I hate Dad.

He's become so stubborn and cowardly that he doesn't even listen to himself anymore. And he expects me to carry on the regime of terror.... why should I if he's always trying to stop me from going clubbing by forcing me to oversee the development of the WMDs underground?
It smells horrendous down there.... like thousands of Uncle Osama's sheep, Shitlocks.

I'd rather smell the beautiful stench of drunken women being beheaded in my bed chamber. Why do Americans always have to stick their Hans Blix's in my business? Its my business if I want to deploy TNWs. Its my business if I want to fly to France to be trained by Jacques Chirac and his cohorts. Its my business if decide to lay in the tunnels of filthy Baghdad all day and read Play Boy magazine---in Iraqi.

I have to go.... the american troops are stampeding above (HA--"liberation" my head band).... al Queda better be protecting my goat from them.