February 2003 Archives

Hello, everyone. I know you're very sad about my passing. Well, I'm sad, too. I loved being alive very much, and I was very lucky to have lived the life I did. But I just want you to remember that death is part of life, and it's very hard, but if you lose someone you love, they'll always be alive in your heart.

If you're curious, heaven is very pleasant. King Friday is here, and so is Henrietta Pussycat. We've been getting reacquainted over soy milk and cookies. Right now they have me sharing a house with Mr. Green Jeans, but my condo is supposed to be ready by the end of the week. They're still finishing the kitchen. In case you're curious, God is kind, like I expected, but he's not very good at bowling.

One of the only good things about being dead is that I finally have time to follow my dream of researching current events on the Internet. There's free Internet access everywhere in heaven. I even know what's going to happen five years in the future, but I can't tell you because God would be mad. So instead, I'm going to take over this website from time to time and teach important lessons like only I can, based on the breaking news of the day.

Do you know what breaking news is? It's news that's happening right now. Why don't you come along with me to the Land Of Breaking News? Come on. Don't be afraid. Now sing:

The news breaks

The news breaks

Every day.

We all need to

Talk about it

In our own

Special way.

It's a wonderful thing

To have wonderful readers

Just like youse

Especially in the wonderful land

Of Breaking News.

Well, let's see what's available for us to read on the Internet today. Look at this. I believe it's the newsletter of the American Library Association. Poor Andrew J. O'Connor of Santa Fe, New Mexico. It seems that he got arrested for making disparaging comments about President Bush in an Internet chat room while he was at the public library. Under the new USA Patriot Act, it's illegal to say things against the President when you're on a library computer. In fact, the government now has the power to demand that libraries and bookstores turn over lists of books purchased or borrowed by people who the Department of Justice suspects of "terrorism."

Do you know what a terrorist is? Don't worry. Either does the government.

Even more interesting is this: Librarians and bookstore people have to turn over these lists on demand, boys and girls. And the Patriot Act contains a "gag order" that prohibits them from telling anyone about the "investigation." If they do talk, they could go to jail, too.

Do you like going to the library? I did, when I was alive. But in some ways, I'm glad I'm not alive anymore, because you could go to jail just for checking out a book.

Can you say evil secret thought police?

I thought you could.

What else is on the Internet today? Well, here's an article from The Denver Post, one of my favorite newspapers. Why, it looks like The Pentagon has a new idea. If our soldiers are killed in a biological or chemical weapons attack in the upcoming war with Iraq, the Army may be instructed to dump the bodies in mass graves and burn them.

Can you say this is a vile insult to the men and women who fight for our country and a debasement of the memory of people who died for the flag in wars that actually meant something?

I thought you could. As one seemingly sane Army man says in the article, "If you are told your son was killed in Iraq but buried in a mass grave, you are going to be forever speculative on how he died."

Indeed.

Well, it's time for me to go. I have a date to play poker with Jim Henson and his magical Muppet friends. They cheat, but I don't care. So sing with me! Goodbye!

Tomorrow

Tomorrow

May be Neal Pollack's

Birthday

But don't send him

Gifts.

I know I introduce a lot of topics in this space and then let them drop. But there are two factors at work: First, world events are happening, events that will certainly go down in history as eventful. As a graduate of Oxbridge and two-time winner of the Bloggy Award for Bloggingest Blogger, I feel compelled to address the evils of France as they emerge. Second, I am, quite simply, a busy and complicated man. Certain strands appear, then they recede, only to appear again. Today is a slow day. Our President prepares to barge into the U.N. building, guns drawn. But not today. So I play catch-up.

As you recall, I announced last week in this space that I'm seeking a wife so I can take advantage of federal monies that promote marriage. Well, the search is still on for Mrs. Right. Since I first announced my intentions, we've received more than 500 videotapes here at the castle. A few had to be discarded. Alice Sebold, author of The Lovely Bones, sent in seven different tapes, but I had to call her and remind her that she's already married. And Juliette Lewis, she's just crazy. No way am I marrying her again. Also, while I support gay marriage, I don't want to marry a man myself, so that got rid of another 50 submissions or so.

But the remainder of the tapes have been delightful. I've masturbated to seven of them that featured strip-teases of one kind or another. Those women are automatically finalists. Also coming to Mount Winchester are the charming young woman who introduced herself to me as "Georgette Orwell," another who said she'd like to see what it was like to have my "nozzle" in her "think tank," and also one who said she wanted me not for my money, but for my mind, and also she said I am God to her.

These are the kinds of women I seek for my marital loft. We've selected ten. There are only ten more to go. What surprises, what federal grants, await the lucky winner?

I've also pledged to keep you updated on my efforts to play Olivia in an all-male community theater-in-the-round production of Twelfth Night. Doing Shakespeare, for me, is like putting on an old shoe. The nearly perfect humanity of his characters, the searing poetic exactness of his language, the sheen of greatness, all these come naturally to me, his logical heir on earth. Olivia is like all of us, except that she's a noblewoman trapped in a mystical forest, but then again, aren't we all noble, and aren't we all trapped in the thickets of our own minds? How often I've wandered the woods immediately around my house, searching for love, spunky and cocksure, yet still driven by the baser passions.

The director of the play says I need to stop writing essays about Olivia and start memorizing my lines. In due time, man. What a nudge. Meanwhile, Roger is handling the role of my unctuous manservant Malvolio with aplomb, though I find it odd that he breaks out weeping every time his character confesses eternal love for mine. Roger is very emotional, but I keep him around because he makes a fabulous shirred egg.

In other news, my public appearances will be numerous in the month of March, extending into early April. First, there is my absurdly busy South By Southwest schedule, with appearances every day from March 10 through March 15. Then I'm reading in Dallas on March 22. Then, lucky residents of Georgia, I will be reading in both Athens and Atlanta during the first week in April. For more details, click here for the best tour page on the web.

Mr. Rogers, RIP. I'm sure there will be comfortable slippers for you in heaven. Can you say sad? I thought you could.

Word creeped up the mountain yesterday that the DEA had arrested more than 50 people nationwide for the crime of selling drug paraphernalia. At first, I thought, well, this is completely misguided, if not utterly evil. But then I thought about the situation, and then I read some Catallus, which wasn't helpful, but then I thought about the situation some more.

Attorney General John Ashcroft, a Man of God, issued a written statement yesterday about "Operation Pipe Dreams": "With the advent of the Internet, the illegal drug paraphernalia industry has exploded. Quite simply, the illegal drug paraphernalia industry has invaded the homes of families across the country without their knowledge."

He has a point. One morning three weeks ago I found not one, not two, but three pieces of drug paraphernalia on the bookshelf next to my desk. They were all made of different-colored glass, and ranged in shape from small to fuckin' huge. How did they get there? I couldn't remember. Someone had obviously invaded my home. Therefore, I naturally support the fact that the DEA is arresting glass-blowers in Oregon.

As I researched for nearly an hour today, other quotes exploded off the AP wire at me. John Brown III, acting DEA administrator, said, "People selling drug paraphernalia are in essence no different than drug dealers. They're as much a part of drug trafficking as silencers are a part of criminal homicide."

As the grandson of the great martyr of Harper's Ferry, Mr. John Brown III does carry some moral authority. And I've often noticed that head shops are generally quite silent as shops go. Could it be that the employees are plotting acts of terrorism, or possibly sex before marriage, or both? We have no way of learning what goes on in the twisted minds of head-shop employees.

It's also nice to see that in John Ashcroft's America, unlike during the "freewheeling" Clinton Administration, celebrities aren't getting away with their sinful ways. As part of the sting, the DEA raided Tommy Chong's house in Pacific Palisades. They didn't get Chong, but they later picked him up as he attempted to drive an ice-cream truck made of marijuana across the Mexican border.

