man attacked two flight attendants with wooden stakes on a Qantas airlines flight between Melbourne and Tasmania Thursday, in an apparent attempt to storm the cockpit and crash the plane. The man was subdued by the flight crew and passengers, and subdued so violently that the entire cabin was drenched in vivid red gore after the incident.

According to reports, shortly after the flight took off from Melbourne the man stood, brandished both the wooden stakes and a large antique crucifix, and began to chant in an unknown tongue. When two flight attendants, a man in his 30s and a woman in her 20s, tried to explain to the man that the lavatory would be unoccupied shortly, he attacked both with the wooden stakes. Before he could drive the stakes through their breastplates and into their cold flight-attending hearts, the assailant was quickly overwhelmed by passengers and crew, and according to some reports, drained of all his blood.

"This appears to be a premeditated attack, though not an act of terrorism," stated Transportation Minister John Anderson, a man so uptight his pants were almost sucked into his body by the vacuum created inside his ass.

"The assailant was one and the same, quite an unstable man of not-sane proclivities, given to unprovoked violence," continued Anderson at the half-assed press conference in Melbourne. "Though little is known now and it is far too early to determine his motivations, I think it is safe to say this incident had absolutely nothing to do with vampires."

The minister's comments were met with a confused silence, at which point he walked away from the podium with a seat cushion humorously stuck to his posterior.

Eyewitnesses reported seeing the assailant being led away by the authorities in Melbourne, appearing dazed and a ghostly pale white, yet strangely unweakened by the severe blood loss. His only comments to the press involved a mumbled desire to join the Qantas flight team in the future.

Qantas head Geoff Dixon explained how it was determined that the man planned on crashing the plane despite the fact that he never even made it into the cockpit. "It's simple, really. I mean, what the hell else was he going to do? Ask them to fly over his house and wave to the wife? I think not. The next thing I know you're going to be suggesting the entire Qantas crew are undead Nosferatu-types who sucked this chap dry like a juice box. Ha. Then you'd start insinuating all of Australia has been overrun by vampires, wouldn't you? That's a laugh. What a silly thing you could have said."

"It's clear this bloke was a, a what have you, an Alzheimers, you know, the terrorists, that bunch," said pilot Brett Myers, wiping a dribble of blood off his chin.

Once the flight turned around and landed back in Melbourne, outsiders to Australia were shocked by the violence with which the assailant had been subdued. However, such incidents are not uncommon in the nation, as last year on a Qantas flight an unruly passenger was kicked and stomped by fellow passengers and crew members for over 45 minutes after suggesting a cabin-wide sing along of tunes from Mary Poppins.

"We here in Australia look out for our own," said Dixon, allegedly referring to the passenger uprising but also eyeing this reporter's neck in a thoroughly creepy fashion.

atching fire crazily like a letter from your ex-husband, the Bush Administration's groundbreaking "Trust us, we know" stance on providing proof for controversial allegations has scored fans in all walks of American life, from adulterers and witch-accusers to the nation's largest newspapers. The latest newspaper allegations streamlined by this new information-disseminating breakthrough involve the rogue nation of France and the obvious role it has played in harboring Osama bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, and, according to one source who in true Bush style refused to prove his own identity, the infamous beef larcenist The Hamburgler.

These latest accusations, which wouldn't have been printed if they weren't true (these folks have better things to do than make up stories, people), come on the heels of numerous proof-challenged jabs at France's evil underbelly in recent months. Articles appearing in diverse and fancily named American news institutions such as The Washington Times, The Washington Post, and The Post-Washington News Times have brought a host of startling allegations against France and it's 2.7 million unpatriotic non-American citizens. Long perceived to have a soft spot for Iraq, thanks to heavy French investment in the country and lucrative oil contracts, the island nation has only recently been accused of high-level deception, ranging to everything short of putting banana peels under the heels of American soldiers marching on Baghdad. Which we're going to go ahead and accuse them of right now, the weasels.

The impressive New York Times reported damningly in September that in 1998, France and Germany had supplied Iraq with the damned switches needed to detonate democracy-hating nuclear weapons. A French denial issued in a phony accent insisted that Iraq had ordered the parts allegedly for use in medical equipment, but that suspicious French officials had barred the sale and notified the Germans immediately. To which the Times replied wittily, "Oh sure, go crying to the Germans. That sounds just like France."

Sales of chemical components for long-range missiles, armored vehicles, war cheese and radar equipment between France and Iraq were reported, and slimily denied French-style, in April.

