merican contractors detained in Iraq by U.S. troops have returned the States, and are anxious to deliver a message to concerned parents: Avoid sending your kids to Iraq's Camp Falluja this summer.

The warning follows the release of 16 American and 3 Iraqi contractors who were detained in the "happiest place in Iraq" for 72 hours, without seeing a lawyer, natch, while they were suspected of being terroristic mercenaries or yet another of the many gun-toting nutjobs just wandering around Iraq looking for love in the wrong places. During their detention, as part of the "Camp Falluja Fun-Powerment Program," the detainees claim they were verbally and physically abused by American troops, suffering the most severe damage to their self-esteem.

Says one of the detainees, ex-Marine Matt Raiche and team leader of Fun-Powerment Team Blue: "I was in disbelief the whole time. I couldn't believe what was happening."

No doubt much of the shock came from the way Camp Falluja, "the America away from America," has been presented in the media in recent months, as part of the administration's attempt to off-set negative publicity in Iraq. Designed as a self-esteem building two-month sleep-away vacation for American youths, as well as a detention center for suspected Iraqi terrorists, Camp Falluja has been sold to the public as the most hate-free area in the newly democratic country. True proof that democracy can work in the country, and American children can benefit from new experiences in a foreign land, Camp Falluja allows daring young adventurers, as well as dangerous terror suspects, to inter-mix freely on Iraqi soil and participate in trust-building empowerment exercises and healthy physical activity, as well as offering overweight teens a chance to learn discipline with their eating.

"I went to Camp Falluja!" exclaims a husky 12-year-old, holding up a Polaroid of his formerly corpulent self in the now-famous commercial. "No more 'fatty pants' for Charlie!"

What the commercial may have left out is images of Fatty-Pants Charlie being hurled to the ground violently, bound so tight he loses circulation in his hands, insulted and demeaned by American soldiers, stripped naked, and threatened with bodily harm by the release of a vicious hound dog on his persons. These make up the majority of the accusations by the detained Zapata-employed contractors, and while this thing is expected and even encouraged for Iraqi detainees, doing it to Americans is just playing unfair.

"I sent my son Phil away to Camp Falluja just for a week," said Hazel, Connecticut hausfrau Nina Brown. "He just came back Friday and it's obvious he's been traumatized. He freezes up and goes catatonic whenever I shoot my guns off in the backyard, and he's terrorized whenever he's strip-searched now. He didn't come back more confident and educated about Iraqi culture at all.

"Needless to say," continued Brown, "I expect a full refund."

In the wake of the accusations, some have questioned whether the very idea of Camp Falluja was a good idea—placing a large number of suspected Saddam Hussein loyalists together with underage American boys and the occasional U.S. contractor—let alone the execution. An inside source at the White House, though, whom we call Dickie, doubted any long-term changes would be made in the wake of bad press.

"Are you kidding? They're already working on the exercise equipment for the next big opening, at Camp X-Ray in Guantanamo." Concluded Dickie, "Some here are arguing the U.S. should take this opportunity to re-evaluate how its soldiers are trained to keep detainees, maybe the very cultural differences that exist between our two great societies. But more than likely they'll just redesign the T-shirts and add more fun runs."

hree masked bandits made off with the largest-ever collection of stolen sperm samples in a daring daylight heist of the McCullough Bank of Low-Grade Sperm in New York this week, amusing authorities and frightening one McCullough patron into premature donation.

Authorities believe they are dealing with extremely low-grade, and possibly mentally deficient, criminals, all likely the results of McCullough sperm in the first place. Common sense and eyewitness accounts point to the robbers mistaking the sperm bank for the usual money-filled kind, lured by the facility’s lax security and complete lack of the imposing 87-year-old security guards usually employed by banks in the movies. Even worse, the apparently dipshitted bandits also robbed the least desirable sperm bank in town, as McCullough has traditionally been a discount repository for the genetic material of over 5,000 winos, junkies, teenage heart-attack victims, the criminally obese and conservatives for the last 20 years.