Hah-hah! I am funny blogger who makes funny pot joke! Link me! Link me!

The usual namby-pamby marijuana rights people objected to these arrests, but their day of heavy influence over public opinion passed long ago. These are dangerous times. Anyone who sells drugs, or who sells stuff to people who use drugs, or who knows anyone who uses drugs or, for that matter, who knows anyone who sells stuff to people who use drugs, is tarred by the brush of terrorist conspiracy. Much like the INS arrests of immigrant workers in San Diego during Super Bowl week, and like the random detentions of people in every state, every day, for any reason, these drug paraphernalia arrests only add to our overall security.

Oh, no. I just found a fourth bong, this one on my coffee table. Will these infiltrations of my home never cease? Get them, John Ashcroft! Have courage!

Remember: Every time a head-shop employee goes to jail on flimsy charges, an angel gets his wings.

The French, the Germans, and everyone else who would give succor to our enemies seem to be missing the point. The United States is being threatened by people with weapons. The North Koreans have at least two missiles that are capable of striking Sherman Oaks, even Hollywood. Iraq, despite its claims to the contrary, can smack down armored cars at a distance of 90 feet. The mullahs of Iran are making secret mullah grenades capable of blowing up puppies.

Therefore, I endorse without reservation the United States' plan to develop a new generation of nuclear weapons that would violate every arms treaty known to humankind. Our enemies have chemical and biological armaments. We know they do even though they say they don't. So it's only natural that we should want to destroy their caches by using a neutron bomb. That would certainly take care of the problem. In addition, we know our enemies have bunkers, and we should bust them. The "bunker buster" is a great idea. Why didn't someone think of it earlier: A nuclear bomb that can burrow into the earth and explode underground, thereby only damaging underground weapons caches, never harming a soul, except for maybe some insects. My god! It's foolproof!

I, for one, will be attending Donald Rumsfeld's secret meeting in New Mexico during the week of August 4. The place where he's holding the meeting is only about a day's drive from Burning Man, after all. I'm especially excited to host the panel titled "What are the warhead characteristics and advanced concepts we will need in the post-NPR environment?" Well, I don't have all the answers to that one, but I do know that I look forward to that post-NPR environment. Hasta luego, Car Talk. Now what will our nation's college professors do without their daily dose of leftist propaganda?

Maybe they'll chill out. After all, nobody dies during nuclear tests. And we know these advanced weapons are necessary. I mean, nobody wanted us to distribute those exploding condoms to a few test market high-schools in suburban Ohio, but I can guarantee you that a whole generation is now starting to think differently about pre-marital sex.

As for those people who are dithering about The Bush Administration's attempt to sneak through exemptions on weapons testing for its totally unproven missile defense system, I say, pooh. It will work, sources tell me. This is the Pentagon we're talking about. Nothing can go wrong. Alaska will be safe from a nuclear attack. We've got missile defense. All is secure. Please stand clear of the perimeter. Nothing to see here.

Lest I risk turning this space into just another blog, let me point you to my "character" entry for today. But I did have a few business matters to discuss, and it wouldn't make sense to do them in character.

First, let me start by saying that the responses to my piece in the current issue of The Stranger have been tremendous. I've posted some of them on the best letters page on the web. Mostly, the comments have been positive, but I did hear from one guy who called me a "useful idiot" for the pro-war camp, and another who charmingly likened me to an Auschwitz-bound Jew "shuffling off to the boxcar." Charming.

This gentleman obviously misunderstood my complicated point. I didn't say that people should stop thinking about, talking about, or protesting the war. And I certainly don't want anyone to roll over and let the Bush Administration do what it wants. I just object to the pompous, official, elite tenor of the discussion. As evidence, I present this ridiculous New York Times Magazine piece by Walter Kirn, in which he discusses how dismayed he was in 1983 that his fellow Rhodes Scholars at Oxford looked down on him because he was an American. This, apparently, reflects on the way that ALL Europeans look at ALL Americans. He conflates his teenage insecurity into a global trend 20 years later. This sentence floored me: "In the eyes of my anti-American schoolmates I was, and always would be, Merle Haggard."

First of all, Merle Haggard is one of the best country songwriters of all time. Second of all, Walter Kirn would be lucky if he were compared with Merle Haggard. What would YOU rather have written: "Swingin' Doors," or that Times Magazine piece? Merle Haggard rules. Walter Kirn is a magazine writer and also an influential book critic. But I'm not against shooting my career in the foot. I will say my wacky catchphrase here for the last time: Shut up, Walter Kirn. Shut up.

Of course, I may be rightly accused of unseriousness after my feature in Nerve today. Just for the record, I don't think that my sexual fetish for Wonder Woman is more important than the war. Nerve just asked me to do a piece, I needed the money, and this was the only story idea they liked. Mock me if you will. But for this week's contest, send me brief descriptions of your own sexual fetishes. They have to be cartoony and ridiculous like mine. Leather and spanking are dull. And don't try to pull one over on me. Like I've said before, I can spot bad humor writing at 100 paces.

Speaking of Amazons, thanks to those of you who've reviewed Beneath the Axis of Evil on Amazon. Anyone else who's read the book and wants to pimp me is more than welcome. Also, if you live in Austin, Texas, or nearby, you should attend this event on Wednesday night. I'm reading, there will be bands, and all proceeds will benefit Students For Nonviolence.

Thanks for sitting through the commercial. Keep reading for fresh hilarity from the heart of the Internet.

An early thaw has come to Mount Winchester. Though the handsome young men who bathe beneath my rooftop deck haven't yet taken leave from their Chelsea photography studios, I can still revel in the warmth, both from the sun and my imported coffee. Roger went to see his dentist (who is also his brother) in Maine this weekend, so it was just Peggy and I. The damn kid cried through the night on Friday, so on Saturday morning I slugged a Pimm's and Sprite down her gullet and together we watched a terrifying movie about the fiery death of nearly 100 hair-metal fans. That quelled her for a while.

I went to my study and began compiling a list of the crimes of Sami Al-Arian. They are really too numerous to mention. First, he's Palestinian, which condemns him right there. Second, he's made phone calls, several of them, to the so-called occupied territories. He appears to be bald and unashmed of it. He's a college professor who refused to register his syllabus with the government. Also, he's raised lots of money for terrorist groups. Under Patriot Act II, that's more than enough evidence for Mr. Al-Arian to disappear into the bowels of the American prison system forever, with no right to an attorney, no right to a trial, no access to his family, and no need to be charged with a specific crime. This may be "politics," as the Good Professor says, but to my mind, it's the right kind of politics. John Ashcroft says the man is a terrorist. Therefore, I hope we never hear of or from him again.

To change gears slightly: entries may be shorter this week, and indeed continue to be brief until the war starts. For a delightful thing has happened! I've been cast in an all-male community theater-in-the-round production of Twelfth Night. At Oxbridge, I played Hamlet, and Macbeth, and Lear, and Othello, and also Titania, queen of the fairies. Now I once again get to play a woman, for I've been cast as Olivia, the fair princess who cross-dresses her way through the magic forest of Illylria. Roger is also in the production. He'll play Malvolio, Olivia's oily, pompous manservant who is secretly in love with her.

It's nice that the director cast Roger and I against type.

Doing Shakespeare presents unique challenges to a man of action, and also of letters. This space will be an occasional chronicle of those challenges. But for now, I say: "If music be the food of love, play on! Thou art more lovely, and more temperate! Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player, who struts and frets his hour upon the stage..."

Line!

In my continuing effort to have one, but only one, article appear in every current English-language publication, I would like to announce the addition of Seattle's The Stranger to my roster of the conquered. This is the link to the specific article, which has already caused a furor among the seventeen people worldwide who care about such matters. Enjoy, or don't. Your opinions are always welcome here.