The duplicitous French proved even more slippery in November, when the Washington Post quoted a "U.S. intelligence source" as saying the French were hoarding the smallpox virus and selling airplane and helicopter parts to the Iraqis. Thanks to some tricky verbal maneuvering and a technicality, the French slithered off the hook when they demanded proof and the Post admitted that their source was, in fact, an intelligent reader of US Weekly, the nation's foremost authority on dish and celebrity gossip.

The French goose seemed surely cooked in May however, when The Washington Times reported that France had provided passports to fleeing Iraqi leaders, facilitating their escape to Europe. The French protested this story, perhaps too much if you catch our drift, and it was quickly denied by a White House too busy trying to slap Iraqi fingerprints onto some MacGyvered-together chemical weapons to mess with nailing the French to their well-deserved cross. The Times eventually bent to the French pressure and ran a small correction notice on page 4 of the next day's edition, explaining that a small typo had occurred and the original story should have ran with a "not" after every "did" that referred to France.

These latest allegations may prove harder to dodge, however, since the court of public opinion grows weary of these tedious demands for "proof," and France's strategy of deception may eventually backfire comically in their faces. Before long the public will demand that France prove it isn't hiding bin Laden, Hussein and the Hamburgler in the back room of some brothel somewhere, and this could prove difficult given the consensus that the Hamburgler is just some kind of cartoon character used to sell ground beef to infants. Word on the street, however, has it that France is busy cloning the three into one giant-sized tyrant who will oppress all of the world's people and make off with their meat, just like they did in WWII.

In the world of show business, things go from boring to frenetic overnight. This also applies to my life as of recent. One minute I'm volunteering at soup kitchens just to get out of the house, then my phone is ringing with work and so on. Which is great, the soup kitchen thing wasn't what I thought anyway—you believe people volunteer to serve the soup? They tried to tell me they already had more than enough people to eat it all.

But the work, the work! It's true what the Fixx said, one thing leads to another. I get a call from Vic-O Smith-Smith, one of the convention geeks who kept trying to get me to read his script last year. I told him I would, then when he asked me what I thought of it, I told him I thought it had its moments—he totally fell for it. Anyway, Vic-O asked me if I'd be in his movie if he ever got the money to do it, and I said sure, thinking no one would give this chunk money. Well, I was right, but it turns out he got hit by a Brinks truck and sued for big-time bucks. Vic-O called last week, as I said, and said the part was mine if I wanted it.

I played it cool and told him I would do it, only on the condition he gave me money for the role. It paid off, 'cause he offered me even better than money—a percentage of the movie! Usually that spells disaster, just ask anybody who's ever financed a bomb movie for percentages, or internet investors. This one's a sure-fire hit, though, because it's a sci-fi movie. Sci-fi movies are like oil spouting up through your bathtub. Money city.

The gig is all set, though. I'll be playing Clemenstra Raygun, the star of the movie, and it ought to be kick-ass. It will take about two weeks of shooting and then a long post-production time while all the special effects are computer-generated. It's a low-budget movie, but Vic-O says he can CGI all the effects with a special movie-making program known as Photoshop. The movie is about… okay, I still haven't read the script or anything. I'm putting money down it will involve me in some sexy space outfit shooting a laser and riding around in a rocketship. Something like LSD but it costs less and helps move my career along in inches.

I didn't even tell you the best part yet! Vic-O, he's a good friend with another guy, and this guy (whose name I didn't bother to write down) is publishing a comic book. I know, nerd city, but check this out: It's a comic about a super-freak sexy heroine, and guess who they wanted to play her on the covers? Victoria Principal. But of course she wants ridiculous money and has a busy schedule doing make-up commercials or whatever. Her loss, my gain. I'm going to be Metallichick!

Not much involved as far as the covers go or anything, they basically have me stop by the "studio" in his mom's house ever couple months and take a couple of promotional photos and some shots for the cover. Then people see a real chick on the front of the book and want to buy the book, then get home and get pissed to see it's all drawings inside. Maybe they recognize me from TV or the Brady Bunch reunion special where I told everybody I was Cindy, who knows, but people buy the book and I get money to come back and do more. It keeps me busy, that's what's important. That and the money.

I didn't even mention the big stuff, that I'm off to a sci-fi convention next week. I was planning on going back to sign autographs at the Orgasma table anyway, but the guy whose name I can't remember also wants me to do some promotion for the Metallichick book. I might even help Vic-O promote the new movie. It's feast or famine, as the old saying goes, and I'm going to gorge myself while the gorging's good.

º Last Column: Too Close for Comfort
º more columns