uslims in Afghanistan have become uncharacteristically unhappy with America following reports that the Koran has been insulted and abused in Guantanamo Bay's Camp X-Ray, prompting some Muslims extremists to even threaten a "holy war" with the United States. President Bush, noticeably surprised and distressed to receive the news, promised him or someone like him would look into the matter immediately, in order to pacify the usually calm and understanding Afghani Muslim clerics.

Abdul Fatah Fayeq, a top Muslim official in northern Afghanistan, read a statement representing the unhappy religious men, asking that President Bush "hand the culprits over to an Islamic country for punishment," then following the request with a warning that the groups will declare a rare "jihad," or "holy war" in the Muslim tongue, on America if their demands were not met.

Fayeq did not apologize for his gruff manner or give any sign he might be exaggerating the severity of the statement. Muslim extremists, normally fun-loving and quite forgiving of cultural misunderstandings, demonstrated none of their usual appreciation for extremity of the situation with Camp X-Ray prisoners.

The outbreak of anger stems from alleged incidents in which American interrogators in Camp X-Ray derided the Muslim holy book, or "Koran" (also spelled "Quran," "Kyuran," "Coaraan," or "Krryzzxl" in American newspapers). Unusually cruel or culturally insensitive interrogators also may have put the holy book on a toilet or even flushed one. For the prisoners, who may have suffered long hungry months in the desert, starvation, being shot at, roughly apprehended, quarantined from daylight in prison cells, and possibly even beaten, this was abnormally cruel punishment.

Back home, which this reporter never left, Newark University's Norm Chauncey, Professor of Islamic Studies, tried to shed some light on this unusual turn of events.

"Although it might be a surprise to most Americans, many Islamic groups, especially the more fundamentalist types, have a long history of disagreements with America," said Professor Chauncey. "Usually with severe agreements, Islamic fundamentalists prefer to extend a certain amount of trust in American initiatives in hopes of solving disputes peaceably. However, in more severe cases, or with the rare hot-headed Muslim extremist, members of Islamic groups can turn violent against Americans lending aid in their fair countries. This is the so-called 'jihad,' or 'holy war,' which Fayeq made reference to."

Many expect President Bush will follow his usual trend of conceding to reasonable demands of foreign religious groups, but some worry the president's concession to the requests might inspire tougher demands from some of the extreme religious groups around the world.

"We all know the president's eagerness to please the requests of those who are suspicious of the United States," said Ray Herkle, the world's most sarcastic man. "But what will happen if the peace-loving Muslim clerics of Afghanistan decide they want even more from the U.S.? They might make equally reasonable demands, such as a flying unicorn with a leprechaun on its back, or a golden dragon that shits pixies. It would be a horrible thing to earn the disrespect of the Muslim community in Afghanistan."

ith the upcoming release of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith only days away, the nation’s piteous attention has turned to Iowa resident Mark Rubert, who has been waiting in line to see the third Star Wars prequel since 1977, an amazing 28 years.

“Has it really been that long?� asked a surprised Rubert, upon being reminded of his feat. “Man, I really gotta take a leak.�

After seeing the original Star Wars film nearly 30 years ago, which at the time just called Star Wars but is now known as Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope2K Special THX Limited Rastarized Edition, Rubert was so impressed he got right back in line and requested a ticket for a prequel. Told that no such movie existed, the former door-to-door salt salesman opted to stick around to ensure that he would be the first in line when prequel tickets went on sale.

Rupert waited in line outside the Mann Theater until 1987, when the theater was torn down and replaced with a Japanese restaurant. Thanks to mistaken customer complaints that there was “always a line� to get in, the restaurant folded in 1990 and was replaced in sequence with a nail salon, a party balloon store, and finally a check cashing service. The building Rubert is waiting in front of is now a discount tire store.

“I got kind of excited when I heard they might be putting a Wienerschnitzel in this spot back in ‘95,� admitted Rubert. “Because I’ve always been partial to sausaged meats. But then they put in a Chuck E. Cheese’s instead, which sucked. This tire store’s been way better, I hope it sticks around.�

To the surprise of many, this locally famous Star Wars nut has never seen any of the four other films in the series, neither the early 80’s sequels The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi or the recent prequels The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones.

“I don’t give a damn what happens after the first movie,� explained Rubert. “I just want to know what happened right before Star Wars started. Plus I didn’t want to lose my place in line.�

Many former friends and estranged family members expected Rubert to be excited about the release of the first Star Wars prequel in 1999, but to the surprise of all, he never went to see the movie. Calling filmmaker George Lucas’ decision to jump three stories back in time from four to one without telling part three first “total bullshit,� Rubert maintained his lonely vigil outside what was then a frozen yogurt stand.

