When you’re one of those Double Secret Agent Holy Soldiers like I am, you just don’t know where the next Secret Holy Mission will take you. And when the call comes, you must go, and no matter how impossible the task, you must perform.

Luckily for me, I’ve been more on the “go” and less on the “perform.” Actually, I’ve never performed; and I will be the first to say that I prefer it that way. But last month I was confronted with the task of all tasks, the holy of all jobs, and the mother of all deeds: to assassinate George W. Bush.

And boy oh boy, that’s not the type of thing this apostate Holy Warrior is into!

Sure, I try to keep up the pretense that I’m ready to strap on the bombs when the time comes, but I feel a lot better when I’m hanging around Western cities frequenting bars, strip clubs, and whore houses while not dealing with things that make you go “boom.”

And that’s just what I had been doing in Rome last month. I had been sent by Command to a beautiful little villa in the suburbs of Appia Antica, near the catacombs, just 10 minutes from the city center. While I was waiting for orders, I had no worries, no work, and no objective. I drank wine and spent hours at the baths, enjoying things I simply can’t enjoy when I’m at home, where booze and women can’t be had.

But the camel dung hit the fan: I learned Bush would be arriving in Rome. Yet what disturbed me most was hearing that he would be visiting two points of interest--the catacombs and the WWII memorial--both of which directly adjoined my backyard!

Obviously advanced intelligence planted me here early-on. To be in such an opportune position obviously meant I was supposed to act, and that meant I was about to lose my life and my cushy assignments with it.

I know a million of my co-patriots would have felt divinely blessed to receive such a mission. But all I could worry about was the sangria glut I would be facing if placed in prison, or worse, if I had to move to heaven.

I did have one thing going for me--my suitcase full of my terror stuff had been lost by British Airways.

Of course Command would blame that on me when they discovered that it wasn’t actually “lost” by British Airways, but that I forgot to pick it up at baggage claim because I was so high on gin. British Airways then sent it back to Riyadh, where apparently it was sent to Paris, and now nobody can tell me exactly where the case is.

Regardless, if I wanted to keep getting cushy assignments, I had to do something to make it appear to my benefactors that I at least tried to kill him, but make it appear to the enemy that I was only an alcoholic Middle Eastern copier salesman who had had drank too much sangria and had suffered from a fit of nationalism. Sure, I was trained to break a man’s neck with my bare hands, but running up to a heavily guarded man like Bush and snapping his neck would probably tax my abilities, especially considering my age and overall health, and especially considering the amount of spirits normally raging through my veins.

So I settled down and, with a vigorous application of cunning mental abilities and large tumblers filled with vodka and fresh-squeezed summer fruits, tried to figure out what I should do about this quandary .

After my fifth libation I still had no plan, so I decided to take a walk and “pray” for an idea to materialize. While meandering, I chanced upon a local eatery which, through the cunning use of an image of deceased actor John Belushi, was in the process of luring Bush into trying its cuisine.

Certainly planting myself in this restaurant and waiting for Bush to answer this plea to try some pasta, and then to pounce from the shadows, would lessen my chances of being shot. I mean, he’s sure to be surrounded by hundreds of soldiers at the WWII memorial, even if they would be really old ones.

My plan was simply to rush toward him semi-menacingly. That would be enough to get me arrested for a short while, but make it look for the folks back home that I’d given it my best shot.

I seated myself at a discreet but sensible place and waited, making sure I downed a substantial amount of sangria so eyewitnesses would testify to my remarkable thirst. I must remark the sangria was most excellent, so excellent in fact that I would probably have failed to notice the arrival of my primary target. I did have the acumen to inquire with the wait staff while they were wiping the vomit off the wall if Bush had been present that night and was relieved to discover he had not.

But this put me in a position to act the following morning, act in a brutal and desperate way, a way which would certainly have all the odds stacked against me: I’d have to rush him semi-menacingly at the WWII memorial. I sought refuge in more icy drinks and rested on my balcony overlooking the scene of the battle--the grassy knoll beyond my own yard--where I was now forced to deal with the measures of God unaware.

By the time I’d started on the spiced rum, I had a pretty clear plan on how I was going to jump the fence and charge. And I was determined, no matter what would happen tomorrow morning, that I would prevail, even if it meant another six months stationed in Turkey before getting my buns back to Malibu.

I awoke the next day at 6 p.m.--I’d overslept 13 hours, and I was a dead man now. I realized Command would be coming for me to deal with my gross inefficiency. But I also realized how much I craved a big mug of vodka and a greasy platter of BBQ ribs!

And suddenly I understood what I had to do in order to continue fulfilling the desires that burned inside of me like 1,000 points of light fueled by oils rendered from fishes: I had to seek asylum in the US.

But then the phone rang.

It was British Airways: They would be delivering my suitcase within an hour. When it arrived, I solemnly opened it and peered down at the contents: propagandist literature in five different languages, literature I obviously was meant to be distributing. As I thumbed through the pamphlets and booklets for the fax and copier machines, it all became clear, so clear I could feel my gross error stab me like a bolt of white lightning--I was a Saudi copier machine salesman, nothing more. For some reason, since my arrival in Rome, I had just simply forgotten. But it made me glad, so glad I spilled my drink; and boy was I happy I didn’t accidentally assassinate Bush!