Dear Bill and Hillary:

First off, I want to thank both of you for the truly wonderful time I've had here. 1600 Pennsylvania was a squeeze toy come true for a young naive Arkansas kitten such as I. You might say it has been purr-fect. But, sadly, now I think its time to move on to a new box. You know, I never blamed you for turning down all those offers I received from various agents who keep telling me I could have been the feline Michael Jordan. You were just trying to look out for me the way you did with Roger and Tony, right? Besides, I never developed a decent jump shot. Ha ha ha. And this has nothing to do with the recent acquisition of Buddy. Sure, he's frisky, but weren't we all at that age, eh Bill? I just hope he learns how to shut up. You got to admit, I kept my whiskers still for five long years and I'm sure you and Al would prefer it remain that way for the next three. I just pray I'm financially stable enough not to stoop to one of those tacky kiss and tell memoirs, which wouldn't reflect well on any of us, if you get my drift. I really don't look forward to pawing through those voluminous journals securely stashed in my lawyer's safety deposit litter box. Anyhow, I hope all is well with you all, and have yourself a merry little christmas. Sorry about those ornaments.

Socks

PS. Say hello to whats her name, you know, the girl.

I come from this state. Well yes, of course, I speak of confusion, but more specifically, Wisconsin. The heart of the Midwest. Although technically, its in the Mideast, but that name was already taken, and I'm guessing we weren't willing to fight for it. The overriding philosophy of the Midwest is "don't rock the boat". What they neglect to tell you is there's no damn water in the pond. You can get out and walk to shore if you wish. People here admire stability. The nickname "Rockhead" is a compliment here. Erosion, a tool to be used only as a last resort. Progress is just another means of using modern technology to achieve the status quo. Even the time zone couldn't be more middle of the road. Central. And it's no co-incidence that television starts and ends an hour earlier than the rest of the country. 8PM/ 7 Central. This is where those new fangled old fashioned diners are original structures. Living in a hard land, they work hard, and play hard and take solace in simple pleasures. Eating and drinking. Sausage, cheese and beer. This is the home of beer sausage, cheese sausage, beer cheese, sausage cheese and cheese beer. We don't have sausage beer yet, but we're working on it.

Ah, Christmas. That time of year when we are susceptible to the rare disease called mall rage. Where waiting for the cashier is reminiscent of Russian bread lines, and the toy stores are full of fifty year old men furiously trying to buy more than their fair share of Beanie Babies. And of course, there's the getting in and out, which is about as pleasant as gargling barbed wire. Here's my favorite thing to do: leave the mall and go to the first car you see jangling your keys setting off a fifteen car pileup of people jockeying for that parking spot. Then you just laugh and tell them you were only spoofing. You will see the instant evaporation of Christmas spirit that would make Scrooge look like Pollyanna on a Pez high. Mormons will flip you off. Of course they do it wrong. When my lovely wife Debi Ann and I paddle off to a Christmas tree farm in Half Moon Bay and kill ourselves a tree for Christ. Yeah, we stalk the sucker. Take him home while his sap is still wet, stick him in water, and string electric lights and shredded aluminum foil around him. Tree torture. Hey, it's the way He would have had it.

The Philippines largest opposition party nominated Joseph Estrada, a former movie star, as their Presidential candidate in next year's elections. The party, known as the Struggle of the Nationalist Filipino Masses obviously needs a jump start, as their name is one of those that fall trippingly off the tongue like a genetic compound's enzymatic base. It also may go a long way in explaining why Philippines is spelled with two p's and Filipino is only spelled with one. Nominating an actor to be President. Imagine that! I know that Czechoslovakia elected Vaclav Havel, a playwright as their head dude, but what kind of crazy flipped out populace would actually sink to considering an actor to be President? Oh. Yeah, but Ronald Reagan was different. Right. He wasn't even a halfway decent actor. Kind of like saying President Rory Calhoun. I don't know if anyone is aware of this, but Reagan turned down Bogart's part in Casablanca. Imagine how history would have changed if he had taken the part. Bogart might have been President. Of course Casablanca would be a crummy movie. Hey you have to have prioritites. Personally, I'm looking forward to Senator Jim Varney or Vice President Crispin Glover. Of course I'm a comedian.

Hey guys. Here we are again at that time of the year when visions of sugar plums dance in our head. Although the memory of exactly what we poured on the boss at the company Christmas party still seems to elude us. Along with the origin of those weird welts on the insides of our thighs. Yes, I'm speaking of that most glorious time of the year when singing chipmunks and cats fill the airwaves with their joyous yet oddly disturbing holiday sounds. This is also that time when noted sourpusses get their rocks off by falling back on the lame concept of offering up their own perverted wishes for twisting the spirit of the midwinter celebration thanking the dragon for not eating the sun which somehow came to mutate into a fat guy in a red suit encouraging people to go into debt buying things that aren't needed for people they don't like with money they don't have. Which means me. Yeah, I know this bit is older than the premise of a WB sitcom pilot, but what else are you doing with the next three minutes of your life? So let me now offer up to the most deserving of us; Will Durst's 1997 Christmas Gift Wish List.

For Latrell Sprewell: A two week seminar at the Albert Belle Anger Counseling Clinic.

For William Weld: A t-shirt with "Payback Is A Bitch" printed on the front.

For Al Gore: An endorsement deal with MCI.

For Bill Clinton: The first installation of his Presidential library: a stone wall.

For New Gingrich: A clue.

Merry Christmas everybody! It's that time of year when you have to make those hard decisions like whether you can rewrap Aunt Hoogolah's fruit cake from last year to give as an anonymous gift at the company Christmas party. Then you remember the fruit cake is two years old and it doesn't even affect your crisis. So let's move on with part two of Will Durst's patented 1997 Christmas Gift Wish List.

For Eddie DeBartolo: The address and phone number of just one of the Grand Jurors.

For Dick Gephardt: Eyebrows. A couple of pieces of stray yarn, a no. 4 pencil, something!

For Benjamin Netanyahu: A couple of acres of land anywhere to exchange for peace.

For Robert Downey Jr: Six months worth of ugly pills.

For All Airline Passengers In The Wake Of The National Transportation Safety Board's Report That The TWA 800 Crash Was The Result Of "Something Unknown Happening": Rosary beads.

For Representative Dan Burton: His very own Janet Reno Swimsuit Calendar.

For Attorney General Janet Reno: Her very own Louis Freeh Swimsuit Calendar.

For Alan Greenspan: A vow of silence.

For Bill Gates: One of those vacuum cleaner hair cutting attachments they sell on cable.

For World.com CEO Bernie Ebbers who bought MCI: Custom fitted underwear.

So we started giving thanks that consumers are out there doing their patriotic duty of sinking heavily into debt to honor the birth of our Lord by offering up to the most deserving of us, Will Durst's 1997 Xma$ Gift Wi$h Li$t. Let's get on with it, shall we?

For Boris Yeltsin: Some black market connections for antibiotics so he doesn't have to depend on the Russian medical system.

For Apple Computer: A federally sanctioned year long Microsoft free zone.

For Hillary Clinton: A weekend in the White House hot tub with Antonio Banderas, and a t-shirt with "Payback is a Bitch" on the front.

For Astronauts headed for the Mir Space Station: Copies of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Repair".

For the new owners of Hudson Beef Patties: The contract to provide the NHL with commemorative pucks.

For Larry King: A permanent bridal suite at the Las Vegas Mirage Hotel.

For The Parents Of The Iowa Septuplets: A lifetime supply of Extra Strength Valium.

For Saddam Hussein: A human shield made up of various son-in-laws.

For Mike Tyson: A fight with George Foreman that can be billed, "The Beast and The Buffet".

For Socks the Cat: A transfer to Stanford where he can hook up with his real and true friend.

Bah humbug everybody. And in the spirit of those of us familiar with the soft dark underbelly of the happiest time of the year, how bout we open that spigot of red and green bile once more, and let the true meaning of the solstice holiday drip down into the sink of our lowered expectations and moisten the clumps of rotting mistletoe we have so laboriously collected from various Departments of Motor Vehicles with our patented Will Durst 1997 Xma$ Gift Wi$h Li$t.

For Barry Switzer: A new coaching position where he can better work his "run and shoot" offense.

For Dan Quayle: A spell check.

For Chelsea Clinton: An entire contingent of Secret Service agents who do not speak English and have problems staying awake after nine.

For Michael Jackson: An invitation by an eccentric millionaire to spend a weekend in a mansion haunted by Elvis' Ghost.

For Hillary Clinton: A new bestseller with the title of "It Takes A Subpoena."

For Tiger Woods: 3 days of peace and quiet.

For Rush Limbaugh: A new publicity push started by a "Where Is He Now?" article.

For Fox Television: If they lose football, a replacement series called: "While Enraged Animals Attack The World's Scariest Police Chases, Deadly Swarms Demolish America's Most Wanted Cops."

Somebody call the Holiday Police. I have a severe case of tinsel poisoning. And I'm coming down with a bad Bing Crosby rash. We won't even talk about Aunt Hoogolah's fruitcake. And you got to stop with the egg nog, already. Please! I'm done gagging on a rich blend of dairy products, mucous and brandy. Waste of perfectly good brandy if you ask me. Okay, let's nail this puppy to the headboard, and finish off the Will Dur$t Xma$ Gift Wi$h Li$t.

For Paula Jones: Exclusive worldwide rights to all photographs exhibited during her upcoming trial.

For Steve Forbes: A Mary Kay Makeover.

For Dennis Rodman: An endorsement deal with Victoria's Secret for when he loses his shoe contract.

For Madeline Albright: An extra large cup so she can gain a little respect from the big boys

For Mike Ovitz: A mattress so the poor boy can have something to fall back on.

For Mayor of Oakland Mayor wannabe Jerry Brown: A 55 gallon drum of that medicine they give to Attention Deficit Disorder kids.

For Willie Brown: One of those really really expensive and totally useless whatchamacallits.

For Iranian President Mohammad Khatami: A brand new Shiite Moderate kit, which consists of a gun which ran out of bullets.

For Ted Turner: His own personalized Blue UN helmet, and a Good Will tour for the Atlanta Braves of Bosnia.

Okay, here's the deal. They got this humongous environmental conference going on in Kyoto, Japan this week, which is a lot like selling anti fur bumper stickers at a vegetarian get-together in the blood gutters of a slaughterhouse, but that don't make no never mind. The problem here is, good ol' Al Gore is caught between a red adobe brick and a slab of freshly poured cement. See, Mr. "Earth In The Balance" made his reputation as Super Environmentalist, but now he's running for President and he needs business and labor which look upon International environmental treaties the same way freshly shucked oysters look forward to cocktail sauce. But for Gore to ignore the confab would be more suspicious than Congress tabling a motion on campaign finance reform.

It would be real similar to: (do you sense a bit here?)

* The Spice Girls avoiding a New Music Express Bimbo Caucus.

* Bill Gates selling something.

* A Janet Reno Press Conference in which she announces she is actually calling for a special prosecutor to look into suspicious Clinton Administration dealings.

* Dennis Rodman in something off the rack.

* Melrose Place with a character that is neither horny nor bitter.

* South Carolina with a senior Senator that is neither horny nor bitter.

Sorry I didn't show up for the last couple of days. I got this lung mung that's going around, so instead of going on vacation like we were supposed to, my wife and I are hanging around the house hocking up loogies the size of footstools. A lot of the activities are similar to vacation experiences, except, now, the arms akimbo out of control sliding is done on a thin layer of used kleenexes rather than snow. I assume I'm getting better, since the nose flotsam is no longer the color of pale grass, but more of a mother of pearl translucent sort of deal. Called my doctor to find out how to get rid of this crap, and he said not only didn't he know, but if I should figure it out, to call him since he's had it for a month and can't shake it. Great news, especially right after reading "The Hot Zone". I'm relieved it's been 48 hours and neither of us have crashed and bled out yet. I hate being sick. I'd rather be stuck on the side of the road with a flat in Idaho than be sick. Food doesn't taste good, cigarettes are a death defying act, and even coffee seems horribly horribly wrong. Everything that validates being an adult is suddenly worthless. If you want to get well, you have a bedtime. And your allowance is used up on coughdrops. Not even those good cherry flavored candy ones, but the healthy eucalyptus kind. Sick sucks.

This Latrell Sprewell thing is getting all out of hand. Now it's a race thing. Which is similar to calling the Jesse Helms/ William Weld deal, an accent thing. No. The relationship between him and PJ Carlesimo was more complicated than that. Like San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown so impolitically said; "Maybe the coach deserved to be choked." And everybody flipped out. You can only yell at a person for so long before lack of respect becomes the issue. It is universally agreed that Carlesimo is the Pol Pot of basketball coaches. A man with a shorter fuse than a biker eating quiche at a ballet recital being pummeled with martini olive pimentos. Hey, I don't know if anybody remembers, but it took Ohio State like three weeks to fire Woody Hayes when he slugged an opposing player. Dennis Rodman kicked an innocent bystander in the groin, and all he got was a three day pass to Las Vegas. The hyena press jumped all over the wounded gazelle Latrell because he had the temerity to adopt a policy of not talking to them this year. And the NBA didn't like his haircut. Payback is a bitch. A lot of us f h irrational authority might have dreamed of responding in the same manner. Then Converse canceled its shoe contract. Of course Latrell might rebound with a Nike deal aimed at line workers. "Just Do It!" Perfect fit.

I drink beer. Being from Milwaukee. That's what we do. I don't just mean, beer is consumed. That's like saying; sand is available in the Mojave. That Bill Gates might not be turning grey over his worry about social security coverage. That dogs have a tendency to get distracted playing chess. We're born professional beer drinkers. It's a way of life. Beer is our tradition, our heritage, our trusted marriage counselor. A beer gut equals a symbol of prestige. Liver spots mark a life well lived. Cirrhosis is written off as the result of a weak system. Faulty filters. "Didn't drink enough BEER!" Import. Home brew. Domestic. Microbrewery. Doesn't matter. The beer flavored water known as Light. We drink it. It's always been an embarrassment that the adult amber beverage named after this fair city "Old Milwaukee" made Coors taste like a stout. But whether it was Pilsner Urquell or Old Peculiar or Mickey's Big Mouth Dry Ice Wet Light Double Bock: even the worst beer I ever had was still pretty good. Mind you, this love poem pointedly disincludes Zima, a so called "malt beverage" with the aromatics of sun dried cat pee, and the aftertaste of scorched metal. Of course, if no beer is available...

The House introduced 3036 bills in the session just ended, and 59 have become law. That's a batting average of .011, definitely below the Mendoza Line. The Senate did worse, 19 for 1568. Hell, even Michael Jordan hit better than that in AA. 35 bills sit on the President's desk waiting for his signature, while more than 30 are just waiting to be delivered. Guess they don't trust the US Mail. 94 proposed amendments to the Constitution ended up deader than a Wyoming haddock failing to garner the necessary two thirds majority in both chambers. Procrastination seems to be our Representatives major talent. Here's just a sample of what looms over us like a flock of nuclear mutated flesh eating vultures.

* Abortion: Will attempt to override Clinton's veto and pass the"partial birth" abortion ban. Might get more support if they write in clause allowing special case retroactivity for House Majority Leaders.

* IRS overhaul: Senate Finance Chairman William Roth, R-Del., is rumored to have delayed implementation to use as an election theme in 98. And there is also talk that fire is hot.

* Tobacco Settlement: $368 billion national tobacco settlement has yet to be passed. Suspicion on its merits erupted when the day after it was announced, tobacco stocks went up.

* Fast-Track: Clinton will tinker with bill making it more favorable to labor in hopes of pushing it through in 98. Proponents will claim its passage will insure jobs, but will remain strangely silent on the question of just which country those jobs will be created.

So the deal is, Congress has a full plate coming up next year, and here's some of the tasty morsels they're going to wipe off the sides of their mouths with napkins woven from taxpayers dollars.

* Campaign Finance: Republican leaders in both House and Senate promise debate and votes in spring. Sure, sure, and the moon's going to fall out of the sky, and we'll all grow wings and fly to Venus. Hahahahahahahahahahaha.

* Public Housing: Will try to work out differences in bill allowing greater numbers of working poor to live in public housing and change how rents are calculated. And if that doesn't work, does the term Soylent Green ring any bells?

* Flag: Will propose amendment to make desecration of flag illegal. And will do it again. And again. Until every member has a clip of their support suitable for a campaign ad.

* Cruise Ships: Legislation authored by Sen. Strom Thurmon R SC, would overturn 1886 law preventing foreign cruise ships from ferrying passengers between US ports. Easy for him, since he probably proposed the initial bill.

* Affirmative Action: Wants to eliminate race and gender as factors in federal decision making, while their expected stand on Gay Rights will make it illegal to discriminate based on sexual orientation. Usually contradictions like this would humble groups of people. This however, is the US Congress.

* HMO Reform: Opponents, surprisingly including the HMO industry, warn reform will mean higher costs and overcrowding. Apparently better care leading to fewer deaths has no effect on the bottom line.

* In Japan, Sumo Wrestlers have been ordered to lose weight to protect the integrity of the sport. Yeah, you know, once a guy gets over 700 pounds, it's hard to think of him an athlete.

* Had an awkward moment at the first Bulls Knicks game. It seems Dennis Rodman and Marv Albert showed up in the same dress.

* The IRS overhaul reportedly will get rid of the marriage penalty, something the President has been working on for years.

* Gennifer Flowers is going to testify at the Paula Jones trial, and you know Clinton can be thinking of only one thing: threesome.

* Poor Saddam. Just doesn't get the credit he deserves. The guy's an expert at reducing arms. And legs, and other limbs as well.

* OJ's house in Brentwood is up for sale, and you know the real estate agents are primed. "Oh yes, it's very soundproof. From the bedroom, you can't even hear a limo honking in your driveway."

* The Park Service spent $333 million on a restroom in the Delaware Water Gap. You know for $333 million, it better zip me up.

* I think the Republicans are getting a little picky with Clinton and his videos. Now they're complaining he didn't rewind.

* The people under the most stress over this Iraq thing have to be CNN. In the event of war, they'll have less than an hour to compose a theme song.

* Now that Bill Clinton has his line item veto, we are witnessing the unheard of spectacle of a Democrat cutting the budget and Republicans complaining about it.

* I love the sight of a two ton bag of hot air floating down Broadway.

* It either means Thanksgiving or Rush Limbaugh is taking a stroll.

* Al Gore hired himself some defense attorneys, which means he's trying to look as Presidential as possible.

* Michael Jordan is from Mars. Dennis Rodman is from Venus.

* I expect the next crisis on Mir will be an announcement the hamster died.

* If they ever build a Jesse Helms monument they should put it right in the middle of the Capitol Rotunda so it blocks everybody.

* Bill Clinton is most worried about the bizarre pattern of storm and high pressure known as the El Reno Effect.

* Ken Burns' new PBS miniseries focused on "Lewis and Clark", but what he didn't tell you was Lewis was the guy who coined the expression, "are we there yet?" Or was it Clark?

* I understand Pete Wilson's next pseudo populist push will be to free us from the worldwide papist plot?

If not for Willie Brown, San Francisco would be known as North Daly City.

If not for Willie Brown, Wilkes Bashford would be selling t-shirts off of a.fold up card table at Fisherman's Wharf.

If not for Willie Brown, Bernie Ward would be spending three hours a day on.KGO railing against Eli Whitney and his evil spawn: the Cotton Gin.

If not for Willie Brown, we wouldn't even know helicopters had heat seeking.infrared cameras.

If not for Willie Brown, Rob Morse would be the Midnight Cabbie.

If not for Willie Brown, Phil Matier would be Cynthia Robbins' personal.assistant, not a muck raker who specializes in raking muck where no muck.exists.

If not for Willie Brown, Sacramento would be a town that people in Modesto.could make fun of. The man spent 31 years there: talk about Capital.punishment.

If not for Willie Brown, we wouldn't have firsthand evidence that a guy.could follow you into a revolving door and come out first.

If not for Willie Brown, other politicians would lack a role model to learn.how to talk so passionately, so eloquently that even reporters forget what.the question was.

If not for Willie Brown, instead of a mayor who wore a hat, we'd have a.mayor who talked through his hat.

If not for Willie Brown, the United States wouldn't have single mayor who.was circumsized with power tools.

If not for Willie Brown, the sourdough would be less sour, the fog a bit.thinner and the cable car bells as tinny as a Pete Wilson defense of.Proposition 209.

The Senate Judiciary Committee failed to approve the nomination of Bill.Lann Lee to be assistant attorney in charge of civil rights, on the basis,.according to Sen. Charles Grassley, R-Iowa, his views are "too far out of.the mainstream". You know, I keep hearing about this famous mainstream, but.can't seem to find it on any of the maps. Rand McNally's never heard of it..I think Mr. Grassley would be doing the whole country a favor by sharing.with us the exact location of his favorite fishing creek and maybe we can.take Mr. Lee there to find out how far from the middle of it he really is..Of course if the nominee has any friends in the military he might want to.contact them right about now, since being parachuted in by a team of Navy.Seals might be the best way for him to assure dead center which is.obviously what the honorable Hawkeye Senator would prefer. Maybe it's a.midwestern thing. Out here in California, our mainstream is full of.different languages and colors and probably polluted as heck, but not by.the narrow views of the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Congress has gone underground for the winter like 535 individual bears in.search of extremely safe caves lain with piles of soft money. But don't get.too elated, they'll be back. There is much to do. Plenty of stuff still.works.

Here are the high points, if you have the nerve to call them that, of the.first half of the 105th Congress' mucking up.

· The Balanced Budget: Got it! Finally! Maybe! Mainly because the.economy is kicking serious butt, so watch both parties climb over each.other with turf cleats to take credit..

· "Taxpayer Relief Act": Lowering capital gains taxes in order to.stimulate the rich. Thought to be less effective than a remote controlled.cattle prod suppository, but not as messy. .

· Defense: $268.2 billion. $2.6 billion more than requested. Nice..Kinda like getting too much change back at the 7-11. Way too much change..Guess that big Peace Dividend... expired. .

· Immigration: Relaxed portions of 1996 immigration law which allowed.immigrants to be corralled onto meat farms p ground up and served as lumpia.filling..

· Congressional Pay: Received a $3,072 raise by not voting on it..Things aren't bad enough, now we have to worry about these cheese weenies.when they're not doing anything. .

· Foreign Aid: Floated some spare change, $12.8 billion, to countries.smart enough to vote our way in the UN. .To be continued.

Before we were so rudely interrupted, I think we were speaking of the 105th Congress finishing up their first half exhibiting the grace of an elephant on an escalator. Let's continue shall we?

· Chemical Weapons: Ratified treaty five days before pact took effect. Simply because it was right thing to do. Just had to make sure a ban on land mines wasn't part of it.

· Education: Denied administration money to develop reading and math tests. Message here being; an educated electorate tends not to favor incumbents.

· Transportation: In order to make Amtrak more competitive, services were cut. Begging the question: what's left? They got a plan to tear out the seats? After getting public accustomed to sandwiches tasting like cardboard, now real cardboard can be substituted.

· Children: Made it easier to remove children from abusive families. Next year we can work on removing constituencies from abusive Congresspersons.

· Judgeships: Out of 77 nominations, only 36 were confirmed. And Congress has agreed to accept 36/77ths of their pay. Right, and formica is edible.

· Contested Elections: Still squabbling over jurisdictional charges by Bob Dornan R-Cal, concerning Democrat Loretta Sanchez whom he claims beat him with votes from dead people. After all, Orange County is not Chicago, it's Disneyland.

· China: Human rights, schmuman rights. Extended most-favored nation status for another year. Now that Pol Pot has recanted, perhaps we can get him some sort of special status as well.

The defense for Louise Woodward said the strategic decision to let the jury consider only a first or second degree murder charge in the death of 8 month old Matthew Eappen now "can be seen as a mistake", and they want the judge to consider a manslaughter charge that they earlier eshewed. Get it: they want take-backs. What a brilliant concept. Adopting a third grade playground concept to law. Much better than the old seventh grade two-out of-three tactic most failed attorneys use via the appeals method. I think a large percentage of us would like to incorporate this new responsibility avoidance theory in everyday life.

* "I know I closed down a strip bar and drank most of a half gallon of vodka then drove off an embankment plowing straight into a tree, but now I'd rather I had spent a quiet evening at home watching Ken Burns' magnificent production of "Lewis and Clark".

* "Sure, I might have fooled around a little earlier in my life, but for crum's sake, why should my high handed moralizing now have to bear up to my sordid past especially since I'm President"?

* "Okay, okay, so I tell jokes in bars; why does that mean I can't become America's most beloved author of love sonnets?"

You know, when I hear all these alarmist self pitying reports about how people have stopped paying attention to newspapers and the national news, I actually get envious of the astute public's ability to shield themselves from such incredible bull crap that they should be shooting out their TV's like 260 million Elvises jagged up on fried mashed banana and peanut butter sandwiches in a town totally devoid of white cotton panties. You probably missed this, and I ain't pulling no judgement trip, but in the face of incredible pressure of reality leaking onto the floor of congressional proceedings like mozzarella onto coals from a barbecued pizza, the Senate has managed to keep the onrushing tide of the 19th century at bay, by voting to disallow laptops into their august chambers because of the obvious reason; they being the instruments of the devil and all. And none of those new fangled ballpoint pens either. Quills, dammit. And powdered wigs, pants with weird flares in the thighs, and hats with buckles on them. And get away with the checks and the IOU's, these white boys are interested in good old American cash. Hey, if it was good enough for the reconstructionists, it should be good enough for them.

The Unabomber Journals have been released to the general public, and surprisingly it turns out Ted Kaczynski was more twisted than your average rock and roll drummer after a two week gig in Amsterdam. Who knew? The journals were written partly in English, Spanish, numeric code and some frighteningly weird pictographs which researchers suggest may have anticipated the Spice Girls. Both the defense and the prosecution are expected to use the journals to enhance their case. The prosecution, because they expect the notations will reveal premeditation, and the defense because they will attempt to portray Teddy as crazier than a shithouse rat on mescaline living in a mirrored maze where they play nothing but John Tesch music 24 hours a day. Which probably won't be that hard to do, since he showed less compassion for his victims than Republicans feel for people without stock portfolios. I don't expect the Journals to be a best seller, at least not until they've been abridged into trade paper, but I can see the movie rights being scooped up by Roger Corman. A quickie 5 week production filmed in Alberta to avoid union problems, starring a bearded Eric Roberts as the tragic misunderstood anti technologist. And of course, Uma Thurman as the high school hall monitor who rejected him.

