Another way to get rid of Saddam

Attention readers (especially Laura Bush): Read all of this article. It gets good, I promise.

Iraq, being a country of cowardice and slight of hand, has agreed to let weapon inspectors inside their country. This, of course, was done to ensure that our air force doesn’t turn their country into gravel. But does anyone really believe that the Iraqis will let the inspectors conduct a true search? Saddam Hussein, from all I’ve learned from CNN and Time, is a slimy dude, to say the least. He once wrote a play about a prince named Saddam (apparently, old Saddam is pretty creative, too) who gets the girl. Rave reviews in the Iraqi Theater Register, I assume.

Anyway, Gee Dub is likely fuming about this, because he was itching to use some of his bombs. I know, George. I was, too. Fear not Jorge, I have the solution. Your wife was a Mustang, and I’m certain that she keeps tabs on her school’s paper. So you will get this message. Here it is: Let me go to Iraq to inspect for weapons.

I’m just the man for the job. When I was growing up, nobody liked playing “hide and go seek” or “Marco Polo” with me because I was so vigilant in my hunt. I’m like Dennis the Menace: If there’s trouble, I find it. The smoke bombs my older brother had: I found’em. They were in his desk drawer way in the back.

Growing up, my parents usually hid my Christmas presents under the lower row of clothes in my mother’s closet, but occasionally the crawl space was utilized. My best friend’s sister’s diary could be found tucked under the carpet near the armoire. My roommate sophomore year kept his private viewing materials in a canvas bag inside a Panasonic box in his room. One SMU police officer leaves his purse under the passenger seat of his cruiser.

Am I admitting that I am a snooping, assuming sleaze? Yes, precisely. Henceforth, you should send me straight to Bagdad. (And by the way, what kind of name for the capital of a country is Bagdad? It doesn’t even sound Middle-Eastern, like Islamabad or Kabul. It sounds like the Fox Network’s next reality kidnapping show.)

I’d be so great. First of all, as soon as I got to the hotel, I’d complain about how crappy everything is: the food, the weather, how every female is shrouded in a curtain. All of the fascists would really get annoyed. Furthermore, in my previous experiences with food from that part of the world, I’ve become – how do I put this -a little gassy. The Iraqi chap cruising around with me would hate every second. Do they make beer in Iraq? If so, I officially guarantee that the plant would not be also making chemical weapons. Or I’d be dead, and you’d put two and two together.

But my real plan would be to seduce Saddam’s old lady. Yep, I know I could do it. Saddam, I’m sure, doesn’t shut up about himself, about how the evil United States is about to explode his plot of sand that covers oil, about the terrorists he harbors (boats are closely linked with terrorists, apparently). So it would be a piece of cake: I’d bring some McDonalds with me. “So, Mrs. Hussein,” I’d whisper. “How’d you like to try some American beef?”

Then I’d give her the fast food. If we don’t find a way to kill Saddam without making the UN mad, the next leader of Iraq would have a curiously large amount of curly blond hair. It would be something like Star Wars 2. “Saddam Jr,” I would say. “I am your father.” And convincing Luke to leave the dark side would be very easy.

So then, Chris Jr. would sell out his evil stepdad, Saddam, and gas prices would drop to a nickel a gallon. And by that time, my son would have figured out where all the Taliban types were hiding, and they’d all get an icepick rammed into their spines.

George, babe. Look me up. I think I really have something here.