisco, the Flag Wars have erupted between two competing strip clubs within a block of each other, and the fighting promises to get nasty as the weeks wear on.

At the Mitchell Brothers O'Farrell Theater, three full-size flags have been flying proudly above the marquee, which announces the latest show as "Red, White and Nude." We spoke with owner Jim Mitchell, who said "Actually, it's more correctly known as the Mitchell BROTHER Theater these days, ever since I shot ol' Artie back in the early '90s and spent a few years in the joint for it. But anyway… yeah, we figured the right thing to do was to fly the flag in honor of all those potential lap-dance patrons that will now never know the pleasure of having a fine peroxided blonde with silicone hooters sit down and try to cajole twenty-dollar bills out of them for a minimum of sexual contact. It seemed like the least we could do, given the circumstances."

To that end, Mitchell installed two flagpoles on either side of the existing one above the marquee, and is now flying the flag in triplicate. "We've got three," he pointed out, standing on the sidewalk in front of the theater, where two of his surgically-enhanced bimbos and a male bouncer were taking a cigarette break. "That club down on Larkin," he added, referring to the New Century Theater, "only has two."

At the New Century, no one would comment, except to say that they were "just as goddamned patriotic as that bastard Jim Mitchell, who can come down here and kiss my red, white and blue ass." This reporter did note, however, that there were only two American flags flying above their marquee, which advertised "Girl on Girl Shows" and "Bachelor Parties Welcome." It also appeared that one of the dancers at the New Century was wearing a G-string with a stars and stripes motif, but it was extremely dark, so it could have been something else.

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.

"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."

º Last Column: Darby
º more columns