week following the Democratic National Convention, and nearly a month after Milwaukee's Green Party Convention, a lesser known third party held their national convention in Athens, Georgia. The Hemp Party, formed in 2002, officially announced their candidates for the 2004 presidency.

It's their first presidential election, but in the air was a sense of excitement, and a familiar odor the commune couldn't quite place. One after another, speakers rose to express their vision of one unified party, to lay out the platform, and to define their four years in control of the White House, all in the convention site of the Athens Holiday Inn off Highway 31.

"We're going to win this, 'cause, I really think we got a chance," declared Hemp Party Consultant Daniel Vincent. "People call me crazy, and you can call me crazy, you know, whatever… but if people just, like, rose up and all voted their conscience and shit, we'd have the White House. And maybe I'm an optimist, man, but I say it could happen."

The party starts at a severe disadvantage, not only as a third party, but a relatively new third party that not only lacks national funding, but has yet to establish themselves with a wide variety of voters. In fact, the party doesn't even have a presence in more than six states, though thanks to chat rooms, word is growing. Even if they don't take the White House, which some would describe as a political and real-world impossibility, they hope to build party support and name recognition through their efforts. Since their nominees will not appear on any ballots, the party said they are putting the faith on word-of-mouth buzz and write-in ballots.

No schedule of events was given out to guests, or even compiled, but a less fascist approach to conventions called on speakers to stand up and "get shit off their mind" when they felt inclined to address the body of 37 who attended from all over the country. Like Nate, the cat with the Bob Marley shirt, he's from Alaska, and hitched down just to be here.

"We are the future, man," said Lindsey DeLila, a party Consultant from Wisconsin. "Not the guys in office now. They're old, and they don't even know their time is over. They got to give up the government, so sooner or later, we have to run the country. I'm so stoked about this I could, like, lose it, right here."

Like many in attendance, DeLila represented former Green Party voters who were dissatisfied with the party being taken over by corporations, or their general uptight nature; other newcomers to the Hemp Party showed up thinking it was something different. But no matter the variety of backgrounds, the greatest excitement of the night came when Party Head Billy "Party-Head" Kinkaid announced their 2004 presidential ticket: Joey "Rooster" Jackson, and his running mate, some guy named Dave who wouldn't reveal his last name.

"I believe the children are our future," said Jackson, stifling a giggle and waving for Dave to quiet down, as his speech stirred the bleary-eyed audience. "Teach them well, and let them lead the way. Because in the end… I get knocked down, but I get up again… yeah, that's it! You know the words!"

Lyric, off-rhythm chanting began, signifying the end of the convention as local authorities showed up with complaints about noise.

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The time has come, and no one is happier than I am. The honus is on the president to prove he's a man. He's been disrespected every which way by everybody in the business. Celebrities, political commentators, foreigners living abroad. Now the president has but one option to earn some respect: Kill a man with his bare hands.

Yes, at this point, even shooting a man in a gunfight in the middle of the day, high noon, will not get the president the respect he needs. He has waited far too long to make an example out of some ballsy jackass badmouthing him. The only way to get some goddamn respect at this point is a hands-on, take-no-prisoners approach.

When you think of our least-respected presidents, you know, Gerald Ford, think to yourself: Did he ever kill a man? Nope. Ford was not an elected official either, let's not forget that. He had more reason than anybody else to kill a man, it was necessary for him to earn the public's respect in a way no elected official needs. Especially with that Chevy Chase smart-ass giving him the business on Saturday Night Live each week. Sure, there are reports that Ford rubbed out a guy here or there for making fun of him and his golfing accidents, but without a body, without some verified film of it or whatever, he's a big pussy in the eyes of the nation—and our history books.

Who didn't sit up and take notice when Reagan, his first week in office, grabbed that cook in the White House kitchen and drowned him in the big pot of clam chowder? All those wise-asses shut the fuck up real quick back then. The statement was clear: Shut the fuck up now or you're next.

