he Al-Qaeda jig was upped last week when the Texas Transportation Institute dropped their yearly bombshell with the release the Urban Mobility Report, showing that traffic has gone from bad to shitty everywhere nationwide in the last five years. Though the Texas A&M study lists the usual scapegoats of poor urban planning and American aversion to public transportation as the culprits, real Americans willing to talk to commune reporters while stuck in traffic put the blame squarely at the feet of the rogue terrorist network Al-Qaeda, which has been linked in recent years to everything from the 9/11 attacks to the heartbreaking cancellation of some of this reporter’s favorite television programs.

“Man, I was sitting in traffic the other day for like two hours,� bitched Seattle motorist Clyde Williams, while sitting in traffic. “And no shit, there was an Arab dude sitting in the car in front of me. They’re everywhere. Motherfucker was playing that easy-listening station on the radio like he didn’t know his windows was down, too. I hate that shit.�

Fresh off the successfully disastrous hijacking of a Russian elementary school and complete concealment of their very involvement months ago, Al-Qaeda has again set its sights on our friendly shores, though not covertly enough to fool shrewd American motorists. While going car to car during a recent traffic jam in Seattle, this reporter sampled a broad cross-section of American frustration with Al-Qaeda’s insidious infrastructure-stalling tactics.

“Oh yeah, I see that all the time,� agreed motorist Dale Harvey, after this reporter suggested Al-Qaeda might be behind the I-5 backup he’d been stuck in for the last forty-five minutes. “There’s always some terrorist assfuck driving slow in the left-hand lane or leaving his turn signal on for miles. Women, too. They say Al-Qaeda doesn’t ever use women, but then how do you explain all these awful women drivers? I think those bastards leave all the driving up to their terrorist wives. They’ve probably got camps out in the desert, teaching them to change lanes randomly and slow way down to rubberneck at accidents.�

“Can Chinese guys be Al-Quada?� added Harvey, in question. “Because those guys drive for shit too. Might be something worth looking into there. Maybe they’re branching out or outsourcing to the Orient. Tricky bastards.�

While not as dramatic as blowing up a bridge or nuking Chattanooga, Al-Qaeda’s efforts to delay and annoy average Americans have had a significant effect in recent years, according to the Texas study. Over 3.5 billion hours were lost to traffic jams nationwide last year, a number so large as to be meaningless unless put into context: That’s like watching Lawrence of Arabia five or six times.

“I wouldn’t put it past ‘em,� confided motorist and housewife Darlene Pickering, gesturing to the wall of cars blocking her route home from spinning class. “Didn’t they set off that hurricane over in Florida? And now this. We should stop giving the terrorists drivers’ licenses, if this is how they’re going to repay us.�

During the course of interviewing inconvenienced motorists, it became clear that Al-Qaeda has failed to hide its nefarious scheming from average Americans, or at least average Americans stuck in traffic. The terrorist network may have erred in giving Americans too much time to unravel their twisted dealings while killing time during traffic jams.

“I think about that shit sometimes,� mused Harvey. “Like how come Arby’s never has that ‘5 for $5’ deal any more? They think we wouldn’t notice that? Shit. Man, I hope some terrorist fuck didn’t set his old beater on fire up ahead in the breakdown lane, ‘cuz I gotta piss bad.�

study done by friends of this reporter and other keen observers everywhere released stunning findings this week: Hip-hop artists, young and old, are now officially safer doing the hard-core gangsta stuff they rap about than being in a studio, awards show, or in any way involved with show business.

The study, mostly performed on couches in front of TV sets or while reading newspapers at desks in the office, listed a number of occurrences in the past month and other events in recent history that, though anecdotal evidence, lend great support to the theory rappers are getting fucked up way too much in the music business, actually making it less safe than the hard-ass streets they struggled for years to get out of.

Among the more notorious public incidents was the stabbing of a man Nov. 15 after he punched gangsta rap founder Dr. Dre in the face. A fellow hip-hop artist on Dre's label, G-Unit member Young Buck, was arrested for the crime Friday, while some speculate the beating was put on Dre by huge motherfucker Suge Knight, who has long had a falling out with his former label artist.

Both the punch and the stabbing didn't occur in Dre's famous neighborhood of Compton in Los Angeles, but in Santa Monica at the Vibe Awards, where Dre was receiving a lifetime achievement award. On the streets of South Central L.A., there's reason to believe Dre might have been better protected and not in such close proximity of rivals like Knight, also attending the show.