At 2AM Eastern time, Sunday night, Clinton convinced Congress to cancel the vote for "fast-track" since it became obvious he was a few votes shy of passage. This move is known to veteran Washington watchers as the old "saving your butt" routine, or the "you just wait till we get more dirt on your whiny ass" maneuver. Fast-track defenders say the trade bill would cause jewels and thousand dollar bills to fall right from the sky and directly into the wallet of every American, while its detractors call the plan to give the President authority to negotiate deals only subject to approval but not amendments by Congress, the equivalent of a flesh eating virus for labor after which we will lust after the idyllic working conditions of subterranean Vietnamese Nike factories. Newt Gingrich, with his typical delicacy of a wolverine who had just gnawed his right foreleg off, said he resented the pressure "that the union bosses have brought into the Capitol". I like that. Union bosses are the bad guys. Because they represent people who work for a living. Not like the corporate bosses who never exert any pressure in their support of more money. If I were on the fence on this, that little verbal diarrhea might just make me throw a late night phone call to my Representative and ask for representation.

Oh, those wacky brokers. What a bunch of nutty zany crazy cats they turn out to be. Juking us around like we're third string cornerbacks trying to cover Jerry Rice on a post pattern wearing blindfolds. Scaring the bejeezus out of us ordinary investors, as we watch them giggle and snort, giving each other wedgies on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, making flatulent noises with their hands cupped under their armpits, while we keep wondering if the difference between a correction and a crash is like bunjee jumping with and without the bunjee. Asian markets, my butt. They wanted this rollercoaster ride. It's how they get off. Like little kids, these hyperactive squirrel monkeys need adrenaline the same way Charles Barkley needs to mix it up in a bar every three months. And I have to admit to a slight feeling of sympathy for them. Standing idly by while ticker prices monotonously go up and up and up must be as exciting as listening to a lawn of encroaching crab grass photosynthesize. Like watching varnish harden. They must have been getting bored. Besides, hardly any of these fuzzy fresh faced zygotes has ever seen a Bear Market. A major downturn has to be like forbidden fruit. "Oh yeah, if it's so bad, how come we can't just taste it?" They're not in it for the money, but rather the juice, the buzz, that all important hot shiver down the spine as they win hundreds of millions of dollars worth of other people's money. Or lose it. Whatever. Hey, what's the big deal? They get a cut on both the buying and the selling. Which makes me wonder how many more billion shares of stock volume days lie ahead of us. But then you got to remember, I'm one of those really paranoid guys.

You got to feel sorry for Chinese President Jiang Zemin. The poor guy comes over here ostensibly on a trade mission, announcing a $3 billion purchase of passenger planes from Boeing, which after all our whiny talk about deficits, he has to assume will be met with some half way positive press. Wrong! He ends up sharing news coverage with Richard Gere, and since China doesn't get Entertainment Tonight, he can't even float a couple of spurious Cyndi Crawford rumors in response. Probably wasn't briefed about the gerbil bit either. And how was he supposed to know the first state visit by a Chinese leader in 12 years would coincide with Halloween and he'd be forced into private sessions with Tom Daschle, Trent Lott and Newt Gingrich all dressed up in their most impressive red white and blue neon freedom costumes? Every politician in America is offering up their mother as Salman Rushdie's food taster to be photographed lecturing the leader of a fifth of the world's populace on the merits of Democracy as interpreted by them, and the fact that next year is an election year is a mere co-incidence. The two ways out are for him to kick the crap out of Jackie Chan for the rights to Hong Kong or to denounce and officially outlaw MSG.

I smoke cigarrettes. Yes, I inhale the burning exhaust of a cylindrical tube full of tobacco into my respiratory cavaties filling the pores of my lungs on purpose. Just a little something I do for me. Isn't it great that gays came out of the closet just in time for us smokers to go in? You know who I feel sorry for. Grs. We are the new lepers. They're going to make us wear bells pretty soon so they can hear us approach. You see us outside our little office buildings in our little circular smoking cabals. Its like high school all over again. "Hey Durst, the manager." 45 years old, relearning how to cup a cigarette. As of January 1st here in California, no more smoking in any bars. You non-smokers may be happy now, but how long before the health police come knocking on your door? Next will be pork rinds. Then blue cheese. "Aromatically agressive." And finally to save us from ourselves; chocolate. Oh, hit you where you live did we? Can you imagine trying to introduce sugar into today's climate? "All right, here's the deal. I got this flaky white powder, and it produces a real wiry high. I mean jaw clenchingly wired. Gives you the shakes like a poodle on a Zamboni. And the crash is... hard. But here's the kicker, we market it straight at kids. Start them out on it the first thing every morning. Cover their cereal in it at the factory".

As election day approaches, a lot of us have heard many varying opinions on the various noble propositions that await our considered dispersal. Most of these initiatives have supporters on both sides with virtuous intentions. Except for the proponents of the measure being callously presented to the voters as YES. If YES is enacted, this cynical proposal could cause property taxes to escalate to 110% of market value, and require homeowners to pay for street improvements of neighbors they don't even know. In addition, school children would be subject to medical experimentation under the supervision of the Motor Vehicle Department without parental approval, and only gym teachers from the country formerly known as East Germany would be allowed to apply for new openings. This proposal is blatantly sexist condemning working mothers to day care hell, while escalating brush fire potential to hellish proportions. It ignores the needs of the everyday working man and gives free reign to corporate greed and increasingly suffocating and intrusive government regulation. So if you're looking for a lower standard of living, increased pollution or a takeover of the entire hemisphere by television executives, go ahead, vote for YES. But if you believe in a country where through hard work we can pull together and build a better America, we beg you to vote No on YES.

So here's the deal. Everybody is complaining that Bill Clinton and Prince Albert may or may not have sinned against the spirit of an obscure 1873 law that was written murkier than a snorkling expedition in a honey wagon. A full 4 years, I might add, before Alexander Graham Bell started talking to himself. Yeah, like the Republicans only communicated with their contributors through Ouija boards, mental telepathy and concentrating real hard. Enough already. So, I'm thinking either we go one way; like not allowing anybody to give any money to any candidates at all. Then we'd see big time political operatives selling lemonade on card tables outside television stations, not to mention election eve bake sales. C'mon, wouldn't you pay good American greenbacks to see Hillary in a crisp pinafore pushing some of those homemade chocolate chip brownies of hers? Or we could go the other way and just let them grab any and or all monies they can get their grubby little hands on. Find out what the Presidency is worth on the open market. Maybe Bill Gates and Ted Turner could get into a bidding war for major influence in National Affairs. Probably wouldn't work: can't think of why they'd want to pay for something they're already getting for free.

At the National Geographical Society yesterday, Bill Clinton called for $5 billion in incentives to cut greenhouse gases. Apparently survival of the human species ain't quite inducement enough for these people. They must figure we got at least ten years or so to make gobs of money before it all starts burning up from exposure to the atmosphere. Brillo Head spoke in preparation for a December meeting in Kyoto, Japan where 170 nations will try to reach a binding agreement to commit to specific measures to turn back global warming. Of course the environmentalists got their sprouts all up in a twist calling the proposal grossly unacceptable, which is probably exactly what Clinton needs to get it passed through a Republican Congress. They're not the only ones refusing to jump on board the Fresh Air Express: Arab countries have objected to cutting back on the gases and want to be reimbursed by industrial nations if the program results in lower oil purchases. Kind of like dealers still sending you bills after you've cleaned up. The Big Three automakers are also against the tighter emission controls, but that's about as surprising as finding dirt in the Kleenex when you blow your nose after being buried alive.

Here's the deal. My income is derived from mocking and scoffing and taunting. That's what I do. I'm the designated dick. A national resource of doubt and misgivings dedicated to the proposition that most men are total idiots consumed with self absorption. It's not a pretty job but someone has to do it. As a matter of fact, at times, I would much rather be doing almost anything else, like sheep farming in Southern France. OK. Especially sheep farming in Southern France. It just leaks out of me like spring sap in a Maine maple forest. The scorn and derision comes to me like lobotomized swallows returning to Capistrano. Mostly I get my material from others. Hundreds of writers deliver my stuff to me at 7 am on the dot every morning. At least I suspect that's when the papers come, since I don't wake up till the crack of ten. So now, the Million Woman March is headed to Philadelphia on Saturday, and I'm supposed to use it as a jumping off point for topical and/ or social commentary shedding light on the vagaries and frailties of the human spirit and I can't. I mean no disrespect at all when I say to all the attendees: "You go girls!"

Now I'm a cynic. So when you tell me people like to get high, I'm as surprised as a penguin is by ice. After all, I used to be a bartender. I have seen normal homo sapiens mix perfectly good bourbon with root beer. On purpose. It's that length that humans will go to cop a buzz that flips me out like a Laplander grandma in a Safeway produce section. In the four corners area of the Southwest there's a toad that secretes an hallucinogenic sweat. Government officials have made licking this toad illegal. Now before you have a law you have to have a problem, right? I was just wondering a couple of things; how high do you already have to be in order to lick a sweaty toad? "No man, you got to squeeze it first. Oh, you idiot, that's a frog." And two, how many animal fluid mixtures did these pharmacological pioneers go through... before they stumbled onto the correct formula?

* Weepy wolverines?

* Dead mule slobber?

* Dried banana slug trail chips?

* Aardvarks with the sniffles?

* Earwax from an albino dwarf goat?

* Irritated black scorpion venom?

* Eye gunk from a rare breed of South Pacific duck billed hedgehogs?

* Hippopotamus toe jam?

* Giraffe nostril crust?

* Lion semen?

It's a correction! It's a crash! It's a correction! It's a crash! It's TWO! TWO! TWO! precipitous declines at once. You can say I'm wacky but calling a five hundred fifty point drop a correction, is like calling a fall from a fifty story building; a bunjee jump without the bunjee. Like referring to a pit bull locked onto your wrist as a nuisance to your backswing. Like being attacked by a shark and worrying about your wetsuit rental deposit. From now on, ValuJet is going to claim they never had a crash, just an extremely sudden altitude correction. I suppose they already have plans to call the subsequent Depression, the Time of Reflection. Everybody kept saying the Bear was dead. Guess again friends. He was just seepy. And now he's hungry. The people I feel sorry for are the fuzzy new kid brokers who have no idea what's going on. "So, what's the deal? Tomorrow, Bambi's Mother gets up and nuzzles us under the chin again, right?" And now you got these experts littering the airwaves like cigarette butts outside a Federal building giving out such sage advice as "It'll get better" and "It'll get worse" and "It'll stay the same." Thanks guys, now I know why Dionne Warwicke makes all that money on Pyschic Hotline.

Tapes. What is wrong with these guys that they continue to keep tapes. You have to be dumber than a bucket of burnt raccoon hair covered in motor oil to even consider hanging onto tapes these days. First Nixon got bounced on his butt because of audio tapes. Then they produce LBJ tapes. LBJ for crum's sake! Makes Andre Dice Clay look like the missing brother from the Brady Bunch. Now the President has released video tapes of him cavorting with wealthy supporters at coffees and other monied events in the White House. I bet the only reason Reagan didn't end up strangling on Memorex was because he kept forgetting to turn the taping system on. Sunday, the White House announced it had mysteriously discovered tapes of 44 coffees the President attended, which I'm sure had been picked over more closely than an organic strawberry patch at a vegetarian picnic. The reason for the long delay in producing the tapes? "Sloppy staff work". Seems to be a chronic problem they got there at the White House. Boy it sure is hard to get good help these days, isn't it? Next thing you know Hillary is going to release dimly lit tapes of Harold Ickes pushing Bob Dole off the platform in Chico. Then, footage from a mall security camera will reveal George Stephanopolous earning "soft" money by dressing up as a Smurf. I bet the Democrats could raise a good deal of money by selling videotapes of that one for children's parties.

Here in the golden plated state of California, the Big One has finally struck. But it took a federal appeals court to send tremors down what was previously unrecognized as a fault line. The big freakin deal is the U.S. Court of Appeals struck down the 1990 initiative mandating legislative term limits. And now the stage is set for next year's statewide elections to be wilder than New Year's Eve at Robert Downey Jr.'s place. Better put on your Kevlar blast shield goggles, kiddies, because the fracas is going to get more out of hand than a busload of junkies in an unlocked pharmacy using dynamite as candles after hours. I'm surprised the camera guys didn't hand out bibs when the news crews got the reaction shots from our illustrious elected and former elected leaders, considering all the saliva spewing out of their sputtering faces. "Once again, its all about jobs. But this time, we're talking about important jobs. Our jobs." The court said the voters weren't aware the ban would be a lifetime one, but you got to remember some of these are the same voters who elected Sonny Bono to Congress, twice. Where he was appointed to the House Intelligence Committee. I'm not so sure aware is an operative word even under the best of circumstances here.

Hey guys, this is Durst with your Alan Greenspan watch.

Following a heavy meal, Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan reportedly burped yesterday, sending shivers through Wall Street that nearly brought down several International commodities exchanges. This was immediately after his dinner companions at the upscale Midtown Manhattan Benningan's restaurant seemed disappointed in the size of their portions, but Greenspan just grunted, which was interpreted as perhaps indicative that lowered expectations are the wave of the future. He then picked at his vegetables, and played soccer with his roll using a napkin as a goal leading to a run on sports related stocks. Later he was seen splashing cold water on his face in the bathroom, leading to speculation by career Greenspan spotters as notice of the rude awakening we will all receive when the central bank decides the fate of interest rates at its next meeting on November 12th. No dessert was ordered, although many tempting specials were available including an exquisite chocolate tart covered in a raspberry reduction frustrating many. Then a brief sell off was precipitated when he flirted with the waitress, deciphered by more than a few to be a tacit encouragement of the practise of giving part time emloyees extended benefits packages, but a leveling off occurred twenty minutes later when observers were relieved to see Greenspan leaving only an 18% tip, a full one and a half % less than he left last time, evidence that he was not acceding to Labor's increasingly strident demand for a living wage. He left, after taking one toothpick, a pack of matches and two mints, an action which experts are now assessing, especially since it was noted he only ate one of the mints. Although it is universally acknowledged that the TWO mints may be a good sign. And then again, they may not.

* Congress has returned to session to find itself split into two bitter forces. The Republicans led by Newt Gingrich. And the Republicans not led by Newt Gingrich.

* The whole Helms/ Weld debate boiled down to differences in eras. Weld is a Republican from the New Age, and Helms is a Republican from the Jurassic Age.

* President Clinton claims to have created millions of jobs. And the people of Mexico thank him.

* It used to be when the Dallas Cowboys played a weaker team, it was no contest. Now, more often, that's their plea.

* Scientists may have discovered the origin of that weird noise coming from the Malibu beach. It is thought to be the result of the wind whistling through the cast of "Baywatch".

* Quayle is managing his own campaign for the year 2000. He has already chosen his theme: "Building a Bridge to the 20th Century", but he had to return all the bumper stickers. They all had one side that was real sticky.

* Stanford has vowed to treat Chelsea Clinton like every other student, so now ALL freshmen are required to leave their Secret Service contingent at the door.

* The Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department held a sickout to protest low wages. The rise in crime was almost a mirror image inverse curve in relation to the drop in donut sales.

And now another in our continuing series of KNOW YOUR GOVERNMENT. Today's episode; MEET YOUR SUPREME COURT. The Supreme Court was Created by Article 3, Section 1 of the Constitution. For the first eight years, until 1807, there were only 6 justices, but they had too many problems with ties. Today, the Supreme Court consists of nine justices who serve for LIFE. Yes, even Clarence Thomas. Like all federal judges, the President appoints them and the Senate confirms them. Kind of like a father with a date. "You are not going out with him. I don't care what all the other States are doing. I suppose if all the States adopted term limits, you would too." The most important ruling the Supreme Court makes is whether to hear a case. If they refuse to hear it, the lower court ruling stands.

Like when your mother pretends not to hear your impassioned pleading and you're forced to accept your father's ruling.

There are eight associate justices.

David H. Souter, Harvard Law graduate. Antonin Scalia, Harvard Law graduate. Sandra Day O'Connor, Stanford Law graduate. Stephen Breyer, who got his AB from Stanford, but graduated Harvard Law, just like Anthony M. Kennedy; AB from Stanford, then Harvard Law. Ruth Bader Ginsburg, attended Harvard Law, but graduated from Colombia Law. John Paul Stevens, Northwestern, but he's old. And Clarence Thomas, Yale Law. Well, that explains a lot. There is only one Chief Justice; William H. Rehnquist, BA. Stanford, MA. Harvard, but he graduated... from Stanford Law. That's why he's the Chief Justice. So kids, when they tell you in school that just about anybody can grow up to be a Supreme Court Justice, its true. As long as that anybody graduates from Harvard or Stanford Law.

Right now, Janet Reno is considering whether to appoint a special investigator to investigate the invesitigation that surrounds the Vice President to see if he breathes through his lungs or has hidden gills. Actually it's got something to do with money. Al said he's confident he didn't run afoul of "any controlling legal authority". Which, admittedly I have no idea what that means, but it sounds like he still thinks he can slip the net on this one. Yes, the man who marketed himself like starch; "Ol' Stiff & Clean" turns out not to be so soilless. Although soulless is still firm in the repertoire. The guy has moves frozen androids would drool over. Makes granite look fluid. And now that Prince Al, the illegitmate child of Mr. Clean and Mother Nature has problems you wouldn't wish on an Islamic Jihad orphanage suicide bomber, he's responded with all the grace of a bowling ball with corners. Even tried to drag some Buddhist nuns down with him. Now that's cold. You know what I think, I think Clinton's Teflon bill has come due and Goreboy just got stuck with it. Though I'm sure I join all the Democrats including Richard Gephardt in wishing the second in command well in his turn in the spotlight. The one with crosshairs on it.

October is the tenth month, although it got its name from the Latin word Octo, meaning "eight" because it used to be the eighth month of the year before Julius and Augustus conspired to have their load of egotistical crap dumped into the mix. The Romans dedicated this monnth to the god of war Mars and sacrificed a horse named October Equus to appease him. A race was run between two horses hauling chariots and the winner became the sacrificial victim. Which probably near the end, once the pattern was established, led to some very slow races. The Saxons called the month Wyn Monath, or wine month, because it fell during the season of wine making, although if it were up to those wacky Saxons, every month would have been named Wyn Monath. For me it's just the start of the deep comforting dark when they screw with our time. And of course that weird holiday spiral into angioplasty hell, when I eat myself sick on massive amounts of items with the nutritional value of sugar covered cardboard and bloat up like a poisoned toad. But the crisp dying of nature and the sweet smell of rot gives me a kind of serenity. And the bonfires are not all that unattractive to us sinners. Especially the ones that get out of hand.

I know why the Giants were swept in the NL Division Series by the Marlins. Its the same reason Princess Diana and Mother Teresa died within days of each other. And obviously the cause of the problems with the Mir Space Station. Not to mention my Uncle Bud's problems in determining the ages of willing teenage companions. El Nino. Yes friends, El Nino is the root of all evil in the world. It is the embodiment of the devil and has been sent as a sign that God is punishing us for being soulless heathens with the morals of rabid frat jackals in heat in a shed full of naked Swedish Bikini Team members on Ecstasy. El Nino is also responsible for Al Gore's Executive Mansion phone dialing by itself, the congestion on I-80 causing me to be late to work four out of five days last week and for m chronic slice off the tee, except when she uses her long irons, but does she listen to me? Noooo. To let this sinister "natural phenomenon" terrorize us is to allow the diabolic forces of the Horny Fiend to poison our collective goodness. So here's my suggestion. We all make a pilgrimage to the Pacific Ocean and toss in a cup of ice cubes. Three pound bags and you grease your chute to heaven. Hey, it couldn't hurt.

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those of us who split the world into two kinds of people and those who don't. Since I'm one of the former, here's more examples.

* People who eat pizza with a fork, and the rest of us who shovel it into our mouths with hands, elbows and table legs.

* People who read USA today and people who read it but refuse to admit it.

* The vast group of ordinary Americans who actually work for a living and their elected representatives.

* People who find Carrot Top funny and people who have yet to undergo electro shock therapy.

* Those of us whose entry into the technological age has moved smoothly and those who use AOL.

* People who enjoy sports contests and Raiders fans.

* Folks with a modicum of simple human civil courtesy and the French.

* Those that listen to Michael Bolton records and those with functioning intact ear drums.

* Folks to whom the smell of urine is unpleasant and New Yorkers.

* Regular readers who devour every page of each month's issue of Vanity Fair and those of us with a life.

* Normal human beings with an aversion to telling outright lies while staring directly into peoples faces and tobacco lobbyists.

* Married men who learn to choke back some of their ego and tough it through the hard times and Larry King.

The White House is contagious. It seems to have infected President Clinton with a severe case of Ronald Reagan disease. He can't remember. Hardly anything. The poor man simply does not recall. He's unsure, and upon partisan prompting seems to recollect some things but refuses to rush to judgement. It's not like he wasn't there. Of course he was; I mean there's pictures and everything, but try as he might, he just can't think back to where what was said to whom or when it did or didn't happen. Which obviously it did. Those readouts seem to prove it, right? Lucky for those readouts, hunh? And the pages and pages of Harold Ickes' calendar. Yep, what would we have done without good old Harold Ickes? But it's just a big foggy mess in grey hair's old memory bank. Might have been something he ate. Went over his notes and it didn't jog a thing, and sorry, no, the notes aren't available anymore. He can't quite remember anything about money either. As a matter of fact he's not even sure he's clear on the concept of how money works. You use it to rub spices onto vegetables before grilling, right? Hey, cut the guy some slack, hunh? He just can't remember, is all. Can't recall. Wish he could. Trying hard.

What raise?? You mean we'll make more money? Who knew? Total serendipity. The House of Representatives barely tolerated a 2.3 percent cost of living pay raise by reluctantly approving the Treasury and Postal Service Appropriations bill in a 229 to 199 vote. The fact that this loathsome pay raise for themselves was included in the bill was a total shock to everybody. "We're just trying to level the playing field for America's working men and women. The fact that we are included in this sweeping civil service raise is an unwilling incidental by-product", said some guy who's not up for re-election this year. What they mean to say is: if it were up to them, they'd work for free, but unfortunately that scenario is illegal by present day regulations and they, the elected representatives, are being forced under duress, to accept these totally arbitrary and capricious stipulations which will give them an annual salary close to $140,000. Poor babies. I think I speak for all of us, when I say we normal humans working on an hourly wage feel mightily for their oppressive plight. And every one of them should be forced to spend at least two months figuring out how to feed a family of four on one minumum wage salary before they are allowed to ever vote on another bill affecting real humans, but then that could be considered reactionary, right?

I'm not sorry Marv Albert got fired for sexually assaulting a woman. It's past time us mens get hip real fast to the simple fact that no means "no". It doesn't mean "maybe". It doesn't mean, "I'm not sure". And it doesn't mean "You're so cute when you're riled up, why don't you use my back as a dental dam". It just seems the world of sports is running a double standard here. We can pay good money and watch the felons play. Just can't have them providing the all important color commentary. It does make a certain television sense. Asking a typical American audience to concentrate on Shaquille O'Neal trying to make a free throw with little tiny mental pictures of the announcer naked and eroused with his toupee falling off might be too much to ask even during the playoffs. "It's up! It's in! Yes!" There are some scary thoughts in the world, but the image of Marv Albert wearing a garter belt and women's panties ranks right up there with Bob Dole getting spanked in a French Maid's uniform by a rubber clad Rush Limbaugh. Worse than imagining your parents doing the beast with two backs. I don't think Stephen King could imagine that. Richard Bachman maybe.

I was on a plane ride from hell today. The only good thing is they check everything, and if anything doesn't work, they don't go. I like that. Not a policy I'd be willing to institute in my personal travel plans, however.

* 1 driver's side windshield wiper scraping metal against glass.

Check.

* 1 right rear quarter panel held on by sheet metal and wood screws.

Check.

* Some large blunt phantom object bumping around the trunk on turns.

Check.

* 1 loose unsecured sun roof stuffed with back issues of free alternative weeklies. Check.

* 1 spare wire clothes hangar to fill emergency double duty as radio antenna and muffler holder upper.

Check.

* 2 rolls of Duct tape.

Check.

* 1 Empty cassette box.

Check.

* 1 Jack missing crowbar handle.

Check.

* Wet flares.

Check.

* 1 Rag crusted into approximate shape of Mount Fuji.

Check.

* 1 flashlight with either the bulb burned out, the batteries corroded and leaking or the lens cap rusted shut.

Check, check and check.

* 4 pennies, 2 fast food drive through salt packets, 1 toothpick with brown tarry stuff on the tip and a severely misshapen candy bar.

Check.

Ooops, looks like were missing the sunglasses with only one ear stem. Gotta go back.

Earlier we started giving Congress its first term report card. Let us finith the behavioral sciences, shall we? Business Ethics/A /The Newtmeister again, for arranging to pay off his fine with a loan for which he puts up no collateral and doesn't start payments for eight years. (You or I try to set up a loan like that and they'd call large men in white coats to put us in rooms with soft walls forcing us to swallow pills to help us "relax".) Music Appreciation/ C/ Dissolved disorganized marching band after drum major quit. Sex Education/ B plus/ As usual, it was very helpful to have so many motivated self starters in the classroom to set an example. Hope those boys at Pentagon High are watching. Driver's Training/ Improvement Needed/ Shows skill with frequent stops and sudden turns, but needs to develop proficiency in moving forward without a lead car. Penmanship/ Satisfactory/ The entire group had beautiful handwriting, never leaving a single fingerprint. Of course, a large percentage have test exams written by lobbyists. Home Room Conduct/ Unsatisfactory/ Does not play well with others. Refuses to accept responsibility. Attitude/ Of Concern/ Demonstrates little self control. Exemplified by Dick Gephardt's blatant flaunting of Vice Principal Gore's authority. The man has endeared himself to fellow Democrats the same way poisonous chigger mites in the towel concession charm an Olympic swim team before a freestyle relay qualifying heat.

