I have stumbled upon the answer. In a word, it is something called a "mutaa." Shiite men are very fond of their mutaas, which, loosely translated, means "whore." No actually it means "temporary wife," like in Hollywood. Basically you rent them at an agreed-upon rate and duration of contract.

You can have all the sex you want with your mutaa, perhaps even some kinkier varieties that the permanent missuses won't permit. Maybe a little anal or analingus or zesty eardrum action. But whatever it is they are not allowed to stain the marital linens. That is where Shiite women draw the line: That little hussy is not coming into by bedroom. And she's not going to bleed all over my sheets.

Osama B. Laden is a Sunni. So he disapproves of the mutaa arrangements. But that didn't stop him from bringing a nubile 17 year old hottie into the fold. This so pissed off his main squeeze and mother of most of his kids that she stomped off in disgust at the old man's lecherous antics. You go, Sabiha.

Under Sad Am, it wasn't much of an issue because he was a Sunni and as such his regime didn't tolerate mutaaism. And by "didn't tolerate" I mean someone caught with a mutaa was liable to be castrated or worse. But now with the Shiite shits in firm control of everything but the Kurds and the US Army, mutaas are crawling out from the shadowy underworld into plain view. Being a mutaa is a good way to work your way through college or earn a little extra spending money. And you get your own carnal needs met as a side-benefit.

Still, Sunnis look down their noses at the practice, pointing out that according to www.mutaa.com, the aforementioned duration of contract can be as short as an hour. That is barely enough time to get her out of her burqa, fuck her and send her out to the store for a pack of smokes. A harrowing journey from which she'll likely never return, sparing him all those late-night lonely phone calls that arouse such suspicion among the perma-wife harem. Quite simply, in their view, mutaaism is just a ruse to cover up prostitution. Worse still, a man needn't fork over a dowery, like a goat or an old car or something, to the mutaa/whore's family. They get squat.

So now you know what our brave men and women and otherwise are fighting and dying for: to defend a Shiite shit's inalienable right to whore around with whomever he chooses.

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And on New Year's eve, the old folks home threw a pajama party. Wife asked one of them if she was going to wear her optional PJs. "Oh no dear, my PJs aren't appropriate for public consumption," came the reply from an 80 year old with a walker. This is one of those comments to which there is no rejoinder, like "I've gotta go feed my hostages." Or, snuggled in post-coital bliss with your head nestled on his chest and he muses, "Now that I've found you my gay whoring days are behind me. Thank God."

So here I am alone, as the fuzzy details come back to me in distorted bits and pieces. Actually I am not alone as my son is here. He isn't fighting an overwhelming hangover. He wants to go fly the plane we built over the weekend. In the pouring rain. Argh.

There is something awfully cruel about New Year's Day alone. You want to cuddle up with your loved one under the quilt all day. Maybe give her a Dutch oven. Maybe watch a little TV on the little 13 inch bedroom model. But no. Flick it on and there it is. There it always is, just like Dick Clark's Fucking Rockin' New Years Eve during which you always fall so fast asleep Katrina couldn't roust you.

Yes, it's the 100th Tournament of Roses Parade, hosted by the interminably perky Nancy O'Dell and Billy (a grown man!) Bush, W's cousin. Today the theme is something unbearably exuberant, like "Express Yourself" but only more awful. So much worse I've blotted it from my addled memory card. Perfectly diverse dance quintets are waving their arms and chanting the theme over and over, like monks. The sun is shining and everybody looks like the strongest thing they drank last night was lemonade.

So I start flipping through the channels. End up on HBO. They're running an endless loop of uplifting tales of redemption including Must Love Dogs, The Island and worst of all, The Wedding Date. Every woman in Hollywood has a boob job. Deborah Messing had an elective mastectomy. Click.

And I imagine this is going on in households across the nation, the world even. Except in Australia it is already tomorrow. Or yesterday. Or something.

We all have such shared experiences, like the perfunctory memories they implant into the clones on The Island. Writing our names in wet concrete. Working up the nerve to ask someone out only to be turned down with an incredulous laugh. The last day of school. First fumbling sexual encounter. The way that girl used to swing her leg to and fro in class. Catching your parents knocking boots. Hearing Grandpa sing You scream I scream we all scream for ice cream. Funerals. Weddings. Wakes. Childbirth. Being cheated on. Nervous job interviews. Breast feeding. Gay experimentation. And so on. We might as well be clones.

Which reminds me. I'm soaking in a hot bath hoping to leach some toxins from my body and also hoping my laptop falls into the tub and electrocutes me. There's a newspaper crumpled on the floor with some dirty laundry. I spy a headline. It says, "FDA Says Clones Are Safe to Eat." Yes, but how do they taste? And isn't that technically cannibalism?

A little food for thought is all.

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