ran, the Middle East's "other Ira," fought back with lethal verbal force on Friday, responding to U.S. warnings to "straighten up and fly right" with a dangerous barrage of sarcasm and pretend fright. Iranian President Mohammad "Salami" Khatami unleashed an attack of insincerity the likes of which few countries have ever seen.

"We are so scared of you," said Khatami, while numerous friends cracked up behind him. "Please, do not send your thousands of groundtroops and air craft carriers and stealth bombers to demolish our ancient culture with an invasion—an invasion, I point out, which would be so justified."

The mockery comes following recent announcements by the White House and U.S. President George W. Bush, warning Iran that pursuing a nuclear program would lead to sanctions or other measures against the country.

Thursday, Bush added, "And don't say, 'What nuclear weapons?' That ain't gonna fly."

Instead, Khatami reacted with deadly sarcasm, holding a rally in Tehran Friday to goad the U.S. and entertain his countrymen.

"Oh, Allah be praised, you caught me!" said Khatami, patting himself down. "I've been hiding nuclear armaments for years, right here on my robe. Wait—nope, nope. Those are just my cigarettes. Well, shit. Maybe I left them in my garage, next to the car I don't have either. But I will be checking this out right away, Mr. U.S. President, who completely and surely has jurisdiction to root through the couch cushions of my country looking for things."

It was a far different tact than Saddam Hussein in 2003, when President Bush then ordered the Iraqi leader to disarm, and Hussein replied, "Make me."

Bush immediately went on the offensive then, informing the Iraqi president he didn't make monkeys, only trained them. The U.S. president further warned, "If a clash is necessary between our two armies, there will be two hits—ours hitting yours, then yours hitting the ground. Understand?"

As of press time, the White House has yet to respond to Iran's taunts, though Press Secretary Scott McClellan said the administration would wait for the Iranian president's rally to stop, then would "burn" them with a clever retort like you wouldn't believe. The rally, begun Friday, has lasted for three days without clear sign of finishing, as the anti-American mob urges Khatami to continue his unstoppable assault of wit.

"If it helps, Mr. President, I'm sure your penis is quite massive," Khatami continued on Saturday, cheered on by hoots and hollers of the crowd. "You are welcome to invade Iran, if it pleases you, but I am sure your penis can get no bigger than it currently is. You are indeed a man, as you have proven with all the threats and multiple country invasions and everything. I'm sure Allah smiles down on you, and will in no way send you to hell to smoke your ass for eternity once you are dead. Forget about all death warrants on your dad and yourself—I'm sure everything is all better now. If I see you in the street, in front of my non-existent car, I am sure to brake so I don't hit you and splatter your devil's guts all over the road."

In spite of a response not yet coming from the White House, inside sources predict Bush may yield the floor to Vice President Dick Cheney to reply with one of his devastating "Your momma so fat" comebacks.

urveys tell us around 5 in every 5 Americans is single, divorced, widowed, married in unhappy relationships, married and swing, or married and lie about whether they swing or not. That makes for a lot of people trying to find the right person out there, and keeping their significant other from finding out about it. In some major markets, for busy single people or adulterers on the move, “fuck and run dating� has become the hippest way to meet Mr., Ms., or Mrs. Right, and her sister.

It started in New York City as a gangbang gone weird, but “fuck and run parties� have sprung up in other major urban markets as a way for couples to get together and speed up the meeting process for people who haven’t found the person they want to be with yet. As Valentine’s Day approaches, more people than ever are signing up for fuck-and-run dating.

“People love it because you spend less time getting to know someone and what makes them compatible or incompatible,� said Mitzy Horowitz, a single art gallery owner who has been hosting fuck-and-run parties since 2002. “With fuck-and-run dating, you compress months—sometimes even years worth of a relationship into a few hours. Or as Grandma Horowitz used to tell me, ‘You never know if someone’s going to fuck you over until they fuck you over.’�

That’s precisely what fuck-and-run parties are all about. As Horowitz describes, it’s a socially acceptable environment for what is traditionally called a “one night stand,� and which I call the weekend. Copious amounts of alcohol and drugs are made available to party guests, which gives them all the excuse they need to cut loose and hit the sack with someone they just met. But fuck-and-run goes beyond the awkward sexual encounter, since after the sex, instead of going to sleep, the couple is then encouraged to hash out their relationship issues and guilt and confused intentions immediately following intercourse. Cuddling gives way to shouting, foreplay becomes guilt trips and insinuations, and sometimes, the more astute fuck-and-run dater can jump straight to “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.� Months that might have been spent turning love into emotional issues is covered in a few short hours, leaving more time to search for someone not out to just fuck you over.

