raqi terror chief Abu Musab al-Zarkawi, known alternately as "The Commish" or "Chief Proudblow" to bored American journalists, made headlines this week by not being captured, inspiring the envy of millions worldwide whose lack of achievement failed to attract any media attention whatsoever.

American soldiers report that they thought they had el-Zarqawi in the bag after trailing a car with his distinctive vanity license plate "KABOOM3" for fifteen minutes one day back in February, but lost the Iraqi dissident when he ducked out of the car and sprinted into a back alley. The soldiers continued to give chase on foot, but were foiled when al-Zerqawi pulled off one of his famous Bugs Bunny disappearances.

"We thought we had the target for sure when we cornered him in that alley," explained Capt. Lance Dank. "But then he ducked into a door in the alleyway, and when we opened the same door, there was just a brick wall there. It was the weirdest thing. Like the Twilight Zone or something."

"Or a cartoon," added Pvt. William Stussenweld. "That kind of thing happens in cartoons sometimes. I've heard."

The resulting non-story took the world's newspapers by storm, pre-empting the news that U.S. president Bush had almost choked to death on a hot dog, but did not because in the end he decided to eat some applesauce instead.

In other news, scientists in Vancouver nearly cured cancer on Thursday, only to find they had instead created a new flavor of hickory-smoke-flavored dogfood. The rock band Jimmy Eat World also almost wrote a great song, and actress Bette Middler nearly delivered an Oscar-worthy performance on the set of her latest project, the chick flick tear-jerker Runaways.

Internationally, lasting peace came so close to breaking out in Palestine that you could smell it Wednesday, only to swing back the other way when some dick blew up a children's hospital with a nail bomb. Japan also almost made news this week, when government officials announced they had perfected the world's first crash-proof commuter rail system, then suddenly got very quiet about the whole thing and refused to talk about it.

Closer to home, the commune was nearly recognized for its Pulitzer-level reporting this week, only to be disgraced at the last minute when the fickle fates decided instead to award the organization for its tireless efforts at truth-saying with the Golden Tit, a sexually-arousing trophy acknowledging excellence in the field of completely fucking up news stories beyond all recognition.

Asked about the secret of his success during a recent satellite telephone call that al-Zarquawe placed to our offices in hopes of getting the commune to stop spelling his name wrong, the Iraqi terror chief was philosophical.

"You just have to take it one day at a time, don't try to do too much. In fact, don't try to do anything. The press attention will come to you, my friend. Pluck up, your time will come."

aw enforcement officials are bursting with pride this week over the results of the first annual Bring Your Drugs to Work Day, an unqualified success that nabbed over 3 million drug users at their places of employment nationwide. The controversial sting operation, brainchild of DEA wunderkind Dickie Milkweed, snared millions of Americans who thought the “holiday� was a long-overdue relaxing of uptight social mores and restrictions about showing up to work as high as a beautiful kite.

“Gotcha, stoners!� celebrated Milkweed, sipping a virgin club soda triumphantly, giving a mocking thumbs-up to the camera and performing an awkward little dance obviously not benefited by any groove-enhancing drug use.

“This is a great day for Tootie,� slurred commune editor Red Bagel in agreement, drunk as an ox, upon hearing the news.

Wishing to capitalize on the success of this week’s traditional Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, federal officials granted the DEA’s wish by quietly passing the new holiday into law, clamped onto the ass of the innocuous “Puppies are Beautiful� bill passed by congress in February.

However, several women’s groups have already protested BYDWD, concerned that the bummer drug-bust holiday will taint the public’s associations with Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, most notable among them the feminist groups NORML Chicks and Women for Reggae. The original, non-Fugazi holiday was instituted in 1993 as a way for parents to expose their daughters to the dangers of the workplace and to drain office productivity for the month of April.

Since then, several painfully politically-correct groups have lobbied to change the name of Bring Your Daughter to Work Day to the less-offensive Bring Your Daughter or Son or Whatever You’ve Got to Work or Some Place Else if You’re Unemployed Day, with little success due to counter-lobbying efforts from calendar manufacturers, who claim that printing a holiday name that long would force them to retool their entire operations at incredible expense.

Others have argued the highly controversial point that there’s nothing wrong with drug use in the workplace, unless it adversely affects job-related performance.