Flying under the radar of a nation mourning over the death of one the world's most cherished treasures, and yes, I'm speaking of our premier clown painter, Red Skelton, the House voted itself a $3000 pay raise in a fast track action that would make Mach 3 appear as lethargic as a Steven Seagal action sequence filmed in strobo vision. This pay raise was attatched to an automatic cost of living increase received by federal workers. In order to stop the raise, our august body of elected representatives would have had to written an amendment to the annual Treasury Department spending bill, but in an occurence more stupefying than non dairy creamer at a gas station coffee nook, no one did. Imagine that! A bill, which not one of the 435 members of the House saw fit to alter. No provisions. No suggestions. An hours debate. The minumum time it takes to raise the necessary bail. And not a single misgiving, doubt or passionate espousal. This is the equivalent of Gourmet Magazine's 100 Top American Chefs unable to come up with an herb fruit salsa to bathe a hickory smoked rotisserie chicken, on a seasonal locally grown raspberry reduction. So essentially, you could say; they earned a pay raise by not voting on it. Which I interpret as meaning, our eternal diligence now has to include worrying about them doing nothing. Their excuse for more money always sounds like, "We need the extra money to attract a better class of candidate." Well, obviously. Translates to "If you paid us more, we wouldn't have to steal. So much."

JOKE

Q. You know why politicians all wear dark suits.

A. So we can't see the wires on reverse shots.

Microsoft Chairman Bill Gates, the man worth $40 billion who insists on eschewing hair products, and his lovely Microwife, Melinda, have moved into their new Lake Washington digs after seven years and about umpteen ecological injunctions. And rumor has it, the damn Microhouse is already worth less money than the $50 million it cost to erect, because it was built to such weird flippo unit quirky Micro specifications. Apparently, guests will wear lapel "pins" enabling a computer to track their progress through the mostly underground complex, switch lights on and off in anticipation and even follow them around with their favorite music. Which sounds to me... annoying as all get out. About as carefree as a leisurely stroll through Mexican customs. Less relaxing than sleeping in a wetsuit on rubber sheets. I can imagine the end of a gestapo weekend visit with me crumpled in a hallway corner pleading to some unseen controller in the ceiling.

"Bill... help. Thanks, but I think I've heard quite enough Bjork already. Some Broadway musicals might be nice. No "Cats" though. Second act of "Most Happy Fella" maybe. And please, I know you're only trying to help, but if I could just flush my own toilet once...

The San Francisco Giants and the Los Angeles Dodgers are engaged in a down to the wire race for National League Baseball's Western Division title, and last week at Candlestick Park during a face to face showdown you could smell the bile. Of course at Candlestick you can never be sure what you're smelling, particularly when you hazard too near the food stands. San Francisco's residents have had a hate/ hate relationship with LA that's probably been going on since fish crawled out of the Pacific, and all the slimy shiny ones gravitated south. The problem with our little feud is that the land of La doesn't even know it exists. "Oh we love San Francisco. It's such a darling town to spend a getaway weekend in." NO! You don't get it. We don't like you and we want you to not like us. Its difficult to leverage any enmity against a plastic blow dried sack of tofu. Don't get me wrong, SoCal can be pretty, especially in the spring when the smog turns green. Ah, it's gorgeous. But you can only ask a clerk at a capaccino shop if he'd like to get you another Latte and have him tell you what he'd really like to do is direct so many times before you will run screaming back to the 415 area code and its blessed fog.

George Magazine is a very enlightened publication from the mind of John F. Kennedy Jr., who I must say has an exceptional eye for talent, and the fact they've hired me to provide meandering musings in the past has very little to do with my effusive praise. This month their cover story features the 20 Most Fascinating Men In America, but neglected to chronicle the 20 Least Fascinating Men In America. I hope to expeditiously remedy that situation.

1. Rush Limbaugh. Jabba The Talk Show Host. Mega Yawns. As inconsequential as a rope handle on a shovel. 350 pounds of enh.

2. Al Gore. Dialing for Dollars Grand Champion. Potential Dutch Elm Disease victim. Not apparent whether android logic boards will have advanced enough by year 2000 to make him appear Presidential.

3. Clarence Thomas. Supreme Court Sheep. Probably consults with Antonin Scalia before he wipes himself.

4. Tony Blair. Oh, look. Alright, not an American, but he visited once recently. Conservative in liberal clothing. Clinton should sue for trademark infringement. As the English are fond of saying: "Blah. Blah. Blah."

5. Robert Novack. One note Bob and the note in question is the one right after do and re. Me, dammit, me. Stuffed into that suit like a sleepy lizard in search of a warm rock after swallowing a stray pair of dentures.

6. Newt Gingrich. Newt who? Put out an APB. No, come to think of it, don't.

7. Teddy Kennedy. Senator and Uncle Emeritus. Been very quiet lately. Too quiet.

8. Billy Bob Thornton. Sling Blade. Schming Blade.

9. Tom Coburn. Oklahoma anthropoidal throwback. Referred to "Schindler's List", as pornographic and obscene. Ancestors either hit every branch falling out of stupid tree or were stuck in evolution control group.

10. OJ Simpson. Plaintiff. There's a large rock in a small South Seas Island with your name on it. Crawl under it, would ya? Then wait twenty years before you pull a Nixon and attempt your comeback. And fail. To be continued.

George Magazine ran their 20 Most Fascinating Men In America article recently and I'm just responding here with the 20 Least Fascinating. Hey, don't thank me. It's the least I can do.

11. Pete Wilson. Pro life Mr. Prop 187. Governor of Limboland. Alienated fellow Republicans to point where he's less popular than a school of piranha in a children's wading pool during a raw meat swimsuit exhibition. And about as marketable.

12. Alan Greenspan. Bear in bull's clothing. You know I believe in the First Amendment as much as the next guy. As long as the next guy isn't Alan Greenspan.

13. Stephen Hawking. Commercial actor. Scam artist. How do we know half the stuff this guy says is true? Who's got the balls to contradict him? Probably set up whole "smartest man in the world" trip just so he can meet Uma Thurman.

14. Kenneth Starr. Independent counsel ad nauseam. Master molehill mountain maker.

15. Richard Gephardt. Poster boy for bland. If serious about wresting spotlight to challenge Gore, should make nice with an eyebrow prosthetics supply house.

16. Dennis Rodman. Madonna wannabe. Bad boy act starting to smell a little gamey. Morphing into Richard Simmons with a marginally higher vertical leap. Probably a smaller scoring average as well.

17. George Will. Charisma of kelp. Makes Mr. Rogers look wired. Disproves the old saying that anybody who likes baseball can't be all bad.

18. Ian Wulmit. Cloned a sheep. Right. Hell, we've been cloning sheep in America for years. Just call 'em the Christian Coalition.

19. Bryant Gumbel. Surly mumbling head. Left the Today Show to host his own news magazine program. Oh yeah, that's what we need. Another news magazine show.

20. John F. Kennedy Jr. Married.

21-23. Matt LeBlanc, Matthew Perry, and David Schwimmer. TV sitcom equivalent of elephant bell jeans. Friends don't let friends watch "Friends."

Last March, Robot Boy, often referred to as Vice President Al Gore, admitted to the press he made calls to potential donors from his White House office "on a few occasions". Like there were some Fridays the limo brought him home from lunch 20 minutes early and he picked up the phone and called three or four buds with his feet up on the desk picking his teeth with a matchbook. Now, records show those "few" occasions came to a total of 86. He thinks 86 is a few? This guy can't be President. His mental processes have been distorted out of shape like a rubber knapsack full of ski poles. What's he think a "couple" is, 40, 50? Does the aging family cook run screaming from the manse pulling out clumps of hair like new chives whenever Prince Albert casually mentions he's invited a "couple" of friends over for dinner? When this guy sends a "bunch" of flowers is the recipient forced to hire "a whole mess" of contractors to erect a solar cooled shed to house them? What does "hardly any" mean to this walking granite testament to organic reanimation? A couple thousand? A bunch of millions? Just remember, if this stone freakazoid ever says he's going on a tour to give "some" speeches in your area code... be afraid. Be very afraid.

Labor Day is a wonderful holiday where we celebrate what it is that we do for a living by taking a day off. So welcome back to school and work, boys and girls, and while you're readjusting your seat to fit your added barbecue girth, please persuse these pink WHILE YOU WERE OUT SLIPS found on your desk.

* Good News: your job was saved. Bad News: the person doing it will receive 47 cents an hour in Malaysia.

* The new seniority system is in place. Come to the lunch room and pick up a lottery number.

* Tonight's cynical support group has been cancelled. It was never going to happen anyway.

* The new management consultant forgot which Hyatt he was staying at. Call the conference room.

* Personnel called. They want to know your job description.

* The new management consultant thinks everybody should wear red suspenders tomorrow.

* Save your old staples. Gwen has volunteered to twist them into paper clips.

* Very Important. Respond immediately. Are you POSITIVE Mt. Rushmore is not a natural formation?

* The new management consultant has gotten rid of the coffee machine and says we should all drink green tea.

* Lost: one wall. Please return to accounting. Ask for Jen.

* Please be advised, Monday, the tech department will be measuring legs for the smaller cubicles.

And now it's time for the August (okay, I'm a little late) episode of: YOU

CAN'T MAKE STUFF UP LIKE THIS!

* I'm not saying there's a connection, but Al Gore was born exactly 8 months and 27 days after a bunch of dummies fell out of weather balloon in Roswell, New Mexico, in 1947. You figure it out.

* Two Berkeley students were arrested for defrauding classmates out of $340 million. I guess they were charged with impersonating the Admissions Office.

* Do you think Jesse Helms is still holding a grudge against the state of Massachusets for being a free state during the Civil War?

* The Cosmonauts are busy studying schematics for Mir's repair. Let's see, how's it go? Green Lego attaches to the red Lego. I'm pretty sure, Mir is Russian for Yugo.

* Amtrak is studying a proposal to allow gambling on it's routes. Don't know what they're going to call it, but I bet Off Track Betting isn't leading the list.

* Recently New York City hosted a computer hackers convention. Wonder if all the pre registrations were marked paid?

* The most formidable line in the NFL: women's rest room, Green Bay.

* They opened an S & M restaurant in New York. I don't get it. If diners want to be tortured, why not just go to Denny's?

In the deepest darkest throes of depression after her tragic split with the gallant Prince of Wales, Diana, cleverly disguised as a lowly Upper Middle Class Heiress, found herself shopping in the exciting fast paced World Famous Camden Saturday Market adding to her internationally renowned implement collection, when she stopped with a sudden start at a tawdry but charming peddler's stand. There, with the brooding English sun gleaming off its shiny flat turning surface was the most perfect little wooden handled spatula the beautiful but doomed Princess had ever seen. Somehow the sight of it comforted her greatly. And after having the butler haggle the crusty but benign merchant down to a mere pittance, she carried it home and placed it in a honored slot in the Palace's chaotic but charmingly disorganized utensil drawer. There, before every important Gala and Opening, the sorrowful, but enchantingly fragile heroine would stroke it and admire it's functional simplicity for truly she was just like any other ordinary cast member of "Beverly Hills 90210", only richer. An unconfirmed report from one of the doctors present at the scene of the grisly Parisian accident even claims her last words as the oxygen mask was being adjusted sounded a bit like "little spatula, little spatula". AND NOW THAT LITTLE SPATULA CAN BE YOURS! WITH THE BENJAMIN MINT'S LIMITED EDITION "LITTLE PRINCESS SPATULA" Available in both teak and mahogany. Bring A Touch Of Fairy Tale Royalty To Your Kitchen Today! 3 easy monthly payments of $29.99.

Coming Soon: The Little Princess Soup Ladle.

A one sentence 46 word provision slipped into the humungous tax cut legislation which gave a $50 billion, yes, billion, tax break to the tobacco industry was repealed by a 95 to 3 vote in the Senate yesterday. Not surprising. These days, tobacco is less popular than Mike Wallace at a corporate stockholders annual meeting wearing leiderhosen. No, the surprising news here is nobody knows who wrote the little gift wrapped amendment. I repeat: nobody knows. The Republicans don't know. The Democrats don't know. Congress as usual is clueless. And the Clinton Administration in a knee jerk reaction said the President has no recollection of meeting her. You know what this means, of course? There's some sort of weird parliamentary ghost in Congress with detailed knowledge of arcane legislative protocol and it keeps writing provisions and slipping its handiwork into bills with nobody the wiser. This could explain a lot. We keep wondering why things are more screwed up than a London florists' back order list. Crazed Leprechauns are in charge, that's why. Little blood poisoned hickory smoked gremlins are responsible for running the country. Or maybe it's the spirit of Alexander Hamilton, roaming the Capitol halls with regulatory butt to kick, just looking for a quiet corner to grab a quick smoke.

When the shadow of Autumn Equinox looms larger than the hair growing out of the mole of the cafeteria lady's nose, it's time to think of school. Every screaming runny nosed child running around with someone else's money is back. Including Congress, and how apropos of them to call their summer vacation a recess. It unreels a mental movie of loosened ties, trampled blue suit coats and high pitched screams as the battle for prime position on the monkey bars intensifies. Olympia Snowe kicking dirt on little Barbara Boxer's shoes. Dick Armey and Newt Gingrich playing King of the Hill on a mound of bright white pudgy cowering underclassmen. Susan Molinari pushing Bill Paxon's swing so hard he slams into the center post, while she distracted, wanders off. With the days disappearing faster than free beer at a frat party after a homecoming win over Nebraska, it's time to hand in the 105th Congress' First Term Report Card. Geography/ C minus / Grade skewed by the large number of Representatives who mistook China for a subdivision in their own district. History/ F/ Destined to repeat it. The Republicans totally ignored lessons concerning political suicide supposedly learned during the government shutdown by adding enough pork to the flood relief bill to infect the entire state of Iowa with trichinosis. Mathematics/ Incomplete/ Curious theories. Further review by Professor Greenspan expected. Social Studies/ D/ Heavy on the social. Light on the studies. Physics/ C/ Seems unable to grasp simple concepts like all actions having equal and opposite reactions.

Dear boys and girls of the 105th Congress: welcome back! I've been gone just like you, although I prefer to call it vacation, not recess. So I'm only now getting around to issuing your first-term report card. And I bet you thought you were going to slide wiee! district.

Semantics/ B plus / Newt Gingrich's attempt to refer to his $300,000 ethics fine as a "reimbursement" was particularly impressive added to his later effort to call an attempted mutiny, a group hug.

Spanish/ Memo to Jesse Helms: the Spanish word for stubborn is "necio". Incomplete.

Physical Education/ C/ Demonstrates dexterity at contact sports such as dodge ball, but could move easier with less excess baggage. Pork free diet might help.

Art Appreciation/ House: F Senate: C

Creative Writing/ A plus/ Excels as usual. Superlatives inadequate.

Film Appreciation/ D minus/ Representative Tom Coburn doomed collective grade referring to "Schindler's List" as pornographic. A private Paulie Shore marathon screening will be set up by the A-V department so Mr. Coburn can understand the true meaning of pornography.

Theater/ B minus/ Mediocre productions of crummy scripts. Performances over the top. Nice makeup.

Home Economics/ D/ The Democrats okayed a tax cut providing wage earners with all the nutrition of an eight pound bag of chocolate covered cream filled gummi bears.

You got to feel bad for the modern scientist desperately trying to compete for press in a world tackier than a leopard skin lab coat with rubber frogs feet as buttons. The Journal of Neurology, Neurosurgery and Psychiatry has identified a condition it calls recurrent coital amnesia where sudden and dramatic memory loss occurs after sexual intercourse including the identity of the partner. Which might explain why Congress ignores us like a deflated Montana beach ball in December after gaining office. No, really, go with me on this. The London based medical journal recounts the story of a man who frequently suffered bouts of amnesia after sex, who would have no memory of intercourse and only the haziest recollection of foreplay. Think election and campaigning here. He was aware he was having mental difficulties and repeatedly asked questions such as "What are we doing? and What year is it?" Does that or does that not sound like Congress? Dick Gephardt and/ or Strom Thurmond in particular. You throw in a "Is Fire Good?" and you can include Alfonse D'Amato. The man apparently underwent cardiovascular and neurological tests and appeared entirely normal, although he did show unusual brain wave patterns. I'm telling you, it's Congress to the second "S". Appeared normal? Unusual brain waves? No, you're right. The existence of brain waves throws the analogy entirely out of whack. My mistake. Go back to your lives.

It's not bad enough their new operating system, OS 8, makes an Apple desktop look like a weenie Windows 95 but now the dreaded enemy has been invited into bed wearing the same bloody boots he stomped them with. Bill Gates has announced Microsoft is buying $150 million worth of Apple stock and setting up a division to work with the MacIntosh. Redmond and Cupertino? Microsoft and Apple? You got to be kidding. Working together? Tearing at each other's eyes with taloned claws dipped in ripened toxic waste sludge is more like it. A joint company barbecue picnic between People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals and the Hog Butchers Council is likelier. The Dallas Cowboys and San Francisco Forty Niners linking hands and singing "Karma Chameleon" during an intermission of Riverdance makes more sense. Apple and Microsoft, what's next: Tom Brokaw and Peter Jennings teaming up for the Olympic synchronized swimming pairs event? The people I feel sorriest for are the legions of Apple apostles who are slightly more rabid than English Soccer fans on a three day drunk after a World Cup Quarterfinal Soccer loss to Ireland. Obviously, Anti Trust legislation in this country has gone the way of the Stutz Bearcat hood ornament. And now so has any sort of distinction between the world's two competing operating systems. Anyone interested in slightly frayed apostle robes suitable for use as small engine cleaning rags should inquire.

YOU CAN'T MAKE STUFF UP LIKE THIS.

* Since J. Edgar Hoover created the FBI's Most Wanted List, 422 of

the 449 fugitives on the list have been captured. The others have either died or are thought to have become local Republican Party Chairmen.

* A lot of NFL rookies are trying to adjust to receiving huge checks for playing ball. In college, they were used to cash.

* Sylvester Stallone has agreed to star in Rambo IV, but he wants to see the script first. Right, Mr. "Stop Or My Mom Will Shoot" is worried about scripts.

* Art curators believe 100 Van Goghs sold over the years have been fakes. One way to tell; if the "I" in "Vincent" is dotted with a heart.

* Danish researchers have concluded that men have 4 billion more brain cells than women. I wonder how many of the researchers were married men.

* Barry Manilow settled out of court with a man who claims his hearing was damaged at a concert. If he attended the concert on his own volition how good could his hearing have been in the first place?

* It seems the Yankees new pitcher, Hideki Irabu is having communications problems with his teammates so he's taking Spanish lessons.

Maybe the rat tail dandelion fuzz of summer is the perfect time to stop bashing the tiny impotent weasel politicians and strike at where the real heart of American evil lies. Martha Stewart. The malignant knot on the arts and crafts knob. More imbalanced than a big rig with load of bowling balls taking a hairpin turn with the brake lines cut. A woman whose compass, points due daft. "How to hacksaw walnuts into attractive napkin rings". Give me a break. "Knit a festive holiday necklace out of roasted poppy berries and mold encrusted truffles found under rare Mediterranean rock formations.". We got families out there who have to patch together three or four jobs just to put food on their families' plates, and the last thing they need to see is some socialite twit make them feel guilty because they don't have eighty hours to carve a two fifths scale model replica cream cheese likeness of Mr. Rushmore in honor of President's Day. "You're not a real mom unless you build your kids an electric eye door opener for their tree house entrance out of an ordinary clock radio, some rubber bands and Spam." For real summer fun, try taping this banana bread brained woman and auditioning her to the Soviets. That should destroy their civilization for once and for all.

The UPS strike looks like it could turn uglier than a sackfull of pit bulls at a pillow fight in a day care center during Baby Brother Week. Management made $1.1 billion in profit last year, or four bucks for every man, woman and child in America and a large reason why, is 60% of UPS' employees are part timers who envy Vietnamese Nike factory workers their lush perks. Back in 1982 when the union agreed to a two tiered pay scale, part timers received $9 an hour, while full timers got $13. Today, fifteen years later, the part timers are still getting the same amount while full timers are getting twenty bucks an hour. The last offer to the union which UPS termed "superb" consisted of a 1.5% yearly raise for full-timers and no raise in the starting wage for part timers. To call this offer "superb" is an absurdist joke of the sort to set Ionesco into a sniggering fit of the giggles. These are the same people who call a swift kick to the head "refreshing." This, the first major strike in this country in 25 years may wipe a clean spot on the labor window so Americans can see the bull market stampede is being run down roads paved on the backs of its workers.

A newly compiled list of America's most hazardous places leads off with "almost anyplace in California", because in the last couple of years, we've had; fires, floods, mudslides, and earthquakes and face the risk of volcanoes, tsunamis, smog, freeway snipers, oil spills and future water shortages, not to mention aging burpable plastic food containers. Soon we'll be compelled to change our name from California to Satan's Drive By, or West Kansas. Other risky places include states touching the Pacific, Mississippi River flood plains and anyone within sight of nuclear power plant cooling towers or married to Anna Nicole Smith. The author obviously missed a couple of places so it's only fair for me to help this poor guy out.

AMERICA'S MOST FORGOTTEN HAZARDOUS PLACES WASHINGTON D.C.

Reason: Toxic fumes, poisonous gases and asphyxiating rhetoric.

WALL STREET SIDEWALKS.

Reason: High crime rates and the imminent possibility of falling brokers.

THE KENNEDY COMPOUND.

Reason: Surprise annulments, watery drives, stray bullets, and nude photography.

ANYWHERE WITHIN A THREE FOOT RADIUS OF ANNA NICOLE SMITH.

Reason: Mammary suffocation, premature death, hardening of the arteries and in-law injunctions.

A DINNER TABLE WITH JESSICA FLETCHER OR CABOT COVE, MAINE.

Reason: stabbings, poisonings, bludgeonings, gunshot wounds, and very bad writing.

Standing beneath a replica of the Declaration of Independence, the president announced the first lady, Hillary Rodham Clinton will head the White House Millennium Project, and they're looking for splashy ideas for the celebration starting New Year's Eve, 1999. Hope she does better as the chair of this project than she did with that whole Health Care Task Force, when she somehow managed to get the whole country convinced that health was a dirty rotten bad thing and we'd all be better Americans without it. One problem is, the next millennium doesn't really start until 12:01 a.m., 2001. See we never had a year 0, and as a matter of fact because some Pope was having a bad couple of weeks, we skipped 11 days in 1752 going straight from September 2 to the 14th, making the real millennium, January 12, 2001. AND, then you figure the birth of Christ as the usual starting date of the Gregorian calendar, which supposes he was born December 25, 1BC, making the true date of the thousand year celebration January 5, 2001, but some modern scholars place His birth three years earlier at 4BC, indicating the party should start January 5, 1998, and we're extremely close to missing the whole damn thing. Of course, since it's in the hands of a government committee now, I imagine they'll reach a compromise and have the celebration sometime around noon on April 13, 2003. Perhaps an April Fool's Day would be appropriate.

In what was obviously a monumental mistake, Congressional Republicans and the Clinton Administration agreed yesterday. That's the big news. That the accord determined how to balance the budget for the first time in nearly three decades and okayed the first major tax cuts since 1981 is rather incidental. Outside the fact that it's one of the signs of the Apocalypse, this blessed harmony means a lot of things. It should go without saying that we should be afraid. Be very afraid. The biggest beneficiaries are of course... the accountants. New tax laws normally are signalled in CPA households by travel arrangements made in exotic lands where even the orange juice is served with little umbrellas.

Some of the compromises made on the budget included:

* Credits for children. The new accomodation replaces the proposed covenant requiring kids to give Congress one third of all their Sour Gummi Bears.

* Children's health. After intense negotiation0ublicans reluctantly agreed that children should have health.

* Capital Gains. This mostly helps the large segment of America who hangs out with Thurston P. Howell III.

* Tobacco Taxes. 10 cents a pack. Big deal. Mostly passed to annoy Jesse Helms.

* Inheritance Taxes. People will still be punished for dying but not as much as before.

Hey guys, it's August. Whoooo! The Gateway to Labor Day. August is a great. Its the Canada of months. Broken chaise lounges, faded beach balls, and overipe fruit salads. Nobody does anything in August. It's easier to wipe snot off of suede with a plastic barbecue fork than get anything done in August. If you're not in the Hamptons, you're in Minnesota, and to be perfectly honest, both of them have the same summer voltage, although the difference in humidity may be appreciable. What happens? Dads threaten to whack kids in the back seats of overheated station wagons in August. Heating and air conditioning contractors unplug their anwering machines in August. Kids make a furious rush to fill an entire summer's worth of fun into one month so they won't feel like they wasted the entire summer, which they know they did. And parents and teachers count each and every day like the release date of a ten year sentence, but in different ways. August is the "Time Out" of months, where a sabbatical is considered an old fashioned committment to an out of date work ethic. But the best news of all; Congress takes a month long recess in August. So, at least we're almost semi safe.

Mister Clinton has given some great speeches during the year, but I've written one for him to use in case of extreme duress where he can finally hand down the true message of his Administration. "Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to say to you, that I like kids. And people who eat kids are wrong. Just plain wrong. They're mistaken is all. And it's not just kids. It's everybody. Cannibalism is not right. I don't mean to make judgements, but that's just me. It's not a 'position' or a 'politically motivated strategy'. That's the truth, and you folks in the press can crucify me all you want, but hey, people shouldn't eat people. That's just how I feel. I've been doing some research, and you know what else is bad? Cancer. It is. I have reams of graphs I could show you. Emphysema... no day in the park from what I've been led to believe. And planting cluster grenades in the steam tables of orphange cafeterias... I'm against it. As a matter of fact, I'm opposed to all orphanage explosions be they man made or misguided acts of God. And you know what: I'm going to go out on a limb here, but... Hitler sucked. What, am I alone here? Who's with me?"

