Terrorists Probably Too Hungover for New Year's Attack

omeland Security experts are blaming probable excessive alcohol consumption among Al-Qaeda members for the lack of an earth-shattering, soul-crushing, make-you-wish-you-were-born-dead terrorist attack expected last week over the New Year's holiday. Despite the recent elevation of the nation's security level to code orange ("Citrus-Flavored Death"), the New Year was rung in without incident, excepting the usual rash of DUI fatalities and celebratory gunshot deaths that are customary for this time of year.

Despite the lack of festive atrocities, few can blame Western governments for a lack of preparation. Security was tighter than a duck's ass at New Year's celebrations all over the United States, with precautions taken to ensure that only revelers too drunk to carry out sophisticated terrorist plots would be allowed to attend.

Security was especially tight-assed in Las Vegas, where field reports indicated security was also especially high and obnoxious. Thanks to FBI warnings that Al-Qaeda thinks Las Vegas is "tacky," security considerations for Fox's annual "America's Party" televised concert and shmoozeapalooza at the Venetian Resort Hotel/Casino bordered on the Orwellian. In an especially innovative precaution, Fox held a fake New Year's Eve celebration on Dec 30th, complete with a diversion concert to draw out terrorists unfamiliar with American traditions and the "Thirty days hath September" rule. Unfortunately, this security measure failed due to a lack of starpower so blatant even foreign nationals unfamiliar with western culture noticed. The faux-bash, headlined by 80's holdovers Dexy's Midnight Runners, failed to elicit the terrorist onslaught hoped for by Homeland Security heads and music fans everywhere.

"It wouldn't have been that hard to fool these guys into thinking it was a real New Year's countdown party," bitched reveler Danny Postum. "Hootie and the Blowfish probably would have been good enough, or the Pretenders. I'm just pissed I bought tickets to the wrong fucking concert."

"What is with this bullshit?" asked Aman Halazi of Jordan. "We get better bands than this in Jordan. I could pull a better concert out of my dick-hole."

Due to the unconvincing ruse, many of the bands and celebrities scheduled to appear at the actual New Year's celebration sent celebrity impersonators and sound-alike bands in their stead, a move that might have proved controversial if anyone had noticed. Metallica, Ashanti and Paris Hilton could not be reached for comment, but all seemed pissed that their impersonators had all parlayed their appearances into lucrative recording and television deals.

Meanwhile, aviation officials for British Airways have cancelled all flights between London and Washington D.C. since New Year's Eve amidst credible threats of a plane-based attack on the American capitol. Frustrated travelers, however, have been calling for evidence of the threat and proof that the pilots aren't just too hungover to fly.

"The threat against Britith.. British Airwings is real and evident," announced FBI spokesman Walter Hammel, wincing from a post-New Year's hangover. "Several names on the passenger manifolds for recent flights have match… oh Jesus… uh, matched those of gnome terrorists." Hammel quickly excused himself as he sprinted in the direction of the men's room.

While the names in question turned out to belong to an elderly Chinese woman, a six-year-old boy and a chain of donut shops, British defense analyst Paul Bever insisted the threat was real.

"Oh yeah, totallyabigdealok…" slurred Bever, reeking vividly of rum.

"Oh Jesus," moaned a remorseful Hammel, passing through the room in a daze. "I just took a shit they're going to write folk songs about. Get out of my way."

Meanwhile in America, the FBI sent out a bizarre bulletin on Christmas Eve, warning police departments nationwide to be on the lookout for any potential terrorists carrying almanacs, fact-filled books that could conceivably be used in planning terrorist attacks.

"The FBI cautions you to be on the lookout for suspicious characters seen in possession of almanacs, maps, Cliff's Notes or volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica," the statement read. "We also advise you to detain anyone asking for directions."

"Look, let's not get carried away here. They're not saying you should shoot to kill the first time you see somebody with an almanac," explained terrorism expert and terrible dancer Ted Heyman, in response to America's collectively arched eyebrow. "A wing-shot should be plenty to put any fact-seeking terrorist out of commission until well after the holidays."

t was a year for change, where nothing happened. A time for war and for peace, filled with endless casualties in both. The president dressed up like a fighter pilot. A year where we lost both Johnny Cash and Bob Hope, and probably a lot of others that don’t come to mind. And, of course, the tragedy of nothing happening to those global icons we all wished dead.

Yes, despite the deaths of dozens, maybe hundreds of celebrities from all kinds of careers, nothing can make up for the heartbreak of the world’s smarmiest celebrities surviving another year.

The American public took the good with the bad, and even the fact we finally buried lifelong conservative, segregationist, and private-life hypocrite Strom Thurmond could not make up for the fact backroom dealmaking Vice President Dick Cheney is still kicking around the White House. Representative Bill Janklow lost his seat after killing a farmer in his district who may have even voted for him, but left behind to do his ill will is gay-bashing Senator Rick Santorum, not hit and killed by any motorist anywhere.

