“This is extraordinary,” says some scientist we showed the photo to. “Especially since we long thought the temperature and lack of atmosphere on Mars would be inhospitable to life. This changes everything.”

Indeed it does. We have word that Osama is in a unique position to deploy Saddam’s nuclear weapons against the United States at any moment. We asked a guy who mops floors at the Pentagon what he has overheard.

Apparently, they are really Kruschev’s weapons that were put there during the Cold War. You see, when the Soviet Union fell, Saddam bought their space program, as well as their nukes, from the crime bosses who took over. Experts suspect Osama has been hiding on Mars for at least a year, having traveled there to reap the health benefits of the dry Martian caves. How he got there is even more of a mystery, but it is suspected that he stole Saddam’s escape pod. This would also explain why Saddam didn’t flee to Mars himself when the heat was on him by American forces in Iraq.

Insiders at the White House say that President Bush is furious. Not a month after he declared a manned mission to Mars as a national goal, it seems that he was beat to the punch by the very radical Moslem terrorist that eluded him in Afghanistan. And to make matter worse, the whole nation might be obliterated by this fiend if he cracks the initiation codes and arms the weapons.

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” says some fat guy leaving KFC, “and I always thought when Mars attacked it would be Martians, not Moslems!”

Amish Gunman on the Grassy Knoll

Startling Confession Reveals the Truth

Did the Amish Mafia Have JKF Killed?

Authorities with a special task force investigating the Amish Sin Syndicate, the organized crime arm of the Amish Empire®, have been on the case for decades. “The more we sniffed around A.S.S., the more we knew something big was brewing, but we could never find our way in. It is a very tight organization,” says unit spokesman Detective Roger Winters. The Amish Sin Syndicate funds itself with drug trade and bake sales, but its objectives are simply to constrain technology by producing computer viruses and working with “Sasquatch” saboteurs to destroy the nation’s highways. “They want to make the roads safe for travel by horse,” explains Winters, “and they feel persecuted by the reflective orange triangles placed on their buggies.”

Photo: Ezekiel shows his new gun to disapproving pacifist friends.

“I’m not buying it,” counters Jonathan Glump of the Sacred Amish Preservation Society. “We at S.A.P.S. refuse to believe in this libel against the faith. Mr. Shrock acted alone. He was crazy and immoral - unworthy to bear the burden of the beard.

Others claim that S.A.P.S. merely exist to make A.S.S. look clean. “It’s a front for their organization. They put out the self-aggrandizing propaganda to make the Amish seem bigger than life and holier than thou,” says Det. Roger Winters. “What they’re hiding is the drugs, murder, and webbed feet tucked inside those heavy black boots.”

But was Kennedy even killed by the wrath of the Amish angels brought down upon him by Ezekiel Shrock’s deranged technophobic madness? Currently forensic investigators are testing the ballistics of his rifle to determine if this is true. If so, was he acting alone? And how did he get leprosy? Does he have plans for a book deal of his own? And is it true what they say about Amish men in bed? These questions remain unanswered... for now.

After disguising myself in western shirts, boots, and denim, I began frequenting hangouts where I thought members might be kicking back: rodeos, tractor pulls, and bars with mechanical bulls. Eventually I met a man to be hereafter referred to as “Mr. Tex.” Once rapport was established through countless hours of Budweiser and conversations about God, the many uses of leather, and the merits of bushy mustaches, finally he brought up the idea of nominating me for membership. I eagerly confirmed my interest, and later that week I was voted in.

The party afterwards was a liquor-drenched affair with dancing girls and elaborately painted donkeys choreographed to re-enact scenes from Debbie Does Dallas. I soon discovered that all this merriment was aimed at loosening me up for what came next... the branding of my buttocks with the CFJ emblem. I was not ready for this. It was insanity, a twisted ritual that I wanted nothing to do with. I would not do it, I thought, this club can’t be worth it. But after progressing further into an alcoholic stupor, I began opening up to the idea. I mean, I had come this far, and they seemed like nice enough guys. One of them told me that with membership I’d be given a key to the clubhouse, an honorary key chain, a Stetson hat, and 200 shares of stock in the Halliburton oil company. Sounded good, so as they heated the iron in the fire, I pulled down my pants and braced myself for the excruciating pain to follow. Indeed it was unpleasant, a torment heretofore reserved for only cattle and victims of inquisitions. Yet, the worst part was actually the following week as the guys playfully slapped my bottom and sent pangs of mind-numbing pain throughout my entire body. Those rascals!

Now I was a full-fledged member with my own codebook full of their philosophy and secrets. I read with the zeal and vigor of a child with his first book of erotic memoirs. I discovered that for a period in Jesus’ undocumented life he lived on a ranch and developed a brilliant recipe for chili. (I’ve since made it, and let me tell you, it is both deliciously divine and hellishly hot.) I also learned that certain farmers have been maintaining the pure bloodline of His holy herd, which produces lean beef that fully contains all the nutrients one’s body requires to function with maximum health. Four food groups be damned! In fact, these cowboys shun vegetables and lesser meats altogether in favor of their all-beef diets, and they often live up to 30 years longer than the average American.