Bush followed suit strongly, leading the charge into Panama in 1989, not even a weapon in hand, and beating Manuel Noriega to death with a loaf of stale bread, impaling him on an American flag that was left flying on the capitol building for some months for all to see. A tough move, no doubt, he got some respect with a capital R. And now, with the current president under such strain and trial, a lot of pundits are asking: Like father, like son?

George W. Bush has but one course of action as I see it: The next time he's out in public somewhere, pick the biggest guy out of the crowd. And break him like a goddamned baby. Whether or not the guy says anything, hell, he can even be Bush's biggest supporter, I don't care, that's the only way he's going to get props at this point. And weapons are out. Bare hands, kung fu or backstreet brawler style, the kind of mano-a-mano the Ultimate Fighting Championship founders would be proud of. If Bush's shirt happens to tear and reveal his ripped muscular physique, all the better. People need to be saying, for weeks afterward, "Christ on the rag, did you see what the president did to that big motherfucker on the White House lawn? I wouldn't want to be that asshole, that's for sure."

I have faith in the president. As his campaign slogan made clear, he comes from a long line of ass-kickers goin' way back. But now, if there was ever a time, now is the time to prove it.º more columns

I was really enjoying that new Adam Sandler movie until someone told me it was a cartoon. Maybe it's my lousy depth perception, but I couldn't tell. He had all the usual facial range, I just thought they air-brushed him in the film or something. But no, he was a cartoon in it.

I didn't really like cartoons until that. Cats and mice running around trying to destroy each other... so? All I can think about is how some talented actors are out of work because some stupid sidewalk artist worked cheaper. I work cheap, folks. And don't give me any of that crap about special effects or anything. Shoot at me, stick firecrackers in my mouth, drop me off a cliff and toss an anvil down after—you don't know how bad I want to work. And stupid cartoons are taking perfectly good jobs.

Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, that's what I say. Or somebody said it. I said if you can't beat 'em, hire someone bigger to do it, but that doesn't apply in this case. I got to thinking about the cartoon stuff, though, and decided I could do that—the voices, I mean.

I went to my agent, Dusty—I call him that because he's so old his skin has flaked into a fine layer of powder over his entire body—and told him to get me some voice work. He sent me to a telemarketing firm, so I obviously went back and had to straighten things out with him. He's ancient, people, he's scared of new-fangled technology, like telephone devices. But he did get me a voice audition at this big animated studio.

Let's just say we didn't get along. There's no room for improv in cartoons, it turns out, and their writers are complete crap, totally unrealistic dialogue. If someone was hitting you with a hammer, which would you say: "Hey, Telly! Ooch! Ooch! That stings!" or "Step off, motherfucker, or I'm a rip your head off and skull-fuck you!" The stupid director tries to tell me they can't say "skull-fuck" on Saturday morning cartoons, but everybody remembers that one Smurf used to say it all the time. I told him I'd clean it up but after a few rehearsals—well, you'd be surprised what you can't say on Saturday morning these days, or as I like to think of it, "Satur-Nazi morning."

I figured then I'd try to get on one of those night-time cartoons like The Simpsons, but they said they only hire celebrities to do voices. I know, ooch, that stings. Been on the air twelve years and they think they know showbiz better than me. I even called back, pretending to be Tracey Gold from Growing Pains, but they told me the same thing. I bet they wouldn't have said that if I told 'em I was Boner.

Well, if all that fails I can at least try pitching an idea for my own cartoon show. How hard can it be?

My idea is border collie, just like Lassie, and I'm always getting into funny jams week after week. Say like my owners have this baby and they're neglectful parents and shit, they leave me to watch the baby but the baby gets out and buys crack or something. Now I've got to get the baby to chill out and mellow before the parents get back. Oh, and I talk. I'm a talking border collie with a catchphrase, like, "Holy shit!" or something. More clever, maybe, I don't plan on writing it. Just pitching the idea and sitting back to collect those Creative Consultant checks. It doesn't have to be a border collie either. It could be a malamute or something funnier. I'll let the writers work on it.

What I'm saying is that I've got ideas, folks, big fat gold-shitting ideas. Somebody needs to ring me up and put me back on TV, even in two dimensions.

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