Meanwhile, all Americans everywhere recall with solemnity when all nine Democratic candidates for president in 2004, sniping each other continuously in debates for the nomination, were not struck by a meteor and instantly killed in a freak accident imaginary statisticians described as “one in a ka-billion.�

Politicians were not the only ones to defy a dose of cosmic justice. Country music pig-yeller Toby Keith won the hearts of the ignorant everywhere with his simple home-style songs of hatred, and tragedy never struck when later this year, while at a concert, Keith grabbed a microphone and fried every blood cell in his redneck white trash body. His chance for death will be sorely missed.

The world of rock also experienced some major lack of losses: Members of Nickelback, Train, Sevendust, Limp Bizkit, Godsmack, Staind, Linkin Park, Audioslave, and Creed stunned the rock world by avoiding drug overdoses, alcohol poisoning, mob- or gang-related deaths, terminal diseases, and crashing one-engine planes to continue making music. While the pop charts suffered from the survival of teen pop agents like Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Hilary Duff, and even ancient crumpet Madonna.

But possibly the biggest misfortune in the entertainment history could be the surprise double-murder that never happened of so-called “Bennifer� media sensations Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck. The two are set to follow-up box office flop Gigli with Jersey Girl and other film vehicles for the pair, now unstoppable in the wake of their not dying.

As we look back on 2003, with all its many losses, the names continue to form on our list of the wished-dead. Anna Nicole Smith, Carrot Top, Paris Hilton, any of the Bachelors or, for that matter, all reality TV celebrities everywhere, and that smug morning anchor on CNN. We remember the year, and mourn quietly, but not for too long. 2004 is starting before our eyes, full of potential car accidents, street crime, and even the threat of terrorism any of our least favorite public figures can be unfortunately placed right in the middle of. Godspeed in 2004.

I'm more pissed off than a liberal watching Fox. Believe it or not, I've been fired. Yeah, fired—me! What an insult.

It wasn't the commune, if you've been wondering. I'm still employed here, though I'm commuting back and forth between the coasts and will probably try to spend less time around the office. People give you funny looks here and always bum money off you. And I'm starting to feel a little sorry for all the foreigners they hire to be inanimate objects, but I guess it's better than not having a job at all. Which reminds me—I've been fired!

I lost the job as Metallichick to that infernal usurper, Jayme Kristofson. The same chick who's suing me for libel. You'd think she'd at least have the decency to drop the lawsuit, but I haven't heard word yet. Although come to think of it, filling the mailbox with concrete may have actually worked at staving off the lawsuits and bill collectors. But either way, I don't suppose I'll be worried about the mail. I have to job hunt. Did I mention I got fired?

I had a shoot for the comic book and the new graphic novel (that's like double-time work) right after 2004 started and, of course, was still celebrating New Year's when I was supposed to be there. Or sleeping off celebrating New Year's. I told them ahead of time I take a little time to unwind after the year changes over, so they really shouldn't have scheduled anything on the 5th. So I woke up around 10 a.m. or so, the 8th, and realized I had totally missed the thing. I called Nat and he was pretty pissed off. He said he hated to do it, but he had to let me go. Of course, I didn't believe him. He was laughing too hard to sound like he hated it.

It wasn't losing the money that bothered me so much. I can supplement my income making meth at home to cover the bills until then, same as when I only made money working for the commune—or I suppose I should say "money," like "in theory, it's money." I'm not sure, but Red Bagel assures us it's better than money in Costa Rica, and good at any Footlocker outside the continental United States. But I have more than enough shoes. I suppose what I really have to worry about is the rent and shit. Since I got fired—I got fired, by the way.

Money is money, though, and I can afford a break from work. Like I did before, from 1989-1997. It's the all that prestige I lost—shitloads. Being Metallichick to all those pockmarked, glasses-wearing comic book nerds was the closest thing to real fame I had since they cancelled Who's Your Daddy?. All those geeks, endless streams of them, asking me where I carried my broadsword when they didn't see it drawn there, all those lame and pointless questions, it reminded me of being a young TV star and all the times those reporters asked me what I said when people offered me drugs.

Down again, I suppose. I spent so much time doing personal appearances at comic books and additional cover shoots and collectors' cards and all that bullshit I basically pissed away my independent film career. But if anybody's used to going from the peak of fame to the pit of existence—like the commune—it's Clarissa Coleman. So I take the rotted turnip from the earth like Scarlett O'Hara in that movie and shriek out with contempt, "As God as my witness, I'm going to be real fuckin' famous again." I mean, like J-Lo famous, only without everybody hating me.

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