Now, before I head off this weekend to San Bernadino, where I'll be addressing the yearly meeting of the Council On Conservative Citizen Councils, I'd like to announce that the United States has a new enemy. No, it's not Muslim insurgents in The Phillippines. That's just the daily business of the War On Terror, nothing you should be concerned about at all.

I'm talking, naturally, about Turkey. It's readily apparent to me, as it should be to anyone who reads, that Turkey is harboring terrorists. The Turks would use the $26 billion they want to extort from us to build weapons of mass destruction and also the enormous mosque that, according to Revelations 3:1, will signal the ascendancy of the Antichrist. I don't know about you, but I want my clone baby to live in a world without Armageddon, especially because she's half-Jewish.

Therefore, the U.S. government should not give in to Turkish blackmail. The British nearly did in 1913, and because of that, T.E. Lawrence died in a motorcycle accident 30 years later. We should cut Turkey out of NATO, and the U.N., altogether. Despite the calumnies of New York Times columnist Paul Krugman, who is in great danger of violating Patriot Act II, thereby risking life imprisonment without legal counsel, it's quite apparent that the U.S. is perfectly capable of finding another country on the northern border of Iraq from which to stage the liberation of the Middle East from tyranny.

The government must shut out the sinister Turks, at least until our forces march into Ankara. And we, as Americans, need to boycott all things Turkish. No more Turkish rugs. Sorry. No more kafta kebab, even if the vendor is Lebanese. All copies of The Prophet must go straight into the fire. I don't care if Kahlil Gibran isn't Turkish. It's still a shitty book.

Under U.N. resolution 1307, the smoking of hookahs is still acceptable. I'll give the U.N. that one. But no more Turkish coffee, Turkish baths, Turkish Delight, or Turkish prisons.

More importantly, no more turkeys.

We must ban turkeys in the United States. From now on, Americans should eat pot roast at Thanksgiving, and ham at Christmas. Turkey breast? Forbidden. The Turks don't allow their women to even HAVE breasts. Turkey sausage? Whatever happened to good old American pork sausage?

My point may be subtle, but I think you understand. Fuck the Turks. We've got England on our side, and that's all that matters. Together, the United States and England will rule the world, until the end of time.

Have a nice weekend.

Neal

As Alessandra Stanley observantly observed in a recent New York Times article, with the world hurtling toward a cataclysmic war, it’s nice that a nervous public can still be soothed by incessant video footage of Michael Jackson. “The administration should be grateful that there is still a public appetite for celebrity scandal,” Staley wrote.

Well, count me among the grateful. I spent three years on the road with Michael Jackson, making a BBC documentary called On The Road With Michael Jackson. When Martin Bashir’s camera was off, mine was on. When Michael turned off his own camera, mine stayed on. In fact, my lens was fixed on Michael for nearly every second of the 36 months we spent together, except for the two hours a day when he excused himself for what he called “dangling practice.” What he said surprised even me, and I was hanging out with the dude all the time.

Now, for the first time anywhere, you can read excerpts of my stunning documentary. Culled from nearly 10,000 hours of videotape, these carefully edited conversations reveal a new Michael Jackson, nothing like the other new Michael Jacksons we’ve gotten to know over the past few weeks. At last, the truth will be unfurled to break the chains that bind us all. Now, shhh. The excerpts are starting…

NP: First, Michael, I just want to say what a remarkable husband, father, brother, son, and houseguest you appear to be.

MJ: Why, thank you.

NP: I mean, really, you are such a special person, and the world is lucky to have you.

MJ: That’s very kind.

NP: So now, I have to ask you, about the plastic surgery: Are you some kind of freak or something?

MJ: I’m pained that the world commits me to its prurient gaze as if I were a collectively-owned object. What is a face, after all, but a reflection of the soul? I urge people to look into my eyes and see themselves. They will behold a beautiful man, albeit one with acid burns and a nose that appears to have been sliced to bits by a carrot peeler.

NP: How profound.

MJ: Yes. And I also wanted to add that I collect all the discarded skin after my surgeries.

NP: Is that so?

MJ: Yes. And I eat it.

NP: Wow!

MJ: It’s quite delicious, actually. I take all this dead skin and I mix it with a couple of raw eggs, throw in some tomatoes and onions, and toss it in a pan. If I want it to be fluffier, I use egg whites instead of the whole egg. Occasionally I add some low-fat cheese. God, how I love eating my own skin! It makes me feel like a man, especially when I wash it down with an absolutely delicious glass of goat sperm mixed with cherry juice. Mmmm!

NP: Can I have your permission to use that quote?

MJ: I’ve got nothing to hide.

NP: Good! That leads nicely into my next question. Your many accusers have accused you of being ashamed of your race. Well, are you? Ashamed to be black, that is?

MJ: As I will discuss on my new album, Nigger: Anatomy of a Vicious Insult, race, like gender, is a social construct used by the powerful to drive wedges between people. The public discussion about my African-American “identity” should be seen as nothing more than a metaphor for national guilt about decades of racial discrimination and misunderstanding. So, of course, I’m totally ashamed to be black. It’s why I do what I do.

NP: What do you mean?

MJ: My bodyguards and I often leave the house under cover of darkness, looking for black people to beat up.

NP: What?

MJ: Oh, yes. Usually old black ladies. We find them waiting for the bus or coming out of the supermarket, and we just pound the living shit out of them.

NP: How unusual!

MJ: I know! Isn’t it? One time, we barged into a black Baptist church on a Sunday morning. With our baseball bats, we brained the entire congregation. There was blood all over the pews!

NP: Why didn’t I hear about this before?

MJ: People know better than to snitch on me. I’m Michael fucking Jackson, and I love to beat up old black ladies! Yessirree!

NP: Once again, you know I’m filming, right?

MJ: Right. I just want people to know the truth. It’s time.

NP: And that brings up another line of discussion. Why do you think so many people are interested in your personal life?

MJ: In my private moments, while I’m feeding the giraffes or jumping on my trampoline, I often ponder the nature of my celebrity. People definitely covet my fabulous wealth and my pet monkeys. But fame, like love, is an illusion, a weight, and a dark mystery. By the way, would you like piece of delicious chocolate-covered candy?

NP: No thanks.

MJ: Are you sure? It’s made from the testicles of the magical pixies that live in my basement!

NP: The what?

MJ: The magical pixies. They are my white slaves. With the help of the Minister Louis Farrakhan, I developed a great potion that allows me to create and control a vast army of mini-slaves who do my every bidding.

NP: Um, I think I should get going.

MJ: You don’t believe me?

NP: No, Michael, I believe you.

MJ: Because I can take you downstairs to meet them. It’s almost the hour of their daily exercises!

NP: That’s all right. Seriously. Listen. I know this is an uncomfortable subject, but your sex life has been in the news a lot lately.

MJ: Ah, yes. The sexually repressed American public is once again living vicariously through the salacious lives of its celebrities.

NP: But the British people are interested, too.

MJ: Yes, but the British people are also foolishly opposing our noble war against the brutal tyrant Saddam Hussein, even while their Prime Minister Tony Blair, who may be the new Gladstone, bravely stands firm, disregarding the political price he may pay.

NP: Agreed. Still, I think we all want to know why you said those things about sleeping with children.

MJ: I said them for a reason.

NP: What’s that?

MJ: Because I very much enjoy having sex with little boys.

NP: Seriously?

MJ: Oh, yes. Little boys make wonderful sex partners.

NP: On the record?

MJ: Sure! I’m not ashamed. There’ve been times in human history, after all, when pedophilia has been, if not accepted, then at least tolerated, especially when committed by the wealthy. I just happen to have been born into a time when my proclivity is seen as the worst of all sins.