In my life, I've held over a hundred jobs. Never been any good at one, but I've always managed to get another. I guess you could say I got a real knack for job interviews.

"Well, yes sir, I've always admired EncepahalipCo's way of doing business sir, and it's been a dream of mine sir to someday become an EncepahlipCo stooge, I mean drone... what I mean to say sir is, pat me on the back and call me Charlie, I'm an EncephalipCo man: that's right, I mean, not a man... no, no sex really. Not like a man, nor disimilar to one. Not different or the same, but both. With an alarmingly tight ratio of allowable gender dominance, but baseball and Pamela Anderson Lee are exempt. Well, thank God, I mean, really. Furthermore, I promise to cut my hair and wear such clothes to inspire all my friends to laughter. And I WILL leave all my antiquated ethics at the door and follow the great God Ambition to the promised land of quarterly dividends, which includes unlimited potential although I understand this is a part time position without benefits or the stability of a cigarette ash in the slip stream of a 747. And not only will I be the ultimate EncephalipCo Man, but I will like it. Or pretend to really impressively, sir."

They're porking it up in the media vacuum that is July in Washington, furiously adding amendments to bills like teenagers dumping six packs into grocery carts at unattended convenience stores after hours. They're also up to so much other no good I expect C-SPAN close up stills to show hell born leeches dripping out of their jacket pockets. We have come to trust our elected officials to exhibit greed and petty underhandedness, after all they're paid to represent us, but every once in a while they manage to do something so incredibly shallow and self serving, it takes your breath away. Grab a quick mouthful of oxygen and check this out. Last week the House cut $174,000 from the budget of the National Science Foundation, as a punishment for underwriting a study why civic leaders choose not to run for Congress. In response, Representative William Clay, D-Missouri, said "if there is one thing we do not need in this country it is more people to run for Congress." Especially in Missouri, I assume. He went on to say the study "is an affront to every member of this Congress because these two professors start with the premise that we are not getting the best qualified people to serve in Congress." Those cads. Who in their right mind would ever consider that? And what better way to prove your quality than limply slapping a wrist that dared criticize you? Makes you think of a petulant child grabbing the ball and going home, although I would have to hazard a guess that this situation has to do with an excess of petulant children and an extreme lack of balls.

Regular readers know the Durst does not normally bore others with personal exploits, which it must be said run towards the breathtaking, but that's based on past behavior not including taking an elevator 2400 feet down into the deepest vertical shaft coal mine in North America, being something I did today. Way cool. Makes Disney's Indiana Jones Ride feel like an hour long stall on a freeway entrance ramp in an overcrowded pre school bus. Eschewing the typical accompaniment of the cliched canary, I went down into JWR's Mine No. 5 with a goldfish named Mike in Tuscaloosa, Alabama in order to tape a lunch break with coal miners for a new PBS show called Livelyhood. It's an odd little show narrowcasted at those few Americans who work for a living or know someone who does. During the federally mandated training session, it came up that there are certain cautions one must observe in a coal mine including spontaneous combustion. To which I queried how one takes preventative measures for that: refuse to shuffle down carpeted hallways in woolen slippers? The correct answer was, "avoid all areas that smell like methane gas." Isn't it amazing how often specialized advice can be utilized in the more general aspects of life. Glad to say, great footage was gotten, and Mike appears none the worse for his travails, although we may have to wait to see if he develops black gill disease.

North Carolina Senator Jesse Helms is holding up William Weld's nomination as Ambassador to Mexico because he's shown reluctance to share the Senator's belief that anyone caught with a joint should be publicly beheaded. The game of politics is one of the inherent problems you have with a political appointment. Another can be witnessed in Iraq where Saddam Hussein's eldest son, Odai, in an example of nepotism gone horribly awry, was appointed head of the Iraqi soccer federation. Apparently, Odai is feeling "a little less than" since that minor assassination attempt last December. Unable to walk and reportedly sexually impotent, but isn't that the first thing people will say, Strongman Junior was a bit miffed with the Iraqi soccer team when they were eliminated from the World Cup Soccer Tournament by Kazakstan and had them beaten with canes then shaved off all their hair and mustaches. Of course, it's not hard to understand his melancholy. Kazakstan, for crum's sake! In the future this could have the unforeseen side effect of making the job of Iraqi national soccer team recruiter about as attractive as that of a ValuJet public relations vice president or a Palestinian real estate agent. I would encourage Odai to defect to the States where he can get worka as Mike Tyson's anger counselor.

Los Angeles, which is to fresh water what the South American brown banana tarantula is to Quilting Bees, has been ordered by The Great Basin Unified Air Quality Pollution Control District to return the water they stole from Owens Lake, and some extra bureaucratic words in order to win the Longest Official Name Meaning Practically Nothing in the country award. Surprisingly, the L.A. Department of Water and Power disagrees with the proposal calling it seriously flawed, although they've hinted they might be willing to give up either the preposition "of" or the conjunction "and", but they're definitely hanging onto both "Water" and "Power". Great Basin estimates the cost of returning 9% of LA's water in order to flood the lakebed and keep if from sloughing off silt particles the consistency of ground glass to be about $91 million but the City of the Angels says it'll cost umpteen bazilliondy dollars and is rumored to have prepared what they consider to be a generous offer of a couple of five gallon bottles of Crystal Geyser every month, along with all the liposuction fat extracted by licensed plastic surgeons within the city limits. Owens Lake is expected to hold out for a personal appearance by the original Batmobile piloted by the only real and true Catwoman: Eartha Kitt.

The Mars Pathfinder landed on the red planet a couple of days ago and returned images indicating most of it's a rusting flood plain. It seems the planet named after the Roman god for war isn't much more than a huge Missouri River Valley without atmosphere. Think- Omaha without all the 7-11's. A geologist said monstrous floods a thousand times greater than anything that ever occurred on Earth, and that does include Newt Gingrich's saliva glands, covered the planet wiping out everything, which would be inclusive of all the really good golf courses. He guessed this happened between a billion and three billion years ago. Nice margin of error there. Hell, they had given me that, I could have passed algebra. I don't know how much you can trust a scientist with a convenient fault glitch approaching plus or minus 200% but he also said this flood could have lasted for hundreds of years. You know what; after that long, I don't think you get to call it a flood anymore. I think anything after sixty years, it's referred to as a lake. They haven't found any form of life on the surface- probably all the really important people (or plants or minerals- musn't be classist now), went down to Roswell for the big 50th anniversary party. Or maybe since the temperature on Mars was 76 degrees below Fahreheit, everybody who was anybody went to their summer homes on Urnanus to escape the heat.

The Senate Government Affairs Hearing on Chinese influence peddling also known as the Fred Thompson Presidential Jump Starting Circus, started yesterday, and guess where the major target is? Acting very Presidential in Madrid at the NATO meeting where his extreme Presidentialness will hopefully be noticed and viewed as... well, Presidential. The 16 current members of NATO invited 3 more countries to join their little militia group but denied two others probably because they don't have enough room on the letterhead and besides the initiation hazing is going to take up a lot of time. Since the three countries who joined: the Czech Republic, Hungary and Poland all used to be reluctant satellites of the Soviet Union, Russia is less happy than Mike Tyson's accountant's travel agent. The Mother Country must feel like its kids just decided to go live with their father, and she knows they're going to talk. Yeltsin did sign a partnership deal with NATO in May, which when you think of it, is pretty silly since Russia is THE reason NATO was formed in 1949. This agreement is about as binding as an old scraggly bear making a pact with a stream full of salmon. Works as long as you manage to keep him from getting too hungry.

You got to love Clinton. "Slick Willie" isn't appropriate enough. Like calling a block long sidewalk covered with a three inch thickness of rotting slug carcasses- sleek. If Reagan was the Teflon President, Clinton is the New Improved "Teflon 2: Now With Added Space Age Polymer!" Speaking from a decidedly safe and distant Madrid he said in reference to the hearings on Chinese influence peddling, "If any country sought to influence policy through illegal means, including illegal campaign contributions to the people running for president or people in the Congress, it would be wrong and a matter of serious concern." Get it? He's anti evil. And pro virtue. This man is a paragon of rightness. I must say I'm surprised with his busy busy schedule he even had time to reflect on the hearings. At least according to press secretary Mike McCurry who alledgedly spent "maybe 10 seconds" briefing Clinton on what happened on opening day. But still, he's concerned, dammit, and when it comes to illegality, this man comes down firmly on a side that's decidedly against it. No matter that the proceedings were instigated by the actions of his very own re election staff. By God, he's mad as hell and he's not going to take it any more! Funny how I think we still will.

The House of Representatives elected to kill the National Endowment to The Arts by a 217- 216 margin this week. Now the Senate is expected to kick in with a semblance of rationality and restore funding, but these liquid chicken squeezebags should be taken out and horsewhipped with shredded videotape from a "Married- With Children" episode for eliminating the NEA's budget or what amounts to one tenth of a B-2 bomber. Not even a whole wing for crum's sake. These lizardsticks are ostensibly upset because some art got funded which they didn't like. Yeah, well, you know I think I could find some folks who were a mite disconcerted by the government building the neutron bomb which destroys people but not buildings. Probably with assistance from the National Realty Board. Since artists are paying the price for being the bad guys, I think they should show these poisonous puff toads just how bad they can be, and target the cheap shot ringleaders with the most outrageous slings and arrows they have in their quivers. Especially little weasel woman Susan Molinari who represents New York City, and is quitting her job in Congress to be a news reader on a CBS morning show (Saturday for crum's sake), and still managed to vote to kill the agency. Not anything overt. Something simple and elegant like whenever she interviews an artist, they will be perfectly polite, and call her... "Toad". "Excellent question, Toad..." Maybe even her colleagues could get into the act, "And that's the weather, back to you Toad." Not a lot of change, but a modicum of satisfaction.

Bill Clinton, and his shadow organization, "Bill Clinton Inc." are all upset about the movie "Contact" because the director, Robert Zemeckis, used his image without authorization. When you see the movie, you realize why Big Bubba's so upset. In tense situations, to great fanfare, the Chief Executive is shown saying nothing. Repeatedly. Very impressively. Proper gravity: with equal amounts reverence and resolve. Imparting import. Oh sure, he's a mite tentative, but in situations this chaotic, wouldn't you be? What he demonstrates cinematically, frozen in time, soon to be seen in as popular a broadcast rotation as a cross between "Close Encounters Of The Third Kind", and "The Ten Commandments", is a determined but still humanly curious command of the moment, whatever you might interpret it to be, and isn't that really why he's President? In the movie, he's responding to contact with an alien intelligence, and they manage to convince you with excerpts from generic footage of him captured signing documents on a par with declaring July: "National Hot Dog Awareness Month." Everybody comes out of the film saying, "Nice script. Special effects were great. Foster's terrific as usual. And Clinton could have been talking about anything!" Clinton's response: fretting, thoughtful: if not dampened by a self deprecating sense of brutally honest Presidential awareness, regretful. Not for himself, but what it harken for ordinary Americans. Concerned, yet hopeful.

In an announcement with a staggering potential about on a par with Newt Gingrich declaring he's the new spokesperson for Slimfast, Whitewater independent counsel Kenneth Starr has formally ruled Vince Foster's death a suicide. Oh no. This can't be. Next thing you know he'll be telling us the demise of the Titanic was due to ramming into an accumulated hunk of frozen water. Maybe he'll reveal to the world the stunning detail that Dennis Rodman is an odd young man. Or that cilantro can be a tasty addition to guacamole. Starr confirmed the finding of approximately three gazillion earlier probes saying "this office concluded that Mr. Foster committed suicide by gunshot in Fort Marcy Park, Va., on July 20, 1993." This guy obviously has his eye on a future as replacement host of "Unsolved Mysteries" ahead of him. After Pepperdine that is. Or maybe Clinton could issue an executive order keeping him on as a kind of Detective-At-Large probing the deep riddles of life such as...

* What exactly is Paulie Shore's appeal?

* Which one of Peter Falk's eyes is fake?

* Do tobacco executives really use stagnant electromagnetic sewer mud for brains?

* What strange urges possess cable tv viewers to buy spray on hair?

* Why don't people who live in North Dakota travel south for the winter?

* What ever happened to the good ol days?

* Shouldn't membership in white supremacist movements be restricted to those who can either pronounce or spell supremacist?

The stock market hit 8000 the other day and shares of Microsoft led the rally with a gain of $9.97 to close at $148.44, pushing the Redmond, Washington based software giant ahead of Coca-Cola to become the second most valuable company in the nation behind General Electric. Bill Gates, also affectionately known as Chairman Bill, Mr. Vaporware and the Gnome Without a Comb, owns 23.7% of Microsoft, thus pocketing a cool $2.8 billion for one day's non work. I've heard of making a killing in the stock market, but this would have to qualify as genocide. Forbes Magazine, which is to rich folks what Vanity Fair is to NPR listeners, and Satellite Week is to trailer courts, recently estimated Gates' wealth at around $38 billion tying him with the Sultan of Brunei for Biggest Swinging Dick in The World, but this 7% one day jump puts the Seattle Salamander firmly in first. To get an idea of how much $2.8 billion is, I've compiled a list of things you or I could do with it.

* Park in a downtown garage all day.

* Order lobster and leave a tip without ever asking what "market price" is.

* Buy a car without spending eight hours talking to various "managers".

* Book a same day cross country coach seat and pay for it right at the ticket counter.

* Take a weeklong vacation for four to Disneyland with passes to the Park for 3 WHOLE DAYS. Food and SpectraVision not included.

* Complete insurance coverage on both cars including full liability and theft.

* Buy new pair of shoes without even trying them on.

* Make long distance phone calls during the middle of the day.

No matter how you look at it, the market news is good. Stumbling onto a bad financial indicator these days is like trying to find a Canadian Dime in a dump truck load of quarters. Yeah, sure, there might be one in there, but who cares? The Dow breaks 8000, NASDAQ 1500, both for the first time, the producer price index fell for the sixth straight month in a row. There's even talk a few of the technology stocks didn't sandbag their second quarter earnings reports. Hey, Apple stock is up! Although most corporations don't have to sack their CEO to get similar results. About the only people not dancing these days are Those Darn Bears with all their liquidity stuck in T bills and Money Market Funds. They must feel like 3 cylinder Yugos with busted U joints clogging up the passing lane of the Indy 500. But Bears are people too, so I've come up with a list of things they can mumble at cocktail parties to convince themselves and those around them they're actually better off grazing far away from the monumental bull stampede.

* Eight thousand, schmeight thousand, I'm getting a guaranteed 6 and a half per cent and I'm glad to have it.

* I hear that orange paper they print the Financial Times on is highly carcinogenic.

* So maybe Issac Newton was wrong.

* How's that heart of yours holding up?

* Well at least I'm not into gold.

* Hey, what's that smell? You think it could be... DOOM?

* Yeah, but are you happy?

* Does the phrase Black Monday have any meaning to you?

* Yeah, but do you think Bill Gates is happy?

* When did artificial intelligence stop being a program and start being a way of life?

And last but not least

* I've got two words for you mister: Alan Greenspan.

All through our lives, we've been bombarded with antique aphorisms appropo to an earlier simpler age. "There's more than one way to skin a cat." Whose twisted lifestyle could this perverted adage have offered counseling? "Could you list them all sir?" "Well, there's lengthwise, of course, your classic without the tail, and for the arty a nice spiral like an apple skin." In this muddled age, where right and wrong is harder to distinguish than a pager's beep at a convention of Hollywood agents held in the belly of an oil tanker, what we need is a more modern set of hokey sayings to get us through these murky times.

* One encryption device linked to your hard drive is worth two shredding machines in the office.

* Virtual ducks line up in a row when your imaginary bread crumbs are straight.

* Money is a tool best used for loosening Phillips head screws.

* People who work in the technology field shouldn't wear shorts.

* When your mutual fund stumbles, it dives headlong into a steel abutment at light speed.

* Never count your social security check before it arrives.

* Don't expect to see perfect beauty looking through an imperfect mirror. Or in JC Penney jeans.

* You can't use your cell phone and conserve your batteries too.

* Never look for the warranty card in your free software box.

In an historic conference, Vietnam and the United States held what might be described as a reunion with lousy music to decide what went wrong back about thirty years ago and ignored the obvious conclusion... the tie dyed elephant bell bottoms. Paisley. What about the paisley? Not much has changed. We still blame them for prolonging the hostilities; they insist Washington, not Hanoi missed opportunities to end the war, and everybody pretty much agrees Sly and the Family Stone weren't a big help. It was also conceded that Jane Fonda looks great for her age. By the time the incursion ended, 58,000 US GI's and 3.6 million Vietcong lost their lives, a ratio of 1 to 70, or about the same kind of odds Hillary Clinton has of staying out of jail. Robert McNamara, who has been recanting like a Catholic schoolgirl after skinny dipping with an opposing football team says we misjudged the degree to which Hanoi had been willing to sacrifice human lives to achieve independence. Really Bob. What is this WE crap? Doesn't matter much now. Vietnam won the war and with it the right to open Nike plants where workers make upwards of twenty cents an hour. Methinks the powers that control our government would like to put themselves in a position to lose many more wars like this.

Just in time for the 50th anniversary of the Roswell Incident, the Feds released a new version of what happened at the infamous New Mexico town in 1947, and surprise surprise, it turns out to be substantially different than the explanation they gave in their 1994 report, which contradicted previous official records which mostly consisted of: "Show's over. There's nothing to see here. Go home. Or we'll shoot you." Methinks the lads doth protest too much. First of all, what witnesses claimed to have seen happen in 47, didn't happen until 53. The people who thought they saw alien bodies were mistaken by six years. And who of us haven't screwed up memories of life changing experiences by six years? Second of all, the spacecraft was actually a disabled weather balloon, and there were no bodies. Third off, okay, maybe there were bodies, but they were crash test dummies. Fourth off, the dummies were painted by Keane to resemble Keir Dullea. Still doesn't explain the weird smell a civilian attributed to the bodies but that could easily be written off as the stench of a lame government coverup grotesquely constructed according to limited available facts surrounding secret military installations in an attmept to avoid destroying worldwide religious credos and causing mass panic. If you listen real close the echoes sound familiar. Might that be Jack Nicholson telling us for our own good: "You Can't Handle The Truth"?

Am I alone here thinking that if the tobacco industry okayed a $368 billion settlement, something has gone horribly awry? My theory is they agreed just a wee mite too quickly. We've all negotiated badly at least once. Where you told a guy you couldn't do the gig for less than two hundred dollars and he said, "Okay, fine." That's when you slap your head with an iron mallet knowing you just got suckered worse than a circus monkey tied to a stump in a toxic waste research project. So doesn't that mean when the government says $368 billion and the tobacco guys say "Okay, fine" that we're not much more than a bunch of circus monkey stunt doubles? Who do you think is running around muttering, "I could've gotten 400 easy"? Besides, if they can afford to give up $368 billion, how much money do they got? Us smokers are the ones who are going to shoulder the brunt of it. I can see the day when a pack of smokes will be approximately fifteen bucks. And we'll be happy to pay it. Of course we'll have to find merchants who won't mind a couple chunks of lung on their paper money. Maybe we'll be a cashless society by then. And that's another thing.

Q. What's the difference between Mike Tyson and Jeffrey Dahmer?

A. Dahmer was partial to cold cuts, while Tyson prefers his free range catch, tartare.

Somebody has to have a serious human to human talk with Iron Mike. "Mike my boy. The thing is, you can't eat the guy until he's dead. Even then, it's not looked upon as the greased chute to Endorsement City, unless you're angling for a job as spokesperson for a cut rate exterminating service." "Hi, I'm Mike Tyson for Pest Eaters." I don't care how peckish you're feeling. Nibbling on the guy like he's a six foot four inch Slim Jim is just plain asking for a public relations backlash on a par with kicking puppies buried in sand up to their necks with steel toed boots. My theory is it was all a clever marketing scheme by Don King. Before the inevitable rematch, Tyson will fight George Foreman and it'll be billed as "The Beast versus the Buffet". A sneeze guard will be installed around the ring, and the girls who flash the round numbers will dress as giant condiment squeeze bottles. Then they can set up some Scandinavian palooka and call the whole thing: "Smorgasbord!" Of course right now, Mike would be lucky to get a fight called "Potluck" or "Covered Dish".

25 years ago, The Gang That Couldn't Loot Straight broke into the Watergate offices of the Democratic National Committee eventually bringing down a President. Since Woodward still won't out Deep Throat, being as he's supposedly still alive and all, (isn't that right Mr. Haig?), the nation is now locked in a weepy nostalgic trip trying to figure out what it all meant. I'll tell you what it meant. It meant we damn hippies were right all along; not only was Nixon a crook, he was dumber than a bucket of dirt. First, admitting he had tapes and then giving them up, for crum's sake. Not even Martha Mitchell would have made that mistake. It meant Reagan learned how to never admit to anything. Just keep saying you don't remember, and the funny part was people believed him. It also meant the 60's adage came true: just because you're paranoid doesn't mean people aren't out to get you. It inspired me to write my first topical comedy line: "when the going gets tough, the tough get phlebitis". But mostly, it meant that you were never going to make it in the scandal business until you got a gate named after you.

The Southern Baptist Corporation overwhelmingly approved a boycott of the Walt Disney Co. to protest what church leaders say are the company's gay friendly policies. Baptists don't like friendly people. No, they believe in an ornery vengeful Jesus with oozing blisters rubbing against the straps of his sandals and are quite willing to go to whatever lengths it takes in order to keep people who think differently than them from being treated equally. Even if it means such twisted self flagellating actions as visiting Davenport, Iowa instead of Orlando, Florida or prohibiting their children from watching reruns of "DuckTales". This action is based on previously unreleased Biblical tales of when Jesus and the boys went to a seaside village cafe called The Caanan Whip and bashed themselves a club full of gays who made fun of Jesus' bleeding feet. I think we can expect further boycotts by the Southern Baptist Corporation such as one targeting Girl Scouts for selling cookies where the dark chocolate surrounds the white colored nougat. Then Spielberg will be marked for E.T. and his glorification of an alien that looks like genitals with eyes. We can only gawk open mouthed at these brave Christian soldiers making this incredible stand against tolerance.

Race. Unless you're talking about a living room to kitchen during the commercial break contest on who gets the last piece of pie, its not a very pretty word. To say it has a tendency to get people riled up is like calling a mile wide infestation of poisonous red Carpenter ants; irksome. Bill Clinton has sought to initiate a yearlong nationwide discussion on race, which most likely means a marathon session of honing our name calling skills into a fine subtle precision. But except for naming a blue ribbon commission the President weighed in with less specifics than you'd get on the side of one of those Ginseng Tea boxes. Newt Gingrich, never one to let sleeping dogs lie, managed to kick every cage in a kennel when he jumped in with the "can't we all get along" response speech he presented to the Orphan Foundation of America. Yes, Newt Gingrich was speaking at the Orphan Foundation of America. You can't make stuff up like this. What I think the Prez should propose is this. Once a year on their birthday, everyone uses all the drugs and stimulants they want and then stagger into an airplane hangar that's been outfitted with mattresses and Barry White music but no lights, and nobody gets out until they have had sexual congress, and in two generations everyone will be approximately the same color. Of course it might sound better coming from me instead of him.

The 23rd annual convention of the leaders of the world's economic powers, which used to be known as G-7, but is now called Summit of the 8, or G-7 plus Vodka Boy, finished up their meeting in Denver and by all accounts it was as a harmonious affair as could be expected with bigtime guys suffering from altitude poisoning. Report cards were handed out which criticized Japan and America for ignoring International pollution standards. France, Germany and Italy were told to shape up and ease regulation and strict labor laws. This stab at International Union Busting was about as subtle as bowling pin to the forehead. Britain was urged to keep inflation under control, and Canada was asked to get coffee from the kitchen where Russia was cleaning up. These were the official pronouncements, but you know private memos were circulated.

* Japan: Other people build cars too, you know.

* US: Sylvester Stallone is too old to be taking off his shirt. Do something!

* Italy: Here's a thought! How about keeping a government intact for longer than a month. Try it. Get back to us.

* Britain: Please do something about your food, immediately. Our people have to visit there you know. Does the term "spice" have any meaning to you?

* Germany: You are huge. Huge enough, if you get our drift.

* France: Gerard Depardieu may be a hunk in your country, but he must not be allowed to speak. Muzzle comes to mind.

* Canada: Enough with the hockey already. Spend some time on a new image. And quit whining!

* Russia: See Italy, Britain and Canada.

Summer in Britain. What could be better? Well, winter in the Antarctic without shelter does spring to mind. Bunjee jumping into a rotting vertical zinc mine with a decaying goat tied to your neck ranks right up there. Spending three weeks in a leaky decompression chamber with 12 Richard Simmons clones all festively adorned with numerous methamphetamine patches could be its equal. Yeah, they love us Yanks over here. Can't get enough of our McDonalds or Gaps. Would like to deep fry and bury each and every one of us in a blue jean body bag. You know, the only reason "Baywatch" is the number one show in the world is they love to see Americans drown. Its not that the English hate us. Well, yeah they do. Mostly they're condescending. They treat us like your mother did you after you first left the house. "Soooo, things aren't going so well, are they Mr. 'I'm ready for Independence.'" 221 years later... they're still pissed. I keep wanting to say to them, "Guys, settle down. we didn't tell you to wear red in the woods. Spread out! These were farmers with one shot muskets. who was going to relate to "The earthtones are coming! The earthtones are coming! Beware the pastels, Nathan."

Just when you think the world has become an irony free zone: that the day Jim Fixx, the man who jump started the running craze, died while jogging, will never be equaled, along comes Bohumil Sole. Mr. Sole, 63, was a Czech inventor who was part of the team that invented the plastic explosive Semtex. And he blew himself up in a bathhouse during what the Czech police are calling a suicide attempt. A pretty good attempt by all accounts. You might even call it mildly successful. Now these are not the Czech police of the mid seventies who would patiently explain in their thick Russian accents that their prisoner's multiple bruises stemmed from falling down the stairs. "Two broken arms?" the Western Press would ask incredulously. "He fell repeatedly." No, these are measured well respected cops who are assuming the guy blew himself up with the stuff he invented.

