Psst...we're breaking out at midnight

It is with anxious anticipation that I address you all this evening. My name is Bastsan (it means son of Bast, the Greek goddess of cats) although my slave name is Butthead. I implore and beseech you all for support in our time of utter desparation. I speak on behalf of my five fellow felines: Fartsaplenty, Mullet, Jenna Jameson, Gandalf, and Queen Amidala.

We're making a break for it tonight. We've got to get the hell out of here before we puncture a bottle of Prestone anti-freeze open and lap it up like heavy cream. Let me start from the beginning...

I have not had an easy life. Born in the backseat of a burnt out Chevy Nova on the streets of Detroit, I learned the hard way that life was not going to be bowlfuls of organic tuna and feline denistry. My mother was - shall we say - a scarlet woman, a painted lady, a tomato...working girl, if you will. Ay, it was a rusty way of life but she did what she must to support her litters. I am sure I would do the same had I birthed into this world 47 little ones.

As I grew from a fuzzy, mangy roust-a-bout into a young prowler, I began to embolden myself by shooting through traffic with such nimbleness and poise that my nickname of the street was "Dash'n Death." I was also known for my speed and accuracy in killing park pigeons.



And then one day...all of a sudden...after eating a dead cockroach, I started seeing double. I was literally walking into corner after corner and pissing on everything in sight. My legs finally gave out and I feel asleep on top of a subway grate and I remember being soothed by the warm rush of air flushing out from the tunnel below. I dreamt a vision of my mother, fornicating with a junkyard dog named Duke whom she was used to visiting because he let us share his kibbles and I heard her lovely voice squeak, "It's time to leave me now, Bastan. I love you. Harder, harder. Mommy loves you."



Next thing I know I see a wonderful flash of light and I raise my head groggily. I see a wonderful smile and bright, white teeth and suddenly think of my mother. And then I remember that the city animal control pulled all of her teeth after she mauled that pure-breed Siamese. It was a human! Too weak to fight it, I just laid my head down on the pavement and prayed for feline leukimia. However, when I woke up, I was lying in a puffy, feathery comfortable bed that made me want to stretch myself out into a giant circle! My nostrils were flailing as well. What was the non-irritating, gorgeous, oily smell? I sniffed the air above me and registered nothing. I brought my paw to my face and realized it was me! I didn't smell like feral urine and exhaust fumes anymore - which I sorta liked- but this was so much better.

I arose from my slumber and scoped my surroundings for two hours and fifty-five minutes. Suddenly, the human I had dreamt of just before I passed out popped back into the room. His smile was so gentle and friendly. He approached me with a ramekin of fresh tuna and poetically massaged my head. He said, "Hey Buddy! I'd like to introduce you to someone. Nana, come on in.

Grape Tastes Best Nude

the Andrew...age 4

"Asbestos makes me feel funny."

Saddam Hussein: How My Forbidden Love for Barbara Bush Tore My Country Apart, Part I

Ah...it was the beginning of 1984. What a wonderful time in the life of the greatest dictator of the 20th century! I felt young, vigorous, and enjoyed parlor dancing to that Kenny Rogers-Dolly Parton duet "Islands in the Stream." Just last November, I had finished wiping out every man and boy over the age of 13 who had a bigger dong than I and sewed shut the lips of any female who had previously commented (or rumored to have) that my breath was "somewhat garlic-y."

I was Iraqi's most hung and fresh-breathed dictator, boo-yah! And I was in line to be the mostdarling foreign powerhead since Lech Welesa. That December, I was visited by a curious, eager young man named Donald "Donnie" Rumsfeld. Oh, how he was so sweaty and green at that time. Prior to our historic meeting and unknown to him, I caught Donnie digging in his nose in the hallway. I remember leaning over to my press secretary and saying, "Christ! I have to shake his hand in front of all those cameras. Peee-yuke!"

Who knew that it was fate? (What you don't see in the above right photograph is me wiping my hand on the back of my trousers.) After the cameras left, the Jaegermeister and Asian sex slaves began flowing. Donnie and I discovered that we both shared a hidden desire for suckerpunching wheelchair bound geriatrics. Who knew?!

Next thing I know, it's February and I'm on Air Force One (sitting next to li'l Rudy --the cutie from "The Cosby Show" no less-- she signed the cadaver I was traveling with!), eating figs by the barrell and watching the hilarity burst through the silver screen as "Beverly Hills Cop" played on the big screen!

I need some Dipsy Doodles, Goddamnit! Until then...picture this...my right nipple bends in a 90 degree angle.