“Yeah, this looks to be the work of some real gonads,� evaluated police captain Walter Diggs. “One of them even dropped his wallet at the scene, but since it was just full of coupons and a novelty driver’s license made out to Jesus H. Christ, this has been of little assistance in our investigation.�

The McCullough Bank of Low-Grade Sperm, known in the reproductive-assistance community as “The Island of Misfit Spank,� was created by wealthy thinker Nelson McCulloch in 1982 to counterbalance to the offensively Nazistic eugenics movement. McCullough hoped to counter the societal effects of eugenic tycoon Robert Graham’s Repository for Germinal Choice, also known as the Nobel Prize Sperm Bank, which aimed at improving society by giving more women access to high-grade spunk. The McCullough Bank went in the other direction, extending the reproductive power and reach of the very individuals who natural selection, and surely at least the Nazis, would likely have wiped out.

Authorities speculate that after McCullough’s long and proud history of creating the ugly, the short, the slothful and disinterested, the weak, the gene-poor, the flat-chested and the unlovable, the bank’s chickens may have come home to roost in the form of deficient McCullough alumni making off with millions of their potential siblings in a beige 1987 Chevy Nova with a “Big Johnson� bumper sticker.

Reproductive-assistance experts remain terrified at the thought of how the sperm samples might be used in the wrong hands, possibly as sandwich spread.

“I just wouldn’t want to be in that car when the skeet packet goes off,� chucked McCullough head Nigel Barmes, referring to the explosive packet of hot-pink dyed sperm that tellers mix in with stolen samples to foil robbers.

The McCullough incident marks the first occurrence of sperm bank violence in this country since 1991, when militant pro-choice activists blew up the Washington, D.C. Gentleben Sperm Repository in retaliation for several abortion clinic bombings nationwide.

Every true conspiracy-buster like myself has one big, secret wish: A real inside source that can't stop talking.

To which I say: "Be careful what you wish for!"

Sir, I have such a source, and this guy simply can't shut up. I don't know if it's a psychological ailment or just a simple case of verbal diarrhea, but I've found the source that can't stop giving. It's like that duck that can't stop laying golden eggs, and if there isn't such a fairy tale, there should be. Honestly, I never thought there was anything worse than a source that stonewalls you, that gives you nothing (we in fact call these sources "non-sources"), but this blabbermouth has got the dirt on everybody and can't wait to share it.

It sounded like my fondest wish when a connection of mine, let's call him Scottie, because that would really offend his Scottish heritage, calls me up with what he calls "the greatest source in the world." I should have known something was wrong, because the last time I talked to this connection he was quite pissed off because I kept calling him "Scottie." But I've run cold on the trail of the Biggest Conspiracy of the World (or BCW, as us fans call it), so I was anxious for anything to start me up again.

I met with this guy, and first it was like that golden egg-laying duck, and I was like the duck's owner, and quite happy. This was last week, and with all that stuff in the media about the "real Deep Throat" going around, I thought it might be highly complimentary and something of an honor to call this guy "Deep Throat II." By the way, for those of you who don't know, that guy Mark Felt has also claimed to have flown from New York to Paris before Lindbergh and has also taken credit for carving Mount Rushmore. He's a bit of an attention hog, so don't believe the hype.

Back to my Deep Throat—this guy started talking faster than I could write it down. And as my hand cramped from taking long, life-endangering notes, I kept waiting for this guy to stop and tell me to "follow the money," or some such snappy, cryptic advice. No such luck. He had everything. He talked about Bush's involvement in the Illuminati in detail, showed me the "late" John F. Kennedy's tax records for the past 30 years, and even detailed who won last week's bi-election to select a new treasurer in the Illuminati's super-secret inner circle, which even the rest of the Illuminati doesn't know about. And I'm thinking, after a minute or two, "Shut up!" I mean, sir, do I or do I not have to have something to unravel myself?

There's a fine art to being a whistleblower. You give the whistle a low toot, a short, yet sweet and satisfying quick breath's worth. You don't keep blowing until everyone's eardrums are shattered and you've worn out your welcome. I tried, again and again, to subtly suggest to this guy maybe his life was in danger by giving me so much information at once, but he probably couldn't hear me over his outlining of the under-the-table deal with the U.N. to hand over the West Coast to the Serbian Empire. Fuck this, I thought, I can only take so much juicy information.

I told Deep Throat II I'd get back with him, and since then I've just tried to stay away from my phone. Does me no good—he keeps leaving bits about the New World Order on my answering machine. I'm like, take the hint, jackass! No wonder the real rulers of this world want him dead. He probably ruined every secret conspiracy he was ever invited into.

As for me, I think I'm just going to tear up all the notes I took from him and start back at square one. It might take me a lot longer, but at least there's some real game involved. Nobody likes having it all handed to you, am I right?

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