n the face of wildly escalating violence in Israel and Palestine, political commentators the world over have been looking to American President George W. Bush for a sign as to the path America will take in dealing with the Mideast crisis. After making an early dismissive statement about how at least the Palestinians don't have flight schools, Bush had been conspicuously quiet on the issue. Some observers theorized that the president was carefully weighing America's options before he made a public statement, while others argued that his attentions had been split between a new model train set and the Fox prime-time drama 24. Today's announcement might have proved either side correct.

In a press conference this morning, Bush unveiled plans for a new Office of Martyr Prevention, headed by syndicated radio call-in therapist Dr. Judy Kuriansky and manned by a staff of 300 licensed suicide-prevention professionals who will be available via a toll-free telephone number 24 hours a day.

"I have created the OMP in response to the internationalary outcry for American action to address the Mideast peacelessness," Bush stated. "Suicide bombers are threatening world peace and the time has come to find a solution. These young men and women need to be shown that there are other, better ways to express their anger and frustration than blowing up a Circle K with explosive underpants.The answer is not to perpetuate terroristical attacks of an inhumanitarian nature. I understand that the people of Palestine, and other miserable places I need not mention by name, need a shoulder to cry on. Now they know that America is there for them, over thousands of miles of telephone wires. No need to come here, we'll pick up the phone bill. There's nothing to blow up here that you couldn't blow up back home, anyway. Operators are standing by."

Dr. Judy Kuriansky accepted her appointment with a brief speech on the Mideast situation. "It's time to break the cycle of violence. The time has come for Palestinian youth to understand that the dark, dead pit of bile in their chests is not the bitterness of living in a relocation slum or the dull ache of hunger, nor is it some tiny embryonic Jew implanted in their chests that's gnawing at their internal organs, regardless of what their newspapers tell them. It's the all-too-familiar ache of feelings yearning to be expressed.

"What we need here is communication. Palestine needs to stand up and say to Israel: 'It hurt my feelings when you kicked the snot out of our armed forces back in 1967.' And Israel needs to say to Palestine: 'Hey, asshole, if you hadn't attacked us then you wouldn't have lost all the land you're bitching about now. What's your freakin' problem, anyway?' And Palestine needs to say back to Israel: 'Listen, we never agreed to let you guys move in here in the first place, and now you're trying to force us all to move to Jordan. Fuck Jordan, Jordan sucks.' And then the UN needs to come over and slap them both on the back and say: 'Alright, you're all a bunch of assholes, but we need to do something about this or the rest of the world is going to run out of explosives.' Then the UN can take them both out and get them drunk and hope they have sex together and we end up with a bunch of Jewrab babies so nobody can tell who they're supposed to blow up any more. But my point is that communication is the key."

National reaction to today's announcement has been typically harsh, with many critics pointing out that there aren't any Circle K stores in the Middle East. At press time, OMP staffers had received three phone calls: two wrong numbers looking for Sears AutoCenter and a call from Iowa asking if it was possible to overdose on mini-marshmallows.

Reactions from Palestine have been even less promising, with Hamas leader Zaccaria Walid Akel promising a large cash reward for the family of the first suicide bomber to blow up OMP headquarters.

.S. Representative James Traficant vowed not to give up his Congressional seat Thursday following the announcement of his guilty verdict on charges of bribery, racketeering, falsifying tax returns, and forcing his federal aides to dress in overalls and chew straw on his Ohio farm.

Upon hearing the guilty of verdict, Traficant, who represented himself, stated, "I accept your verdict." On the steps of the courthouse, despite his attorney's counsel, Traficant vowed to appeal the verdict.

"I refuse to accept a verdict of this nature," Traficant told the commune. "This decision, indeed these charges, have all been politically motivated. I suspect everybody involved in this trial, from the prosecution to the judge to the defense attorney to the jury is out to ruin my good name. I reject this attempt to oust me from office. I'll see to it these charges are acquitted and my attorney is disbarred."

House Minority Leader Dick Gephardt (D-Missouri) called for Traficant's resignation. Upon being told Traficant was convicted of the charges, Gephardt was unswayed and still called for his resignation.

"Mr. Traficant puts a foul mark on all congressman everywhere," said Gephardt. "His conviction on bribery charges seals the deal. He cannot be trusted to represent the people of Ohio anymore. He is exactly why people hate politicians, and has been found legally guilty of doing what everyone else is only suspected of doing."

