ust days before the scheduled transfer of power to Iraqi officials, the U.S. occupation suffered another major blow when radical Shiite head cleric and suspected U.S. puppet Boner Von Poppel was killed during a community uprising in Baghdad. The elderly fig farmers who stoned Von Poppel to death with unripe figs believed the Shiite religious leader has been installed by the United States to manipulate the local population and retain U.S. control of the region beyond the date of Iraqi sovereignty. While the U.S. denies claims that Von Poppel had been inserted into Iraq by the CIA to advance U.S. interests, local residents never completely accepted the cleric as one of their own, due in part to his B-boy style of dress and lack of facility with the Iraqi language.

When confronted with these suspicions Saturday in Baghdad, Von Poppel confused the gathered crowd and sealed his fate.

"Yo yo yo, lissen up, cuz I got somethin to say. This be straight from the heart, y'all," Von Poppel told the crowd, pressing 'play' on a nearby boombox for accompaniment before launching into a bizarre marionette dance. "I got no strings, to hold me down, to make me fret, to make me frown! I've got no strings, so I have fun, I'm not tied up to anyone! I got no strings, so you can see, there are no strings on me!"

Shortly after the completion of the song and dance number, Von Poppel was pummeled to death with figs.

While U.S. officials expressed shock at the violence of the uprising, many Iraqis were more surprised Von Poppel had lived as long as he did.

"I almost killed him last week," admitted Baghdad shopkeeper Hashim Ababneh. "There was just something not right about that boy."

Other locals expressed similar sentiments, pointing out that it was unusual for Shiite religious leaders to be completely ignorant as to the particulars of Islam, or to dress like an extra in a Jay-Z video.

"Yo, Iraqis, we gots to increase the peace and respect the police, you know what I'm sayin'?" Von Poppel was quoted as sayin' during a sermon last fall. "The U.S. is the best so don't mess with the rest, y'all."

Experts believe Von Poppel's complete lack of understanding of Iraqi culture or the Muslim religion may have sealed his fate. Earlier this year the cleric had created a stir by appearing on the holy day of Mawlid al-Nabi eating a pulled pork sandwich and talking with his mouth full. When the gathered crowd of Iraqis drew Von Poppel's attention to this grievous misstep in Muslim etiquette, the cleric answered "Yo yo yo, you gotta check yourself before you wreck yourself, Iraqis. We gotta increase the peace, Cochise. You know what I'm sayin'?"

In spite of widespread skepticism among Iraqi citizens, the U.S. has steadfastly denied any attempts to manipulate Muslim religious life, and was happy to announce the rise of Iraqi's newest anti-U.S. radical Shiite cleric Nihad al-Pacino over the weekend.

uture Bob here, reporting for the commune from the year 2015 with news that the tenth annual Straight Day parade has officially come to a bitter end, thanks to the disappointing discovery that there are only twelve straight people left in the country, and only four of them could get enough time off to come march in downtown Amarillo. This is a sad day indeed for heterosexual America and Texas in particular.

Once prided as the last bastion of straight America, the state has in recent years been overrun by the homosexual agenda and according to all reports has been gayed up something awful. Beginning with the legalization of homosexual marriage in 2007 and then the inevitable subsequent banning of hetero marriage in 2009, it's been a short, quick drop into gayness for even the once-butchest member of the U.S. statehood boy's club.

As many not locked in the past already know, in 2005 the Straight Day parade debuted opposite the long-since quaint Gay Day parade of San Francisco, which for years had provided over-the-top gayness for stereotype fans everywhere. The Straight Day parade sought to match Gay Day note for offensive note, glorifying horrifically heterosexual behavior in floats depicting nuclear families eating TV dinners and housewives submitting dutifully to stultifying missionary-position sexual intercourse.

Local groups, ranging from the barely-hetero Shriners to Elk's Lodge members bedecked in polyester suits only a straight man could love, were the parade's mainstays, clear symbols of tasteless masculinity for an increasingly confused world. Beer bellies waving in the breeze, Texans proved their heterosexuality by offering a vision so distasteful no one could possibly find it alluring, least of all gay men. However, even the ungayest state's hold on hetero chic began to wane in the following years, as gay male America co-opted the cowboy esthetic and lesbians took over what little fashion real-estate straight men had left for themselves. Rebellious Texans reacted by wearing the ugliest, most tasteless clothes they could find, even moreso than usual, in an effort to forestall the coming big gay tsunami. But before long even this futile resistance was absorbed by the growing appreciation of kitsch and intentionally horrible 1970's haircuts in the gay community, and straight men were left without a "look" to rally around.

