man attacked two flight attendants with wooden stakes on a Qantas airlines flight between Melbourne and Tasmania Thursday, in an apparent attempt to storm the cockpit and crash the plane. The man was subdued by the flight crew and passengers, and subdued so violently that the entire cabin was drenched in vivid red gore after the incident.

According to reports, shortly after the flight took off from Melbourne the man stood, brandished both the wooden stakes and a large antique crucifix, and began to chant in an unknown tongue. When two flight attendants, a man in his 30s and a woman in her 20s, tried to explain to the man that the lavatory would be unoccupied shortly, he attacked both with the wooden stakes. Before he could drive the stakes through their breastplates and into their cold flight-attending hearts, the assailant was quickly overwhelmed by passengers and crew, and according to some reports, drained of all his blood.

"This appears to be a premeditated attack, though not an act of terrorism," stated Transportation Minister John Anderson, a man so uptight his pants were almost sucked into his body by the vacuum created inside his ass.

"The assailant was one and the same, quite an unstable man of not-sane proclivities, given to unprovoked violence," continued Anderson at the half-assed press conference in Melbourne. "Though little is known now and it is far too early to determine his motivations, I think it is safe to say this incident had absolutely nothing to do with vampires."

The minister's comments were met with a confused silence, at which point he walked away from the podium with a seat cushion humorously stuck to his posterior.

Eyewitnesses reported seeing the assailant being led away by the authorities in Melbourne, appearing dazed and a ghostly pale white, yet strangely unweakened by the severe blood loss. His only comments to the press involved a mumbled desire to join the Qantas flight team in the future.

Qantas head Geoff Dixon explained how it was determined that the man planned on crashing the plane despite the fact that he never even made it into the cockpit. "It's simple, really. I mean, what the hell else was he going to do? Ask them to fly over his house and wave to the wife? I think not. The next thing I know you're going to be suggesting the entire Qantas crew are undead Nosferatu-types who sucked this chap dry like a juice box. Ha. Then you'd start insinuating all of Australia has been overrun by vampires, wouldn't you? That's a laugh. What a silly thing you could have said."

"It's clear this bloke was a, a what have you, an Alzheimers, you know, the terrorists, that bunch," said pilot Brett Myers, wiping a dribble of blood off his chin.

Once the flight turned around and landed back in Melbourne, outsiders to Australia were shocked by the violence with which the assailant had been subdued. However, such incidents are not uncommon in the nation, as last year on a Qantas flight an unruly passenger was kicked and stomped by fellow passengers and crew members for over 45 minutes after suggesting a cabin-wide sing along of tunes from Mary Poppins.

"We here in Australia look out for our own," said Dixon, allegedly referring to the passenger uprising but also eyeing this reporter's neck in a thoroughly creepy fashion.

atching fire crazily like a letter from your ex-husband, the Bush Administration's groundbreaking "Trust us, we know" stance on providing proof for controversial allegations has scored fans in all walks of American life, from adulterers and witch-accusers to the nation's largest newspapers. The latest newspaper allegations streamlined by this new information-disseminating breakthrough involve the rogue nation of France and the obvious role it has played in harboring Osama bin Laden, Saddam Hussein, and, according to one source who in true Bush style refused to prove his own identity, the infamous beef larcenist The Hamburgler.

These latest accusations, which wouldn't have been printed if they weren't true (these folks have better things to do than make up stories, people), come on the heels of numerous proof-challenged jabs at France's evil underbelly in recent months. Articles appearing in diverse and fancily named American news institutions such as The Washington Times, The Washington Post, and The Post-Washington News Times have brought a host of startling allegations against France and it's 2.7 million unpatriotic non-American citizens. Long perceived to have a soft spot for Iraq, thanks to heavy French investment in the country and lucrative oil contracts, the island nation has only recently been accused of high-level deception, ranging to everything short of putting banana peels under the heels of American soldiers marching on Baghdad. Which we're going to go ahead and accuse them of right now, the weasels.

The impressive New York Times reported damningly in September that in 1998, France and Germany had supplied Iraq with the damned switches needed to detonate democracy-hating nuclear weapons. A French denial issued in a phony accent insisted that Iraq had ordered the parts allegedly for use in medical equipment, but that suspicious French officials had barred the sale and notified the Germans immediately. To which the Times replied wittily, "Oh sure, go crying to the Germans. That sounds just like France."

Sales of chemical components for long-range missiles, armored vehicles, war cheese and radar equipment between France and Iraq were reported, and slimily denied French-style, in April.

