The successful effort to track down Sajak centered on a trusted courier, identified only as “Vanna”, whom officials described as a buxom blonde woman who rarely spoke, but often showed her approval of Sajak’s terrorism by smiling and clapping politely. Sajak would often hide his propaganda in puzzles, and Vanna would slowly reveal them to the world, letter-by-letter.

Sajak reportedly tried to use Vanna as a shield during the firefight, taking cover behind her bosoms as he fired on 30 Navy SEALS. Vanna, like Sajak, was killed in the raid. Officials positively identified Sajak by testing his DNA against other complete douches, and finding a near 100 percent match. Vanna was identified by removing her breast implants and checking the serial number.

Network television tradition requires burial of dead game show hosts within 24 hours, to clear out the dressing room for the younger, more attractive replacement host. American authorities complied with all the various entertainment industry standards: Sajak’s face was peed upon by Chuck Woolery, and an audio recording of Merv Griffin cursing angrily at a flight attendant while she fellated him was played as Sajak’s body was dumped into the North Arabian Sea. The sea burial is beneficial because it denies elderly women who worship Sajak a shrine to visit.

U.S. intelligence officials removed a large trove of documents from Sajak’s compound. One document has already leaked onto the internet. The top half of the classified document reads, “Category: Before & After”, while the bottom half reads, “Seventh-Inning Stretch Pants.” Officials wouldn’t comment on the meaning of the document, but experts believe it’s stupid enough to have been a puzzle used on the actual game show.

Sajak’s demise is a defining moment in the American-led fight against bad television, a symbolic stroke affirming the relentless pursuit of networks and actors who bore millions of Americans with endless clones of “Everybody Loves Raymond” and dull reality shows about non-Kardashians.

The public reaction following the news of Sajak’s death was jubilant. Even college students, who were only eight or nine years old when Sajak flew planes into the World Trade Center, were celebrating in the streets. But perhaps the most surprising approval came from former President George W. Bush, who complimented President Obama despite claiming during his own administration that Sajak was not a priority.

“I don’t know where Pat Sajak is,” said President Bush during a 2002 interview. “I have no idea and really don’t care. I’m not Mrs. Sajak, so I don’t have to keep track of him. Maybe he’s on the Wheel of Fortune set. I dunno. I don’t have time to look.”

The remaining members of Al Qaeda haven’t commented on Sajak’s demise, as they all live in the Middle East, where pop culture news from America tends to take 5-10 years to get there. At the time of the 9/11 attacks, Bon Jovi was really huge in Iraq. Right now, Ma$e’s album “Harlem World” is quickly shooting up the charts in Pakistan. Around 2023, U.S. terrorism officials will begin preparing for Sajak death retaliation attacks.

When President Obama addressed the nation on Sunday evening, one of his main goals was to remind citizens that the United States is not at war with television. Even though MTV’s “Skins” remake is boring and severely lacking in charm/nudity, and “Mike and Molly” is just 22 minutes of jokes about Molly smelling her own farts and Mike not being able to pee accurately because he’s too fat to see his own penis, television is still worth fixing.

“Sajak was not a television leader; he was a mass murderer of television,” said President Obama. “His demise should be welcomed by all who believe in human dignity. All we need is one show worth watching, just one single show that isn’t stupid and full of jokes about masturbation, and television will be right back on track. We don’t have a show like that yet, and we haven’t for nearly 20 years, but we’re bound to get lucky sometime.”

“But Paul,” you might say, “It’s just a bird. It doesn’t want to eat you. It’s just confused because it doesn’t realize the window is made of glass.” Well reader, if fools were precious you’d be downright adorable, but they’re not, so you’re an idiot. We’ve all heard stories of birds flying into window panes, but this one isn’t suicidal like its brethren. This bird is hungry for brains. It will not give up until it devours human meat, and the rivers of blood that flow through me.

Deep into my bathroom fleeing, long I stood there unzipping, peeing, dreaming escapes no mortal ever dared to dream before. But the bird was unrestrained, and eyeing my jugular vein, and the only word there spoken was the tapping on my window decor. Merely this and nothing more.

Also, I’m a bachelor, so my windows haven’t been washed in years. They’re filthy. It would take a bottle and a half of Windex to see the true color of the sky.

Back into my bed turning, I told the bird – to ease its spurning – that I’d happily clean the windows a little more. But this only brought a tapping much louder than before.

Perhaps the bird won’t eat me if I feed it something else. Maybe I’m mistaking blood lust for normal hunger. What kind of sandwiches do birds eat? Ham? I’m out of that. Turkey? That’s a fellow species of bird. They probably won’t eat their own. Tuna fish? Do birds like fish, or just cats? Everything I know about animals comes from Looney Tunes cartoons. Regardless, I’m out of that too. Hey bird, stop pecking my window! I’ll make you some PB&J!

