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 address this column to roommate Camembert, my long-time friend Camembert, and my wheelchair-bound fellow adventurer Camembert, who has stood by me through every hardship, despite not being able to stand, and has never failed to follow me through thick and thin, mainly because he has had no choice. All these three are one person, make no mistake, in case you don't know. But what are you doing still reading this? It's for Camembert's bespectacled eyes only, I say.

I couldn't stand to sit across the breakfast table from you for this conversation, especially since after 11 a.m. it becomes the lunch table, and around 4 p.m., well, you know what happens, goddamn that dinner table. But this is a conversation that would have been quite embarrassing to hold with you, face to face, so I choose to spare you that discomfort by bringing it to you in my national column. Camembert, you are having very loud sex and it is starting to bug me.

Sure, at first I tried to turn a blind ear to it, until I discovered there is no such thing. I thought I would get used to it. I don't like to talk about sex as much as the next prude, and I never believed it would come to this. For one, I never believed you would have sex. I could handle the loud masturbation, the sound of bed springs squeaking loudly and the headboard bumping against the wall, and the ugly squishy sound permanently stuck in my memory. It was only three or four times a day, up to nine on the weekends, and most of the time I could drown it out with a loud TV show. But my behavior is my own business, and what you do with your girlfriend is something else entirely.

I'm glad you met Girl Elvis, and I remind you I am the one who played the instrumental part in bringing you two together when I foolishly invited her to stay with us for as long as she wanted. Who knew she would? Her brazen mooching aside, I think you two make a very nice couple, though quite unsettling to see together in any fashion. At least you have companionship, and you have been good for her act with your Anne-Margaret impression. But the sex… once again, it's kept me awake one night too many.

Dating is one thing. Finding you two lip-locked on my couch in the evening, that's one thing, too. Together that's two things. But having loud, boisterous sex when someone else isn't having any, that's a third thing, and this third thing I will not stand for. You two will simply have to find an apartment or house or something, or perhaps some kind of sex booth available for rent or by-the-minute fees. I need to get some work done already!

By the way, Camembert, congratulations for "hitting it," as the young people say. I would have thought your lower-body paralysis would have negatively affected "li'l Rok," as I call it, but I'm impressed to find out differently. You should also be impressed I named your penis after myself. That's how much the little devil impresses me.

But again, back to the subject, this every night "bang bang bang" has got to stop. And I don't mean stop in a climax, like when you make that gurgling sound and Girl Elvis starts singing "Viva Las Vegas." I mean cease and desist, start being considerate of your housemates. After all, it is my commune employment which pays for nearly half of the cost of our mortgage.

I'll even make a deal with you, to play fair. Find somewhere else to do your nasty business and I'll only practice my bagpipes during the day, as you've asked for many weeks. But this offer is going fast, so deal quickly. Act now and I'll throw in a key to your room, so you can get in there when I'm not there.

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