n a move that seems designed to stun the administration’s critics into silence, President Bush announced yesterday that in recent weeks the task of rebuilding Iraq has been turned over to the cast of the popular late-70’s ABC sitcom Three’s Company. This unprecedented move drew a total blank from the nation’s political commentators, many of whom were seen checking the calendar to see if it was April 1st. The announcement also served to quell the rising tide of allegations that Bush invaded Iraq without the slightest idea of how to build the country into a democracy or even a legitimate desire to do so, as many of the allegators (Ed. note: a larger cousin of the crocodile) were seen buying tickets for the midnight train to Canada.

“Mr. Ritter, Ms. Somers and Ms. DeWitt were carefully hand-picked by the administration for their nation-building skills and their position as some of our country’s most expendable celebrities,� explained outgoing White House press secretary Ari Fleischer. “They have the skills, and more importantly, they had the time. Mr. Knotts was not chosen for this assignment, but hid in a sack of rice on the plane and has thus far refused to be sent back.�

“We’re a nation of ass-kickers, not babysitters,� explained the president during yesterday’s press conference. “I have every confidence that Jack and Mr. Furley have this situation well under control, and are delighting the Iraqi people with hilarious sexual double-enchiladas as we speak.�

When asked if by “enchiladas,� he meant “entendres,� President Bush explained that thanks, but he wasn’t in the mood for Mexican.

“Ms. Somers has already quelled several attempted uprisings by the Shiites and Kurds, and her iron abs and hellcat personality have proved to be a more-than-adequate replacement for Saddam’s iron fist in keeping Iraq under control,� noted Fleischer. “Let’s just say Saddam wasn’t the only one who knew how to bury his problems out in the desert. In addition, thanks to Suzanne’s program of mandatory daily abdominal exercises, the people of Iraq have never looked Tripper. I mean trimmer!�

The press secretary’s clever Three’s Company-themed pun elicited guffaws among the press corps and several non-English-speaking Iraqi bystanders who hate to feel left out on a joke.

“It’s really too bad Norman Fell died back in 1998, because Mr. Roper really would have been the perfect post-Saddam leader for Iraq. I’m sure even the Iraqis would have loved him. That guy was the cat’s ass,� skylarked diehard Three’s Company fan and collectable tumbler collector Sidney Torres.

The interim government was tested last week when a local villager, whose daughter had been shot in the neck with a harpoon gun during the lawlessness that followed the fall of Baghdad, came to Ritter and DeWitt for help.

“John, this is just like the episode where you broke your tailbone teaching Chrissy the hula but you couldn’t ask Mr. Furley for a ride to the hospital because he’d think you got hurt being gay!� offered DeWitt with her trademark spunk.

“Are you saying we wrap a scarf around the harpoon and tell people it’s a new fashion craze?� questioned Ritter.

DeWitt responded with an affirmative wink and gun-cocking gesture that had the audience of Iraqi bystanders rolling with laughter, all except for the farmer and his harpooned daughter.

Ms. Somers refused to be interviewed for this story, as she had retired to a secret underground bunker with her inner circle of advisors to discuss the “rebuilding� of neighboring Iran.

triking a blow for bandwagoneers everywhere, Rep. Bob Ney (R-Ohio) recently directed the House of Representatives cafeteria to change the name of “french fries� to “freedom fries� on their menu, teaching the rogue nation of France a powerful lesson once and for all. Restaurants across the country have followed suit, and Americans everywhere are boycotting French and French-sounding products in a bold move that sends a message to the rest of the world: Americans are fucking retarded.

“The French? A bunch of gay-asses,� opined truck stop chef Holman Weathers. “This is how they repay us for bailing them out in WWII, by having their own opinion? Maybe we should’ve just let the damned Germans win. See how they like that. No way the fuckin’ Germans would have wimped out on us on the whole Iraq thing.�

“Wait. Really? The Germans?� Weathers questioned with a note of disappointment in his voice when this reporter pointed out that even the Germans had gone the gay-assed route on this one.

“I’m glad they changed the name of Fren- these things, since I love fries but I always felt a little weird supporting such a bad country by buying food named after them,� confessed housewife Heidi Wartak as she sat munching a fresh batch of freedom fries in her mammoth Ford Excursion SUV, while the vehicle idled and sucked down enough gas to keep the Iraqi Republican Guard in munitions for a month. Asked if she thought supporting Middle East dictatorships through excessive fuel consumption might be a greater evil than uttering the name of a peace-loving ally, Wartak stood her ground. “I don’t buy french bread either. I mean freedom bread.�

“All I know is I’ve drank my last bottle of Evian,� boasted NASCAR enthusiast Glen Riddle. “That’s French, right? Somebody told me they actually bottle that stuff out in L.A., but I don’t know if that’s true. Come to think of it, I don’t like L.A. either, so I guess it doesn’t matter.�

Riddle later admitted that he’d never actually drank Evian, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.