"I might also add," continued Gephardt, "that Mr. Traficant has, in recent months, been supporting Rep. Dennis Hastert as speaker of the House. You know, Hastert? The Republican? You put it all together, eh?"

When confronted with Gephardt's statements, Traficant was resilient about keeping his seat.

"I have convictions I will not turn away from. And by convictions, I don't mean yesterday's convictions, I mean my original convictions that brought me to office." Traficant accepted an envelope from a dark-suited man which he quickly pocketed. "They have tried to convict me on these charges before, when I first began my political career. They failed then and I believe they ultimately will fail again. These are my deeply-held convictions. Once again, I mean my personal convictions, not criminal."

When questioned about the charges, Traficant spoke vaguely. "Mistakes were made. Let's just say that and nobody gets hurt."

"My only regret," continued Traficant, "was that I didn't hire bigger and burlier aides. Somebody with a little farm hand experience. At the end of the day I could've gotten twice as much done. Or hell, maybe even just hired a couple of guys to run the farm without having to pretend they work in the office. It's not like I'm running short on cash, with all the bribes and underreporting on the tax forms. But that's not a confession—I mean, that's not to say I—aw, forget it. Talk to my attorney."

Usually I prefer to uncover global conspiracies, to shine the light of justice on the hidden ugliness of the world as only journalism can. The cover-ups and shams so big they affect all of our lives. The big time, in other words. This time I turn my red laserlight of truth on the small movie screen of a local shyster. His name is Kurt Benworthy.

Mr. Benworthy is the most unscrupulous con-man I've ever encountered, and I've met Don King, readers. I went to Kurt Benworthy from an ad in the paper. I print it in its entirety here:

"Dogs for sale. Puppies, pooches, hounds, mutts, and bitches. Perfect for the kids or the wife, or the wife's husband. Dogs, long considered man's best friend by those in the know. Now experience dog ownership as you've only dreamed. P.O. Box 1584. No refunds."

Hell! "No refunds." So it was in the ad. I guess I owe Mr. Benworthy an apology. Well, there may not seem much reason to go on, but I don't care about the money. Even if I never see a dime of my $10 again I want to reveal Kurt Benworthy for the rip-off artist he is.

I went to Post Office Box 1584 and, sure enough, Mr. Benworthy was living inside. Fortunately it was a rather large box. He had rented several and in each he had several "dogs," all of which he espoused the virtues of while telling me glorious stories of dog ownership. Maybe I'm a big fat sucker with a white stick up my ass, or maybe the white stick up my ass just leaves people with that assumption, but either way, Mr. Benworthy sold me a shoddy bill of goods.

The dog I picked out, "Putnam P. Puppy," was adorable at first sight. I purchased Mr. Puppy and took him home, looking forward to all the fetching and ball biting we would do together, or allow him to do while I watched. First thing when we hit the Bagel backyard, I threw a ball and… as you can already guess perhaps, Putnam Puppy did not go after the ball. I was sorely disappointed, and it's then my eyes opened to the dirty side of dog sales.

Putnam P. Puppy was in actuality a long-haired cat with certain prosthetics in place and falsified documents to make him appear to be a dog. I took him to my doctor, no expert on animals, but a generally smart guy who I trust for legal advice, and he assured me I had in fact been sold a cat. A cat disguised as a dog. Putnam Puppy is a long-haired meowing cat and Kurt Benworthy is a goddamn dirty liar.

What am I supposed to do with a cat? Enter a dog show? Guess again, the rules are strict on that, I've found out. Sit around the fireplace, writing poems about my beloved old dog? Fuck that, I've got a cat, thanks to that bastard Benworthy. I'm the laughingstock of my kennel club and all those issues of Dog Fancy I bought, well, they're basically slick toilet paper now. Thank you again, Mr. Benworthy.

It may be too late to do anything. When I returned to the post office I found out Mr. Benworthy had vacated his post office box with six months back rent due, leaving behind only a few chiahuahua-sheepdog mixed puppies. So I may have lost my shirt in this scam, revealing my chubby love handles and spare tire for all to see, but I stress to you these important tips when inspecting a dog for purchase:

• Check for a zipper down the underside, or failing that, a prosthetic dog beak.
• Drop the "dog" from a high place, like the top step on a ladder. If it lands on its feet, it's a cat; if it dies instantly, it's a dog.
• As you're walking away, turn suddenly and yell, "Hey, cat!" If the "dog" looks at you, you've found a no-good cat in disguise.

Here's salutations to all the future dog-owners out there. I wish to be one of you someday. Preferably the tall one.

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