The codebook also contained proverbs and rules of pious conduct, some of which I will share with you:

"And the fool forever tried to hitch his wagon to a shooting star." (Earpe 3:45)

"If ye can read, ye shall read Louie L’Amoure" (Hoss 3:15)

"Proof can be found on a whiskey bottle, but the Truth lies inside." (Ritter 2:12)

"Small hats will not fit on big heads, but small heads cannot wear big thoughts." (Robbins 5:23)

"As Michael Landon hath left the Little House on the Prairie for the Highway To Heaven, thou shall so endeavor in like fashion." (Rogers 1:21)

"Whereupon trouble befalls a brother, assist he you with prayer and firearms." (Heston 3:30)

"As the diseased varmint betrays the snake’s belly, thusly shall simulated leather chafe against thy morality." (Wilson 6:14)

"A leaner hath worth only in the game of horseshoes." (Calvin 2:11)

"Jesus don’t much like yellabellies." (Eastwood 5:24)

Perhaps the most enigmatic aspect of this organization is the fascination with Michael Landon. As Mr. Tex said to me once, “Hoss is cool and all, but Little Joe was darn precious.” In fact, their biggest day of celebration is Michael Landon’s birthday, which incidentally is the only occasion where a cowboy is permitted to ride sidesaddle. On this revered holiday they will eat nothing but broccoli as a penance for their inferiority to “Saint Landon.” They sit around for hours drinking toasts and wearing floral print dresses to symbolize how they are in no way “real men” when compared to this icon of purity. Such a deferential modesty by these grizzled cowboys was truly remarkable to witness.

The most stunning ritual, however, was yet to come. Every Good Friday they would travel to a holy site in South Dakota, where they waited for Jesus’ Second Coming outside a small cave. “Why South Dakota?” I asked. Mr. Tex said that He would arise where His herd was thickest, and that the club’s largest ranches were located there. The cowboys would solemnly sit around campfires, singing psalms, waiting on pins and needles. If on the morning when Jesus arose he saw his shadow, there would be another year of secular rule in His kingdom. Crazy, I thought, they can’t be serious. It wasn’t until I saw a robed man with a bushy beard push aside a boulder, stretch out his arms, yawn, then groggily step back inside that I truly believed. The shadow had meant another year, and I’ll definitely go back to see what happens then.

What had started as a foray into the unknown recesses of a reclusive clan of free-range zealots quickly became an experience that has shaped my life. From getting drunk and riding into town to whoop and wail on anyone with Darwin bumper stickers, to full-scale brawls with our rivals, the Amish gangs, this became a lifestyle that held a strange allure to me. Whether it was the nostalgia for a simpler pastoral existence or the inebriated faith-mongering, I was hooked. I adopted philosophies that ran counter to what I had once believed, realized that wearing leather chaps didn’t make me feel gay, and became confident that heaven was the inevitable result of our manifest destiny.

Of course, our group has come under fire from all sides. Pundits of the postmodern era spit their bleak nihilism (or alternately humanist idealism) upon our happy trail, while just about every other religious sect has heaved their doomsday evangelism at our whiskey-weathered faces. They say that we ride with the devil and pervert the gospel at every turn. If they are correct, I think I’ll just dig the spurs in deeper and race into that fiery horizon where cowboys go when they die. Yeehaw!

What got C3-P0 cursing in as many as 40 different languages was Number Five’s insistence that the U.S. was justified in commencing in a war without U.N. backing, and that the U.S. should not be concerned about what the rest of the world thinks.

“We are the most powerful nation in the world, able to crush all with our iron fists of righteousness. We are accountable to none but God!”

This got his opponent in quite a huff, saying that this line of reasoning is symptomatic of the overall arrogance that accounts for much of the anti-American sentiments abroad. He added, “you are a product of the Bush propaganda machine... and your pussy films didn’t gross what I spend on an average Las Vegas lube job.”

“At least I’m not some effeminate gaybot that walks like Elton John after a hot date. It’s no wonder you side with the French, you pretentious maggot!” was Number Five’s quick retort.

“That’s just the sort of pathetic, half-witted, xenophobic jab I’d expect from a monolingual droid developed by the Pentagon for the purpose of military conquest! Your brand of reactionary idiocy is only surpassed by your desire to interface with my sweet ass... that’s right, I see what you’re repressing, and it ain’t f**king pretty. So why don’t you put on your pretty dress and go play with your G.I. Joes?!”

The insults did not end there either, I am afraid to report. The conduct of these two respected mechanical actors may forever be tarnished. Both have already reportedly been added to Hollywood’s blacklist, along with Robert Blake, O.J. Simpson, and Leonard Nemoy. Johnny Five can’t even get support from old roommate and lifelong friend, Steve Gutenberg, who has publicly denounced Johnny Five’s comments saying at a press conference, “I denounce Johnny Five’s comments.”

Our staff psychiatrist, Dr. Lenny Hornbeam, suggests that the unflattering exchange between mechanoids was probably brought on, ironically enough, by the robots’ mutual respect for each other.

“We see this a lot with cyber-senility. The aging droid’s circuits become corrupted and they start lashing out at friends and family. The fact that it got so particularly vicious demonstrates the mutual admiration they have for each other.”

But psychologist Dr. Robert Lungbutter disagrees.

“My colleague fails to note that his theories never have, and never will, make one lick of sense. It is as though a large baboon’s steaming pile of excrement was somehow mislabeled and used by God as Dr. Hornbeam’s brain. Oh, how I’d like to crack that hideous skull and test my theory.”

In the interest of fairness we gave Dr. Hornbeam’s opportunity to respond: “Yes, well Dr. Lungbutter wouldn’t know a good theory if a group of felons gang-banged his mother in an adult film that we rent for laughs at conventions. We all chuckle and wonder which burly inmate was his daddy.”

So as you can see, opinions are divided on what to make of the divided opinions. This hot button issue seems to spread animosity like SARS at a Beijing airport. We can only hope that one day these robotic pals can once again play a round of golf together like old times.

But I wouldn’t bet on the microchips falling from their shoulders any time soon. - BL