“Surely,” said I, “surely the bird will take a sandwich gratis; Let me see then, where the peanut butter thereat is, and fill up this birdly whore – Let the grape jelly I just bought be christened for this birdly whore – Then I shall hear the wind and nothing more!”

I don’t deserve this grief! Why is this happening? Do I have enemies with the capability to send a carnivorous bird to my window to devour me? Ones who knew my Saturday would be ruined if I woke up before 11am? In 17 hours when this damn bird finally breaks through my window, I guess they’ll get what they wanted.

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it does is its only stock and store.” Caught from some unhappy wanker, filled with angry, bitter rancor, the bird only knows to be hardcore. This and nothing more. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee – a bloodthirsty bird he has sent me. Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of clean window decor!”

What kind of a retched world is this? How long must I live in these bowels of Poe, with ravens tapping at my chamber door, squawking about girls with easy to rhyme names? What’s next? A beating heart pulsating through my floorboards? My friends tossing bottles of amontillado into catacombs and sealing me inside? Pits and pendulums amidst the Spanish Inquisition? I can’t take this damned incessant window tapping anymore!

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – winged eater of turds and weevils! By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both find to be a bit of a snore – Spare my soul with sorrow laden, I have no beer, no porn, no maidens! I swear to you that life is already a chore! My 401k’s VIMSX stock has hit the floor – Quit the bust above my door!”

Quoth the bird, “Nevermore.”

Driving west to the next neighborhood, things get a little weirder. The eastern edge of Hollywood is where immigrants and transsexuals reside. It’s a low-rent neighborhood, which attracts the immigrants, but it’s also a sleazy neighborhood, which attracts the trannies. Most of the trannies are extremely tall black men, which doesn’t make them very convincing as women. If you’ve never seen a Mike Tyson look-alike boarding a bus in a sun dress, I’d highly recommend it.

The number four bus’ route gets even grittier as it pushes to the center of Hollywood. The streets are filled with trash, homeless people abound, and the entire area looks like it’s been hit with a bomb full of urine. Surprisingly, this rotten-looking area is full of trendy people: Socialites in expensive outfits, art students with indie rock cred and brightly-dyed hair, and a few old timers who never recovered from the Sunset Strip’s heavy metal heyday in the 1980s. Welcome to the club scene.

At 8am, the people from all these cliques are hungover. Don’t scoff. You would be too if you lived at the corner of Hollywood and Vine. Falling on the sidewalk is not just contagious in this area, it’s almost a bit of a mating call. I find it charming that homeless people wearing rags and trendy kids wearing Prada can share a few mutual vomits, if only for a few moments.

The landscape turns upscale as the number four rumbles into West Hollywood. This is a gay neighborhood, and I’m not mocking when I say everything is ridiculously gay. The street signs are a pretty blue color, many stores have rainbow flags and banners in their windows, the sidewalks are absolutely spotless, and everything is very tidy and well designed. They have bike lanes, for God’s sake. Trendy bastards!

I once heard someone refer to West Hollywood as “WeHo”, so I started calling it that as well. A gay friend of mine heard me use the phrase and got a tear in his eye. “Aww, that’s cute,” he said. “You’ve learned gay speak.” He was less enthused when I referred to the neighborhood as “GayHo”.

Nearing the end of its route, bus number four limps through the heavy congestion into Beverly Hills. The traffic here is a sea of BMWs and Mercedes’. Occasionally you’ll see a Porsche or Aston Martin. Last week I saw two Lamborghinis. Oddly enough, you become immune to it. A cherry red Lamborghini doesn’t even cause me to put down the book I’m reading anymore. Not unless it runs over a jogger.

By this time, the only riders left on bus number four are middle-aged Hispanic women. In fact, the bus is packed full of them. They work as housekeepers and nannies for the rich people in the area. In all my time riding the bus, I’ve never seen an actual resident of Beverly Hills use it.

The number four is filthy, broken down, and completely unreliable, but it’s great because it’s like a zoo for people watchers. If you’re lucky, on any given night you might see a cokehead jittering in his seat as if he were having a seizure. You might see a tranny who looks strikingly like NBA star Kevin Garnett. You might meet the guy who cleans up Paris Hilton’s dog’s poop. Or you might see nothing much at all. It all depends on your luck.

Either way, you’ll learn a lot more about a city (and leave much more fascinated) by riding bus number four than you will by visiting Disneyland. The real parts of a city and the real residents are always the best attractions in town.