Nicole Wesley, a partygoer since December 2004, praised its way of building relationship experience.

“Before I started coming to fuck-and-run parties, I spent six years dating two different guys,� said Wesley, waiting on the couch for the next party to start. “Both of them turned out to be real losers—one a jobless dopesmoker, the other a real controlling macho shit. Since I started fuck-and-run dating, I’ve met three different guys—all complete pricks. But I did it in a two-month time span, and really compressed the emotional suffering to a short time. I can’t believe how much faster the miserable experience of meeting the wrong person can be!�

Men, too, are enjoying the ease of speed-breaking-up.

“Within about twenty minutes of making out with this beautiful girl, she went totally fucking psycho on me,� says NYU college student Gopher Grass. “All I was doing was checking the messages on my cell phone and she accused me of sleeping with someone on the side. I was like, damn, that was fast! I mean, five of the girls I’ve dated have gone psycho on me, but it took weeks or even months sometimes. I knew within twenty minutes I had made a bad fucking choice for a relationship mate! That’s what a matchmaker dating experience should be.�

Rough estimates say fuck-and-run dating has a 100% success rate—no couples have continued dating since the parties began, but all have happily broken up and been glad not to have wasted more time on the futile pursuit of love with someone clearly wrong for them. And there’s more innovations on the way—party hostesses like Mitzy Horowitz are already at work on weekend getaways to simulate seven years of stifling, soul-crushing marriage.

I've got to admit something: Sometimes, in the past, for the sake of my career, I've done stuff that didn't exactly make me feel like a big-time actress. I told this to my shrink once (whoops, 'nother secret out of the bag) and she said, "You mean like Who's Your Daddy?" So I didn't talk to her for the rest of the hour. Big waste of money, but I showed her she can't talk to me like that. Of course I'm proud of Who's Your Daddy?, and all the shows and movies I've done. Stuff like Ho's! is the highlight of my career.

I'm talking about some of the less classy stuff I've done, both to keep the money flowing and to keep my name out there—sometimes that's more important than the money. There's some of the infomercials. I'll tell you, if anyone ever mentions the Waffle Messiah thing to me again, I'm going to have yet another scandal on my hands. But there's not much dignity in infomercials, you might know. Then there's the Metallichick comic book, dressing up for those covers. Not that I have anything against a metal bikini. But it's not the best way to make your big comeback.

Everything's changed now, though. I've got the best idea I've ever had—even better than the idea to write my own screenplay (But I'm still working on that, Nancy, so quit chapping my ass). Picture this: Child Star Fantasy Camp. That's right, a special place where kids of all ages (no one over 18) can come to pretend to be special, like the real child stars. Watched over by the world's greatest child star expert, me, Clarissa Coleman. And some various partners, whoever I can find to put up the scratch.

That's the only real complication right now. It's an otherwise perfect idea. It's not going to start without money, though, which means I've got to find some major investors right away. I'm making calls all the time to former child stars, trying to get them all signed on to appear at the camp. Guest speakers, maybe make some counselors out of the lesser stars—DeGrassi Junior High actors and stuff, or the kids from Witch Mountain. None of that solves the money problem at all. You know how child stars are with their money—I might as well be asking Orion Pictures for the moolah.

I've got big plans for this thing. My first big idea was that we get all really big people for the camp, so all the guests, adult or children or whatever (big stupid kids are welcome) will feel 4 feet tall. We've also got tutors for everyone, who hang out on the set and just sort of stare at you while you're on the phone to your agent. Did I mention everyone gets an agent? It's all one guy, so that part will be cheap. But you always feel like you're his favorite client, even if you're one of 200 kids at the camp.

No kidding, this camp will have it all down. We have three different trailers for each kid, and as your ratings climb higher, you can demand a bigger and bigger trailer. Plus all the amenities. M&Ms (blue only), small finger sandwiches, vodka (kids 8 & older only), a personal masseuse, physical trainer, your own personal entourage and a gangsta rapper (every kid needs a bad influence). If you're a really big star (if you paid the really big star fee) you can even get on our simulated Conan O'Brien show, with Eric Roberts as everyone's favorite not-Craig Kilborne talk show host.

After that peak, the real fun starts. The ratings start to dip. The liquor turns into hard drugs, which turns into homemade drugs and crack-mixed-with-heroin (crackoin). And then… cancellation. That means you leave camp—you don't have to go into syndication, but you can't stay here.

I suppose we could build on a whole "level 2" fantasy camp thing, but that would start to be spooky. Like my real life. What happens when you get to the part where you open your own fantasy camp? Reality would probably eat itself, that's what.

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