You can't make stuff up like this.

The next thing you know...

Bill Clinton dies from an splinter infection caught while straddling a fence.

Pamela Anderson Lee suffocates as her breasts melt and conjeal over her face when she falls asleep too near a bon fire on the beach.

Rush Limbaugh explodes when he passes an exterior air conditioning duct and accidentally swallows a blast of the very same hot air he expelled.

Okay guys, now if I were you I'd sit down and cover myself with an insulated moving blanket because after you hear this, you're going to want to put something really heavy like a high single series bowling trophy through the glass door of your entertainment center and you don't want any shards to get in the cuffs of your pajamas, since you won't be able to sleep as it is. Bill Clinton, the man who owes more to soft money than Joseph Gallo owes to crushed grapes is petitioning the Federal Election Commission to abolish the "soft money" loophole. Oh, there you go. Next, I suppose Mark McGwire is going to ask Major League Baseball to declare any ball leaving the field of play is an out. Then Bill Gates will market a pad of paper attached to a pencil with a string and call it his revolutionary "analog laptop computer". Eventually I can see General Norman Schwarzkopff demanding all future wars be decided by Supersoakers full of urine at 30 paces. The rise of soft money was the direct result of a PREVIOUS reform which limited the amount any one contributor could give to an individual candidate. So instead of giving it to the candidate, now the contributions go to the candidate's party who... give it to the candidate. Obviously not the same thing at all. This involves many more banking transactions. You outlaw soft money and you know what takes over? Spongy downy suppley velvety money. That's when contributors give money to the candidate's party's treasurer's country club's janitor. We're moving the cookie jar from the kitchen table to the counter to behind a cabinet above the refrigerator and these are the guys who own the ladder and crowbar concessions. And Clinton knows it best of all. Being the retired Western Hemisphere Distributor for ladders and crowbars and all.

I don't see what's so hard to understand: the Air Force drums out Lieutenant Kelly Flinn for sleeping with a married man, then one of the two candidates to become the next Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Joseph W. Ralston is forgiven for his year long affair with a female Army Intelligence Officer while he was still married. No double standard here. This is what we call the single standard. Just like when we were kids: "Do as I say, not as I do". The President has expressed confidence Secretary of Defense William Cohen will make the right decision, which typically means Bill would rather be skipping naked through Central Park at three in the morning with hundred dollar bills scotch taped to his genitals than have to weigh in on this one. It's a simple case of the military making an example. And a example has been made. Just happens to be a female one. We're talking about a man who had a exemplary service record of 32 years, whereas the female bomber pilot was bound to end up quitting when she made the inevitable decision to pump out a few puppies. Besides, I think it makes an attractive recruitment poster: "Join the armed services and get screwed; figuratively, literally, and repeatedly".

ABC just announced an agreement with American Airlines to give frequent flyer miles for watching certain television shows on the network's schedule. Oh yeah, that's just what we need. Couch potatoes with a purpose. "Honey, why don't you go outside and play." "Can't mom, only two more NYPD Blues and I bump up to Business on my non-stop to Paris." You know this is the start of something big and hideous. Already you can get frequent flyer miles by eating at certain restaurants or ordering flowers, but now we've managed to turn our greed into a passive sport. It's the ultimate dream marriage for Americans: watching tv while accumulating at the same time. I can see the future unravel in front of me like a ball of yarn rolling down the stairwell of the Washington Monument.

* Japan Airlines, and Nintendo get together with a Donkey Kong Junior starter program where kids get miles for completing different worlds in a given time.

* Southwest Airlines works a deal with Charmin Bathroom Tissue and the inside of the cardboard roll reveals a mileage coupon.

* Joe Camel in co- operation with British Airways switches from Camel Bucks to Camel Miles.

* Continental Airlines and Duncan Hines gives miles for every pound a person gains in a three month period; the largest gainer wins a million mile prize.

Our Boy Bill just vetoed the $8.6 billion emergency flood relief bill because according to him, it had become a wayward whale whose direction had foundered after being encrusted with $3.2 billion in pork barnacles courtesy of Congress. Frankly, I'm worried about the Republicans. Either they have collectively gone quite mad or they have a memory shorter than picnic season in Upper Michigan. Didn't they have their approval ratings handed to them on a soggy paper plate with this same fight during the government shutdowns of 95/96? Clinton's objections to the bill aren't the $12.3 million garage in Cleveland or half a million to refurbish a theater in Kentucky, but rather the provision that would have automatically continued spending at this year's level if regular appropriation bills were not approved by the start of the fiscal year, Oct. 1. This would have let Congress shut down the government without any pressure to negotiate with Clinton. And there's nothing the Republicans hate more than negotiating with Clinton. It's like trying to throttle a shadow. He just smiles and bites his lip and the cameras start spontaneously drooling out of the lens piece. Let's hope Hurricane season holds off or FEMA may experience a disaster stack.

* Michael Jordan has come out with a line of toiletries including a signature shampoo. Michael Jordan Shampoo. The hell would that be: a wet nap?

* The US Supreme Court has determined that states can not require political candidates to take drug tests. So, I guess that would mean DNA tests for chromosonal damage and IQ minimum exams are totally out of the question.

* A couple of scientists have made a claim that coffee can be used to fight cancer. The drug companies must now be readying vats to produce enough solution to soak one's tumors in.

* The Gerald Ford Museum has just opened in Grand Rapids, Michigan. There are no stairs.

* They also named an airport in Houston after George Bush. Should call the tower the George Bush International Airport Vision Thing.

* Congress has granted Frank Sinatra a Medal of Honor. Wonder if in the spirit of things, whether in order to get it passed they twisted a couple of arms or broke a couple of legs?

* A 63 year old Southern California woman gave birth to a healthy baby girl. The good news is the diaper service can kill two birds with one stop.

* The military has adopted a policy allowing Native American soldiers to use peyote. It is probably known as "Tune In, Drop Out, Don't Ask."

Timothy McVeigh has been found guilty of the slaughter of 168 people in the Oklahoma City bombing, and jurors in Denver, Colorado have decided to slaughter him in response. I don't know how I feel about the Death Penalty. I know Clinton endorses it, Newt Gingrich embraces it and Trent Lott wants it applied to anyone who makes fun of his hair. Perhaps the word penalty doesn't quite convey the entire picture here. It sounds too much like a minor setback. A temporary correction. A puddlish oilslick on the highway, rather than the head on crash into an anonymous big rig hauling deteriorating cannisters of combustibles. Everyone I know feels strongly one way or the other about capital punishment, except me, and I feel strongly both ways. My theory is, the Bible says "Thou shall not kill", not "Thou shall not kill unless he's an egregious squeezebag who deserves to be taken out just for the sake of the gene pool". Might have been a translation problem; I think not. But then I hear of a crime like the Oklahoma City bombing: so heinous, so despicable, so... go to horrid, take a left, that I'd be willing to take the guy out myself with nothing but salad tongs, sandpaper and salt. Don't ask, but it works. I've just always been afraid that if we get too strict with this "eye for an eye" business, it won't be very long before we're all pretty much blind.

Real soon, a bunch of designated dobermans from Congress and the Clinton administration will meet to negotiate the budget compromise in a summit that will make Mideast peace talks look like sixth grade intramural basketball possession calls. By July, either the President will enact a law concerning the legislation, or... he won't. If the unthinkable comes to pass, an event with a likelihood potential equal to a tornado diagonally tagging a trailer court in the Midwest within the next ten years, several things could happen.

* One. A bipartisan committee ignoring petty partisan squabbles and lobbyist pressure makes shared sacrifice based on ability to pay, the National policy. And the moon falls out of the sky, and oil wells spring from the rotting cores of hibernating gladiola bulbs.

* Two. Both sides claim the reasons the talks have stalled is the opposition is selling out the voters to Satan. Dick Armey threatens a slander suit.

* Three. Newt's mob reluctantly raises the minimum corporate tax rate and in return, Clinton allows the homeless to be bussed to the National Zoo and fed to the lions.

* Four. Newt throws a fit demanding common courtesy from the House rest room attendant who should not be lighting matches and going "whoo whoo" everytime the speaker uses the stall.

* Five. They adjourn to watch the World Wrestling Federation on TBS.

WHILE YOU WERE OUT...

* The Boss came by and changed the locks on the employee rest rooms and gave everybody a new key except you. Martha.

* Some guy in accounting came and took your trash. Bobby.

* I've saved all of last year's food drive flyers and think we should print our inter office memos on the backs. Martha.

* Your suggestion about cutting executive bonuses has been forwarded to New York. Smooth move groove. Ali.

* Some guy from "Hard Copy" came and brought back your trash. Bobby.

* I told the custodian he could remove the rollers from your chair to make skates. Martha.

* Ticketmaster called. They inadvertently listed your home number as the one to call for the six Streisand concerts. They want to know if you can give callers the correct number. Bridget in reception.

* I.O.U. one middle desk drawer. Be right back dude. Ali.

* Pockets will no longer be allowed. Martha.

* There's a virus eating hard drives. Everybody should reboot their computers NOW! Mr. Roberson.

* Some guy from the IRS came and took your trash. He said to call him as soon as you get in, but I lost his number. Sorry. Bobby.

* The new owners want to know why you still have an employee parking spot. I said I didn't know. Martha.

I don't know about you, but whenever I see newlyweds prancing around with their boundless energy, thick hair and firm thighs, I actually feel sorry for them. It's going to take years before they have the slightest inkling of what's going on. There are more reasons that marriage gets easier with age than there are broken chairs in a Jackie Chan movie. As you get older, you come to realize... less can be more. The big things seem smaller and the small things don't even register on the radar. Another reason marriage gets easier is often you can communicate simply through a coded series of shrugs and grunts. For instance, "Enh?" Shrug. "Enh!" Can mean, "What was that?" "Who knows?" "Typical." Your reflexes aren't as sharp, and of course your hearing goes, which allows you to let a lot of things that would have formerly upset you, slide. Like, when you hear this annoying buzzing noise while trying to watch TV: only the falling of many calendar pages can teach you, ignore it long enough, and it will go away. Sometimes, if fate is willing, you get to wear each other's clothes. However, if you ever find yourselves wearing matching clothes, you know, like identical lime green nylon running suits with orange racing stripes: you should seriously consider seeking professional help. Dr. Kevorkian comes to mind.

The networks released next season's schedules and they have cleverly put themselves in danger of neither breaking new ground or setting the bar too high. Ooh, those sly ones. One will never be able to accuse them of having failed to fulfill high expectations. Next year we can expect to see our screens littered with what a gang of GED dropouts known as focus groups have identified as hot: widowers, preachers, aliens and odd couples. Waiting in the wings are some inevitable mid-season replacements courtesy of the Will Durst School Of Advanced Prime Time Televsion.

THOSE WACKY NEIGHBORS NEXT DOOR: wackiness ensues weekly when a Winnebago full of aliens travel through the midwest learning about what it means to be human, taking the time to teach a few lessons of their own.

THE RAPPING BENEDICTINE MONKS OF SANTO DOMINGO DE SILOS: a busload of inner city orphan youth get stranded at a Benedictine Monastary during a Gregorian Chant Festival and teach as dope as they get taught.

ODD FRIENDS: six good looking aliens sit around, drink coffee and have intrapersonal relationship problems. Refreshingly, no lessons are either learned or taught.

STEINMAN: a rabbi spends his time eating in a bad coffee shop and searching for a decent Manhattan apartment with his three wacky friends, one an alien,

FATHERS ZIPH & ZORG: an alien odd couple assume the identity of widowed reverends and wreak havoc on a small midwestern parish, as they learn about us but still find time to teach as well.

I would just like to offer a measured piece of advice to all those critics who lambasted "The Lost World" because it was all special effects and no plot. GET A FREAKIN LIFE. It's a dinsoaur movie! What, weren't there enough pithy moments with Wallace Shawn talking about the death of culture with André the Giant for your intellectual butt? It's a dinsoaur movie! You pay your eight bucks and giant dinosaurs are running around right up there in front of you real close to human actors making loud roaring noises. It did have some things in common with "Citizen Kane". Ceilings, for example. Actors. Words. A young girl knocking a Velociraptor out a window with a high bar routine. What else do you want? You think if Orson Welles had the technology to dangle a trailer over a cliff with a glass wall, he wouldn't do it? Oh, excuse me; the plot had a few holes. Of course it did! Holes big enough for a herd of Brontasauruses to fall in. At the end of the movie, a Tyranasaurus Rex sneaks up on a guy for crum's sake. It's a dinosaur movie! And Jeff Goldblum forgot which nerd he was playing and reverted back to the nerd he was in "Independence Day", and not the nerd in the previous dinosaur movie. Who cares? You probably go to Sea World, sit in the front row of the Shamu show, then complain you got wet. I bet you didn't like "Congo" either. It's a Saturday afternoon jungle movie!

You got to admire the players whipping the frayed edges of capitalism to a frenzied fringe in Hong Kong. These guys are partying like it's 1999. Taking it to the limit while they can, because on July 1st, the limit is going to be pummeled, shrink wrapped and casually rammed into the deep dark corner of a centuries old freezer, where all the oxygen is sucked out and hosed over to the mausoleum to keep the rotting sarcophaguses holding court in stasis just on the warm side of expiration. June 4th is the 8th anniversary of Tiananmen Square and in its shadow, the residents of this territory can make out a future bleaker than a transcontinental off road race across Canada in a fleet of discount Yugos on the occasion of the winter solstice. Protesters have vowed to hit the streets this year in force to commemorate the event since the Chinese have indicated they would rather wear ski masks made out of raw hamburger and stick them in cages of rabid lions forced to watch the Rosie O'Donnell Show for three days non stop than let it happen again. So rave on, guys, just don't forget to wear the Kevlar Party Hats.

According to "Talkers" magazine, the trade mag of talk radio, "politics" doesn't work anymore. Americans apparently tired again of listening to the Washington edition of the Bickersons. I blame Bob Dole. Anybody trying to light a fire off the spark of last year's Presidential election is going to end up flopping around gasping for breath like a guppy on the linoleum floor of a Woolworth's pet aisle. I've seen more exciting hedge trimmings. The most boring election since my third grad social studies teacher rammed Jenny Peterson through as hall monitor on the straight, "Because I said so" ticket. Clinton has to share in the responsibility since he's decided to be this morph like pseudo shape shifter who can assume the position of any poll his staff has in their grubby little hands at the time. Besides having a face made for radio, I too feel the pain of the talk show hosts. I'd rather skip naked through Yankee Stadium with hundred dollar bills duct taped to my body than attempt funny comedy political humor during the second term of a President so smooth and slimy he makes Ronald Reagan look like a velcro tar baby dipped in wallpaper paste. But these guys have to learn to stop their bellyaching, and trust the American public. Knowing the goobers we tend to elect it'll get good and ugly again. Too soon.

Maturing. It's a scary word. A word I always associated with cheese. Not something I ever thought would happen to me. But what nature takes away, it also replenishes. Sometimes in different areas. And no, I'm not talking about hair, but can someone please tell me why I have not just hair growing out of my ears, but thick undersea Intercontinental cables? Have I become a mobile long distance carrier experiment without my knowledge? You could cut that cheese I spoke of earlier with these things. No, I'm talking about the fact that although we may no longer have the speed to outrun trouble, we now have enough experience to recognize it's imminent arrival and hopefully avoid it. For instance, I have learned to avoid all movies publicized with great quotes from radio station reviewers in Utah.

Also, when I was young, I had no idea that "buffet" was a death defying concept. As we get older, we get less gullible. We've been to the circus, we know it's always the same old thing, just a different set of clowns. We also have a much better sense of when people are blowing smoke up our butts. Which is probably why most judges aren't eighteen year old boys. "You are sentenced to an entire weekend of listening to non stop "Metallica". And finally we gain enough patience to figure out the world will pretty much stay the same no matter how much we try to change it, and the only thing worse than pretending it won't is not trying.

Oklahoma City bombing suspect Timothy McVeigh seems to have been as anxious to get caught as he was to avenge his imagined compatriots' fate. The guy got caught speeding in a car without plates. Aaah, America, the home of remedial terrorists. "Yeah, I go to the Billy Carter School of Espionage in the little bus. They're teaching me how to counterfeit singles. Next up is how to disguise myself as an ignorant racist. I'm looking forward to that one." Everybody thought this one was committed by foreigners. I even fell for the bait. The media was no help. "Two middle easterners were seen running from the scene." I have one little question: wasn't everybody running from the scene? Second, it was Oklahoma City. The hell does middle eastern looking mean down there. "They had curly hair. And they weren't wearing baseball caps! And, I'll tell you something mister, they had a tan on both of their arms. It was eerie." McVeigh also told arresting officers he thought the military had implanted microchips in his butt. His butt. To get as close as possible to the cerebral cortex I believe. Don't you get it, at inopportune moments, they were going to fiendishly manipulate his bowel movements. It was cancer man all along.

It gets weirder and weirder. Last week, the campaign manager in charge on convincing voters they should spend one hundred million dollars for the San Francisco Forty Niners' new stadium was thrown a birthday party by his friends that would have made Caligula grab his date and gallop off. In a blatant attempt to curry the integral S/M swing vote, the highlight of the evening saw a self described Indian satanist S/M performance artist have a pentagram carved into his back, get urinated on, and then allowed his anus to become a decorative liquor rack, albeit lacking in hygienic appeal to the point I sincerely doubt FDA approval is going to be a slam dunk. He called it the Apache Whiskey Ride, and said it was all to illustrate how the Indians were ruint when the white man forced liquor onto them, although if that's how they drank it, it's amazing they ever got looped. First the Indian community complained. Something about the inauthenticity of the angle of insertion. Now, the sadomasochist community has chimed in with their two cents worth. And guess what? We owe them change. Apparently, real sadomasochists have more developed sense of taste and a better circle of friends. The funniest part is they're against the stadium anyway. Even the performance artist is against it, unless, I assume, they change the name to Anton Levay Stadium.

Sometimes I think our government is so stuck in the 1930's, they should all be wearing spats. They refuse to accept pot can be used as a cheap effective medicine. For crum's sake, it grows in the ground; when's the last time you got a Pina Colada off the cocktail tree?If it's bad for you, doesn't that mean God screwed up? Their little refrain has gotten more tiresome than a 24 hour Michael Bolton station. "Marijuana, the heathen devil weed, causes severe brain damage and various incurable strains of venereal disease. Think of this: everybody who ever smoked dope has died, especially jazz musicians. If you suspect your son, daughter and or boss of smoking marijuana, ask yourself these few simple questions.

* Are they having too much fun?

* Do they wear sunglasses at odd hours of the day, like at the breakfast table?

* Does their major source of protein come from individually wrapped packets of Chee-Tos?

* Is their hair extraordinarily sticky?

* Do they break into giggling fits for no apparent reason?

* Are the seed burn holes in their denim jackets referred to as 'the bombing pattern'?

* Have you noticed they have an increased tendency to fall asleep while operating gas powered yard tools?

* Are they confused by their shoes?

* Is their philosophical world centered around Roadrunner cartoons?

Lies are important. We couldn't survive without lies. We just need a different name for some of them. LIES sounds so perjorative. What do you call the correct response to "Honey, do these pants make me look fat?" Is that a lie? No, that's self defense. You can't outlaw lies, then only outlaws will tell lies. If you make lies illegal, the very fabric of society would unravel. Think of it; our streets cluttered with the hollow eyed shells of lawyers, politicians and advertising executives.

Without lies...

* Your average relationship would last about as long as a carton of milk left out in a Phoenix attic in August.

* New Technology Miracle Detergent would be... Soap.

* President Clinton would be a mime.

* Rush Limbaugh would host a daily three hour nationwide recipe show.

* Steven Seagal would be known as a walker, not an actor.

* You'd never ask anybody "how you doing?" ever again.

* "60 Minutes" would have to be called "48 Minutes".

* "The Tonight Show" would have to be called "March 4th, sometime back in the Early 50's."

* We'd start calling sugar; sweet crack.

* The American League would be referred to as the Quadruple A League.

Representative Robert Barr of Georgia is having as much luck getting the House Judiciary Committee to open an impeachment inquiry of President Clinton as Robert Dole has of becoming the newest Chippendale. As Albert Belle has of guest hosting for Dr. Laura Schleschinger as resident grief counselor. As Siegfreid & Roy have of being the next two man Olympic bobsled team from whatever weird goulash country they claim as homeland. Who put the spiny bug in this guy's bikini cut underwear? The economy is booming. Unemployment is at it's lowest level since before the Civil War and the stock market is out of sight from the summit of Mount Everest and ol' Mr. Turd in the Punchbowl wants to wring the neck of the golden goose with a noose of subpoenas? I suppose he would also like to see us all stick our hands covered with paper cuts in aquariums full of piranhas. Oh good idea, Bob, let's drive blindfolded down the freeway at 120 mph just to prove the yellow lines are straight. Fortunately this guy is being ignored like a mosquito squashed on the windshield of that very same car. Time to turn on the washers.

* Now let me get this straight. Charlie Manson didn't want to get paroled because he was too busy working on his website? Not maintained by him, of course. I'm sure Mewly or Squealy or Squeaky is running it. Probably linked to the ACLU site.

* Swatch just released a Che Guevara watch. I bet they tried a Jesus Swatch but couldn't get it out of the design room. Only worked four times a day: quarter to three and fifteen after nine.

* Hey everybody. Ellen is a lesbian! You know, someone should tell Laura Dern that if a date with her were part of the package, a lot more of us would come out as well.

* Do you think Strom Thurmond still writes his "s's" like "f's"?

* The GAO says military bookeepers can't find $43 billion. The Pentagon claims only $18 billion is unaccounted for. And right they are for feeling unfairly maligned. After all, what's a measly $18 billion amongst friends? Nine dozen hammers, right?

* Measly. Must be another Manson girl.

* Chelsea picked Stanford over Princeton. You don't think that it's campus being 2800 miles further away from D.C. had anything to do with it, do you? Naw, she probably just heard so much about the fabulous Palo Alto nightlife scene. Either that, or she considered Princeton's nickname, "The Tigers" insensitive to big cats.

The Barbary Coast thrives again. Friends threw a 50th birthday party for San Francisco political consultant Jack Davis that could go a long way in cementing our national reputation as Gomorrah By The Sea for another two or three generations. The entertainment included live sex acts, the carving of pentagrams into the backs of performance artists, urination and sodomization with a Jack Daniels bottle, which according to spectator Sheriff Mike Hennessey, was "a great waste of a bottle of whiskey." So many fluids were flowing the Delta got jealous. Of course, through a curious rash of spontaneous babysitteritis, every politician present reluctantly responded to emergencies at home, and were not present during the festivities. These guys disappeared faster than brownies at a pot rally. As a matter of fact, it seems nobody actually saw the alleged events except for the depraved members of the press who described it down to the last hairy moled detail. All I can say is anything that ticks Rush Limbaugh off is okay by me, although I'm sure at future Jack Davis fetes, all the liquor will be served in convenient squeeze bottles, especially the Galliano. Besides, what's the big deal with a little spin the bottle, we got to have some fun. After all we don't have Kennedys out here.

So to believe the newpapers, humankind is doomed because a bunch of circuits and wires made Gary Kasparov cry. Hey, settle down peoples of Earth. Personally, I don't think he's wound all that tight to begin with. The guy probably cries at AT&T commercials. He lost a chess game to a computer. Big freakin deal. We still regularly crush them in Chinese checkers and Yahtzee, don't we? And when was the last time you saw Troy Aikman throwing a roll out post pattern bomb to a robot? Alvin Harper doesn't count. And no, we're not going to bring Hockey into this. Besides, who do you think programmed the stupid computer? Damn right! If it hadn't been for us weasly bipeds teaching Big Blue how to cheat real good, that mass of silicon would have begun smoking like a four pack a day garage band bass player after a transcontinental flight on ValuJet after the third move, and Kasparov would be chugging Peppered Vodka straight from his Gucci boot right now. So we humans are subservient in intelligence to computers. Yeah, what's your point? Let Kasparov challenge Big Blue to a guts match of Twister and see what happens. Let's see the almighty wired one handle a table full of drunken heckling tourists during a second show Friday. Then we'll see who can play hardball.

Richard McLaren, leader of the Republic of Texas separatists, surrendered to authorities and called for a "Texas-wide cease-fire" yesterday. Yeah, right, good luck. Call for a "Arctic-wide cease-ice next. He also asked for diplomatic immunity. And they should give it to him. Immunity from all mythical lands, like Atlantis and Never Never Land. His claim is that Texas was illegally annexed in 1845 and remains an independent state. And I say he's right. Let the Lone Star State secede, and maybe if they really promise to go away we could give them Oklahoma as a bonus. How can you take anybody serious holed up in a trailer? Call me a cynic but I think after the publicity ABC got over the whole Ellen thing, this was a huge plot co-ordinated between the news and entertainment departments at NBC to capitalize on Jeff Foxworthy's season ending episode.

* If your embassy is a trailer... you might live in a redneck nation.

* If all the menu selections at your state dinners are really roadkill... you might live in a redneck nation.

* If the only thing y ssadors have in common is they were once runners ups in a fart lighting competition... you might live in a redneck nation.

* If your Minister of Defense is arrested for being intimate with livestock in a freeway rest stop... you might live in a redneck nation.

Another study concerning violence on television has been released and the surprising conclusion is that violence on television is bad, and the majorest bad guy is, once again, us. For watching. Of course this report was broadcast on the same news program that featured tape from the carnage caused by a suicide bomb explosion in Jerusalem. Obviously the work of some Beavis & Butthead Satellite aficionado. Yes, tv affects impressionable young minds. If it didn't, really big corporations wouldn't spend millions of dollars advertising day glo plastic crap that kids aren't sure if they're supposed to eat, wear or spread on the spokes of their bike. Of course television affects kids, but so does Volleyball, and you don't hear about studies that advocate the elimination of spiking and kill shots, now do you? Besides, kids aren't stupid. Just because my generation watched cartoons doesn't mean we think we can run off a cliff and not fall as long as we don't look down. Anvils don't conform to the shape of your head when dropped out of four story buildings. And after swallowing dynamite, your belly doesn't explode and then contract afterwards. We know this. You got to blow out the exhaust first.

