atastrophe struck Saturday when 275 random Iraqi citizens were sentenced to death by election to the General Assembly in the first free elections in Iraq’s history.

Somehow, amidst the threat of violence and the actual violence in which potential voters were killed trying to attend the polls, 275 individuals were selected for unknown reasons to represent the various designated regions of their country, condemning them to a life full of terrorist violence and victimization by fanatic groups. Some speculators say a few of the newly-elected yet-to-be-killed assemblymen actually wanted the job, as organized groups of Kurds and Shiites in particular voted despite the danger to capture a greater control of the country than they have traditionally had. Others say, that as may be, come the first meeting of the General Assembly, you will be able to count the number of people not being dragged to the capitol building on one hand—the hand of an Iraqi thief, as the joke goes.

An estimated 280,000 Iraqis living outside the country voted via absentee ballot Friday, marking about 25% of the vote. While the absentee ballot traditionally favors George W. Bush, the results have not yet been tabulated, so some of the poor bastards destined for bomb threats and random shootings don’t even know there’s a ballot with their name on it yet. Of those Iraqis living abroad, who had the luxury of voting without being subjected to random acts of terror, 60,000 were living in neighboring Iran—presumably for the safety the non-U.S.-occupied country provides.

However, some of Iraq’s new electorate could be determined by early results already, and were quite optimistic about the future.

“I believe I will live well past sundown,� said Abiri Al-Hussah, revealed as the winner of his district’s election, a small section just outside Tikrit. “Anything after that is up for grabs. I damn the son of dogs who nominated me for the ballot—a thousand deaths be handed down from Allah to the chronic masturbator.�

Others had a less rosey view of their future in Iraqi politics, such as Jukret Dutat, a newly-elected official from Kazul.

“Well, shit,� said Dutat, as a translator deciphered for us. “This is what I get for not getting a subscription to the newspaper. You sideswipe one [untranslatable]’s car on the freeway and—boom!—you’re elected. This is not fair. I have no interest in politics and have no hope for a democracy in Iraq. I am here not by the will of the people, but because I could not resist brandishing the sign of Chula to slow drivers. This, as they say, completely chomps the dicks of goats.�

U.S. President George W. Bush, himself a winner by a wide margin of a seat on the General Assembly, which he’s ineligible for since he’s not a citizen of the country, saw the best hope for the future by the comparatively terror-free success of the election.

“The Iraqi people finally have a governing body in places—several bodies, in fact,� said the president, with his always-enlightening poor choice of words. “These are brave, freedom-loving men who will be happy to serve their people in the legislative branch of their country—not that they have much choice in the matter. You’re picked, you serve. End of story. Your sacrifice will long be remembered by your country, when they’re one day no longer blowing up their leaders.�

In Baghdad, Nassawa Al-Badib, the majority leader of the Shiite party, likely to become the next president of Iraq as the representative of the party receiving the largest vote, had great ambition for the country’s steps into democracy.

“At last we will be able to show the world, Arab and non-Arab alike, that Iraq is not a place of cruelty and violence. I will embrace my new role in the government, and guide my country out of these shadows, into its bright future. I will do this, of course, from my new home in Sarasota, Florida.�

Al-Badib quickly boarded a jet leaving the country and gave the twin two-fingered “victory� salute made famous by Dick Nixon.

arents' groups across the country are up in arms this week following the publication of "Hitler: Flower of Hate," Maxwell Haus' stunning new biography of the late Nazi leader, which according to the dust jacket exposes the former fuehrer's deep fondness for waltz music. Citing evidence in personal diaries and correspondence between the two historical madmen, Haus' book suggests that waltz music may also have been a personal inspiration for Italian dictator Benito Mussolini, also mad.

This shockingly belated news has caused a rethinking of national attitudes toward the mostly-forgotten musical form of waltz and the senior citizens who claim to enjoy it. First developed in the Austrian alps in the 17th century as a form of social protest against the stuffy polonaises of the day, waltz was considered an exciting and dangerous music for almost four years until the Polka rocked Europe in 1834.

Concerned mobs throughout America have responded to the latest news with waltz record burnings all week long, in many cases raiding the record cabinets of their elderly and infirm parents to unearth the darkly influential albums before they can do further damage. Asked if her hysterical mob might be going too far, mob spokesperson and daughter of two Andrea Collins disagreed.

"Are you even listening, people?" gushed an exasperated Collins. "This is HITLER music! We've got to do this for the chil- the old! Do it for the olderly!"

