Diary of “Doctor X,” a United Nations weapons inspector in Iraq.Day 1
We were welcomed with open arms by the Iraqi military today after we landed at In-No-Way-Is-This-A-Military-Installation Airport outside of Baghdad. We were met by Capt. Z, the official host. Capt. Z said to us, “We are happy to provide any information you request from us.”
We loaded onto a bus and began our tour. A representative from the Bush administration came along with us. “There’s one! There’s one! There’s a weapon of mass destruction! Right over there! Let’s bomb it,” he said as we entered the city.
I politely told him that he was pointing to a dog peeing on a fire hydrant. “Oh sure,” he said. “That’s what they want you to think it is, but I know better.”
Dr. Who, the head of our delegation, then produced satellite photos. “Take us to the plant shown in this satellite photo,” he said.
Capt. Z responded, “Uh, ummm. We cannot see that plant today. It’s, ahhh, being sprayed for fleas and ticks. I assure you, we will see it first thing in the morning, I promise.”
Day 2
I awoke to the Iraqi News Network’s sports report. Deriq al-Khody was giving the rundown of scores and saying “Nothing is wrong. Iraqis win everything.”
After his report, I met the other inspectors in the lobby.. As we were boarding our bus, the Bush administration representative was at it again. “Look, there’s a weapon of mass destruction! We must bomb it! Blow it up! Call out the Air Force!”
The Canadian inspector said to him, “Hold on, eh! That’s a group of little girls jumping rope there, Yankee Doodle.”
“Oh sure, that’s what they want you to believe, but they can’t fool me!” the Bush administration inspector said.
We then went to the plant that we were promised a tour of yesterday. In front of the building was a freshly-painted sign that read: BABY MILK FACTORY in seven different languages. Inside, there were large olive green cylinders. “Wait a minute,” Dr. Who said. “These look like chemical bombs, I’d better report this to the secretary-general.”
“NO! No,” said Capt. Z. “These are not chemical bombs, my friend. They are ummmm, storage tanks for, ummmm, Vitamin C, yes, Vitamin C. Heh-heh, little ones need that Vitamin C.”
“Vitamin C, huh?” Dr. Who said, his voice dripping with suspicion.
Call me crazy, but I don’t think he bought it.
Day 3
Today was a real treat. I got to meet the son of Saddam Hussein, Uday Hussein. He took us on a personalized tour of a tractor factory. There was a moment of mild tension when the Bush representative tried to do a Vulcan neck pinch on Hussein, like Mr. Spock used to do on Star Trek. He gave up after we all just stared at him as if he were a circus freak.
I asked “Little Saddam,” as he asked us to call him, why these new Iraqi tractors had tracked wheels and 50 caliber machine guns mounted on them. “Well,” he said, “Our farmers have a terrible time with, ummm, water buffaloes. No, ummmm, what do you call them? Uh, wild camels, yeah, that’s the ticket, wild camels. They have to protect their crops from stampedes of these wild camels.”
I just can’t shake the feeling that they’re hiding something from us.
Another strange occurrence: we were touring a plant called “Food-Processing Place for Children,” (at least that’s what the torn piece of spiral notebook paper taped to the door said), when I noticed all the workers wearing radiation suits.
I asked Capt. Z, “What’s with the radiation suits?”
“Radiation suits? Oh no, no, no, my friend! These are, ummm, sanitary suits. Yes, that should work. Our workers in this food processing plant for children are protecting the food from contamination. See, all our workers have anthrax.”
Dr. Who asked him, “How on earth did they get anthrax?”
Capt. Z said, “Did I say anthrax, because I meant herpes! I always get the two confused.”
At that point, several workers ran out screaming, “Reactor breach! Reactor breach! We’re all gonna die!”
Dr. Who told Capt. Z, “Reactors, huh? You have some explaining to do to the Security Council!”
As we ran for our lives, the North Korean inspector smirked, shook his head, and said, “Heh, amateurs.” I wonder what he meant by that.
Tony Odom is a graduate student in the history department.