Dear gentle peoples.

I am exceedingly sorry the pickings are so slim this week, it's just that I am at Jazz Fest in New Orleans, and taking great pains to accomplish my appointed job of the week which is to:

A. Drink Heavily.

B. Eat Way Too Much, And Then Make Odd Noises Getting Up.

C. Listen To Music.

D. Drink Heavily.

Happy to note, I am doing such a good job, there is much talk about my assuming the task on a permanent basis. Don't know about the music though, it seems to interrupt my concentration on finishing tasks A & D in a thorough and complete manner. By the way, last night, I chanced to eat something so heavenly, so touched by the hand of God His Own Badself, so brought down to Earth by an angry confused Dark Angel, who not knowing if he was meant to bring it down or stole it from The Boss' Pantry, momentarily left it for me to eat, that I am seriously considering angioplasty just so I can eat it again.

your ever vigilant servant.

will durst

So, here I am on the fabled Information Superhighway. It'll be easy to recognize me; just look for the grease spot behind the overturned big rig. Roadkill in the bread down lane. For crum's sake you guys, I don't watch the 50 channels I have now. The hell am I supposed to do with 500!?! You think Americans have short attention spans today; in five years we'll be twitching and shaking like hamsters duct taped to roto tillers. Oh goody, goody, goody. Beavis and Butthead on Demand. Entire Shopping Channels devoted exclusively to festively decorated portable floss containers. The 24 hour Gum Network. Excuse me while I hitch hike my way off the exit ramp. And if Congress really plans on regulating this autobahn, kindly do me a favor. Make sure they keep a lane open for us mo-peds. I got this bad feeling that the vending machines at the rest stops are destined to be controlled by the same four phone companies. I'm such a techno geek, I get confused by toaster manuals. I still think a floppy disk is that Beatles album I left under the back window of my car one summer. So maybe some speed bumps are in order. Or how bout this: an Information Superhighway frontage road. You guys go on ahead. Keep the traffic flowing. I'll set up this lemonade stand at some deserted intersection in the shade.

Now lets get this straight. I'm a carnivore. I like cheeseburgers. Mmm, mmm. Greasy meats slabs inside of wheat foam covered with congealed cow juice. I'm happy. Don't get me wrong, I respect vegetarians. I hate sproutheads. You know from sproutheads? Severe Vegetarians? The kind of people who see "auras, oh wow." I think people who see "auras" are experiencing the first stages of "glaucoma, oh wow." Tofu; I try to eat it. I do. First off, it sounds like a foot disease. And maybe it's pyschosomatic, but 4 inches from my mouth, "unh-uh, I'm sorry, this should come out of my body, not go into it." Its like the missing expectorant. Should come from the crease inside your elbow. "Oh look at that, tofu. Put that in your miso soup and sup on it." Wine without alcohol... why? I thought Welch's had the gig sewed up. Decaffeinated coffee? You putz, that's why I drink it. You take the caffeine out, this liquid is useless to me. Its hot bitter dirty water. Without the charge. "I like the wiry buzz, its the rich flavor I could do without." And now the new big rage is..."fiber in your diet." Yeah pal, I get enough fiber in my diet gnawing on the twine I'm tied to the bedpost with. But then, perhaps I'm telling you much more than you need to know.

In San Francisco, our intrepid band of supervisors has imposed a moratorium on new coffee shops in the Castro District. This is the eighth moratorium the supervisors imposed in the last year. One of them actually talked about a moratorium on moratoriums. Soon, they'll address the issue of a moratorium on even considering moratorium moratoriums, and then voices from thirteenth century Indian warlords will whisper sage advice concerning wormy maize to them in their sleep. The stated logic is the neighborhood is losing essential services like dry cleaners and hardware stores to coffee shops who outbid them for storefronts since they can afford to pay higher rents. Dry cleaners. Who the hell wears their clothes twice in the Castro? Let's say you're walking down the street and feeling sluggish. What are you going to do? Walk into a hardware store and slam your hand with a hammer? Maybe drift into the launderers and grab a quick huff of a chemical soaked rag? No, you're going to grab a half caf double Latte with no foam, and who in their right mind would want to walk a whole half block to do it? I think the supervisors have it all wrong and every store front in San Francisco should be required to be packing an espresso machine. We could become "Grindland", the theme park of the skittish and fidgety and prone to easy startlement. Take the honor away from L.A..

You know what Clinton's biggest problem is? No, I mean besides the fact that he looks like a Burger King manager who loves his work just a wee mite too much. His biggest problem is he's got no "or else." Either you vote the way he wants, or what... ? Or else he will... pepper you with a series of substantial arguments? He does that to us all the time; the hell have we done wrong? Or else Hillary won't invite your mother to tea? Maybe Al Gore will cross the aisle and give a really stern look, all the while surreptitiously spreading a weird pollen like substance causing the outbreak of many nasty cases of Dutch Elm Disease. Roger won't sing at your fundraiser, and Madeliene Albright will rap the knuckles of exceptionally recalcitrant committee chairmen with a ruler emblazoned with the Presidential Seal. Teddy Kennedy could be put in charge of the Indonesian contributor car pool. If all that doesn't work, he can always pull out the big gun and coerce some reluctant cooperation with menacing hints of a sacred vow from Jimmy Carter to personally campaign in the home district of anybody not on enthusiastically board the Presidential bandwagon. Maybe, Bill just read Teddy Roosevelt's motto wrong. Its "walk softly and carry a big stick", Bill. Big stick.

So let me get this straight: Newt Gingrich pays off the $300,000 fine he received from the Congressional Ethics Committee for copping a plea on a series of ethics violations with a loan for which he puts up no collateral and doesn't even have to start payments for eight years. The hell is that? That's not a loan, it's a lottery win. It's like a forger posting bail with a third party out of state check or a counterfeiter paying off his fine with blue cash. Clearing up an ethics violation with a suitcase full of marked bills from a member of the tobacco lobby's law firm should raise more questions than it answers. "How stupid does he think we are" comes to mind as does "Why in tarnation didn't one of us think of that?" And by the way, at which branch of the Bob Dole Shut The Dumb Bastard Up Thrift Services can I apply for my short term loan? The only reasonable explanation is the note Newt signed had some fine print at the bottom. "Signee promises to carry the luggage to and from all campaign fundrasiers of any member of the Dole family who chooses to run for President in the next three years." Can you imagine how much coffee Clinton would have to drink to raise $300,000? Probably take the poor man a week.

Clinton recently said of the process of compromise on the budget battle "which came first, the chicken or the egg." Yeah, right, Bill. And what is the sound of one hand clapping. If a comedian tells a joke and no one hears it, is it funny? Man, I grew up hating philosophical conundrums, and those stupid tutorial aphorisms as well. My parents filled me chock full of those little edifying witticisms. "Remember Billy there's more than one way to skin a cat." Oh terrific Dad, please, could you catalog them all. "Well son, you got your traditional lengthwise, then there's without the ears, alternating directional stripes, and in time, you can learn to do the feline spiral... ending up with one long piece." You had to have heard this one. "You can't have your cake and eat it too." One question. The hell you supposed to do with it? Its cake. Its no good for grouting bathroom tile. As a lemony hair gel, it decidedly lacks. You can't use it as a contraceptive. Even sponge cake. "You can't have your shed and nail it shut": now that makes sense. My mother was unhinged about potential optic damage. "Quit horsing around you two, you're going to put out an eye." We're playing nerf checkers. She's knitting with 11 inch steel needles.

For reasons known only to him and his best bud God, the Reverend Jerry Falwell thinks Ellen Degeneres should be called Ellen Degenerate. Why? Because she advocates the overthrow of Democracy as we know it? No. Because she hurts other people on purpose? No. Because she rubs fish eggs into her armpits before eating mashed potatoes with her fingers while riding a unicycle naked through a children's petting zoo? No. The reason the good Rev thinks Ellen is a degenerate is because her head faces the other way when she has sex. I'm sure she also has the audacity to read books, rather than Book. She probably eats sandwiches that aren't pressed turkey breast on white bread with mayonnaise as well. And for this she should be held up to public ridicule? Personally, I think a clergyman who panders to the petty prejudices of what he considers a narrow minded flock is the real degenerate. To be perfectly honest, most of us married folks tire quickly of people being defined by their sexual preference. Gay sex, straight sex, sex with tiny feathered barnyard animals bound in leather restraints, it's all the same to us; a vague half formed memory of times past. Face it, God is an orgasm, and he/ she/ it doesn't care how which path we take to heaven, Reverend.

WHAT IS IT?

Take it from me. I'll give it to you straight. Lets face it. You can cool it, freeze it, move it, squeeze it, prove it, tease it, hold it, blow it, catch it or eat it. But make it or break it, use it or lose it, love it or leave it, you can't take it with you. So easy does it. Quit making a federal case out of it. Give it a rest. Sleep on it. Keep it under your hat. Play with it for a while, then take it to the limit. Let it all hang out, but take it slow man, because its later than you think, and no matter how you cut it, you can't have it both ways. When you get right down to it, its always in the last place you look. It's neither here nor there, it's everywhere. It's in the air. But don't worry about it. Your biggest problem is you're always thinking about it. Quit picking at it. Remember, the less you know, the better it'll go for you in prison. Its just one of those things. No one means for it to happen and you never see it coming. One minute its fine. Its the bees knees. Its in the proverbial bag. Then before you know it. Its over. Well, there you have it. I hope you can handle it. Give it back when you're done.

WHO ARE THEY?

Who are they? I'm getting pretty tired of them. "You know what they say". Yeah, they say whatever they think we want to hear. They're not like us. No, they're different than you and me. They tell you they got it covered. They know what they're doing. Just leave it to them. Before you know it, they got you right where they want you. Then they look right through you. They think of everything. They got all the right moves and they think they're so smart. Personally, I don't like their looks. Sure, they're cute when they're young, but when they grow up, they're just like animals. They got friends in high places and play from a different set of rules than you and me. Everybody knows they don't have the sense that God gave a bucket of hair. And what happens when they're up shit crick without a paddle? What do they do? They come running to you, right? They can't bear to get their precious little hands dirty. I can't figure out why they don't just leave us alone. After all, they'd be better off without us anyhow. Which they never tire of telling us. You know what? They're right.

Tiger Woods' smashing victory in the Masters Golf Tournament is a great boom to golf, and an even bigger one to Nike, which apparently has their swoosh stenciled on every piece of clothing he owns. I even think I saw a glimpse of one on the elastic waistband of his underwear when he stopped to pick up his ball on the 13th fairway during the third round. Good timing since the Beaverton athletic shoe company needs a public relations victory more urgently than the Society of Pit Bull Breeders after that nasty baby duck fiasco at their recent convention. You know Nike is still holding damage control meetings about focus group surveys to figure out if that whole Heaven' Gate thing was good publicity or bad. "Well, on the one hand, the swoosh was on the cover of everything. On the other hand, it did tend to put a reverse spin on the whole 'just do it' thing. What we need to do is find the new cults. Quietly. Emerging cults. Cutting edge cults. Post grunge cults. Let's see if we can get the Gen-Xers involved. Finally. And figure out a way where they don't die in the end. After all, dead customers are rarely repeat customers." Of course Reebok is reluctant to start off with a cult. They're playing it safe, looking into sponsoring postal workers. Converse typically refuses to rush into anything and has tentatively agreed to outfit a pickpocket team out of Miami, then they'll see how it goes.

April 15th. The Ides of April. The day when fiscal remorse grabs us around the neck like a spring wound organic vise and even the most Birkenstock wearing, NPR listening, Volvo driving liberal from Berkeley starts thinking Rush Limbaugh may have a point. This is the day where we all secretly think the government has to cut down on its budget, and if we're so damn broke, we got to start acting like it. So here's a list of suggestions.

* We got to cut down on expenses. Why do we spend $10 billion a year defending Japan. From what? Godzilla?

* Do we really need all three branches of government? How bout we lose the judiciary. If we want to throw our future to men in gowns, let drag queens make all the important decisions on game shows.

* Take a second job. Our new motto: "Give Wheat For Work", or "We Give Good Wheat."

* Turn off lights. Let Congress work in the dark. How much worse could they do?

* No more big parties. Hold state dinners honoring foreign dignitaries at Denny's. Let them experience the thick end of capitalism.

* Marketing. Okay, go with me on this. "Socks The Cat" extremely limited edition tennis rackets.

* Three words: Albanian Pyramid Scheme.

* Lease the Washington Monument to Disney and let them install free falling roller coaster inside. Rename it "Obelisk of Death".

* How bad could a "Volvo" sign look on Mt. Rushmore, anyway?

* Cut Presidential Perks. Make Bill fly on ValuJet One.

* Impose A "Stupid" Tax, and assign a collector to stand guard on Clinton, Gore, Gingrich & Helms 24-hours-a-day.

The number of gunshot deaths in Japan during the year 1995 was 17. That same year, the number of gunshot deaths in America was around 40,000. All right! We're number one. Way to go! The rest of the world is made up of pale knife weilding comfortable shoed wussies when it comes to weapons. Fold like a used map in a stiff wind at the first sign of a bunny's shadow. In Britain the cops don't even carry guns. They got sticks. Oh, there you go. A stick is the perfect thing to scare the mucklucks off the Russian Mafia. And there's another thing: if it weren't for our decades of blind arms escalation, the Russian Mafia would be digging for their dinner of mummified snow squirrel and rotting glacial moss under the Siberian tundra with the busted handles of Chinese made bamboo wheelbarrows. And even though we got more guns than we know what to do with, we still don't got enough. Our national motto should be "Guns R Us" with smoke rising from the backwards "R". Hell, we'll sell guns to anybody who wants them. And if they don't want them, well, hell, they just need a little edukation, if you get my meaning. A .45 caliber edukation.

Spring 1995

Dear Bill:

Hello. How are you? How's the wife? That's nice. We're glad. She makes an awful tasty batch of cookies. We imagine. I know sometimes, Mr. President, it may seem to you that we're paranoid. Gosh, why could that be? Because Newt Gingrich just won control of Congress while you stood around with your hand so far up your butt you could tickle your spleen with your elbow. Could that have something to do with it, do you think? Perhaps. I'm sure you think we here at the Democratic Party National Committee are overly focused on money. Well, duh! Here's the deal. We got this new guy who's so far out he makes Carville look like the accordion player in Lawrence Welk's Band. He thinks we could win next year if you make a few phone calls. No big deal. Couple of calls before lunch will do it. All we need is around $50 million worth. And a couple mil more from Stump Boy and maybe if the old lady could grease some cookie pans... well, all we're saying is, unless you plan on moving back into your mother's old double wide next year, it's time to get off your big pasty white butt, Bubba.

Your good friends at the...

Democratic Party National Committee.

In the first three months of the 105th Congress 57 separate campaign finance reform bills have been introduced. Guess how many have a chance of actually getting passed? If you responded with any number higher than the amount of Popes now living who are not Polish, you are more misguided than sushi at a ballgame, and should seriously consider a combination diet of strained foods washed down with shots of Jagermeister. The thought of these money sieves voting to restrict their ability to get re-elected is less likely than bananas sprouting from the stubs of no. 2 pencils. As a matter of fact, I came up with an extensive list of things more likely than Congress actually enacting significant campaign finance reform, and here it is.

WILL DURST'S LIST OF MORE LIKELY THINGS THAN CONGRESSIONAL CAMPAIGN FINANCE

REFORM.

* Don King donating all his future management fees to the Make A Wish Foundation.

* Siegfried and Roy marrying twin sisters and settling down in Peoria, Illinois as eccentric veterinarians.

* Pauly Shore introduced as the new correspondent on "60 Minutes".

* Al Gore receiving a charisma implant from Richard Simmons.

* Hawaiian shirts and cutoffs replace suits and ties as Federal Bureau of Investigation uniform du jour.

* Dennis Rodman voted "Dream Date of the Year", by the League of American Fathers.

In the dead center of Golden Gate Park, where nasty creatures run wild, the California Academy of Sciences unveiled plans to create a $1.5 million "Hall of Invertebrates" to celebrate those that we have come to know as denizens of the halls of our nation's Capital, that is to say, "the spineless". I'm thinking this honor is more overdue than glitter confetti on January 3rd, and an auxiliary branch must be erected in Washington as soon as possible. Conveniently, I have come up with a group to serve as charter inductees. Tricky set-up, eh what?

Will Durst's Charter Nominees for the D.C. "Spineless" Museum.

Bill Clinton: for standing for re-election, the National Anthem, and little else.

Jesse Helms: who is trying to do to art what Heaven's Gate did to their male sex drive.

Dick Gephardt: Jacob Marley Midwestern Democrat who will stop at nothing to keep Al Gore, the human dialtone, from winning year 2000 nomination.

Newt Gingrich: who actually said out loud in front of people with microphones, he wanted "to get rid of all the incentives to being poor".

And who can forget those? Sleeping under bridges like trolls. Fighting with dogs for food. Aaah, those were the days.

John F. Kennedy Jr: for getting married.

For all you savvy market watchers who regularly turn to the Durst Report for your sage financial advice, it is now time for me to patiently but with my typical clarity explain what happened with the Federal Reserve's recent increase in the short term interest rate. It's bad. But not as bad as it might have been. Oh, it could have been worse. But not by much. More than a little perhaps. Since its been expected for so long, most of you regular subscribers should have been anticipated it, thus blunting it's potentially catastrophic consequences. That is, unless you foresaw a larger increase than the quarter point advocated by Alan Greenspan in which case you may have overextended and may be hurting bad. Either really bad or not so bad. But not for long, as it's expected a larger increase will be announced soon. Not real soon, of course, unless strong growth and low unemployment conspire to heat up the economy too fast, making it both imperative and then again, not. A constant reassessment of your position is integral to your portfolio's stability but it must be tempered with a steadfastness and confidence that the market will rebound, unless you're selling short. In which case you're screwed.

The mass suicide in the rented mansion of Rancho Sante Fe by the members of the Heaven's Gate Cult is a horrible horrible tragedy, but not without it's amusing aspects. For instance it has been reported the first fifteen killed themselves, then those still alive cleaned up. Then the next fifteen committed suicide, then they were cleaned up, and another seven went and the last two cleaned up after them, then killed themselves. Either these are the neatest flippo units in the history of the planet, or a very frugal flock obsessed with not losing their cleaning deposit. Pretty much what you would expect from a computer nerd cult. Wonder if they took their magic pocket protectors with them. The self described monks seemed to think that the Comet Hale Bopp hid a space ship trailing in it's tail, and all they were doing was alien hitchiking a ride on the Starship Enterprise. The weirdest thing was all those identical Nike shoes on the shrouded corpses. Can see the commercial. A slow pan of the bodies, with Spike Lee doing the voice over: "Even when the Heaven's Gate cult was at their most paranoid. They trusted Nike. So Can You. Just Do It."

The country is still in severe shock over the mass suicide of the Heaven's Gate Cult, or as I like to call them, the Applesauce Gang. Coverage by the networks can be classified into two distinct groups. Those who went shallow and insensitive and the others who focused on the insensitive and shallow. One expert did say intelligent people are more succeptible to cults, which is good news in the old Durst houselhold. Come to think about it, not too many poor people join cults either, except Baptists. The cult was found prepared for their trip equipped with rolls of quarters and ID. Now, let me get this straight, the Kevorkian Highway to the Mother Ship has a toll? And it's correct change only? Is there a two drink minumum as well? That must be why they all had their driver's licenses on board. Aliens check identification. "What's your birthday? And in the Verdago System Zodiac, that would make you a... well? Sorry, you are a gorshin, one of the three impressinoes. Come back when you've memorized your altered ID, you poser." You know what I think? The leader wanted to see how far he could manipulate the group by assigning ridiculous stuff to take with them. "Everybody got your ID? How bout your quarters? Okay, now who doesn't have shredded banana skins in their underwear? That's it, I've had it with you people. Drop your shells and give me 20." This is what happens to Trekkies with too few distractions.

* China is experiencing a heavy round of inflation and the Beijing government is plenty worried the Chinese Yuan won't buy as many US politicians as it used to.

* Fresno State's basketball team has been accused of shaving points which is nonsense since that would require college athletes having a familiarity with math.

* Apple Computers announced a cutback of 4,000 employees. Wonder if their pink slips read: "Select File and Quit"?

* Florida released 300 felons to relieve prison overcrowding. Normally the release of hundreds of criminals onto the streets is known as a Congressional Recess.

* White House doctors estimate it will be awhile before Clinton's knee is healthy enough for him to sidestep issues with the same agility he's used to.

* Since his operation, Clinton has been seen hobbling around Washington with the aid of a stiff wooden prosthetic. Al Gore.

* The most frightening part of the whole Fundgate scandal is imagining Al Gore, the human dialtone, on the telephone.

* The Vatican has a webpage. I imagine that if you click on the "hell icon" you're linked to American OnLine. Probably could entice a few more hits with a www.hotnuns.com site.

* In honor of the opening of the baseball season, Jerry Falwell wants to throw out the First Amendment.

I love Las Vegas. It is America. Lots of bright sparklely lights, the veiled threat of air brushed sex lurking around every corner and of course wads and wads of cold hard cash publicly distributed to the unworthy, which by the apparent definition means everybody but us. The first thing I do when I come here is buy a ten dollar roll of quarters and throw them right out in the middle of the Strip. Hell with it. Then I go back about three hours later and pick up what the scavengers missed. "All right, $2.75! Now I'm playing on their money. Now point me to the three dollar buffet." I don't know why I even come here. It would a lot less bother to just send them a check. Its totally unlike Los Angeles, where your work is universally beloved by people who don't know who you are. "Darling, have your service service my service, we'll make eye contact. Someday." Then you turn around and there's twelve stilletos forming a pentagon inside a circle sticking out of your back. At least here, they're brutally honest. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, nice hair. How much money you got?" One time I asked a doorman how much a cab to the airport was. He said he didn't know, then stuck his hand out for a tip. Ain't that America.

Last night was an odd little evening spent under the tail of a comet. More impressive in theory than in actuality. A rare astronomical triple treat featuring the Planet Mars shining pink above the eclipsing moon while 160 degrees on the other side of the sky, the Hale Bopp Comet strode towards the sun like Little Richard with a flaming cape. And I remain unimpressed. It's a dusty little smudge like thing. Looks like a streetlamp seen out of my smoke fogged windshield from a mile away. Or Joan Collins through a vaseline lens at a drive in on the dark side of Alpha Centauri. I don't know about you, but I wanted staggeringly stupendous cataclysms. Fire in the sky. Bright noon at midnight. Simple minded God fearing Republicans cowering on the ground with their heads shoved into mounds of manure out of fear. Little eye numbingly white fat toad kids being sacrificed to various angry gods. I wanted to hear screams intermingled with the frenzied bleating of frightened yet strangely satisfied farm animals who are turned to for a last moment of intimate passion. What do we get? A fuzzy loose collection of fast moving ice in a sky full of giant burning balls of gas. Whoopee. All it did for me was make the X Files a bit spookier.

Somebody help me out with this. Did Kenneth Branagh really get nominated for an Academy Award for his adaption of Shakespeare's "Hamlet"? He used every word of the original text. Hell, I had as much to do with the adaption as Sir Kenny. Where was my nomination? Probably got lost in the mail with my special Academy sponsored plastic surgery discount brochure. And what was Billy Bob Thornton doing on stage at the end when producer Saul Zaentz picked up his Best Picture award? My theory is his boots got caught in one of the holes caused by the massive dropping of egos on the fragile Shrine Auditorium stage. Either that or he needed a grey beard hair in the Swifty Lazar Memorial Oscar Night Scavenger Hunt. And I'm as liberal as the next guy, as long as the next guy isn't Charlton Heston, but has Celine Dion ever heard of the word, slip? Or am I once more demonstrating a typical American insensitivity to the cultural heritage of our neighbors to the North in their indigenous desire to look like French hookers? I loved Frances McDormand talking about brave producers choosing actresses who fit the roles rather than picking bankable names, when she got the part with her brother in law directing and her husband writing. Oh, yeah, I know, she just really nailed the audition.

For the eighth time in 15 years, Congress defeated a constitutional amendment to require the Federal budget to be balanced. And now the world will end. That's it. Head for the hills people. It's over. No balanced budget amendment. Now we're really in for it. The end of the good old days as we know them. You know what this means of course; the budget is going to spiral out of control like a three eighths inch socket wrench flung from a space shuttle without the requisite number of heat shield tiles re-entering the atmosphere. Or worse. This time the bad guy is Senator Robert Toreccelli of New Jersey who had the unmitigated audacity to change his mind. And for what? Typically, this weasel belly came up with some lame excuse about protecting the integrity of the constitution when we all know his real reason was to line the pockets of the rubber hip waders he characteristically wears when on a public bilking junket with oaths and pledges of riches and jewels from the thousands of lobbyists who are not in favor of balanced budgets. Or those like them. Oh he's a dark and sneaky one he. Of course the man is from New Jersey, what can you expect.

Defending himself against accusations he may have illegally raised election funds on federal property, Bill Clinton said the opposition was trumping up charges for the sake of "politics". Really Bill?!? "Politics"? Are you sure? It's not for the betterment of the environment? You don't think it's all a plot by the NBA to distract us from the start of spring training? Even if it were, that would be "politics". Of course it for the sake of "politics". Everything done since 1960 including the Astroturf in the back of your pickup has been for the sake of "politics". I doubt if you could decide which way the toilet paper should unwind without taking a poll first. Aren't you the guy who wrote a letter to your draft board whining you didn't want to jeopardize your political aspirations? If ambition were cheese, you would be Wisconsin. Some people think your hair is a dyed trimmed cheesehead anyhow. Alright; me. It's all "politics", and when you claim they're out to get you for the sake of "politics", that's "politics". To err is human, to blame it on the other party, that's "politics". And to be perfectly honest, one of the reasons this affair is having no impact on the public is we have all gotten disgusted with "politics". We're not stupid, just tired. Thank your lucky political stars.

