.S. soldiers sifted through the rubble of a doghouse on the outskirts of Mosul Saturday, celebrating the successful completion of a daring raid that ended with the death of Saddam Hussein’s infamous poodle, Ralphie. Early reports indicate the soldiers were tipped off by an opportunistic local merchant intent on collecting the $5 million reward offered by the U.S. government for information leading to the death or capture of the former dictator’s prime pooch.

“Now more than ever all Iraqis can know that the former regime is gone and will not be coming back,� President Bush said, modifying slightly a sales pitch from a commercial for Dodge trucks he’d heard that morning.

“A dog that had helped oppress the Iraqi people for years has been put down, and put down with extreme prejudice,� Bush continued, possibly referencing Apocalypse Now by way of Old Yeller.

A public outcry followed when Bush made similar statements after the deaths of Saddam Hussein’s sons Odai and Qusai last week, proclaiming the regime to be history despite the fact that Saddam himself was still at large and U.S. forces were coming under attack on a daily basis. But Bush assured reporters that with the death of Hussein’s poodle, the regime really was totally gone now. Even more so than before. Bush added that Saddam himself was powerless without his bumbling pervert sons or canine best friend. Unless, of course, Saddam is captured or killed, in which case he would be revealed as an all-powerful monster capable of shooting laser beams out of his eyes.

This latest raid was an even more impressive show of force than the last, when U.S. soldiers cornered Hussein’s sons in the bedroom of a house and dispatched everything short of a tactical nuclear strike to “apprehend� the two men and a teenage boy, who were reportedly armed with two handguns, several rocks and a bad attitude. The doghouse in question, one of several “safe houses� Ralphie was known to have in the area, was hit with several Tomahawk cruise missiles and “blown completely to shit� according to military personnel. Army officials said it was too early to comment on whether or not photos of the dead poodle would be distributed to the Iraqi public as proof of his demise, since this would depend on how much of Ralphie they could successfully scrape off of a nearby tree.

Despite the optimism of the Bush administration, however, Saddam Hussein remains at large. Local rumors have Saddam disguised as everything from a very ugly woman to a butcher, baker or candlestick maker. One highly slurred report insisted the former dictator was inexplicably disguised as American diva Aretha Franklin, which would be hilarious. But for the commune’s money, this reporter says Hussein is probably roaming the countryside dressed as Osama Bin Laden, all the better to elude U.S. forces.

The local merchant who offered the tip, Kamal al-Majid, gave one quote before he was taken into protective custody and most likely transferred to the Witness Relocation Program in America.

“It was my decision that the people of Mosul had harbored this dog long enough. He stood in the way of the creation of a new Iraq at the hands of our generous pig-dog American infidel friends. Also, he shit on my sidewalk this morning and that I cannot abide! So now he must go to his great reward in the land where all bitches are in heat.�

In the interest of hilarious irony, it is this reporter’s hope that al-Majid’s new life in America somehow involves running a pet store or being involved in veterinary care in the field of loose bowels, if such a thing exists.

In related news Sunday, marines castrated a Shetland pony thought to be loyal to the regime.

recent scientific study released Wednesday surprised the research world with the evidence that test subjects as a group are frequently unapologetic dicks about being involved in scientific studies.

Conclusions were drawn based on the results of observations of 200 various test subjects at the University of Macon at Macon Georgia. The test pool was narrowed down into groups of 20, with further separation to divide the 20 into two groups of ten, control and actual test subjects. Then varieties of tests in the vein of usual scientific studies conducted at large, well-funded universities were conducted on the test groups while the control groups were allowed to go home and do whatever they wanted. At the end of a three-month long test period interviews and surveys were taken with all participants and conclusions drawn from the results.

The dominant results among those who participated in test groups were frequent findings of "irritable" or "highly irritable," with occasional high occurrences of "extremely angry" and one or two cases of "violent". Researchers, all of whom had engaged in voluminous tests with subjects on other matters, say findings fit their expectations.

A variety of tests common in scientific research were used. In one test, for instance, participants were subjected to hours of violent television for hours at a time to see if it caused violent feelings in the subjects—it did. In another test, viewers were exposed to looping trailers of Jennifer Lopez theatrical films. This also caused violent feelings among test subjects.

In other tests conducted for the study, subjects were left in rooms with two-way mirrors for ten hours to be observed, to see if this caused irritability. In other tests, the mirror was turned the other way and test subjects allowed to observe the researchers talking about them in the safety of their observation room. This likewise caused irritability. In fact, as results show, there were virtually no conducted tests which did not cause irritability in subjects. The conclusion was vital in proving the case of the University of Macon research team that test subjects are real assholes.