The very same day as the stabbing, Wu-Tang Clan co-founder Ol' Dirty Bastard dropped dead in the studio after complaining of chest pains. The Roc-A-Fella rapper's cause of death had yet to be determined, but he had recently served time on drug-related charges and was famous for his notorious history with drug and alcohol addiction. Had he been on the streets of his hometown of Camden, New Jersey, the possibility exists he might have been thrown into rehabilitation early enough to give him a chance against the physical deterioration that well may have killed him.

Excluding the famous shooting deaths of Tupac Shakur in 1996, and Notorious B.I.G. in 1997—which some have claimed as revenge for 2Pac's slaying—rappers have been getting brutalized by assaults and murder attempts in recent years, most frequently by others in the hip-hop business. Among other incidents, the shooting of Eminem protégée and Young Buck's G-Unit homie 50 Cent, the murder of Lost Boyz member Freaky Tah, and perhaps most saddening, the 2002 killing of old school rap group Run D.M.C.'s Jam Master Jay, a serious sucker-slayer who could really cut a record from side to side. Two years later, his murderer remains at large, and the police, as usual, clueless. Rest assured, if a member of ultra-white Bon Jovi got clocked outside the studio, New Jersey police would have descended on the crime with a swarm of teary-eyed uniforms, all humming "Living Under a Prayer" in slow monotone.

While the independent study refused make further comment on its own findings, this reporter is more than happy to do it for them: Rappers, Jesus Christ, get out of the business, save yourself. Pick up a guitar and learn to play bar rock. You don't see Hootie getting shot at every other week.

I've got "hot property" written all over me at the moment, and I know what you're thinking, but I'm not talking about a drunken trip to the tattoo parlor this time. I mean, I've still got "hot property" from that, but this time I'm talking Hollywood talk, meaning that people suddenly remember my phone numbers. And it's all because of Ho's!

My new WB sitcom is getting hot buzz around it, thanks in part to all those phone calls where I pretended to be the TV Guide Couch Critic, and when your show's hot, you're hot, it's Hollywood science. Some people are calling this my big comeback, and not just me. I distinctly heard my agent Dusty say it, too, before he passed out and the 9-1-1 guys had to resuscitate him.

The real clue I was hot was when they called me to do a roast for my fellow actor and good friend Pockets O'Shannon. What a kick-ass child star. And Pockets was fortunate enough to have one of those weird health problems that kept him looking like a kid well after most of us grew facial hair or tits. The V.F.W. Hall was holding a roast for good ol' Pockets, turns out he's a Vietnam Vet, and guess who they picked for their keynote speaker? Guess again, asshole. Beloved child star Clarissa Coleman.

If you don't know, a roast is where you get up and just crack on people until they're pissed off enough to fight you in the parking lot. I've tried hosting a lot of them, but nobody really shows up unless the person's done something to make 'em famous. And Pockets barely qualifies, having starred as the precocious, wise-cracking kid in about two dozen movies between 1969 and 1996. I did two of them with him, Li'l Poachers and The U.F.O. Boy.

I spent weeks thinking up real digs that would totally devastate Pockets, make him turn bright red, even piss himself with fury. All in good fun, of course, except for a few things about his grandmother's diabetes that really cross the line. But Pockets is a good sport, just don't ever say we lost the 'Nam, that grinds his nads.

Now you've got the backstory, so I show up for the gig (I never do rehearsals, I told 'em) and find out, no joking, they only wanted me to introduce all his 'Nam buddies, they were supposed to be the only ones actually roasting him. Sure, I told them I would just stick to the scripted introduction, like I've told a ton of know-it-all directors, then I got up there and threw out my script—no way I was going to waste gold material because these dopes lacked vision.

So you can bet I stung him. I started off simple, just how he smells really bad and hasn't worked in years, since losing all his hair in that chemotherapy, but then I got to the really hard stuff. Making fun of his Members' Only jacket ("Does your calendar say 1986 at home?" I really said that) and how his two sons are clearly fathered by some black guy. Then, I got a little more cerebral and all—and this was hard, because by this time these two old guys were trying to walk me off the stage, but I overpowered them—and I did this whole skit about him buying this really awful pot off some Mexican guy (I brought a mustache from home) for us to smoke, and then talked about that time he tried to grab my just-starting-to-form breasts while we were doing that Poachers movie. The best part was I closed on stuff I just made up on the spot, when his wife was calling out his name as he left, covering his face—his name was Lindsey O'Shannon the whole time, not Pockets. For real. Lindsey's a total girl's name.

I know they taped it, but they may have stopped the tape after they told me to get off the stage for the fifth time. The show was just too hot for the V.F.W., I'm pretty sure. But if I can get a copy of that tape and get it to the right people in Vegas, I know I could get side gigs lined up for years to come. Just to cover me when Ho's! gets canceled. Always good to have a Plan B.

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