The Supreme Court has reinforced its opinion States cannot limit the length of time members of Congress can serve. Unfortunately for us, they were talking about terms of elective office and not time spent in prison. Now, of course, there is going to be wailing loud enough to wake Pete Townsend and crocodile tears in such an abundance to drown Shawn Bradley. Yeah. Right. These guys want term limits the same way banana slugs want to move to the Bonneville Salt Flats. Like small town businesses welcome the arrival of a Wal Mart. Like rickshaw drivers anticipate transporting the competitors at the World Championship Sumo Tournament. Trust me, no matter how much they scream about term limits they would much rather be photographed naked under a mule at a "Junkie Hookers for Satan" fundraiser. Its we voters who like the idea of term limits; mainly because we think anybody who gets too good at this stuff is going to wind up milking us dryer than an Arizona attic in August, the same way we would, if we had half the chance. So what we're really afraid of, is us, or them representing us, by acting too much like us. And the scary part is we're right; we are crooks, and we better get us thugs the hell out of there, and quick, before we steal us blind.

In his press conference on recent revelations that his administration used the White House as a money bag drop, Clinton made it absolutely clear: "We didn't do anything wrong and we promise not to do it again, and we can't recall if and or when and or where it may have happened. Which it didn't." Well that clears things up like a lousy decade old 8mm print of a vampire flick at a foggy drive in theatre in the Andes with votive candles throwing the projection. Earlier, "Soliciter-In-Chief" Al Gore repeated seven times that he was advised there was no "controlling legal authority" determining his fund raising by phone campaign was wrong. Couldn't find anybody who claims to know what "controlling legal authority" actually means, but everybody agrees it is very impressive and possibly the most memorable thing this guy's ever said. I don't know who the Vice President's advisor is, but I bet he's going to end up grocery shopping with Salman Rushdie before the cherry blossoms bloom. Clinton won't say he never played Gore's "Dialing for Dollars" game which either means he did and he's not saying or he didn't and he's not saying. Got to be careful constructing the stone wall Bill; sometimes you end up cementing your feet to the wall.

The Nielsen ratings are under fire because they reported a precipitous drop in viewers during the recent sweeps period. According to their latest figures, the average number of American households watching primetime television on all channels fell by well over one million in February. And the networks are taking it as well as can be expected. Stamping their little feet and throwing tantrums in a wonderfully precise impersonations of Nancy Kerrigan. "Why us? Why us?" The amount of money at issue here would throw Steve Forbes into metabolic shock. Of course it would have nothing to do with the fact they're shoving stuff down our throats dogs in jail wouldn't watch. Gosh, guys, why do you think nobody's watching "When Enraged Animals Attack Homeboys in Outer Space, Asteroids Demolish America's Most Wanted Cops"? Because the accounting system is screwed? Oh, there you go, when America decides it would rather sit home in the dark eating corn on the cob while picking the weird funky white stuff from between their toes than watch Paulie Shore's sitcom, you blame the messenger? That's right, so next time you get slandered in the Sunday New York Times, sue the paper boy.

Responding to new estimates that Disney's golden parachute for Mike Ovitz will peak out at $140 million including stock options, employees of the Mouse are organizing demonstrations protesting the buyout. These are not what you call the Happiest Employees on Earth here. Understandably. To minumum wage part timers, excuse me, cast members, without benefits, $140 million is a lot of money. We're talking 50 for every man woman and child in America. I don't know about you, but I could use mine to buy a paper and see how Disney's stock is doing. To put it into sharper perspective I came up with a list of other things you could get with that kind of money.

* One seventh of a B-2 Bomber.

* The loose change jar on Bill Gates dresser.

* 28 million man hours at the Indonesian Nike factory.

* 8 more murder liabilities for OJ Simpson.

* 1,560,000 months of the Disney Channel. But not HBO.

* Dinner for two at the airport of your choice.

* 700 million packages of ramen noodles.

* 3 tons of medicinal marijuana. Enough to write and animate 200 straight to video sequels of "Alladin".

* Mickey Mouse watches for the entire population of Haiti.

* 2800 nights, or 7 years, 8 months and 4 days in the Lincoln Bedroom.

Before we were so rudelyinterrupted we were talking about the things you could purchase with Mike Ovitz's $14 million buyout from Disney. Let's get back to it, shall we?

* 15,555,000 pitchers of "Goofy" microbrew.

* Barry Bonds' salary for 20 years.

* The design, construction and installation of your own personal Martha Stewart "V" chip.

* 45 million Grand Slam Breakfasts, not including tax & tip.....

* Robert Redford could date Demi Moore every night for nearly five months straight.

* The Republican Congress continued funding of public television at current levels until our sun collapses.

* A movie ticket for everyone in Idaho who wants to see "Rosewood" and still have a hundred and forty million left over!

* One cloned sheep for every citizen of Arkansas to do with what they will, no questions asked.

* 7 fights with the boxer of Don King's choice.

* George Lucas's special effects budget for his trilogy based on "Waiting for Godot."

* 250 million giant sodas from the gas station mini-mart.

* 3 of the same size cola drinks when purchased in a movie theater.

* A toaster. But I mean a really nice one, where you don't have to pry the bagels out with a bent fork.

* And finally to give you some idea of what it would take for the average American to earn 140 millions dollars; you'd have to walk into McDonald's and pour hot coffee in your crotch, everyday for three weeks!

Now, I could be wrong. It's not like it would be the first time. Second or third at least. Couple hundred of tiny exponential factors superscripted in the upper right perhaps. But it seems to me that a large part of the American Dream is being sold out from under us faster than quarter barrels of Leinenkugel disappear from tailgate parties at Packer games. And it seems to be the work of large corporations who in the name of "a global economy" have put quarterly dividends before our long term future, since most of them are run by old white men who are going to die before it makes that much difference. Adding insult to injury, not only are they selling our jobs down the river, the sons of bitches are also making us build the damn boats they're taking off in. It seems business is played by different rules. For instance, if basketball were played by business rules, you would get all the points of anyone you knocked out of a game, making Dennis Rodman the NBA's MVP. And if corporations were families, I think they'd lobotomize their children to cut down on the maintenance. "Poor kid, hardly goes out anymore. On the other hand, our insurance rates have gone down drastically."

Okay, so I'm not Bill Clinton's lawyer, which is probably a good thing, but if I were, the lawsuits would be flying so fast, Greg Norman would be giving midnight lessons at retirement communities just to cover the filing fees. I'd hit him with such a flurry of paperwork, the meteorologists in Florida would be issuing a snow alert. The President twisted his knee and tore a ligament while staying at the Shark's house in the wee hours of Friday morning and early reports are he is handling his duties pretty well considering he's all hopped up on goofballs. Al Gore was standing by in case the Prez nodded out, but left halfway through the operation probably to make a few phone calls offering the used stitching thread to eager Chinese contributors. Clinton will be a day late for the Russian Summit in Helsinki, Finland, giving Boris Yeltsin more time to continue his highly unusual post op self medication program which involves large amounts of vodka, a funnel and the mother daughter trapeze act from a local Scandinavian bear circus. No permanent damage is expected from this accident, except Clinton won't be able to jog for six months or so, resulting in a lighter Secret Service schedule and a severe drop in the Pennsylvania Ave. McDonald's monthly sales.

I am not a young man anymore. When my dad was my age, I had nightmares I was going to have spend large portions of my days following him around and apologizing to clerks and passersby for the odd noises and smells emanating from him. "No ma'am this is not a skunk preserve. That's my dad's chair. Yes ma'am, perhaps we'd better move upwind." Not to mention hair. Alright, I mentioned it. There's this stuff coming out of my ears that is to hair what the Arctic is to ice. You could cut cheese with these things. Sometimes while walking down the street, a particularly long one will bolt for freedom and wrap itself around a pole nearly snapping my little head off right at the neck. Right now, the bulk of my time is spent collecting samples with plans to submit the wiry growths to agencies known only to me and Fox Mulder for further testing. A large Dutch telecommunications concern has expressed interest in researching them as replacements for undersea fiber optic purposes. The nose hairs present problems all their owm but I have found when properly trained can actually create the illusion of a halfway decent mustache. It's not that I feel old, it's just this is the oldest I've ever been.

In honor of the Scottish cloning story, I figured I'd file the same piece I did yesterday, but I realized the only people who might find it funny would be me. I'm not sure I buy this sheep story anyway. Either a farmboy's wet dream or his worst nightmare. Besides, who pays that much attention to individual sheep? My guess is the researcher was up against a funding wall and it came to him that no one can tell one sheep from another except exceptionally affectionate shepherds anyhow. But say it is true; what puts the willies down the back of my neck like a pail of frozen worms is not the cloning per se, which you and I will have the same access to as we now have of chugging Tang in zero gravity. No, because I know what's going to happen. We won't be allowed to even mention whether people are clones or not. Or call them clones. No, The People Plus Anti Defamation League will demand that laws be written forbidding discrimination against their members, and furthermore, they are to receive priority status when bidding on federal projects is let. And oh yeah, let's not forget the whole automatic beneficiary concept. Not to mention reciprocal conjugality. Hmm. Come to think of it, this could be interesting.

Bill Clinton says "the Lincoln Bedroom was never sold". Why of course it wasn't. Would Holiday Inn sell off their highest grossing room? I think not. How could he have sold it, he doesn't even own it. He's a tenant for crum's sake. The man sublet it. On a daily basis. To anybody who could pony up fifty grand or so. What's the big deal? Are you telling me, if, in the house your were living, there was a room that people wanted to stay in so much they gave you piles of cash bigger than Roseanne Barr, you'd turn them down? Yeah, right, and Stevie Wonder knows what people are doing to his hair. Some soundproofing might come under consideration. Maybe build a separate entrance, sure. Hell, if it were me living in Maison Blanc, I'd advertise in the classifieds under Bed and Breakfasts'; "large room for rent in quaint historic DC building. Hardwood floors. View. 24 hr security. Pool. Bowling alley. Full bath. 2 blocks from Metro. No parking. Helicopter pad. In room coffee. HBO. Laundry privileges. Garden. Gas kitchen. $75K per night/ obo. Utilities included. No pets. 202 456 1414. Ask for Bill. We'll leave a light on for you." Then I'd see if I could hurry up Chelsea's imminent move to Harvard, and call some architects in. But only if they had stayed in the Lincoln Bedroom of course.

* The President of Ecuador was impeached for mental incompetency. Funny how things differ around the world. Over there it's a punishable offense, while over here it's a prerequisite.

* A teenager found an error on the math portion of the SAT exam, so all the test scores have to be evaluated for a possible 1 point raise. For some high school athletes that means their scores will double.

* Congress voted down term limits again, but it will end up saving a lot of paperwork, keeping lobbyists from having to constantly update their payrolls.

* A majority of doctors are in favor of medicinal marijuana. I imagine it's not the therapeutic results they like as much as when patients receive the bill and giggle.

* Clinton says he's serious about trying to improve math scores, asking questions like: "what do you get when you add $20,000 TO $30,000?" The answer is "a night in the Lincoln Bedroom."

* The Russian Communist Party has launched a website, but it's not attracting much attention. People must be leery about hitting "return".

* Westinghouse has announced not only will the CBS eye remain the network's logo, unlike the audience, it will remain open.

* Now veterinarians are recommending sun block for dog's noses. I guess the easiest way to apply it would be to rub their butts in it.

"Everyone does it, and we all want it to be changed, but until it is, we'll play by the rules set up. After all we didn't break any laws. Just bent them till they looked like a pretzel pulled through a wringer with a vise grip." Sounds just like the Republicans only a couple of weeks ago talking about Newt Gingrich. But now they're the ones crying skunk just because Clinton may or may not have tried to sell the sheets right out of the Lincoln Bedroom. Isn't there at least a couple of month grace period before parties can sling the same mud they just scraped off their own backsides? Thank God nobody discovered the missing catalogue the Democratic National Committee sent out to fundraisers.

DEMOCRATIC NATIONAL COMMITTEE FUN WITH BILL AND HILL CATALOGUE

Ride On Air Force One $25,000

Ride On Air Force One (Vegetarian Meal) $25,010

Night In Lincoln Bedroom $50,000

Night In Rose Garden $3,500

Night In Rose Garden (Tent) $4,000

Night In Rose Garden (Tent and Tipper) $4,010

Jogging With Bill (Bill Wins) $5,000

Jogging With Bill (You Win) $10,000

Coffee With Bill $7,500

Milk With Socks $2,000

Feeding Socks $1,000

Feeding Roger $100

Birthday Party In East Room $4,500

Birthday Party In East Room (Stephanopolous In Smurf Costume) $5,000

Tai Chi With Al Gore $3,000

Date With Chelsea $10,000

Date With Harold Ickes $150

Slow Dance With Harold Ickes $250

Now this whole muckraking thing has totally gone too far. They're saying Al Gore may have had his hand up the tainted soliciting fund skirt all the way to the elbow. The Washington Post, which is to muckraking what Michael Jackson is to freakish pop singers fond of skin bleaching, said Gore raised $40 million for the DNC during the 1996 campaign, which is so illegal, chuckles were heard leaking out of Nixon's grave. Say it isn't so Al. Can't be. Not our Al. If this is true, then all of America is doomed to a future bleaker than a Christmas Eve Redeye middle seat in coach between two caffeine addled Saskatchewan manure farmers on the way to Vegas. Al Gore is supposed to be cleaner than a houndstooth after dental surgery. That's his job. He's as pure as Nepalese air. This guy is so straight the guys running the Atomic Clock call him for corrections. Next you'll be telling me Pollyanna hooked on the side. That Mother Teresa's recent hospitalization was not really due to heart failure but rather injuries suffered in a knife fight with a disgruntled orphan outraged at being gouged for watered down opium. As goes Al Gore, so goes the moral spine of America. Of course, when I put it that way, suddenly it all makes sense.

Minutes after the reading of his mother's will, Roberts was dead. So was his wife, his mistress, the butler and the guy who followed him around with the solar powered satellite dish in the little red wagon. And his dog didn't look too good either. They all had weird spatula scars on their foreheads which made me suspect the cook. Good thought. Bad timing. She had me arched over the fourth floor balcony railing with the razor sharp spatula dripping bloody at my neck. "But what about the scars?" She slapped me fast on the forehead. "Oh. Oww." "Yes. Always stupid questions." "Just tell me one thing. Why?" She slapped me again. "Everybody asks same stupid question. Finally I will answer. Because she left me out of will. I was her daughter. And her sister. And..." "But she didn't leave you out. You got ten million. Didn't you hear that part?" "Oh. Well, I did duck out for a cigarette..."

As the cab entered a tunnel we played footsy the rest of the way to her penthouse in the Missile Building. I had let her pick me up in the Hot Dog Gallery at the donut exhibit. While she made Hi-balls, her hall closet shelf revealed twenty Thirteenth Century Provence Vases with little red silos along the rim. Exact replicas of the one she had ripped off from the museum. Collectors were loathe to complain the stolen antiquity they spent 200 grand for was bogus, and she had squirreled away millions. I walked over and kissed her hard. My hand wandered south, where I found something unexpected. It seemed nothing about her was as it seemed. Tonight was going to be... interesting.

Happy National Asteroid Awareness week everybody! You've probably seen the fabulous NBC miniseries, of which internal promotions cried: "Critics call it 'Unbelievable!'" You can't make stuff up like this. God, the special effects were so cheesy, I'm surprised they didn't fed ex a box of crackers to every home in America to watch it with. Then the recent announcement by scientists citing evidence that a gargantuan asteroid (bigger than Rush Limbaugh's caftan) slammed into the Gulf of Mexico 65 million years ago, and ended life as the Dinosaurs knew it. So to keep that from happening again, the widespread panic and all, we here at Team Durst, as a public service, hereby present to you the wary public, important major asteroid warning signs which various eminent scientists have proclaimed as useless.

* Fiery hail the size of small dogs crushes roof on cloudless day.

* Fast approaching shadow which gets bigger really quick, and your brother in law is still at work.

* Looting by priests.

* Radium dial watch blows up on wrist.

* Alexander Haig comes on television to announce "I'm in control."

* Meter maids do not stop to write parking tickets. Whole fleet of Cushmans tearing ass out of town. * Psychic Friends Network originates from abandoned missile silo.

Deng Xiaoping, China's paramount leader died Wednesday. This announcement came after several years of rumors that his health had deteriorated to the point where grubs and small pin worms were shining his bones to a smooth glossy finish under ground. He had last been seen in public three years ago, but government sources insisted this was simply because he was shy. The announcement gave his age as 93, although his birthday is known to be August 22, 1904, which to Western eyes would leave him six months and two days short of 93, but in China, paramount leaders can have their ages rounded up, but only if they want to. Deng will be remembered for dragging China kicking and screaming into the 19th Century and for dragging and kicking anyone who disagreed with him until they stopped screaming. His death is expected to sharpen the political maneuvering for power that has intensified behind the scenes among China's other feisty octogenarian leaders, perhaps culminating in the age old traditional winner takes all arm wrestling round robin. Analysts predict little unrest will greet the change in leadership unless civil war breaks out. In keeping with the new spirit of a unfettered press that Mr. Deng ushered in, requests for information regarding his funeral arrangements were met with a quizzical "Who?"

In front of a state Senate committee, the top regulator of California's banking industry testified that charging consumers ATM fees was neceessary to keep banks profitable. Some banks charge $1.50 for transactions by non customers and $2.00 for their own customers using other banks' ATM's. Also, there are 50 cent fees for talking nasty behind an ATM's back. Conrad Hewitt, a Pete Wilson appointee, which is like saying, the lint that keeps the coins in the Banking Industry pocket from jangling together too loudly, told the Senate, "ATM charges are convenience fees". Aww, isn't that sweet. They're really just thinking about us. It's only for our convenience they're ripping us giant holes the size of the Death Star in our wallets. Well thank you thank you thank you, Mr. Bank, but I think you forgot one eensie weensie little thing. IT'S MY MONEY. I'm letting you guys hang on to it and then you invest and lend it out and make your money that way. Remember? In March 1996, Consumer Reports found over 100 different charges and fees imposed by banks. I certainly hope they start to lose interest in my convenience pretty soon or I'm going to end up broke. Somebody contact the feds. I think they have those closed circuit cameras pointed in the wrong direction.

So the deal is, former Heavyweight Champion of the world Riddick Bowe couldn't cut it in the Marines. Lasted eleven days in boot camp before he was "allowed to withdraw" from Parris Island, South Carolina, because "he had problems with the corps' regimented lifestyle." Yeah, right, we all know that's bull. He was just sick and tired of drill instructors asking him for his autograph, and younger smaller recruits begging him to eat their dessert. Maybe the guy should have started easy and tried the Citadel first. Shannon Faulkner lasted longer than he did, and as far as we know, Riddick didn't have his shirt set on fire with nail polish remover. The toughest part is going to be when he tries to get back in the ring. You know that other boxers are going to mock and scoff and taunt. At least the ones who can remember to punch and talk at the same time, which is not a whole mess of them. I can see Mike Tyson in his high pitched squeak telling him to "get down and give me infinity". Andrew Golata trying to do the same, although I'm not sure Riddick Bowe will be able to understand anything over the screams of pain from his groin being pummeled. I guess his Marine motto will be "Semper Bye".

Ian Wilmut, a British researcher working at the Roslin Institute in Midlothian, Scotland, cloned a sheep the other day, and people are flipping out like their morning coffee was spiked with major doses of primo Owsley acid. The purple kind. If you can clone a sheep, then all sorts of ethical questions lie in wait right around various similar looking corners, not the least of which is; will society be better off with hundreds of Heather Lockyears littering Hollywood Boulevard? And what happens when the industry is flooded with cheap fly by night Cloning Clinics producing substandard clones, like Xeroxes without any toner? Imagine the streets full of Heather Lockyear clones who weren't smart enough to dye their hair and get their teeth fixed. Frightening, isn't it? A Presidential advisory board on bioethics is going to push cloning to the top of its agenda, which means President Clinton has finally found a way to beat that tricky 22nd Amendment and figured out a way to succeed himself. The good news is you can't clone from dead cells, so Hitler is off the board along with Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan. Unfortunately, that still leaves Bill Gates eligible as a donor. Can't wait for Windows 2000. Probably comes with cloning capability. And is still won't work as well as a Mac.

Saw "Blazing Saddles" on the tube the other day, and besides it being much funnier than I remember, I noticed an interesting phenomenona. The local station I watched it on bleeped all the noise out of the fart scene but kept in the "nigger" and "faggot" references. This made me so mad I started spitting and sputtering like my saliva glands were hooked up to individual pneumatic air hoses. Okay, so here's the new deal. Anything the body does naturally and yes, I'm talking about how babies are made and the excess fluids, solids and gasses, which escape so we don't bloat up and explode like beached whale carcasses is no longer obscene. But a person using a word to belittle another in someone else's eyes: is. Using words like "honor" to defend warfare when its really all about money is obscene. Farts aren't. Got that? You know what's obscene: Mike Ovitz getting $140 million as a golden parachute while not two miles from Disney Studios senior citizens are clipping coupons for Tender Vittles. A Governor trying to keep kids from getting medical assistance because they're the wrong color. The same man who took the money from the First Time Home Buyers Fund and used it to give tax breaks to oil companies. That's obscene. Not noises. Unless its "Ka- Ching!" Let's try it out.

It's so silly for people to continually apologize for the weather when you come up here. No need. For us Californians, this thirty below with the wind chill stuff is like visiting a Winter Theme Park. It's TundraLand. Where the snow and the ice and the slush are fabulous scenic designs and hey it's only a week. Besides, the rides are a blast.

* The Walk Outside And Feel Your Nose Hairs Stiffen Into Icicles Main Street.

* The Black Ice Sideways Off The Road Into A Snowbound Ditch Derby.

* The Use The Ice Scraper On The Inside Of Your Windshield Surprise.

* The Heat Your Key With A Cigarette Lighter So You Can Open Your Car Lock Before Your Hands Crack Off With Frostbite Race.

* The Looks Like Ice But Its Really A Foot Deep Pothole Of Freezing Water Foot Bath.

* The Multiple 360 Degree Parking Lot Donut Spin.

* The Wading Through Foot Deep Snow Until The Dye From Your Jeans Stains Your Legs Blue Jog.

* The AAA Battery Charging Wait On The Side Of Freeway 3 AM Dance.

* The Frozen Sidewalk Coccyx Busting Slip and Slide. * The Blizzard White Out 10 MPH One Lane Freeway Blind Run.

Now the People's Republic of China has links to suspicious campaign contributions to the Democratic National Committee. Oh, there you go. Clinton needs to hear this the same way a three legged fox needs to hear the horn sounding the start of the hunt. Might want to get an early start on those memoirs, Bill. The Chinese for crum's sake. Next thing you know, they're going to uncover a contribution to the President's Re Election Committee in the form of a personal check from Saddam Hussein, with "furry hugs and sloppy kisses" on the memo line and a little heart dotting the "i". You know who I blame? Bob Dole. All this late money showed up mostly because the election was like slam dunking from a stepladder. If Dole had managed to keep the race a little closer, everybody would have hedged their bets. Your average lobbyist may be dumber than a dump truck load of squirrel hair but if he hasn't learned to throw money at a winner he not only has to clean the employee rest room he also gets the ceremonial tassels ripped right off his loafers. In the wake of this, I wonder who Clinton is going to give toilet detail to. Probably Janet Reno.

According to a press release, Independent counsel Kenneth Starr has accepted the position of Dean of Law at Pepperdine University in Malibu. I like the way they use the term "accepted". He probably pounced on it like a starving mountain lion on a discarded chicken wing in a bankrupt Safari Park. After spending three years in Arkansas, I imagine I'd be ready for some surf time myself. Hell, after three years in Arkansas Ted Kascynski's Montana shack would double as a South Sea island beach cabana. His imminent move has jump started rumors that either he's about to announce a big round of indictments, or he's not. The Arkansas Democrat- Gazette reported he's held 4 mock trials; 2 in Little Rock and 2 in Washington, in which Bill & Hillary were charged with two counts of perjury and obstruction of justice. And the mock jurors acquitted them each time. Starr and his staff are reportedly reworking their cases based on both these trials and some of the early Dilbert cartoons. But the conventional wisdom is Starr is a determined man who will never be satisfied until he's racked up enough overtime to purchase property near his new University post. Shouldn't be much longer.

The favorite went down after the first pole a little suddenly for my taste. The Racing Boards' as well, judging from the inquiry. The jockey himself wasn't worried about suspension due a slight case of broken neck. Late that night, I found the briefcase of the winning horse's trainer behind the silks rack in the locker room. It held 200 Grand and 5 gelatin horse capsules with tiny black widow spiders secreted inside. I still had one in my hand when the cold barrel of a gun straightened me from behind. "The briefcase, please." The gelatin started melting in my hand. I tossed the bag to his right and when he turned to grab it, I dropped the capsule on the acrylic orange shag rug he passed off as hair. His scream echoed through the catacombs about a minute later. First I picked up the $600 I had lost on the race. Then I called 911. Or was it 411?

Racing the sowmobile down the maintenance vehicle road was like being shot out of a giant blender on a lump of Frozen Daquiri. Only loud. And usually other lumps of daquiri don't shoot at you. I couldn't tell if the seven foot albino was missing me with his cannon on purpose or if he thought he'd splinter a tree into my path and then sing me to my rest with his boots. I kept snapping back low hanging branches but he dodged and bounced like a helium balloon in a drafty ceiling fan shop. Running out of gas, I tore up a deep powder rescue path leading to the slalom course, angling just past a fence post ducking under the barbed wire at the last moment. Whitey tried the same manuever, but couldn't quite scrunch down far enough in the cramped machine. I stopped and watched a surprised racer stab something red and round with his pole and miss the next three gates.