“Man, this is total bullshit waaaaaaaaaa…� trailed off temp worker Justin Penrose from a holding cell outside Chicago.

Still others, however, have pointed out that anyone who was dumb enough to fall for Bring Your Drugs to Work Day has obviously had their mental faculties dimmed heavily by drug residue of some sort, and is likely costing their employer billions in lost productivity and time spent having to explain things six or seven times.

“God I feel stupid,� lamented 79-year old Eloise Hartford, who misunderstood the nature of the holiday and brought her extensive collection of prescription medications to work on Monday instead. Most of Eloise’s co-workers were arrested for marijuana possession, leaving the lion’s share of the 14-person office’s tasks on the frail shoulders of Hartford, who tires easily.

“I should have claimed some of that reefer was mine,� complained Hartford. “I hear they have some pretty soft cots in prison these days. No beds of nails or anything anymore.�

In related news, commune editor’s-brother Gay Bagel has recently spearheaded an aggressive initiative to increase Internet access to inmates in America’s prisons, a move some have called a ratings ploy since a large proportion of the commune readership is now behind bars.

Just when I was about to hold out for more money on my show, Ho's!, they decide to cut back on my role. No joke—me! Clarissa Coleman!

The producers called me into a meeting, didn't even pay for lunch or meet me at Denny's for dinner, like I suggested, just had me into their office and told me they were cutting back on my role on the show. They think Ho's! has some real potential to be the next major thing on the WB and they don't want to screw it up by letting people think it's a Clarissa Coleman show. They said something about an albatross, but you can imagine I wasn't too hungry after hearing my job was in jeopardy. Don't get me wrong, I'll still be playing Ophelia, the white ho, but she's going to be cut back in the show until they see how audiences react.

I'm not counting on people storming the network, if you can call the WB that, and demanding more Clarissa. I'd do it, but that would be pretty suspicious, just me out there with a picket sign and bullhorn, they'd picked me out pretty easy. But hell, even a few letters can get me back to a major role on the show, and I know how to disguise my handwriting, I've forged enough checks over the years. In the meantime, I'm employed, sort of, but it looks like I'll have more time to focus on my screenplay.

I could still demand more money, but I've learned my lesson the hard way. It's just like when the little red-haired kid was quitting Diff'rent Strokes and they were looking at me to take his place, me and Arnold, who had to be like 31 at the time. I thought I'd play hardball, but learned my lesson pretty quick. I was only 5 at the time, what do you expect? But I've grown wiser over the years. I'll wait till my job is a little more secure to ask for more money, my own trailer, and a limo service to take me to the show everyday.

I'm going to start looking for work anyhow. Or make it less of a secret that I've been looking for work all this time. Working in TV has never been my favorite thing anyway, and being fired from every show I've gotten in the past ten years has encouraged me to spread my wings and try other things. Hell, I've even looked at theater, since theater producers probably don't know I've got the kiss of death on me right now. And if they do, I hate to do it, but I'll just change my name. Just for the stage—I'm not giving up box office gold like "Clarissa Coleman" for all of my real work.

There's a lot of good plays out there, I hear. The Odd Couple was based on a play, and I think so was What's Happening? I would write my own, but the special effects in plays really suck. I like writing dialogue, but my screenwriting teacher says I have to give the characters who aren't me dialogue, too, which seems like a great big hassle. How am I supposed to know what other people are going to say? I could make them all me, but then I wouldn't have anyone for the giant shark to kill. Or the space people, whatever. And I'm not sure how all that would go over on the stage. Besides, I got my screenwriting career to focus on, I can't go giving myself other things to do.

It's all temporary, I know. Things run hot and cold in this industry, and the industry's been cold on me for, say, 15 years now. But they'll warm up again. Even if I don't get any more work to keep me busy over the summer, I've got my sci-fi conventions and stuff to occupy me. You can always make a little scratch and keep your name out there by attending those things. Plus, that Sulu guy tells some awesome stories, when and if he shows up. Maybe I should see if he's got any screenplays he's looking to cast. I can still play pretty young, too, between 17 and 28, my agent says. That's perfect teen sidekick material, if any of you are making a new super-hero movie. I don't mind dressing like a boy either.

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