NATO Celebrates Record 34th Taliban Commander Killed

Kandahar, Afghanistan

Junior Bacon

Secretary-General of the U.N. Kofi Annan celebrates the landmark 34th Taliban Commander killed by NATO forces with Anwar Badru, winner of M-TV’s “Shake Hands With Kofi Annan” contest.

n Sunday, NATO and Afghan forces announced a new victory over rebel Taliban forces with the slaying of Taliban Commander Mullah Dadullah. More than that, NATO celebrated a personal landmark by killing the 34th consecutive Taliban Commander, the highest number of enemy forces commanders killed one after the other.

“Clearly we’ve demonstrated without a doubt that we can kill as many Taliban leaders as they can throw at us,” said NATO spokesman Sgt. Buddy Means, as he and other NATO officials popped the cork on a bottle of wine at the Dead Taliban Commander impromptu party.

Dadullah was killed by Afghan police and army forces in Afghanistan’s Helmand Province, with the help of NATO air support. He had been named head of the Taliban following the March 15th death of former Commander Zinzy Habullah, who himself had represented a then-record 33rd consecutive Taliban Commander killed, a blow that crippled anti-American Taliban forces well up to 72 hours, until Dadullah’s promotion.

The Taliban, a militant Islamic group who had led Afghanistan until the U.S. invasion of 2001, as well as allegedly hid terrorist Osama Bin Laden within its borders, has since been a haven for anti-Western rebels and Democracy haters alike. Dadullah’s death was described as a strike against the Taliban that will hinder the organization, and its biggest military loss since the last time NATO forces stuck it to them.

Afghan government spokesman Khaleeq Ahmad described the death of Dadullah as a military success that “will kill the morale of the [Taliban].” In a succinct summary of Afghanistan’s response to the leader’s death, Ahmad said, “We are happy he is not alive anymore. Before, when he was alive, we were distinctly unhappy. Since that had changed, there has been a net increase in our overall happiness. Previously, we in the Afghanistan were quite unhappy and we believe the Taliban was happy because we were not happy and he was still alive, which made him happy? Now? Not so much the happy for him and the Taliban. We, however, have experience a significant happiness gain.”

“Killing one Taliban Commander was always a dream of mine,” said director NATO forces in Afghanistan Gen. William Flampants Sunday. “But to kill 34? It’s much more than I ever could have dreamed. And I’m keeping my fingers crossed that will get to the big 3-5 next!”U.S. general Myron Stofer described the 34th Taliban Commander killing as a “personal best,” easily trouncing his previous record of 32 heads of the Iraqi insurgency.

Mullah Dadullah was preceded in death by former Taliban Commanders Zinzy Habullah, Shabba Nazuna, Rafullah Al-Badallah, Guella Transattah, Macho Kabala, Jhada Stantoplabada, Fozzy Boombozzi, Ginalla Walla, Dallah Polla Impala, Sadir Al-Funtallah, Shimi Shammy Al-Pajami, Fadabi Scradi Adi, Boomwati Al-Mahtalli, Bada Botta Bada, Grizallah Priscilla, Foolah Medulla Oblongata, Buntapa Al-Moppa, Zenyatta Mondatta, Faka Mata-Faka, Zahir Bin Lama, Tullah Donna Al-Galla, Paula Abdullah, Amir Batallah, Latka Gravas, Pinzalla Rapallah, Avatah Dudallah Dallah, Rama Bin Stattah, Allah Donbattah, Jadir Sufstata, Grallah Biz-Allah, Chad Perkins, and Famir Fallah Fallah Fallah. If you have a rhythmical name and would like to lead an anti-Western terrorist group, call the Taliban and apply immediately.

the commune news applauds the frequent and violent extermination of enemies of the state, and hopes the seat has a chance to get cold before they replace this one. Foreign Correspondent Ivan Nacutchacokov also believes we are close to a victory in this War on Terror, and sure wouldn’t mind coming home to the States after years abroad covering said War, seeing as we’re so close to the end and all.

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Return to the Bermuda Shorts Triangle

Once again, sir, I am confounded by a mystery by which I’ve already been confounded. For I have returned to the place of my last great defeat—Brunsley, Idaho, well known to all its inhabitants and supernatural buffs as the Bermuda Shorts Triangle.

Before you foul-mouthed skeptics can say, “Fuck this bullshit” and return to searching for more Internet info about that movie with the Dakota Fanning rape scene, I urge you to think about this: What would you do if there were a 12-block radius in a moderate-sized town where your finest undergarments mysteriously disappeared? That’s right, such a place really exists, and it’s in Brunsley, Idaho. Seldom can a man, or especially an attractive woman, walk from the Bed, Bath and Beyond to the Citgo gas station with their underpants untouched. Even the most conservative among you will find you go from securely hammocked to freeballing in record time, with no answer as to where your Fruit of the Looms have gone.