Though evidence remains sketchy, sensationalistic media outlets have tied waltz music to the rash of shootings at seniors' dances which may have occurred across the country in recent months.

According to those same disreputable media outlets, a new strain of "hard core" waltz has been gaining in popularity among the nation's seniors in recent years, a trend that their grown children find troubling.

"This isn't your parents' waltz music," explained University of Pussy Lake musicologist Stans Frenton. "Or actually it is. I'm sorry, it's just a figure of speech that isn't terribly useful in this situation. Waltz music hasn't changed in 400 years; it's pretty much always been as offensive as it is right now."

Though the chances of waltz music spreading to our nation's youth have been estimated by experts to be "fuckin' remote, like Alaskan outback underground deaf hermit remote," concerned parents remain concerned about the effect this sedate, docile music may be having on their own elderly parents.

"First they start listening to waltz music," blathering idiot Josephine Matthews explained to the commune. "Then they don't want to take their pills any more, and they want to stay out all evening, slow dancing and sitting quietly in chairs."
Matthews shuddered at the thought, or possibly because it was cold.

"Well, at least our kids aren't listening to this waltz shit," sighed resigned parent Philip Dillinger of Oak Caverns, IL, poking around for something else to get upset about. "They don't look up to their grandparents at all, not much danger of there being a bad influence there. As a matter of fact, if I could convince my parents to start taking drugs and freak dancing, I'm pretty sure my kids would stop doing those things too. Hold on, I've got to make a call."

Can you believe those cheap ass pants-handlers at the commune? I just found out they're paying us the same this year, despite the double-barreled workload increase that comes with the switch to the weekly schedule. That is the Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger of bullshit. If I'm going to be doing twice the work this year, I demand at least an increase in the number of surplus novelty calendars we get to take home every month. Like the saying goes, "Time is calendars," and you know I deserve to be compensated for mine.

And then to add insoles to injury, I accidentally emailed that last paragraph to Randy "Machoman" Savage yesterday, while writing one my weekly emails about how he sold out when he stopped doing Shakespeare and joined the WWF (sue me, panda-fuckers). Goddamned Windows is all I can say about that. If you're gonna put the "send email" button right next to the "kill" button on Minesweeper, shit like this is just going to keep on happening to good people. And I was pissed about that times two, since not only did I send Machoman the beginning of my new column, which was likely going to sell for hundreds on eBay within the hour, that also blew a golden opportunity to break my Minesweeper record for blowing that little guy's ass up in under a second.

Weirdest thing of all, though, was that Machoman actually wrote me back. For the first time as far as I can tell, unless his previous messages got smurfed by my spam filter. Whatever happened, this one got to me and really put my colon in a twist. That meat mountain actually had the balls to suggest I've got an easy job, then he pressed his luck all the way by asking what in the hell I do the rest of the time if I've only got one column to write a week. What do I do? Shit man, what don't I do?

Who do you think writes Quentin Tarantino all those letters about how he never puts backwards-talking midgets in his movies any more? That's right, Roland McShyster. But who do you think mails that shit? Bludney Pludd, usually. Stay with me here. Who do you think covers the stairwell in grease-coated marbles before all this happens? Omar "Don't Tell Me You Didn't Know It Was Greased Marble Day" Bricks, that's who. Didn't think about that when you were so busy laughing at Bludney Pludd's hilariously broken body, did you? Somebody's got to put in the work behind the scenes to make this world go around, man.

Damn, that Machoman chaps my ass. Leave it to an ex-Shakespearean actor to underestimate how much this extra column cuts into my prank-calling time. I had to abandon an elaborate plan to sell Rok Finger the deed to a Nigerian gold mine just to give me the time to procrastinate about writing this column. And it just doesn't sit right with me, the idea of Finger spending his commune paycheck on bread and electricity instead of the commune in-office scam of the week, or Griswald Dreck's 1-900 answer line. Fucking Machoman.

It's time Omar Bricks proved to the world that he earns his paycheck, times two. I don't care if it takes a fake beard, fake tits, or imitation Alaskan king crab, Omar Bricks is going to find a way to get paid like he was two people, while maintaining the workload of a small child. This victory shall be my crowning achievement, making up the bulk of the text in my eventual obituary, and helping to pay for the ski jump I've been wanting to put in my back yard. Even better, the effort will likely kill the rest of the down time until they finish building my neighbor's new house and I can get all up in that biatch. Bricks out.

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