"Before the findings were made public," said research team leader Cal Edwards, "we would talk amongst ourselves about how our day with the participants went. It was easy to postulate hypotheses about whether the test subject was a dick or just being a dick because of the particular test we were running on him. Now we know once and for all they're all just dicks, no matter what test you're running."

Edwards' proof lies heavily in the fact those in the control groups were perfectly friendly when the researchers showed up at their door and asked them their moods. In 80% of all control group cases, subjects described their day as "fine." Of the remaining 20%, subjects frequently described their day as "Enh" or "Could be better," or asked what the researcher was doing at their home.

"Of course," continued Edwards, "knowing they're pricks is only the beginning. It's important to find out why they're pricks when you experiment on them, too. What is it about being removed from normal society, trapped in sterile laboratory facilities, and observed by people who don't tell you anything that makes them pricks? That will require years of further research. Though after the results of this one, I can tell you I'm thinking about getting out of the game altogether. Who needs this kind of bullshit?"

So I'm down by the movie theater the other day, showing some local kids how to play a game I invented called Pogs on Fire, and you wouldn't believe who I ran into. I won't even make you guess, it was Alvin Reggie. Okay, maybe you might believe it since you probably don't know who in the hell I'm talking about. He could be some guy I see every other day for all you know, so it might not sound all that strange to you. But trust me, it's plenty strange. Unless he was an extra in a crowd scene in some movie without me knowing it, it's pretty safe to say I haven't seen Alvin since the fourth grade.

So that made it strange, even beyond the fact of running into a dude named Alvin at all. Who's still named Alvin these days, anyway? I used to think that was a name specifically partitioned off by the federal government for use by singing chipmunks and the like, kind of like those 555 telephone numbers you see in the movies. Apparently not, which sucks big wet ostrich eggs for Alvin and other chipmunk-named sad sacks out there.

The situation was a bit uncomfortable, as it usually is when you run into someone you've been subconsciously avoiding for twenty years. It probably didn't help that I never liked Alvin at all when we were kids. That guy was so uptight I bet he wiped his ass with a toothpick. I'm not even sure why I hung out with that kid, but you do a lot of strange things when you're in grade school. I didn't like that Dennis the Menace cartoon either but I still watched the lame thing every day, just because it was on. So I guess I just hung out with Alvin because he was there. Sort of like the Mt. Everest excuse.

Up until the fourth grade, that is. That's when our so-called friendship hit the skids. Alvin has held this petty grudge ever since I told him that if he stuck a GoBot up his ass he'd acquire superpowers and robot strength. And the little eight year-old moron believed me! I'm not sure how the world court would view our situation, but I count that one as almost entirely his fault.

Grade school friendships aren't exactly forged of wrought iron; they're more like tinfoil rubber-cemented to a peanut butter cookie, so this little medical episode was enough to convince Alvin that Omar Bricks was bad news. All because the little wimp had to have a robotomy, which is medical jargon for having a GoBot surgically removed from your ass. Big whoop. Most people have to go through a lot more than that before they send Omar Bricks a "BITE MY DICK" candy on Valentine's Day. I guess Alvin was just sensitive.

So you can imagine this made for a tense meeting outside the movie theater. Alvin actually recognized me first, which was strange because I've always prided myself on looking different than I did when I was eight. But he said the flaming pogs in my hand were a dead give-away. Fair enough.

I asked him if people still made fun of him for having a first name last name and a gay chipmunk first name, but apparently he's some big shot "head of pediatrics" at a hospital somewhere so people only make fun of his name when he's not around. Unlike in grade school, where they made fun of his name while peeing on his ears. He told me the kids think Reggie is his first name, since they call him "Dr. Reggie" and kids are stupid. He didn't actually say the stupid part, but some things are self-evident. He seemed to think the name thing was somehow cool, so I didn't have the heart to tell him I almost threw up when he said that. I don't think there's a kid alive who would actually call this guy "Dr. Reggie" on purpose, if for no other reason than fear that if Reggie Jackson found out they'd get their ass kicked big-time for making Mr. October's name sound gay. Or Reggie Sanders, that guy's even bigger than Reggie Jackson and less prone to do comedy movies, so he might even be meaner.

Alvin and I caught up on old times, which took about twelve seconds since we never really liked each other and the only thing we ever had in common was that we both dug Mr. Heath bars. That's enough when you're a kid, though by the time you're an adult you figure out that some real assholes like Mr. Heath bars, too. So Alvin and I went our separate ways, him traipsing off to his "children's hospital" or whatever and me showing the kids which pogs are the best for soaking up lighter fluid without getting all soggy. Which is just as well. It might've been cool if he had thanked me for piquing his interest in medicine all those years back, maybe even diverted some of that mad pediatrician cash my way as a tribute. But he probably had other things on his mind, like when that pog caught his pants leg on fire.

Kind of funny how we both ended up working with kids though. Bricks out.

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