º Last Column: Dreams Like Butterflies
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I first stumbled across this mystery in 1998, just before I founded the commune. In fact, all of my first columns were about this puzzler, though I decided to withhold my claims before I had any solid proof because I wanted to write a kick-ass bestseller about the phenomenon, and didn’t want any competition drawn to my big moneyhole by an ill-timed commune column. If only I had known how few people read the commune, despites its being available for free on the Internet, I would have thrown caution to the wind, as well as my columns, and published them as a warning to all underwear-lovers who might wander into the area.

I discovered it quite by accident, when I attended Brunsley’s annual Halloween Dunk-the-Witch contest. I’ll save all the anticipation by saying it turned out to be a woman in a costume; but while my search for proof of horrible Wiccans ended up a dead-end, when I went to buy a drink at a local café they call Starbucks here, I found my BVD’s didn’t make it across the street with me. I went searching for pocket change for my $3.50 cup of coffee and found the fabric between my digits and my goodies a lot thinner than expected—only pocket stood between my finger and my boys.

I knew I hadn’t taken them off, so of course, I looked to the simplest answer—an underpants pickpocket. But the locals told me of the Bermuda Shorts Triangle, a 12-block perfect circle in which all manner of undergarments mysteriously disappear. Or as my colleague Dennis at the Wendy’s in that area summarized, “Yeah, people end up losing their skivvies all the time around here.” Of course, the name is something of a misnomer, since it’s not a triangle-shaped area, and if you’re wearing Bermuda Shorts they actually make it through the area without being stolen—underwear only appear fair game. But you have to admit, it’s damn catchier than “The Circle of Panty Theft.”

The first time I passed that way, I was close to launching the commune, and had to return to attend to that business after losing over $400 in underwear in my attempt to solve the riddle. But now the commune is successful, by my own narrow definitions, and I can at last return to figuring out where these shorts are going, maybe even why. Thanks to my painstaking statistics as of last time, I can tell you panties are taken more frequently than male briefs, and boxers are taken least frequently while thongs seem to disappear more than anything else. Expensive underwear and cheap underwear tend to be taken indiscriminately. I only really tested this underthing-theft on myself, but my survey of victims revealed women were targeted more frequently than men, even men wearing thongs, but it seemed to happen across gender and age lines. You’ve got to admit, outside of discovering where these undershorts are disappearing to, why they are being taken, and how to prevent it, I’ve practically got this case fully answered.

Like many people that work here, I’m starting to wish I had never founded the commune. Sure, disseminating the truth to the masses is an important job, maybe the most important of them all next to the man who maintains erections on pornographic movie sets. But still, it keeps me up at nights knowing the great mysteries—like who’s stealing the underwear in Brunsley, Idaho by the Bennigan’s—are going unsolved because I chose this different path.

º Last Column: Dreams Like Butterflies
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Wears the Beef

Hot damn said the devil, it’s time for another ass-puckeringly sweet edition of Reflections of a Goocher! I’m your host, Stu Umbrage, and that guy walking by the window has nothing whatsoever to do with this column, ignore him completely. Our first guest tonight is noted poet and man of letters, Sir Sheldon Bivouac.

SU: Greetings, Sir Bivouac, how are you?

SB: Few of us can answer the question of our existence, Stu, the how or the why of it anyhow. The where and when are easy, perhaps even the which. But the-

SU: Riiiiiight. But have you ever considered this: What do you call a vegan that refuses to grow milk thistle?

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Quote of the Day

“Love, love will tear us apart again. So quit telling those jocks we both like it in the butt.”
—Joy Divinski

Fortune 500 Cookie

You will spend so much time with your foot in your mouth this week, people will mistake it for performance art. Beat the living shit out of the first person who calls you “buddy” today—best to nip that shit in the bud. Your only remaining shot at true happiness now is joining a cult or getting hooked on heroin: your call. This week’s lucky midgets: “Stretch” Svorsded, Suitcase Mike, Jimmy “Dogslapper” McVaughn, Upskirt Kilgore, Ross “The Toss” Ramstein.

Try again later.

Top Phil Spector Trial Revelations

1.	Spector threatens to shoot all his visitors in the mouth if they leave—get the fuck over it already
2.	Middle-aged Spector traded “Wall of Sound” for “Wall of Hair”
3.	Yes, everyone in L.A. really is as crazy as you’ve heard
4.	Spector goes through pizza delivery guys like you wouldn’t believe
5.	No you’re thinking of “Help Me Rhonda,” “Da Doo Ron Ron” goes “I met him on a Monday and my heart stood still, Da do ron ron ron, da do ron ron”

Clinton: "Shoo, I Ayne Got No Suuthurn Assent, Y'all"

Greetings, America, Roland McShyster’s got a hola-ta love for you this week as we’ve officially crossed the threshold into blockbuster season, and I don’t mean the dying retail chain patronized by the last ten people on earth who’ve never heard of Netflix. This is the time of year that makes movie buffs go: *orgasm sound*. So strap on your homemade reverse-camelback piss-collecting device and let’s go bilk the local multiplex out of some free air conditioning!