NP: That’s a very interesting but ultimately misguided way to look at the situation.

MJ: Thanks. Did you know I take pictures?

NP: Of what?

MJ: Of me having sex with little boys.

NP: Really?

MJ: Yes. Would you like to see the pictures and maybe put them in your film?

NP: I thought you’d never ask.

MJ: Consider it my gift to you.

NP: Michael Jackson, you are a delight.

MJ: Also, I enjoy having sex with cats.

I, for one, am relieved that President Bush ended his two-day silence and dismissed all anti-war protesters with a cavalier shrug. But had I been his speechwriter, I would have added, "for a focus group, they're pretty unfocused." That's a good one!

Still, there was no humor in my heart as I watched my so-called friends head off to their so-called demonstrations this past weekend. My throat filled with bile. Fortunately, I had some scotch, and I spent most of Saturday drunk and grumbling while CNN droned in the background. Peace, my ass. Do the protesters really think that the collective, spontaneous voice of six million people worldwide is going to influence the opinion of the just President of a righteous nation? Don't they realize that six million Jews died in the Holocaust precisely because not enough people spoke out?

Wait. That kills my argument. Let me think about it.

OK. Now I've got the right spin. These same people would have said, don't attack Germany. Hitler doesn't have any weapons. He just wants the Sudetenland. Peace, man, peace. Fine, he can have Czechoslovakia, too. But that's it. And it's OK if he kills the gypsies, as long as...You get the idea; my sense of history is astonishing. Now, the same thing is about to happen. Let's see how today's Neville Chamberlains feel when Saddam Hussein's mighty forces march into Istanbul and Riadyh. It really could happen if the shifty French have their way and the inspectors are given more time to dither away while Rome burns and the Germans sell nerve gas to our enemies.

For those of you who think that attacking Iraq is "inhumane," let me quote an Iraqi dissident who, from an anonymous email address in England, has been sending out letters pleading with the international community to bomb his native country into submission:

"Please, my friends. You do not understand what a monster this Saddam Hussein is. If I were to return to home today, Saddam would cut out the other half of my tongue. He would strap me to a table and attach a hungry lizard to my testicles. I know this for a fact, because he did it to my brother. Since Saddam Hussein came to power, more than one million babies have died by his hand alone. All he does, all day, is kill babies. He must be stopped. That's why a massive American invasion of the Arabian peninsula, followed by an overwhelming military occupation without any forseeable end, is precisely what the Middle East needs right now."

Amen.

If you've read Beneath the Axis of Evil, please post a review on Amazon. Thanks.

In recent days, on TV, Americans less well-off than I have made brutal sacrifices by dumping expensive French wine into plastic buckets. And damn it, I've decided, they're right. We must erase all evidence of our cultural association with the French from our lives. So with a sorrowful, snowbound fury, I've been cleaning out my attic.

Onto the wind I released the handkerchief given to my father by his first and only true love, Edith Piaf. Down the coal chute tumbled the rubber tubing that Jean Genet used for god knows what purposes. With my trusty hammer, I smashed my copy of Barbarella, a sexy movie directed by a Frenchman, and all those Serge Gainsbourg records to which I used to masturbate so merrily. Finally, into the fire I tossed an autographed first folio edition of Tartuffe. It simply has no value to me anymore.

As I tore up several Charles Azanvour magazine covers, a great sadness filled my heart. It was after the war (which war, I don't remember. There were so many, and they were all so sad) that I first saw Paris. Even then, as I lay with a 15-franc prostitute within spitting distance of Montmartre, I knew that these beautiful days would have to end. Once, at a restaurant we both favored, A.J. Liebling said to me, between enormous bites of pork liver pate, "it's becoming harder and harder to feel my legs." The next day, I ran into Henry Miller in front of Shakespeare and Company and kicked him in the balls because I mistakenly thought he was a Communist. Later, I attended the first Cannes Film Festival in 1949, or whenever the first Cannes Film Festival was, and had a pretty good time. Sometime after that, I opened for MC Solaar at the Place de Vendome, and I knew that Paris was a damn nice place to visit.

But that world is gone now. These are not existential times. Hell is other people. And those people are French.

In my basement sits a wheel of Montrachet , given to me by Isabelle Huppert in 1981, or maybe 1982. Next to that, a brick of Edel de Cleron, a gift from Catherine Deneuve, and a very special wedge of Bleu de Casses, from Gerard Depardieu's private stock. But now they are all going to the geese.

Shit. I really love cheese. Why have you done this to me, France, why? Pourquoi?

No!

I will speak Franglish no more!

All transcontinental partings aside, Beneath the Axis of Evil is finally for sale at Amazon.com. If you've read the book, please take ten minutes from your own Francophiliac purgings to write a review. Even if you haven't read the book, write a review. Let's load up the site so Amazon is forced to order more than two books from my publisher.

Also, go to the best letters page on the web to read a series of very interesting dreams about the War On Terror. Please continue to send me your dreams. But they cannot contain the French. We do not dream about the French. Not even about Audrey Tatou. Not even her.

It was an especially frigid weekend on Mount Winchester, with temperatures dropping into the teens and the snowfall reaching approximately three feet. The solarium, as it often does during the harshness of February, cracked under the weight of snow, endangering Roger's seven prize orchids and nearly freezing our beloved cat, Mr. Hitchens. Of course, we didn't leave the house, but thanks to the Orange Alert, we had ample bottled water and tinned sea bass. I would have spent the weekend drinking wine, but I've vowed not to consume any French products until those Vichy cowards bow down to the noble dogs of war. A collective ass saved twice, apparently, does not evince gratitude from a nation of weaklings.

Anyway, one of the unfortunate side effects of this brutal winter has been my high heating bills. Though many of you continue to purchase Beneath The Axis Of Evil, sales haven't kept pace with expenses, and I'm so broke that I must consider dropping my subscription to The Weekly Standard. In general, I don't know where the money's coming from. It's been weeks since I've received a paid assignment. Also, I recently socked 100 grand into an untouchable defense-industry mutual fund that will support Peggy, my clone baby, through graduate school and beyond.

Thank goodness, then, that the government has earmarked $300 million for programs to promote marriage. My previous marriages, to Janeane Garofalo and the actress Claire Bloom, both ended in attempted murder. A third, conducted at the American consulate in La Paz, was nullified immediately upon my landing in Miami. But I think I'm ready to try again. For $500,000. For my country.

Last night, I summoned Roger to my study.

"You rang, sir?" he said.

"Yes, Roger," I said. "Did you iron my undershorts?"

"Indeed."

"Have you cleaned Mr. Hitchens' box?"

"Of course."

"Where's my Kahlua milkshake?"

"Right here, sir."

"Excellent," I said. "Roger?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I've decided to seek a wife."

Roger dropped his tray, shattering my milkshake glass.

"What's the matter with you, man?" I said.

"Nothing, sir," he said. "It's just my palsy. I haven't been able to get to the pharmacy due to the snow."

"I see," I said. "Well, I've decided to seek federal marriage-experiment funding. I need someone to marry."

"Are you sure, sir?" he said. "That business with Janeane Garafalo didn't work out so well."

"Yes, dammit!" I said. "Peggy needs a mother."

"I'm Peggy's mother," Roger mumbled.

"What did you say?"

"I said that yes, sir, Peggy needs a mother."

"That's what I thought. So I need your help. You must assemble 20 women, all young, poor, and ready for marriage. You must tell them nothing about me, other than I'm eligible and stunningly handsome and will gladly rescue them from a life of welfare dependency. Then you must gather them at the house for a weekend. I'll fuck them all, one at a time. Then I'll fuck them all two at a time. Afterward, I'll teach the ten finalists French and make them read Montaigne in the original. The five who write the best essays will participate in an orgy with me."

"That sounds wonderful, sir," Roger said.