When asked what he expected from the long awaited Revenge of the Sith, Rubert was refreshingly honest.

“To be honest with you, I don’t really remember much of the first movie, so I’ll be going into the prequel pretty fresh,� Rubert explained. “I mean, shit, that was almost 30 years ago. I remember something about a giant talking dog, so I hope he’s in this one too. Don’t ruin it for me if you know better.�

This column marks day three of my lawsuit with my neighbor Hamms over Guanica, the masterpiece I painted on his bathroom wall in axle grease, batshit and chicken blood. Before you start freaking out, let me explain that the chicken blood part was an accident, since the guy at the pet store never told me that chickens are stupid enough to run straight into a live fan just because they're excited you put "What a Feeling" from Flashdance on the stereo again.

I'd originally bought the chicken to make sure I wasn't going to get cancer from the grease fumes in Hamms' bathroom while I was painting, sort of like the canary in the coal mine idea, only with a bigger bird. I figured canaries are pussies so I wasn't real worried about canary-killing levels of fumes, but if it was enough to put a chicken down I'd probably have to install some ventilation or invest in some scuba gear or something. "Safety First" has always been my motto. But then I had trouble finding a pet store that carried chickens, turns out those places are lousy with canaries, I guess because of the demand from local coal miners and hungry cats, but you ask for a chicken and those pricks try to sell you a goddamned Lhasa apso or something. Like I'm going to take a dog's word on dangerous gas levels. I've already got a dog that puts out enough gas to drive the dodos into extinction, thanks.

That's when I had the bright idea to just go straight to the source and buy a chicken from KFC. I figure they're swimming in the birds and wouldn't mind cutting me a deal on one, since I'd be saving them the trouble of killing the stupid thing and shaving all the feathers off with a chainsaw or whatever they do in the back before the customers come in. But you know my luck, I get a real "by the book" type behind the counter and end up having to break into KFC at three in the morning, only to find that they must let the chickens out at night, or maybe each of the workers takes a couple home for entertainment, but they sure as hell weren't anywhere in the kitchen or coat closet.

I briefly considered sneaking into work and making off with the commune's own Mazie the chicken, but I didn't want to take a chance on getting roped into one of Red Bagel's lame after-hours adventures, plus I didn't want to risk any confusing voodoo bullshit as a result of stealing a mystical chicken.

Finally I found a pet store that had a chicken, though they only had one because some fast-talking traveling salesman had duped the owner into thinking it was a rare Polynesian dancing bird, and the guy was still pissed off that he'd traded a purebred Shar-Pei for a chicken and a handful of magic beans. I must have made the guy's day when I took the chicken and the beans off his hands, but it was all for a good cause since now I could get back to painting and had some magic beans to sell to Boris Utzov for lunch money this week.

The chicken only lasted about a half an hour in the end, since the fan I'd brought in to push out the grease fumes and Foghat's B.O. didn't come with any warnings about keeping it away from extremely stupid birds. It did do a remarkably efficient chicken-killing job, however, and I've considered trying to sell it to the guys over at KFC once I've determined that they don't have my fingerprints on file. And really, the random spray of chicken gore did nothing but good things for the bathroom wall painting, adding some interesting texture to the smeared grease and caked on batshit already there.

Truth be told, the batshit part was partially an accident as well, since I hadn't realized that leaving Hamms' bathroom window open all the time so I could get in and out was going to mean the place would become infested with bats in no time flat. But it did give me a name for the painting, and I hear guano is good for wallpaper, though I'm not sure where I heard that. Probably from the "cigarette ash is good for your carpet" school of home improvement, something dreamt up by a clever Deadhead who wanted to get out of cleaning up after his stanky ass.

But anyway, the painting turned out great, whatever the department of health or Hamms might think about it. As one local alcoholic art historian has observed, "it's like Picasso's Guernica, without all the crappy parts." Which was cool by me, since I was just trying to finger-paint Lynard Skynard rumbling with a gang of tough nuns. Now the question is just to determine who really owns that bathroom wall: Hamms, whose house it's attached to and surrounded by, or Omar Bricks, who provided the blood, sweat and tears that made it into a work of art that may or may not be dangerous to the public health. The courts will have their say, but I leave the true judgment up to the art fans, who I've been charging $10 a head to use my ladder to get into Hamms' bathroom.

Bricks out.

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