Dissenting opinions are rare, as anyone caught exhibiting coherent thought in the current national climate is in grave danger of being branded unpatriotic and voted off the island, i.e., hit with a brick.

“The French provided significant military help to the Americans in their campaign against the British in the Revolutionary War, and supplies of French gunpowder are widely believed to have secured the decisive American victory at Saratoga in 1777,� informed University of Wisconsin history professor and Denny’s patron Judd McClintock as he ducked under a flying brick. “If it weren’t for the French we’d be British right now, and for that even the biggest France-basher owes them continual blowjobs forever.�

“If those blue, white and red pinkos want to mess with the U.S., all they need to do is listen to our country music to know we won’t stand for it,� warned part-time window washer Steve Lideen from across the restaurant, in response to a waitress offering French dressing as an option for his salad.

Plans remain in the works for a series of public service announcements suggesting teens partake in “face-fucking� rather than French kissing and that anyone who is unable to boycott the upcoming Tour de France should refer to it as “That Big Gay Bicycle Ride� or else face sanctions, including having their Home Depot membership revoked.

I don't like my doctor. He laughs too much when I describe my symptoms and plus he smells Greek. Also I don't think the prick knows what he's doing. You tell me how you're supposed to get a yeast infection when you don't even cook.

My main problem with doctors is that they're all dildos. Every last one of them. Except for radio personality Dr. Laura, now she's more of a heartless ubercunt. I tried to choose her as my doctor at the clinic, but they said I had to choose between Dr. Blintz or the highway, and the highway was booked up that day. That nurse thought she was pretty funny until I asked her why they didn't give us bigger sample cups to crap in for the tests, that seemed to hit some kind of nerve. She's probably had to try and squat over one of those tiny things herself.

I'm not sure if Dr. Laura even counts as a real doctor, to tell you the truth. It may be one of those honorary titles like what Dr. Seuss had.

Whenever your star vehicle is cancelled and replaced by reruns of a show about some kid who talks to his dead grandma on a toy cell phone, it kind of makes you think. Soul Searching, they call it. Though I may be thinking of that dance show with Ed McMahon. And that's not what I've been doing, though when I was a kid I did play-act like I was the host whenever that show was on TV. I didn't really like dancing, but I loved gonging the neighborhood kids when they tried to act like they had talent. I probably would have liked grade school more if they had let you wheel a gong into the talent shows like I wanted to. As it stands it was the worst two weeks of my life. Before the last two.

Whatever it's called, I've been up to my nipple rings in this thinking lately. You should try it some time, it's like a vacation for your eyes. Actually that's a bald assed lie. Thinking sucks, there's a reason it only comes up when your life has pinched a loaf. But I like to think I'm not the only one tugging on the peter of misfortune lately. Like they say, misery enjoys company picnics.

I suppose the whole doctor thing is a moot point anyway, since it looks like UPN's money tit is drying up and I won't have medical coverage after Thursday. Then it'll be back to consulting the copy of Captain Pickle's Big Book of Sick that I've had since I was five, which was probably a better idea all along. At least it has pictures and doesn't stick any silverware in your skin pantry, unlike certain doctors I could name or at least vaguely describe.

I'm not sure if the commune's advertisers have a problem with terms like "skin pantry," they seem to be a pretty mellow. All I know is the one douche commercial I did was like playing charades with a bunch of Nazis, everything was on their "no no" list. I couldn't even say "afro clam."

Until I get some offers for legit commercials (and no, I don't believe they really film commercials for having sex with a pony. Once bitten, twice shy on that one guys, but thanks for playing) I'm thinking of supplementing my income by opening an advice booth here at my desk at the commune, like the scam that Lucy girl was running in the old Peanuts comics. She seemed to do alright.

I don't really have her background in psychiatry, but I think I could do well with a Blunt Honesty booth. People would sit down, pay me first (if I learned one thing from Dr. Kevorkian's Biography, it's get the money upfront) and I'd tell them they had a face only an undertaker could love or something helpful like that. I'd probably have to charge more than a nickel because of inflation and all, I haven't really worked out the pricing structure yet. But I think it could work. One thing I know for sure, no way am I letting this thing degrade into a kissing booth like the last time I had this idea. A girl's got to look out for her reputation.

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