"In the end, it will be down to three women, and I'll pick the winning name from a hat."

"Very good."

"Then you and I will teach that winning woman what it means to be a lady. We'll give her lessons in conservative philosophy, parasol twirling, and proper English."

"Sir," Roger said. "That's preposterous!"

"So preposterous," I said, "That it just might work! We'll make a lady out of a humble street urchin. Now round me up some candidates! You have two weeks!"

"Yes, sir," Roger said.

"And Roger?"

"Sir?"

"Make sure there are some black chicks in the mix."

"Black chicks," Roger said. "Very good, sir."

My goodness, this is going to be fun!

I woke up this morning and it was September 13, 2001 again, at least in terms of my general mood. During my morning walk with Hercules, I found two starving poets in the woods. The government had been chasing them for days. Please, they asked, could they stay in the barn, just for one night? No way, Hanoi Jane, I said. I hope you freeze to death.

Meanwhile, my erections have become smaller and less frequent. People look at me funny at the gym when I shout "Curse you, Aaron Brown!" As I sit here in my office, completely sealed off from the world by plastic sheeting and duct tape, I feel enemies lurking all around me. This is a war, a war, I tell you, a war between the forces of Christian good and those of reactionary Muslim child-molestation. Our enemies are coming to get us. They're coming to get us soon. They're right outside my window. I can hear them breathing.

Damn it!

Roger!

I told you!

No lumps in the mousseline!

Sorry, sorry. Where was I? Oh, yes. The war. I believe it was Erasmus who, in his essay "In Praise Of War," once described war as "a big fucking mess." Of course, one man's big fucking mess is another brutal dictator's garden party. Twelve years ago, our tanks could have rolled into Baghdad unimpeded and our soldiers could have gotten a lot of poon from the liberated Iraqi babes. But we held off. We gave the bloodthirsty moral vampire that is Saddam Hussein one more chance, even as we denied his people basic food and medicine. After the children of Iraq died of starvation because of our sanctions, Saddam killed them again, this time brutally. That's the kind of person Saddam is, the kind of person Dante described as "a bad person."

From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli, we will fight our country's battles. What choice do we have? We are, after all, the last free and moral nation on earth, bound by Christian duty and eternal fealty to the Star Creator. Morality, as defined by Cressidus the Elder, is an inability to act or not act in the face of inaction, or possibly action, unless that action is followed by an equal and opposite reaction. We cannot let ourselves be the reactors. We must not be remembered as the non-unionized kitchen help of history.

The mistakes of twelve years ago can be corrected by one swoop of the pen today. It's time for George W. Bush to dissolve the United Nations, a job which he was put on Earth to do. And once the U.N. building, that dessicated structure that takes up so much valuable real estate in Manhattan, is no longer occupied by the false diplomats of fake countries, then we can truly call vengeance ours. We will prevaricate no longer. It is my solemn opinion that the war starts today, and anyone who protests it this weekend is a war criminal, therefore a traitor, and subject to the death penalty.

Did you hear that noise?

I swear I heard a noise.

Roger! They're here!

Hide the silver!

All right, people. I trust you enough to throw off the shackles of my "character" for one day, right? Right. Because I'll be honest with you. This Orange Alert, waiting to bomb Iraq, and CIA director testimony on TV stuff, combined with the bad newspaper stories about Costco running out of duct tape, is starting to seriously fuck with my mind. How could it not? The world has gone completely mad, and I don't think I'm just perceiving it that way.

Last night, I had a dream, my first dream about terrorism.

I'm walking down the street in New York City. A gigantic fireball roars from the sky and explodes a few hundred feet away from me. Another one follows. I run in the other direction. The fireballs keep coming. I keep running. Around me, people and buildings are on fire. Everyone is screaming.

Then cut to a room, cold and without electricity. A bunch of people are sitting around, telling stories. An editor I know says, "When the fireballs came, I ran all the way to Los Angeles."

"That's a long way to run," I say.

My friend Todd comes into the room. He's crying.

"They killed Nick Cave," he says.

"I know," I say. "I watched him die."

Now, some may draw only one moral from this story: What a pathetic hipster. Who the hell dreams about terrorists killing Nick Cave? And those critics would certainly have a point. I was certainly mad at myself when I woke up. I mean, Nick Cave? I couldn't identify more than two Nick Cave songs. I've never seen him live. He means less than nothing to me. Lame.

That said, it's interesting that the dreams have finally come. I feel like the government's propaganda has begun to sink in, like they're actually starting to get to me. Maybe I watch too much Fox News. But for the first time ever, I'm feeling genuinely paranoid.

I can't be alone in this. At least I don't want to be. So I urge you, my loyal Beagles, to send me your dreams about terrorism. It's my latest contest, but this one is different. Don't send me "funny" dreams based on your special observations of current events. Don't try to top me at my own game. I can spot bad humor writing at 1,000 paces.

Just send me your dreams if you'd had them. Give me a peek into your subconcious, and, by extension, the nation's. Pass this request on to friends, too.

Again, don't try to make anything up. Because I'll know. Now read the first dreams, already published on my letters page, to be updated continually as they come in.

Together, we can find the Id of the world. And then we'll heal, using my special motivational videotape, Overcoming Dreams of Terror, available for only $19.99. Thanks.

NP

I was quite busy yesterday covering my windows with cellophane and sealing them with duct tape. Normally, that's not my job, but I'd sent Roger to the store. His mission, by order of Supreme High Homeland Security Commander Tom Ridge, was to obtain three days worth of food and water, plus flashlights, batteries, blankets, and several new Game Boy cartridges. Then a Fox News Alert blasted through my Orange Alert haze.

Osama bin Laden was back. I knew it! I knew he'd return! Al-Jazeera had obtained an audiotape. Well, actually Colin Powell had obtained it, but he'd loaned it to Al Jazeera, which I thought was strange. The Secretary of State's ways are mysterious, and should not be questioned. As I'm sure you can understand, I don't trust the network translators because they're often biased against war. So I decided to translate the message myself. I took a semester of Arabic at Oxbridge, and have definitely sharpened my chops these last two years.

What you'll find, in my translation, is concrete proof that Osama and Saddam are working together with Lionel Jospin to destroy America. Any serious person would conclude that a bombing campaign centered on the Loire Valley must begin immediately. Now shhh. Listen in:

"DEFINITELY OSAMA BIN LADEN (HOW COULD IT POSSIBLY BE ANYONE ELSE, AFTER ALL):

In the name of Allah, the merciful and the compassionate, a message to our brothers in Iraq: Hola amigos! Que pasa?

It's been quite a year for Brother Al-Zawahiri and I here in exile. We're almost done decorating our secret apartment, which may or may not be located in the boot-tanning district of Karachi. I think you'd find it to your liking, despite the unspeakably hideous smells of poison liquid emanating from the dye vats. We have many computers and secret phones, as well as comfortable rugs and access to infidel American television programs such as Seventh Heaven.

Anyway, I just wanted to say that the treacherous agent governments in Washington and Tel Aviv will soon fall, no matter how many emergency-provision packets they are able to secure. Also, we are definitely teaming up with Saddam Hussein to destroy America. Ever since the infidel American forces began blowing up our caves in October 2001, our first priority has been a partnership with an unstable secular dictator whose wholly illegitimate government will crumble within six weeks in the face of the largest global military action since World War II. Saddam's political unreliability and breathtaking record of murderous corruption fits perfectly with our view of a world cleansed pure by the fires of fundamentalist Islam.

I, Osama bin Laden, have been sent by Allah to urge all sincere fighters in our cause to take arms in Baghdad against the Devil America, largely because they have very bad taste in clothing, but also because they allow Jews to vote and because their women are whores. As Al Queda's closest ally, Saddam Hussein, said to me just the other day on our private party line: 'Osama, I sure am glad I'm teaming up with you to destroy America! I can't wait until America is destroyed and you and I rule the world together.'

