A Plea For Help. [Dave at Guantanamo Bay]

Dear America:

As our good friend the Unpopulist noted below, I was detained last night by a squad of American soldiers and delivered to Guantanamo Bay wearing nothing but an orange jumpsuit, a black bag over my head, and pink bunny slippers.

After a long negotiation between the soldiers and my legal counsel Mr. Clark, I was able to gain access to the internet to type this brief note. Ramsey-- may Allah bless him with milk and honey-- says that, in return for this access, I must submit to french tickling from the barbarians running this hellpit. My dreaded tickling appointment is at noon, after my massage. Infidels!

What little I am allowed to tell you about this place will horrify you. This morning they tried to make us pray facing north. Me and my fellow prisoners could easily tell from our cabana where the sun was rising-- right behind the shuffleboard court to our east. Blasphemers!

This prison is run like the worst Ba'athist dungeon imaginable. We get sporks instead of forks. Our margaritas have no salt. And the only heat in my cell is provided by a VHS tape of the Yule Log, continuously looped. At this point, I don't think that anyone here will get a chance to watch Battlestar Galactica tonight. Zionist pigs!

As the Unpopulist highlighted, the American female interrogators here at Gitmo exhibit the most disturbing behavior. They all dress like the Baroness, and they keep calling each other names like "Helga" and "Olga." They keep touching us suggestively, rubbing their bountiful American bosoms across our backs.

My cellmate Ahmed says the guards have been doing this for months, but they never even ask him for any money. Imagine-- American prostitutes not asking for money! The prisoners think it's a heathen trick, and we're all saving our singles for the inevitable day the guards make us pay the kitty for the pole dancing. Imperialist running dogs!

The worst place in all of Gitmo is the American's specially-outfitted torture chamber. The guards refer to it only as "The Champagne Room." Merciful Allah above, I only spent a brief time there last night, but in that short time I learned that it is a room filled with nothing but traitorous promises and treacherous lies. Plus, I hurt my back on the couch-- it's way too soft to provide adequate spinal support. Shades of the Syrian Assad's "black chair," I tell you. Filthy swine-eating devils!

Ramsey says the United Nations will hear of this villainy, after I help him raise some money for new stationary. I can't quite understand why he doesn't use normal paper-- $10,000 is a rather steep price to pay for blue notecards, even with a butterfly sketch in the corner-- but Ramsey swears that blue is Kofi Annan's favorite color.

I sure hope Ramsey can get me released soon. I don't know how much longer my skin can hold out while using all this Lava soap.

P.S. AVENGE ME!

-- Dave at Guantanamo Bay