THURSDAY, DECEMBER 11
Dear Diary: Oh boy, does my face look like crap. I can't believe I escaped and forgot to pack my Nivea Exfoliating Face Scrub. I mean, who do I have to torture to get a fucking Biore strip down here? So it's been three weeks since I moved in. Hey, it's not much, but it's a spider-hole to me. I have one spider-holemate, and his name is Izzat Ibrahim at-Douri. He's the Vice Chair of the Revolutionary Command Council, the previous military commander of the entire northern region. Yesterday, I asked him to slip out of the spider-hole and get me a Mars Bar from the farmhouse. He told me to shove it; I'm not the boss of him. I told him, "Oh yes, I am the boss of you, I'm the leader of Iraq." Then he said, "Not while you're in my spider-hole." And I said, "It's not your spider-hole, it's your uncle Abib's." That's when he looked at me very mean and said, "Perhaps you'd prefer Guantanamo Bay."
I hate this spider-hole.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 12
Dear Diary: At first I thought having a roomie would be fun, but now I'm not so sure. At first Izzat gave me pleasure. We would play "Deck of Death" gin rummy, and scare the neighborhood children by suddenly springing out of the spider-hole. Now Izzat seems withdrawn. All he does is play his Gameboy, and listen to Carly Simon records with headphones. I blame Izzat's uncle Abib and his many rules! He's always saying, "No music or torture after 10 pm." Then at 9:59 he's stomping on the door of the spider-hole, yelling to turn down "the crazy rock 'n' roll." Abib is old and does not understand the music of my generation. The other day he asked me three times, "Why don't you come out of the spider-hole and help me dry some salamis?" I tell him, "Okay I will," but at the last second I say, "Oh no! Can't come out now! I hear George Bush coming!"
This works every time.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 13
Dear Diary: Today I am very lonely. When I awoke, Izzat was packing his bags. "Where are you going," I ask. Izzat replied, "I need some alone time." "What? What did I do," I ask him. "Look," he said, "you're no fun anymore. All you do is lie around clutching a gun to your stomach, wondering if the Americans will find you." "Fine," I tell him, "why don't you go then, and take your stupid hidden cache of three million U.S. dollars?" Then he said, "Well can I also take the last tank of nerve agent?" And I said, "SURE. WHY NOT? Just don't let the spider-hole lid and the rugs that cover it hit your ass on the way out!" Anyway, I guess he felt bad because he left me two AK-47 rifles and $750,000 in cash. Perhaps I should've tried harder with Izzat. Now I am alone. Oh, why won't my sons visit me? I haven't heard from Odai and Qusai in months! You'd think if they found time to torture the Iraqi Olympic team, they could call their own father!
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 14
Dear Diary: I'm bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, BORED. I hate this spider-hole. There's nothing to do! Izzat took everything; the DVD, the Gameboy, the Carly Simon, and I'm pretty sure he stole the photo of me shaking hands with Jimmy Carter! But he did leave a can of 7-Up and some hot dogs in the refrigerator. Izzy wasn't such a bad guy after all. Sure, I hated the constant bickering, but when you're alone, you remember the good times. The laughs, the rapes, the shenanigans, the murders, the farting, the invasionsÉ it's like a Barbra Streisand song. Ohhh, Izzy. Come back to me. What I wouldn't give to hear you knocking on the spider-hole lid right nowÉ wait. What's that noise? ItÉ it sounds like celebratory gunfire! PerhapsÉ perhaps I've been rescued! Perhaps Izzy has rallied the Republican Guard, and we'll spend the next millennium ruling Iraq in glorious blood and splendor! He's pounding on the door! Yes, come in, Izzy! I'm sorry for everything I said! I love you, Izzy! I loveÉÉÉ
Oh, you gotta be shittin' me.