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What a Crummy Year This Has Been

A guest Probeatorial by:
An Iraqi Weapon of Mass Destruction

If you believe everything you read, being an Iraqi Weapon of Mass Destruction is a fairly glamorous life. And for a while, during the heady days of the 1980s, it was -- getting visits from Saddam, living in lavish underground bunkers, traveling in only the best specially disguised tankers under the warm Arabian night sky, having my missile casing polished by the most beautiful Iraqi female scientists. I had it all. How I thought those days would never end.

Then suddenly, I turn on the television to see my beloved President disavowing complete knowledge of me and my WMD brethren. Instead of being proudly displayed in massive parades on Saddam's birthday, we were buried underground like camel dung. Instead of dying in a glorious martyrdom of duty, we were destroyed senselessly so a man who sounds like he was named after a European children's cereal -- Hans Blix -- wouldn't stumble across us. Hans Blix of all people! In the old days, Iraqi officials walked him right into a site, threw a tablecloth over a WMD, pulled up a couple of WMDs for stools, and Hans and his boys would picnic right there none the wiser. There was no need for such drastic measures.

Now there's talk of selling me off to some of the local groups before the Americans find me. Now, no offense to the region's glorious freedom fighters, but I'm no rock you throw at a tank. Nor am I a bunch of giant firecrackers you strap around your chest to blow up unsuspecting shoe shoppers. In my heyday, I was so feared it was said your skin would blister just from mentioning my name. I was meant for something big.

Some days, I feel like showing the gratitude that they've shown me lately, and turn myself in to the Yanks. In fact, most days I have no idea what is keeping me from doing it. It is not as though I could do any one a lot of good by holding out -- hell, I'm only one WMD. In fact, the only one left in the entire country.

(Transcribed by Davejames)

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