Yes, Saddam. Our joint rule, since we have SO MUCH in common, has long been the will of Allah. Soon we will kill all the American homosexuals, and then convert all heterosexuals in America to homosexuality so we can then kill them as well. It's all part of our plan, Saddam, which you and I conceived of in our secret alliance many years ago.

As the prophet, peace be upon him, once decreed: 'Osama and Saddam. You must form a super-team of Islamic leaders, and then there's no way you can lose. Also, here's the private number of the French Prime Minister. Give him a call. Seriously.' I might add that once Bush the younger has been defeated, the Germans will have a place at the table, for they've performed their role brilliantly as well. We paid them a load of cash, and also gave them a year's supply of oil, free. Stinking German bastards. The things you have to do to win a Holy War!"

Anyway, the speech went on from there, but I got bored. But isn't that the proof we need to invade Iraq? Osama bin Laden gave it to us himself on Fox News.

What was that noise? What's that smell? Quick! Everyone! Under the dining room table! We're all gonna die!

But before we do, look at this Onion review of Beneath the Axis of Evil, second item down. Then go here to buy your very own copy of this very special book, written by me.

Well, hello there. This is Roger, Neal's much-put-upon manservant. I come to you today from the grounds of Neal's spacious estate at the foot of Mount Winchester because Neal is off meditating on a most difficult choice. And what a difficult choice it is! I tell you, I wouldn't want to be in Neal's shoes today. Not like that would be possible. My feet are large, manly, and working-class, while Neal has dainty little feet, like a girl's, or a deer's. I'm not paid to make the tough choices, thank goodness. I just do everything around the house, including the laundry and gardening, and occasionally I narrate. So while Neal chews his cuticles, torn by a moral dilemma the likes of which few of us will ever face, I'll sit in this comfortable chair, type, and drink my Benedictine and brandy.

Neal's choice is a direct result of our High Orange Terror Alert. And what a terror alert it is! Ever since Dan Rather interrupted The Young And The Restless on Friday, Neal and I have been on eggshells, sometimes literally, sometimes not. By Friday night, Neal was positively pacing the house, at least the upper floors, saying,

"They're coming for us this time, Roger. I know they are. This time, they're coming for us all."

I tried to soothe him while I burped Peggy, our clone baby.

"Now, master Neal," I said, "the government just wants us to be extra cautious because they're hearing chatter."

"Chatter!" he said. "Chatter! My god. Do you know what that means?"

"No," I admitted.

"It means they're coming for us!" he said.

"I see," I said.

Neal turned sharply, as if on a dime. He grabbed my lapel. His eyes blazed wild with fear.

"Roger!" he said. "Did you stockpile the anchovies?"

"Yes," I said.

"The good ones?"

"Yes."

"Oh, thank god," he said. "At least our emergency provisions will have some flavor."

The house was quiet the next morning. Peggy and I watched a While You Were Out marathon on TLC, and Neal worked on a piece for The Weekly Standard called "Kill The Poets, Kill Them All." It seemed all was back to normal at the proverbial foot of Mount Winchester.

Neal came screaming into my manservant's quarters.

"Roger!" he said. "I just called the FBI!"

"But why?" I said.

"There's a man at the base of our driveway," he said. "A dark man! A wetback!"

"Oh, goodness," I said. "How awful!"

"Yes!" he said. "Yes! Fortunately, the FBI knows that I'm a loyal soldier in the War On Terror. They're sending two members of their elite crack special Homeland Security Response Unit immediately!"

"And how do you feel about that?" I said.

He looked at me strangely.

"Safe!" he said.

We went to the front window, with its magnificent vision of mountains, oceans, and a lonely, ice-covered seaside town, abandoned for the winter save me, the master, Peggy, and several thousand simple fisherfolk whose parties, Neal says, aren't nearly as good as those of the summer visitors. I looked outside. Two burly agents were wrestling a man to the ground. Oh, no!

"Master," I said. "That's Tony Alvarez."

"Who?" he said.

"Our postman," I said.

Neal began to rant. Illegal immigrants shouldn't be delivering our mail, he said. They could put biological agents into our letters or slip a copy of The Nation into our catalogs. In this climate, anyone is capable of anything.

"He's not an immigrant," I said.

"Oh," said Neal.

Two days later, the agents visited our house. Tony Alvarez was innocent, they said. But they had methods. He could be guilty if we'd just give them a little more time.

Neal was, and is, torn. On the one hand, he's denying a hard-working man his freedom. On the other hand, he's already published an article called "The Enemy In Our Driveway," and he doesn't want to lose face.

What's Neal going to do? What terrible choice is he going to make? Will Tony Alvarez rot in prison for the rest of his life, or will he be released only to see his hard-earned Postal Service pension channeled into a risky mutual fund that will ostensibly pay for his prescription drugs when he gets old? His fate is in Neal's hands.

Tune into this blog next week at this time to discover the thrilling conclusion of this story straight from the heart of our War On Terror.

I'll be right here. Will you?

While a handful of simpering Berkeley-based liberals watch Tivoed paranoid Bill Moyers propaganda in their cosseted vegetarian Ivory Tower perches, I, like the rest of right-thinking America, will be tuned into Monday night's finale of Joe Millionaire.

For those of you who've been too busy writing anti-war poetry to bother debasing yourselves on the altar of reality television, let me summarize the show for you. Evan Dando, a $19,000-a-year ditch-digger and snuff-film star, occupies a French mansion, pretending to be a wealthy bachelor with no friend in the world other than his wisecracking butler. Never has a television show come closer to reflecting the actual circumstances of my life. But there's a twist: Over the last five weeks, Twenty women have competed for Evan's affection, never knowing the terrible secret of his backbreaking poverty, poor career prospects, and stunningly low IQ.

Tonight, Evan has to choose for good, placing him in the enviable position of simultaneously lying to two hot pieces of ass in order to get a little trim. Not surprisingly, given the latent feminist agendas of online television critics, much of the coverage of the show has been pitying of the women contestants who Joe Millionaire may or may not be fooling. But the finalists aren't without their own private agendas.

As The Smoking Gun has exhaustively detailed, Sarah, the blond with the fuck-me eyes, starred in a variety of fetish videos to put herself through law school. She hasn't apologized, to her credit, and why should she? The videos, particularly the ones featuring the bound cheerleader, are classics of underground porn.

Zora, the brunnette substitute teacher with the I'll-fuck-you-eventually eyes, has her own set of secrets. According to the Library of Congress, she's collected anthropological folklore in Florida, interviewed voodoo doctors in New Orleans and Haiti, and shocked all New York with her incessant smoking during the Harlem Renaissance. Should Evan trust her? Should she trust him? Who's really in control here?

I think both ladies should be commended. They are true examples of modern female liberation, unafraid to possess college degrees, unashamed to neck with a stranger on national television, unembarrassed to be venal golddiggers of the highest order. They truly showcase America at its finest. Tomorrow, the Star Creator willing, war will come. But tonight, Adam will meet his Eve, and our hearts will be warm as we collectively masturbate ourselves to bitter sleep.

I was prepared to spend today's blog lambasting Eric Alterman, whose new book, "The Not Particularly Liberal Media And Bruce Springsteen: Unfulfilled Promises, Forgotten Dreams," has shot to the top of my own personal liar, liar pants on fire charts. But then I remembered that Ann Coulter, that heinous bitch, will be taking care of Alterman once and forever in her soon-to-be-published (and immortal) book, "They Tried To Kill God: How Anyone Ever Associated With The Left Raped Our Babies Or At Least Wanted To." So instead, I settled into bed with a warm toddy prepared by Roger, and turned on VH1.