The duplicitous French proved even more slippery in November, when the Washington Post quoted a "U.S. intelligence source" as saying the French were hoarding the smallpox virus and selling airplane and helicopter parts to the Iraqis. Thanks to some tricky verbal maneuvering and a technicality, the French slithered off the hook when they demanded proof and the Post admitted that their source was, in fact, an intelligent reader of US Weekly, the nation's foremost authority on dish and celebrity gossip.

The French goose seemed surely cooked in May however, when The Washington Times reported that France had provided passports to fleeing Iraqi leaders, facilitating their escape to Europe. The French protested this story, perhaps too much if you catch our drift, and it was quickly denied by a White House too busy trying to slap Iraqi fingerprints onto some MacGyvered-together chemical weapons to mess with nailing the French to their well-deserved cross. The Times eventually bent to the French pressure and ran a small correction notice on page 4 of the next day's edition, explaining that a small typo had occurred and the original story should have ran with a "not" after every "did" that referred to France.

These latest allegations may prove harder to dodge, however, since the court of public opinion grows weary of these tedious demands for "proof," and France's strategy of deception may eventually backfire comically in their faces. Before long the public will demand that France prove it isn't hiding bin Laden, Hussein and the Hamburgler in the back room of some brothel somewhere, and this could prove difficult given the consensus that the Hamburgler is just some kind of cartoon character used to sell ground beef to infants. Word on the street, however, has it that France is busy cloning the three into one giant-sized tyrant who will oppress all of the world's people and make off with their meat, just like they did in WWII.

Well, it seems as if another baseball season is well upon us, with the grotesquely overgrown boys of summer regaling us with their rawhide antics. This season has progressed like many others, with the Yankees and Braves keeping things safe for folks who only check the standings every couple of years, and the Mets playing a brand of baseball so ugly even the New Yorkers have noticed. I've been saying for years that trading for Mo Vaughn was a mistake, that team just hasn't been the same since he ate the middle infielders.

Last year the big controversy was steroids, when the apathetic public finally took notice after enough guys had their meat-laden arms rip out of the sockets mid-swing, drenching the field in a strange purplish blood that singed the grass. Ken Caminiti admitted to using steroids during his years as a player, which was just as shocking as Cheech and Chong dropping the bomb that they occasionally enjoyed a little toke of the reefer. Most steroid freaks only break a bat over their knee when they strike out, but Caminiti would break bats over his own throat when people pronounced his last name wrong. The league should have taken notice when he stopped wearing a cup and starting wearing a sports bra.

The big story this year is who in the hell did we send to play baseball in Detroit? I know the Red Wings are popular up there but I still say they have no business on the diamond. Get some real ballplayers up there, or at least some semi-coordinated beer-league softball guys you pulled out of a hat, like the Devil Rays did. There's just no way major league teams should be spotting each other runs or having their outfielders play on their knees to make things competitive. If the Tigers were a movie, they wouldn't be Major League, they'd be My Left Foot.

The feel-good story of the year so far is the Expos, who are doing well playing half of their games in a stadium in San Juan, whenever there aren't live chickens running across the field. Word is the locals have never heard of baseball, but turn out in droves to see the strange men wave sticks at each other. A concession is a concession, though, and Puerto Rican fans even got into the MLB spirit by hitting Carl Everett in the head with a radish last week. He wasn't even playing, I hear he was just in town for the world-class cockfighting. It's truly a strange world for the man who doesn't believe in dinosaurs.

People were even getting excited about the Royals this year, but that's only because everybody else in the league is on the disabled list. I don't know who let all these crybabies into the sport, but lately the MLB is like a dodgeball game at a fat camp.

Everybody's talking about Roger Clemens' 300th win, which is about as fun as watching an asshole win at cards. Not that I'm saying Clemens cheats, but if you were playing poker with some guy who suddenly hit you in the head with the five of diamonds, there'd be some eyebrows raised. I hear that as a token of gratitude the Yankees are going to trade him to Detroit for a Cadillac. Go Tigers.

I went to a Twins game last week and Torii Hunter caught a tee shirt they were trying to air-cannon into the stands, that guy's an asshole.

I'll keep you updated on my attempts to get on the Yankee payroll this season. I can still play a little left field, and it's not like they've ever heard the phrase "expense control." So wish me luck, and if you see Steinbrenner, tell him I go to bed every night at 7.

Thanks.

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