Ivan Nacutchacokov Reports from Afghanistan: “GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF AFGHANISTAN!”
Fearless commune reporter risks all to deliver story. 
BY RED BAGEL All Snug in His Bed, NY

SANWAT SITIEU/AP Ivan Nacutchacokov is stationed somewhere in this pile of rubble

Fearless commune drone and all-around lovable doofus Ivan Nacutchacokov was shipped off to Afghanistan in the wake of the Sept. 11th terrorist attacks, searching intently for news straight from the source in this hotly-watched speck of the globe. His first news arrives via short-wave radio: “Get me the fuck out of Afghanistan!”

“I’m not kidding in the least,” said the fun-loving office cut-up. “It’s extremely dangerous here. I’ve almost had my head blown off countless times. And the sweet sherpa Jimmy who escorted me here from the airport is now a pile of non-descript organic material.”

Nacutchacokov, who described himself as wedged under a desk with a shotgun clutched to his chest like a suckling child, had no information on the whereabout of Osama bin Laden or top officials of the Taliban.

“I could give less than a shit,” Nacutchacokov screamed in his consistent high-pitched whine. “If I had them here I could only carve them into some sort of bunker made of human bones and flesh, a shelter to hide inside. They mean nothing to me and I would gladly give up ever reporting on anything again to feel the safety of my own apartment in New Hampshire.”

Also unknown to Nacutchacokov is whether or not the Al Qaeda, the organization believed responsible for the Sept. 11th attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, was planning retaliation for the recent U.S. wave of attacks. The Al Qaeda and its leader, Osama bin Laden, allegedly operate from within the country of Afghanistan.

“I don’t know or care,” Nacutchacokov said, firing two shotgun blasts for unidentified reasons. “I have one enemy: Red Bagel. Or whoever booked my flight over here and gave me this assignment. You know, next time I’ll read my tickets to make sure they say ‘Miami,’ you sons of bitches. There is a warm place in hell reserved specifically for you, you gutless—“

Nacutchacokov’s transmission was interrupted by a sound not unlike shelling from military planes, though the word, “castration” was audible over the din.

the commune just came here for a massage and the bitch went to town on us. Red Bagel is the commune’s fearless editor and inexplicably smells of salmon in the spring.