Oh, how I remember the 80s! All those funny bands. I can't get enough of them: Judas Christ, Silly Sister, Gary Numan and the Cars. Who can forget Emcee Hammer Time, or the girls from Fame?

My special private bedside phone rang.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hey, man," said a voice.

"Hey!" I said.

"It's LeBron," he said.

"I know who this is, dog!" I said. "What's up? Are you feeling all shizzy in the nizzy?"

"What does that mean?" he said.

"I don't know," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "Look. My moms says I've gotta return that free copy of Beneath the Axis Of Evil. The ethics people are all over my ass."

"Aw, man!" I said. "That was a free gift!"

"I know," said LeBron. "It was really the best thing I've ever read. More than any other book, it speaks to the situation of a young black man in America who's on a nationwide basketball tour sponsored by sneaker companies and ESPN."

"Well," I said. "I try to address the universal truths."

"And it was sure better than David Frum's book."

"Frum's a pussy," I said.

"Still, I gotta return it."

"Sure," I said. "I understand."

"But I'm also giving up basketball," said LeBron James, "because I want to become a novelist like you."

"LeBron," I said. "I'm flattered. But becoming a novelist takes at least a year of hard work. Just ask Jonathan Safran Foer."

"It's what I want," he said. "I'd rather write a novel than play for the Cavaliers."

I fully understood. No one ever wanted to play for Cleveland, even when Daugherty was in his prime. And the temptations of the literary life are manifold for a young man of LeBron's gifts. But I hope he reconsiders. He has pure basketball ability and the fine teeth of a young buck.

I said my goodnight to him, and returned to VH1. That David Bowie/Mick Jagger duet was cool then, and it's still cool today. And no one rocked harder than Van Heflin.

Some notes to wrap up the week. Thanks to all of you who contributed pro-war haiku yesterday. It's good to see that some poetry takes the side of justice in this ongoing War on Terror, which cannot fail by the power of the Star Creator. But in the future, no more than three entries per person, please.

Have a great weekend.

Neal

This morning, I was just finishing the final flourishes on a piece for the Journal, "North Korea: Total War Or Bust," when Roger rushed in, breathless, with the dailies.

"Master!" he groaned. "Poets are starting to oppose conlfict with Iraq. In the name of George Orwell, what are we to do?"

Part of me wanted to say, do nothing. Ignore them. Allow them to founder on the wrong side of history. Let them write pandering verse about the evil SUV while terrorists plot their demise. But then I realized I couldn't do that. Careless thought lurks in our country, after all, and it must be exposed.

"Thank you for informing me, Roger," I said. "Now please bring me some zucchini bread."

The event described in the lead of this New York Times article has been disturbing me for days. I also received an email from known traitor poet Sam Harris. Yet since I'm for the war, I showed up at the White House that day anyway, ready to read my poem "On To Baghdad, Christian Soldiers," only to be turned away by Mrs. Bush's press secretary, who at least let me buy her lunch. It was hard for me to believe that 1500 poets could be opposed to a war with a government that would kill them for writing poetry. What silly beavers!

Then again, look at who's against the war. Tony Kushner, a known homosexual. Edward Asner, a known Socialist. Wallace Shawn, no surprise, and the lesbian do-it-yourself turncoat Ani DiFranco. As for Grace Paley, well, she is beneath contempt. Someone should burn down the bridge between New Hampshire and Vermont, just to show her. That region's economy would never recover.

So today I wage a response to the 100 Poets Against the War Anthology, a book published by traitors who are lucky to be free. I also wage against its sequel.

The most common form of pro-war propaganda in my grandmother's native Japan is the haiku. Here is a pro-war haiku, by me. Send in your pro-war haiku to this space, and I'll publish them on the letters page. Remember, 5-7-5. Let's show Harold Pinter, author of Zoo Story and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, what's what. A haiku:

Oh, Star Creator

Give us strength and booming guns

We will kill them all.

Meanwhile, The Neal Pollack Invasion, my insurgent rock band, has been awarded a showcase at the South By Southwest Music festival in Austin, Texas. More information is available on my events page. You can also see that Ben Brown and I continue to organize happenings in Austin, based on the spectacular success of our Bookhouse Rock show. For more information, go here.

Also, my book Beneath the Axis of Evil has received its first review, in the prestigious Johns Hopkins Journal Of American Politics. To purchase this important work of American literature, go here.

Send me pro-war haiku to counter the left-wing insurgence of the academy. Now, one more for the road:

Hussein, ugly rat

Missiles hidden underground

Soon you will be dead.

9:48 AM

Colin Powell departs the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, headed for the United Nations. It's important that he leaves exactly 42 minutes before his speech. In 1940 Winston Churchill left his house 42 minutes before he made a compelling case that the Germans were bombing the crap out of England.

10:22 AM

A poll shows that 81 percent of American believe that Iraq has ties to Al-Queda. Eighty-seven percent believe that Saddam Hussein is hiding something, and seventy-four percent believe that he has the capability to build an army of flying robot monkeys. Even if Colin Powell shows movies of his vacation to Miami Beach, it doesn't matter. War is upon us, and it's going to be so great.

10:23 AM

I hate the Germans, and always have. They have crummy food and their women are whores. William Kristol on Fox News says we cannot risk a new 9-11 with chemical or biological weapons. I agree with him, whether or not the evidence is clear. The Germans are finished. They are next to go down.

10:33 AM

The U.N. Security Council meeting is called to order. A sweaty, shifty representative of Iraq sits at the council table. I am already persuaded that we must go to war with Iraq. Evidence is not really necessary.

10:35 AM

Iraq: Failing to Disarm. The first slide alone is conclusive proof that Iraq has failed to disarm. My, Colin Powell is a handsome man. On to Baghdad!

10:39 AM

Did you hear what they said in the tape? They are HIDING A MODIFIED VEHICLE. And they said "yeah, yeah," several times. "Yeah, yeah," is Arabic for "kill, kill." U.N. resolution 4311 distinctly speaks against evacuating a modified vehicle. I'm convinced. Start bombing now.

10:44 AM

What are the Iraqis hiding? Who cares? Kill them all. Colin Powell's mouth is sexy when he frowns.

10:49 AM

I'm unclear why inspectors took the diaries of the Iraqi nuclear scientist. But the question remains: Who took the hard drives? Then again: Who cares? They are hiding weapons in groves of palm trees.

10:51 AM

PICTURE 1:
UN Resolution 4566 distinctly prohibits more than three red squares in any given satellite picture. This photo clearly contains four red squares. The same resolution also prohibits trucks from gathering around buildings. The Iraqis are clearly in violation of the truck-gathering prohibition. I have a modest erection.

10:54 AM

PICTURE 3:
The buildings appear to have roofs, in direct violation of UN Resolution 5903, which prohibits new roof construction on monitored sites. Why would the Iraqis build these roofs, or is it rooves? Also, in the lower-left hand corner of the screen, you can clearly see a gun. And it is smoking.

10:58 AM

At this point, anyone who doesn't want to bomb those shifty Arabs is obviously a Fifth Column traitor. Where are you now, Frenchie? No sources are more reliable than human sources. A free country does NOT arrest people without charges. Mmm. I am so hard right now.

11:03 AM

If even ONE teaspoonful of anthrax exists in Iraq, then it must be destroyed through a massive deployment of 150,000 troops. Why is Saddam Hussein hiding his teaspoons? It's time to stop his travelling poisonous medicine show on wheels. Preferably tomorrow, because I have plans this weekend.

11:07 AM

We now have evidence that Saddam Hussein is in possession of cartoon trucks, in direct violation of UN Resolution 7723. Because the trucks are cartoon trucks, that means that they can fall into a very deep canyon with an anvil attached to them and still survive.