The sadly under-attended 10th Straight Day Parade was declared an official fiasco when it was revealed that most of the participants were gay Texans helping out their few remaining straight neighbors, lending a hand with the floats, marching and baked goods. According to many, the final nail in the hetero coffin was the parade-stopping production of "Deep in the Heart of Texas" performed to lively choreography and featuring impeccable sequined cowboy costumes, a beautiful swirling cornucopia of toned abs and tasteful reverie that all but announced that there were no straight people left in Texas. At that point, the Texas Hetero Men's Recorder Choir bringing up the rear of the parade threw down their instruments in disgust and started making out with each other.

"Well, I done holded out as long as I could," sighed resigned 85-year-old Elmer Viddle of Knothole, Texas, leaving an Amarillo newsstand clutching copies of The Advocate and Hunk Sweat under his withered arm. "Guess it's time for Elmer to climb up on that ol' gay bus."

In response to the parade's results, Congress has begun to discuss plans to have America's twelve remaining straight citizens moved to a secluded island in the South Pacific, where they can play and frolic in the sun as God intended. Scientists would also study the expatriated straights in an effort to understand what makes them not so gay. Many Senators also believe that any hetero-relocation legislation would also include forward-thinking provisions for the future day when the entire country eventually becomes Latino as well.

Please, George, watch that disgusting mouth of yours. Nobody cares if it's the truth, they don't want to hear it anyway. The truth is not always beautiful, George, and in this case, it's positively sickening.

Do you really think anybody wants to hear about your medical history, your sexual proclivities, or a combination of either? No, George. Giving you the simplest, quickest answer: No, they don't. That sound you hear isn't the whisper of a freshly-created buzz, or catty town gossip. It's dry-heaving, and you've caused it, George.

Let's assume for one second you even had a reasonable excuse to mention you've recently begun taking that Cialis drug—and that's a big enough if, George. Bypassing that, was the look of disgust some clear signal you should proceed with the story, adding even more detail and description when possible? I think not. Did the way my face flushed red and the gasp that came out of my mouth, did these things beg for elaboration on your fascinating story about the dick pills? Because I personally fail to see the encouragement.

I was watching the crowd reaction, perhaps better than you were, and I didn't see anyone asking to hear about your erectile dysfunction, either with words, facial expressions, or body language. It's possible, I suppose, given that my eyesight is not what it used to be, some schmuck far in the back of the crowded room wore a T-shirt asking for you to tell us more about your floppy phallus, but we've had discussions before about you following the advice of a T-shirt before, so that certainly can't be it.

Maybe you assumed, incorrectly, people would be fascinated with the articulate description of your medical exam. Nope, George, a resounding nope. The image forced upon our minds of a doctor with his hands squeezing your furry scrotum is only slightly more appetizing that the unwelcome imagined sight of you with your pants around your ankles, your withered drumstick cranking up for action.

And if it needs saying, thank you so much for dragging me into your embarrassing reality. The fact we showed up together to the soiree, even forgetting our marriage of seemingly endless years, automatically leads people to assume you would be using that deadly medicated erection on yours truly. Did I warrant your hate so much as to make people think we have sex together? Not even on our best day together, George, not with a belly full of booze and a borrowed dick. But I hardly had time to explain that, did I? Agnes was too busy asking us to leave for me to assure her you and I have never even been naked in the same room together. And if only I could have gone a few more years, I'm sure death would have claimed me and I would have avoided the ugly prospect of having to imagine you unclothed. I want to check with your mother, bless her piteous soul, and make sure you actually were born naked. Even God would not be so cruel as to do that to a woman—perhaps you emerged from the woman with a seersucker suit made of placenta. It's the one thought that gives me hope for a heaven.

Everyone at the party lived in a happier world before you arrived. The mere notion that something resembling a penis lives in your pants is more than anyone should have to live with. I can never go back to the childlike innocence I once held, and even saying the word "erection" should bring me post-traumatic flashbacks for the rest of my life. A life, by the by, which will be dedicated to making you one hundred percent miserable from now on, of course. The game starts here, you dangling dandy.

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