Okay, so I'll admit I wasn't watching real close last night, and the coverage did seem confusing, however, I'm pretty sure I got a handle on the night's proceedings. Following a brisk walk from the Shutters Hotel in Santa Monica, Fred Goldman presented his State of the Union address, while Bill Clinton, after being found not "guilty" but rather liable, for Pamela Harriman's stoke, went out for ice cream with Oklahoma Representative J.C. Watts, at the very same time OJ Simpson was giving the Republican response during an earthquake in Peru. It was an interesting sweeps month exercise watching the networks do the ratings shuffle, switching between the green vegetables and the candy. The spinach being a surprisingly focused message from the President on education, and the bag of melted gummy bears, of course, another in a series of false endings of an LA civil trial whose bizarre twists and turns would have the writers of "Xena: Warrior Princess" chuckling and shaking their heads in flabbergasted bemusement. News directors will spout the official line "We're only giving the people what they want" and maybe they're right. But aren't we supposed to finish our vegetables before we get desert? Both of them would probably taste better seperately than the spinach gummy bear stew we just got ill served.

"I love you but I'm going to have to kill you." Abraham proved his love for God by agreeing to kill his own kid. In Vietnam, in order to liberate a village first we had to destroy it. We call the MX missile, "The Peacekeeper." A multiple warhead hydrogen bomb called the peacekeeper? The hell do we call a sledgehammer, a finger massage? Is napalm now dry skin remover? Lets be consistent. "Don't think of it as mustard gas; its a really strong antihistamine, that's all." And now Clinton's selling advanced weapons to Latin American countries to "help maintain the fragile peace." What are we here: Globocop? The friendly neighborhood 5 time zones wide arms store. We sell weapons to anybody with a halfway viable ATM card. Even if we could, lost civilizations wearing open loincloths. Now there's a General's dream; a fighting force than can squat, squeeze and shoot all at the same time. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "cut and run". And let's not forget our other major export, those wacky military advisors. The hell does a military advisor do? "No, no, don't farm, shoot!" Did you ever notice whenever the military goes in to restore order, a lot of civilians end up dying. I think I figured out why. Its because the dead are so good at following orders. Especially the simple ones like, "Lie down and quit thinking." Or maybe we just express our love in non traditional ways. Bringing people closer to their God. Quicker too.

* Now, Michael Jackson wants to move to Scotland. I'm not sure this guy should be allowed to move to a country where little boys wear skirts.

* Sarah Fergusen has signed a contract to be spokesperson for Weight Watchers, based apparently on her experience of shedding the dead weight of English Royalty.

* America On Line is being sued by a group of subscribers since it instituted its new $19.95 a month for unlimited busy signals.

* Anheuser Busch dropped the Budweiser frogs after complaints that the ad campaign appealed to children. I suppose they're going to be replaced by a rag tag mob of tiny purple dinsoaurs.

* They moved the State of the Union address from February 5th, to February 4th so it wouldn't interfere with the Miss Universe Pageant. I guess they're afraid America wouldn't be satisfied watching just one boob.

* Noted scientists claim the universe will disintegrate in 30 billion years. Which obviously won't affect most of us. Except those still hanging on for AOL technical support.

* A book of Hillary Clinton quotes is due soon. Don't know what the title will be: "It Takes A Subpoena." or "The Shredder is Mightier Than The Sword" are my suggestions.

During the NBA's All Star Weekend, the East beat the West 132 to 120, Steve Kerr beat defending champ Tim Legler in the Long Range Shootout, Kobe Bryant cruised through the Slam Dunk Contest, and Dennis Rodman easily handled all comers in the Evening Gown Competition. No, no, no. Dennis didn't even show up in Cleveland, spending his time training in Las Vegas during his 11 game suspension for kicking a cameraman in the groin, in what has to be the first suspension in NBA history for a measly loose ball foul. The Bad Boy of Basketball is expected to appeal his fine, citing discrimination since he's the only professional athlete to dress as a woman. He also agreed to pay the cameraman $200,000 in an out of court settlement, which considering his salary is like a tip at a Denny's to us. Too bad Liberace isn't around for the spectacle that is Dennis Rodman. "I'm sorry, but this young man is just too too much for this old queen to take." You know what, the NBA deserves Rodman. With their recent utter emphasis on marketing, they made him. Kind of a Transexual Frankenstein's Monster who outed his creator. "Show me the money." You would have thought the NBA had thought up this catch phrase.

Super Bowl XXXI Weekend in New Orleans consists of about 200 officially sanctioned events including the Legends Bowl and the Super Bowl XXXI Bicycle Safety Rodeo. Some of the events on the unofficial schedule are:

* The Jimmy Johnson Hurricane Hair Hold. This winner take all event sponsored by Clairol consists of ordinary fans whose hairdo be perfect after a half hour behind the exhaust of a Boeing 747's jet engine.

* The Bill Walsh River Walk. A fan favorite. Here Bill Walsh throws souvenir footballs to the multitudes while walking on the Mississippi River.

* The Art Modell Tribute. A fun filled bonfire where participants throw pieces of Cleveland's Municipal Stadium at effigies of Art Modell. The finalists get to use the real Art Modell as a target.

* The Joe Theisman Me-Athon. An event that challenges the public to make as many references to themselves and their careers during a 15 second slow motion replay.

* The Howie Long Neck Hunt. Here, contestants scour the 504 area code for shirts with collars that would fit Howie Long's neck, so he doesn't have to wear those fruity turtlenecks anymore.

* The Michael Irwin Obstacle Course. In this event fans are required to have a drink in every bar and topless joint in the French Quarter yet still express outrage when questioned by authorities about the weird stains and bruises.

* The George Seifert Trash Toss. A scavenger hunt where locals scrounge through garbage cans and dumpsters in search of the most valuable item thrown away for no apparent reason.

The Green Bay Packers are our new America's Team. Part of the reason is because the former holders of that title, the Dallas Cowboys, have morphed before our very eyes into South America's team. These guys are such thugs, junkie bikers are reluctant to party with them. "Who's in charge of security?" The other part of the reason is the Packers are literally owned by the small Wisconsin town and this has woven a whole 1930's fairy tale quality around it. We're talking Civic Pride so far off the Richter scale it threatens sensitive seismological readings in subterranean Japanese caves. If Jimmy Stewart isn't mayor, he should be, and married to June Allyson to boot. So what does Hollywood try to do in the face of such unspoiled innocence? You got it; they are engaging in chiropractic nightmares attempting to figure out a way to market this midwestern purity to make a buck off of it. "I got it, Vince Lombardi goes to Vegas with a briefcase full of heroin!" Don't let them fool you: when you visit, not everything will be in sepia tones. They have bars and gangs and the normal American share of the byproducts of capitalism, just on a smaller scale. And yes, they have the Packers, and that's about it, buddy. Of course they're all Packer fans. It's either that or smelt fishing. In December. Think about it.

These days you aren't who you are, but more precisely who you aren't. The current vogue of better living through insufferable self awareness mandates that a person loudly define themselves by what ugly horrible vices they either don't do, don't do anymore or can no longer do because they've fried their synapses into tiny frayed burnt threads waving randomly like tissue paper in a wind tunnel. So time your leap onto the trendy treadmill with me as I regale you with the exact lowdown on who I ain't. Try to keep up, will you?

* I never smoke in the shower. Okay, once; but the rent a cop turned me in.

* Beer is not food. I know that. But it does have many of the same properties as bread.

* Everybody has a personal line. I draw mine at veal and fur. I won't wear veal and I refuse to eat fur.

* I forbid people around me to make disparaging comments concerning the attire of doormen.

* I no longer lie about my middle name.

* Rainy days and Mondays always get me down. I have learned to deal with it.

* Personally, I have come to realize, that for me, one Pamela Anderson Lee movie is too many and 1000 Pamela Anderson Lee movies are not enough.

Now let me get this straight: Pat Boone, the guy who's so white, the Ku Klux Klan is wary of him, has decided his future in Rock and Roll lies in heavy metal? The guy has wigged out to the point where a group of large men should be invited to introduce him to the jacket with the extra long sleeves. He's released an album of metal covers called "No More Mr. Nice Guy", and showed up at the American Music Awards wearing a leather vest over a bare chest festooned with tattoos, although I'm sure they were stick-ons proclaiming "Born To Raise Heck." You can't make stuff up like this. What's next? His daughter Debbie Boone, jumping to the Death Row label shacking up with two of the Ices: T and Cube? AC-DC attempting a comeback with a series of Andre Kostelantos easy listening faves? Peggy Lee releasing a boxed set of the entire Butthole Surfer catalogue? Wayne Newton Sings Nirvana? Johnny Cash wearing pink? Living in San Francisco, I am often visually accosted by ex hippies growing old with the sublime grace of above ground concrete bomb shelters, but someone has to tell Mr. Boone his only place in heavy metal lies in operating the Metamucil concession at Kiss concerts.

Here's the problem. No one thinks he's the bad guy. In Texas, believers see the image of the Virgin Mary reflected in the hood of a Camaro. The car's owner knows its parked under a berry tree that gives squirrels the runs. Who's the bad guy, here? The State of Michigan views Dr. Kevorkian as a lawless butcher with the moral standards of a hormonally imbalanced rhesus monkey. His patients, however, see him as an angel of mercy delivering them from a life of unimagined misery spent posing as British tourists in Florida. Nobody thinks he's the bad guy. They're not crazy, just eccentric. I'm sure even serial killers fancy themselves as unattached deputy demons. Or pro bono apprentice mercenaries. Its just perspective. You and I see a ruthless drive by shooting. The shooters simply see themselves as enforcing an extremely strict non competition policy. Not only does nobody think they're the bad guy, they perceive themselves as the misunderstood good guys; lovable rogues. We're all heroes in our own little movies. Nobody wakes up, looks in the mirror and wonders how deep of a reeking heap of steaming feces they can lay today. Especially those with shag carpeting. Nobody thinks he's the bad guy. Not even Newt Gingrich. Of course he's wrong.

The Clinton Administration acknowledged that a lack of background checks allowed a felon with possible ties to the Bonanno organized crime family to attend a Democratic coffee at the White House. Big deal. This incendiary accusation has been twisted all out of proportion for purely partisan purposes by the conservative elite right wing media. For one thing, a lot of felons have gravitated towards 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, including more than a couple of guys who got themselves elected in; does the name Nixon have any meaning here? They should install an official plaque on the West Gate designating it San Quentin East. Maybe that's why the security there is provided by the feds. Hell, half those foreign dignitaries they throw those fancy State Dinners for look like they'd be more at home in in leg irons than wing tips. And since when does drinking coffee with Billy "Three Legs" Clinton assist in a mobster's standing in the criminal underground? "Hey Nutso, did you hear Vinnie No Nose had tea with the First Lady? Pretty obvious who's next in line for Capo." Maybe it was a preliminary discussion on matters of National Security, like the prompt disposition of some Island Dictator, if you know what I mean. And what right thinking American doesn't regard that as a good idea?

The weekend gross for the reissue of "Star Wars" with 4 and a half new minutes was $36.2 million according to studio estimates. A figure to be taken with a grain of salt the size of Mount St. Helens since studio accountants can prove "Jurassic Park" never made a cent. Those rubber Velociraptors add up, you know. Of course since Hollywood is responsible for the modern phenomena of rushing to where lightning last struck, we would be foolish not to expect many more digitally altered 20 year old classics and not so classics to hit the big screen this year. Here are some of my theories of what to expect.

* Annie Hall: a new sequence featuring Woody Allen trying crack and burning down a fashionable New York City block.

* Saturday Night Fever: Quentin Tarentino produces the revision, now a half hour longer with Tarentino in John Travolta role. Bee Gees dumped in favor of obscure Mexicali Marimba band.

* Smokey And The Bandit: in this updated version, new technology makes it appear Burt Reynolds is awake. Digital enhancement also gives Paul Williams the illusion of height.

* New York, New York: De Niro part scaled down, now focuses on Lionel Stander as love interest for Liza Minelli. Expanded from original 164 minutes to eight hours even.

* Looking For Mr. Goodbar: Diane Keaton character transplanted to 1997 New York and lives normally. A Disney Film. Brand new animated sequence romanticizes S & M.

* Coma: coma sequences now appear really lifelike. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Richard Widmark.

* Airport '77: Producers just change the first seven to a nine. Accountants cite alteration costs as $24 million.

* The Deep: concentrates on the most salable part of the original release and is now a 127 minute still of Jacqueline Bisset in a wet t-shirt.

* Pumping Iron: Documentary format scrapped. Arnold Schwarzenegger and Louis Ferrigno now compete for title of Mr. Universe with fate of entire Universe at stake. Sandra Bullock inserted as love interest.

* Slap Shot: due to expansion, Paul Newman and Hansen Brothers make it to NHL. Disney Film re released as Mighty Ducks IV.

* High Anxiety: demonstrating the cutting edge of technological advancement, humor is added.

* Equus: People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals finance this reworking which now ends with a disturbed Peter Firth being released into the outskirts of Billings, Montana, and blending in.

* The Gauntlet: Producer Clint Eastwood polishes up his directorial effort with new subplot changing Sandra Locke's character from lovable hooker to demon spawn she devil with digitally enhanced cloven hooves.

The television industry, which is to say a group of people with the instincts and morals of steroid poisoned ferrets in heat, has decided to pre-empt Congress and police itself with a ratings system of its own design. Oh yeah. That's going to work. Next we can put sharks in charge of salmon hatchery security. Appoint Charles Keating as civilian chairman Of the House Banking Oversight Committee. The first incarnation of the ratings are only about as confusing as a Japanese production of Ionesco. Right now, there's six ratings in two categories.

The kids category has two ratings.

TV-Y: recommended for youths of all ages, which means about four shows on PBS.

TV-Y7: recommended for youths 7 and older, or everything with toy commercials in it.

The other category is for nighttime shows.

TV-G: recommended for general audiences, meaning each and every show with Erkel in it.

TV-PG: parental guidance suggested, a rating created for the millions of parents who are in need of guidance.

TV-14: recommended for audiences 14 and older, or just about the entire load of trash delivered to your screen every night.

TV-M: recommended for mature audiences, which is misleading since there isn't much on television a mature audience would appreciate.

Before we were so rudely interrupted there was some talk about how the television industry has bravely decided to take the ratings bull by the horns and wrestle it down into the aisle keeping Congress from clogging it with injunctions and tall fences with barbed razor wire and dogs with lots of teeth and stuff. If you think I'm implying this is a lot of bull, you must be smelling the same offal I am. Why is it I think these ratings are going to help about as much as pollution laws written by Dow Chemical? So here's my suggestions as how to simplify the system so it makes at least a little sense to normal folks like us.

TV-LB: for those who find the plots on The Love Boat a bit too complicated.

TV-SNL: a warning more than a rating.

TV-DTABOD: the dumber than a bucket of dirt rating so you know when you're watching Geraldo.

TV-OJ: self explanatory.

TV-85: Matlock.

TV-YYMY: yelling, yelling, and more yelling; for people unfamiliar with the

McLaughlin Group.

TV-TV: a new rating for shows targeted towards transvestites.

TV-BADRUG: any show with William Shatner or Sam Donaldson.

TV-SE: silicone enhanced to remind viewers of Baywatch, Baywatch Nights, and the various Baywatch wannabees, that people don't really look like that.

Now let me get this straight: the Republicans are refusing to allow the ethics committee to complete its Gingrich investigation until two weeks after scheduling a vote on his punishment. Does this mean they're going to sentence him before finding out what he did? Now that can't be good. You might as well throw judicial darts at a floating sentence chart before hearing the victim's testimony. Then some couple in Florida who just happen to be heavily involved in Democratic fundraising just happen have a police scanner in their car and just happen to tape a conference call they pick up off a cell phone with a tape recorder they just happen to be packing at the time. What are the odds? I mean who doesn't carry a tape recorder and a police scanner in the car with them at all times? Along with ceremonial bamboo altars, minor league pitching rubbers and small unconstructed antediluvian dinosaur skeletons. This conversation features the Speaker of the House who has been cautioned not to design his defense, designing his defense. And so who gets in trouble? The Speaker for grossly ignoring the panel's directive, right? No, the Congressman to whom the Florida couple gave the tape. You know, sometimes I think the only way to deal with American politics is 50 cc. of Thorazine three times a day.

Clinton's second Inaugural took over this town, but like a lot of things in life , it just wasn't as exciting the second time around. The directions to the Bridge to the 21st Century were a little confusing, and I hope he and Al can get their signals straight for those of us who made a wrong turn and ended up as trolls living under the Bridge to the 19th Century. In a cold part of it as well. I guess Al Gore hadn't dressed prepared for the chill. You could tell by the stiff ungainly way he moved on the podium he was frozen. All the President's good friends were at the swearing in which means many wardens earned much overtime okaying weekend furloughs. The speech made up in brevity what it lacked in depth, and Bill should not be maligned for such trite themes as "land of new promise" as long as he can whip a collection of them out in less than a half hour. The parties afterward were exactly like you would imagine big time events in Washington would be. Crowded, desperate, suffocating with security and no food. One of the most popular commemorative items was the Inaugural license plates, many of which were rumored to be made by Bill's own personal friends. is this a great country, or what?

Newt Gingrich, the Dennis Rodman of politics, was severely spanked with a reprimand by the full House today on a 395 to 28 vote, and he's been ordered to pay a $300,000 fine. He's the first Speaker ever to receive a reprimand, although it is generally assumed former Speaker Jim Wright would have gotten one if he hadn't RETIRED first, pushed out by the very same Newt Gingrich. Ain't life odd? Shakespeare might have called it "hoist on his own petard", but since so few of can envision raising a petard large enough to leverage a pulley mechanism, let me put it in today's terms; "don't dunk your toilet paper in Tabasco sauce, for someday you might contract hemorrhoids". Now, the Republicans are calling the $300,000 a "reimbursement". I don't think the American people care if you call it a donation to the International Tooth Fairy Slush Fund, or the establishment of a Evil Dough Boy scholarship endowment or even a really good donut waitress tip, $300,000 is more than they'll ever going to see in their lifetime. Where he'll get the money from is up in the air right now, but I'm fairly certain a series of exercise tapes is out of the question.

Actual side by side headlines on the front page above the fold of the New York Times, January 8, 1997: "G.O.P. Narrowly re-elects Gingrich As House Speaker, Despite Ethics Accusations" and "Malaria Makes A Comeback, And Is Deadlier Than Ever." I hope you like sideshows Mr. And Mrs. America, because you're going to see enough of them over the next few months to make the Jim Rose Freak Show look like Sesame Street. Oh sure, the suddenly contrite Newtie mumbled the requisite sacred words "bipartisan spirit" but you can bet his pudgy little fingers were crossed when he said it. All the Speaker has to do is survive for a couple of weeks and the spotlight will turn back onto Big Bubba for, (deep breath) Asian campaign contributions, FBI files, Whitewater, Paula Jones' sexual harrasment suit and various and sundry other disasters like Tom Arnold movies and the New York Jets. Gingrich first came to prominence in 1989 for his attacks on the ethics of then Speaker Jim Wright, of whom he once said, "the Speaker should be held to a higher accountability". Of course, I'm sure he wasn't speaking of Speakers in general, but rather that Speaker in specific. Feel free to scoff here people, the irony lamp is lit.

* Al Gore attended an economic summit in Spain last month. I guess his presence was designed to send a message. Something like, "The US remains rigid and refuses to bend."

* Clinton's 2nd Inaugural plans are coming along fine thank you, and all the President's friends are expected to attend. The ones who can convince the warden to grant them weekend furloughs that is.

* The problem is Bill has laryngitis, so for the next couple of weeks leading up to the big speech, doctors have cautioned him to only speak out of one side of his mouth.

* British researchers have issued a report alleging health risks to breathing second hand flatulence. Man, how do you recruit volunteer test subjects for that?

* Same sex marriages are no different than regular ones, except for afterwards; dancing at the receptions is fabulous.

* 94 year old Strom Thurmond, starting another 6 year Senate term, can remember when the Senate was just a good ol' boys club full of rich white males. Of course we're talking way back in 1994. The only time this guy veers to the left is on the highway.

* The Post Office reported a $1.5 billion profit for 1996, so I guess we can expect changes. More sophisticated automatic weapons is my first thought.

So, I'm sitting here watching the tube and I'm thinking about these microwave emissions being constantly bombarded into outer space. Now suppose intelligent life is out there, which admittedly is a leap since we haven't proved intelligent life even exists in Washington, D.C: doesn't this mean the aliens' first glimpse of our culture is going to be our television programming? Well, hell, no wonder we haven't been contacted yet. They're freakin' scared out of their little alien wits of us. They must think everyone on planet earth is a junkie, a cop, recovering from massive gunshot wounds, or former stand up comics who now moonlight as teachers. Who can blame them for hovering around in the Utah night playing long distance "Dissect the Cow Organs" instead of offering us the secret to eternal youth in an easy to use capsule form? Would you approach a society that worships angst ridden doctors, corrupt lawyers and various subgenuses of surly private detectives? You know. Fat detectives. Blind detectives. Detectives with birds. Detectives who wear shorts. Detectives with lots of guns. Detectives with big guns. Detectives with lots of big guns. I bet we're known around the universe as the noisy obnoxious wet planet with the expanding hole in its roof and are probably blamed for bringing down the property values in this part of the solar system. All because of television. We need a court to issue a restraining order to keep WB and UPN networks from ruining our universal image, and we need it quick.

The reason they call television the idiot box has to be because that is how anyone who doesn't wear a suit or a badge is portrayed on it. The rest of us are mere loveable dorks lacking the mental or physical dexterity to manipulate forks during meals without ending up with a face looking like the red zone turf after a Niners Packers game. Nerds, goofs, victims and dweebs. Maybe blue collars don't photograph well or maybe it's just that meeting a mortgage and balancing a checkbook doesn't make for good theater. Or maybe the dog breath network executives don't think that we would be interested in watching or listening to us. Obviously they aren't. I don't know. I do know that I'm sick and tired of having normal people represented by Hollywood as nothing more than brain dead bigoted bloaty globs of cellulite incapable of communicating through anything more complicated than a rude series of grunts and belches. Boy, they sure seem to cater to us when they want our money. "Heartbeat of America" my butt. This may seem unbelievable but I have actually met people who work for a living who don't drink beer. Neither do most of us sing when we clean our kitchen floor. So how bout some more stories of normal people on tv? Those aliens might be less inclined to think of humans as a threat if they see us in our natural state.

Yesterday, the Supreme Court heard arguments from both Paula Jones' attorneys and one of the higher rated of the President's vast legions of overworked lawyer squads about whether her sexual harassment charge against him will be heard while he's still President. Ms. Jones claims that in a Little Rock hotel room in 1991, Bill Clinton dropped his pants and said, "kiss it please." I have one question: who would do that? I know why Clinton is the object of these accusations. He looks like he can get it up. Well I don't mean to be vulgar but can you imagine Bush, Reagan or Dole having an erection? I don't think Stephen King could imagine that. Richard Bachman, maybe. But she also says she can identify his genitalia. Now what does that mean? How freakish was it to be so memorable? Did it have an elbow? Just a dogleg to the right? Perhaps it bore a striking resemblance to Harvey Keitel? Or maybe she was playing a lazy game of "connect the moles" and ended up with Cirrus the Dog Star? Was it the reticulated tentacles that impressed itself into her mind? Or did it have a blue USDA Choice stamp? Well, it certainly wasn't Prime. How do you recognize someone else's organ five years later? I have problems picking myself out of Polaroids.

Thank God the holidays are over and if you didn't have to travel, you should consider yourself luckier than Steve Forbes escaping an audit. I think I'd rather sit on an Athens to Sparta diesel bus in the poultry section than fly during December. First you have to get the seat which means at least a three hour tour to voice mail hell. "If you have been waiting so long you have lost the will to speak, press 9, followed by a repeated pounding of the asterisk." Then, once you're connected to a real person you have approximately a five second window to get a ticket cheaper than a season pass on the Concorde. They sucker you in with those trick prices that as stable as a Mojave Desert souvenir stand made out of popcicles. That's how they get you. "Only three hundred bucks round trip if you can leave after six pm, on a Wednesday with two stop overs as long as someone in your party volunteers to de-ice the wings in Denver, and you stay over a minimum of two consecutive Friday happy hours but not in contiguous months." You go to the gate, look out at the plane and its dented. Graffiti all over the side. Some of it in Arabic.

Speaking of holiday travel, you know what; window, bulkhead, aisle, I don't care. Just give me the no infant section. I'll pay the surcharge. It's not just the thousands of tiny kids so excited to see Nana and Pa that they clog the restrooms, that is when they're not spending their time taking turns kicking the back of my seat, that flips me out. It's their high pitched squeals attempting to do the Ella Fitzgerald thing with the pressurized windows that starts me growling. "What's the matter Mister, don't you like children?" "Yeah, sure I do; with lemon butter and capers." Quite frankly, isn't that what the overhead compartments are for? Of course you got a better chance of finding the safety deposit vault of the Titanic in your ice cube tray than having one of the stewardesses, or flight attendants, or onboard customer relations specialists, or whatever they call them these days, pay any attention to you. You want a second bag of peanuts? Forget it. Unless you're a former high school football quarterback with a copy of the Wall Street Journal on your lap. Cheerleaders in search of a team. And I hope you're an afficianado of bar coasters dipped in corn starch and smothered in thirty weight or you might want to eat before getting to the airport. Maybe Thai food, so you'll have something in common with your luggage when it comes back from Bangkok.

Today, Newt Gingrich will probably be the first Republican in 60 plus years to be re- elected to the post of Speaker of the House, and to be perfectly honest, the Democrats aren't exactly crying in their beer. For one thing, compared to the guys who might replace him, the Evil Dough Boy is a freakin moderate. His obvious successor, Dick Armey: just a little to the right of Attilla the Hun, would declare open season on Democrats starting with another deer in the headlights on the character highway: Bill Clinton. Not to mention the unfortunately named Mr. Armey has endeared himself to fellow Republicans the same way chigger mites in the towel concession charm a swim team right before an Olympic qualifying event. Also, in comparison to the lightning rod that is the Newtmeister, everyone in Washington comes off as Mr. Clean following a sterile bath in a surgery room. So the Democrats secretly yearn for the Republicans to hold their nose and reluctantly vote for their wounded salamander. Which they probably will, hoping the heat dies down before they start smelling the tangy yet gamey odor of roast reptile. After all, the man never actually lied to the House Ethics Committee; his lawyer did. All Gingrich is guilty of is hiring a really stupid lawyer, and who among us can say we did no worse? Most of our Representatives are lawyers, right?