11:10 AM

Iraq has at least one airplane, in direct violation of UN Resolution 1101, which prohibits then from having airplanes, particularly not ones with spray tanks that dispense simulated anthrax, otherwise known as water. Brrr. This evidence chills me, and makes me hungry for war.

11:14 AM

All right, already! Jeez!

11:16 AM

The Iraqis are willing to do anything to hide their arms caches, including remove the CRUST OF THE EARTH. The earth, as our Star Creator said in the Book Of Stars, is precious, especially the crust. All hail the Star Creator! Death to his enemies!

11:20 AM

The nerve of those agents! Removing the expression nerve agents! And they dare call each other "buddy." Hello? Hello. Hello? Hello. Hello? Are you with me?

11:21 AM

The Iraqis have a SUBMERGED ICEBERG! Oh my god! Ahhh! Ahhh! Colin, you make me so hot! Prove your case! Prove your case!

11:25 AM

Aluminum tubes. Ohhhh....I am definitely an expert on centrifuges, if you know what I'm saying.

11:29 AM

Saddam Hussein's claim that he was just trying to "borrow" a large magnet factory from India doesn't wash with me. We know from intelligence and Iraq's own admissions that Iraq is populated largely by evil scumbags. And UN Resolution 303 prohibits evil scumbags from obtaining rocket engines.

11:30 AM

Ahhhhhhh. Oh. God. Mmmm. That circle is SO big.

11:36 AM

I'm sorry. I had to take the dog out. Did I miss anything? Holy shit! Iraq is harboring Al Queda leaders in its hospitals! Death to the infidels! Seriously.

11:39 AM

Back in October, I linked the murder of Lawrence Foley to a terrorist cell Iraq. But did anyone listen to me? Well, yes.

11:42 AM

America has a new enemy. And his name is Zarqauwi. Kill him!

11:46 AM

Iraq is harboring terrorists and teaching them many things. Good god, man, what else? A terrorist, in custody, always the most reliable source, has detailed a relationship between Saddam and Al Queda. This nexus is unshakable and must be torn to shreds by our superior firepower. Until the United States is given unlimited freedom to wage ultimate war against Saddam Hussein, the world will face another war waged by someone else. Kill! Stop him! Ahhh! Ahhh! Oh, yesss! Stop him nowwwwwwwwwwwww!

Great intellectuals often develop intractable disputes with their peers, even as the fate of the world teeters on the head of a needle through which a madman pulls the thread of destiny. I am no exception, and it was inevitable that this day would arrive. Like Orwell abandoning the Communists, I must now resign my membership from the board of the Project For A New American Century.

In 1997, when I founded PNAC along with Dick Cheney, Donald Rumsfeld, Paul Wolfowitz, Lewis Libby, William Kristol, and others, we had so many wonderful dreams. As we met in my secret mountain castle over appetizers prepared by Roger's catering staff, we discussed the exciting possibility that soon the United States Of America would achieve its historical destiny of total dominion over the dark peoples of the earth. We saw a future of endless war, massive budget deficits that would deprive poor old people of health care in favor of weapons research, and, finally, the return to earth of the Star Creator in a magical craft that we built for him after the mysterious explosion of the Space Shuttle. Then we sang our theme song:

Would you be free from the burden of sin?

There's power in the blood, power in the blood;

Would you over evil a victory win?

There's wonderful power in the blood.

Hit me wit' your rhythm stick!

There is power, power, wonder working power

In the blood of the Lamb;

There is power, power, wonder working power

In the precious blood of the Lamb.

Hit me, hit me, hit me!

It was a dream to be devoutly wished. We worked for decades, or at least years, to create the perfect empire. And now it appears to be in our grasp. Still, for me, it's not going fast enough.

Many aspects of our plan, such as federal funding for church building, mandatory abstinence education, and the gradual disbarring of black lawyers, appear to be underway. Yet, President Bush, the man we selected to be our public face, has proven a slippery weasel to hold onto in the pit. When we installed him in the White House, we told him not to give AIDS drugs to Africa, because we had big plans for all that land. But he didn't listen. Compassion gets in the way, George, we said.

I'm not the only one growing impatient. Rumsfeld called me the other day, very secretly, and said, "Dammit, we were supposed to be drinking tea in Baghdad by now!"

"Would you like me to order the assassination of Kofi Annan?" I asked. "Hypothetically, on my blog, of course."

"No!" he said. "We need to take out Janeane Garofalo first! She's a fucking menace!"

This cannot be a slow burn, my Beagles. The world trembles in fear at our might, but the French are arming. If they get the Belgians on their side, we may have a protracted European front on their hands. I cannot sit by idly, twiddling as part of a secret organization of powerful men bent on world domination. We must take action now. That's why I'm forming PNAC II: The Wrath Of God, an even more secret organization whose board is even more influential as the original PNAC. The membership is confidential, but I do have one wild-card spot available.

This week's contest: Send me short proposals for op-ed pieces that we can slip into influential dailies, thereby making our cause irresistible to the elites, followed by the masses. We can't be blatant, not yet. Be subtle and clever in your proposals. Keep your Total Information Awareness eye on our ultimate goal. The U.S. imperium, led by the Star Creator on his golden throne, is coming. We're almost there.

Meanwhile, read this comprehensive article about our recent Bookhouse Rock celebration in Austin. Go here to look at party photos. And check out the most comprehensive letters page on the web.

Tomorrow, barring the start of war, which seems unlikely since the UN, against all reason, is still open for business, I begin a three-day narrative about my recent trip to the "Old Europe." Until then, may the Star Creator bless our holy mission.

Neal

I remember the first Space Shuttle disaster. It was 1981, or maybe 1982, right after the President got shot, and I thought that my innocence would never recover. The night after it happened, I sat at home and hugged my dog, my cat, and my teddy bear, and also my stuffed Spiderman. On TV were the wispy images of smoke and the shocked gasp of a nation in mourning.

"Dad," I said to my dad, "why do our heroes always fall?"

"Huh?" he said.

"When I grow up I want to be an astronaut and serve my country."

"Shut up!" said my dad. "You're never going to be a goddamn astronaut!"

At the time, I found his words a little harsh. But in retrospect, I can say that he was right. I'm not an astronaut. I never even really tried to become one. Maybe dad knew something I didn't: that NASA was already in decline, and that someday they would send a group of eminent scientists and top-notch pilots riding into space aboard a tin rustbucket held together by bows and cheap glue. Creator of the stars, my ass. How many cars from 1983 do you see driving around these days? A good mechanic trumps a barely-disguised Jesus metaphor every time.

The government needs to commit itself to building a new super-spacecraft that will be at the leading edge of flight, with the ability to harness the power of comets and detect terrorists with pinpoint lasers. It must also contain up-to-date home entertainment technology, like flat-screen high-definition television and interactive sex robots. Speaking of, don't you think it's about time that our space vehicles began to resemble penises again?

Forget national health care! Down with unemployment insurance! Onward and upward into the farthest reaches of space! For if we can dream of the stars, perhaps someday we can harness their energy to cure disease or build a very destructive nuclear pre-emption device. May the Star-Creator, bringer of hope to us all, bless these United States of America. Good night.

Since no one else on the web appears to be taking time off because of the Shuttle disaster, I guess my plans to extend my leave must be scotched. Still, I'm tired, and also sore from a week of stonings, verbal and physical, at the hands of the Fifth Column citizens of the Old Europe. My brain isn't functioning correctly, a problem that, of course, doesn't always stop some of my colleagues. But it will stop me for now. This war is just, this war is right. You know that. Give me some hours to recuperate. I'll try to post fresh later today.

Thanks to Mr. Christopher Monks for filling in so ably, and to all of you who contributed to his Erotic State of the Union Love Poetry pyramid scheme.

Until the End of the World,
NP