Incoming EPA Head Pledges to Mine Earth's Precious Core

ichael O. Leavitt, the president's pick for head of the Environmental Protection Agency celebrated his first day on the job Thursday, with the promise to "eliminate the environment by 2010, and completely mine the Earth's precious core."

When questioned by reporters if eliminating the environment should be the aim of the EPA, Leavitt shrugged and said, "I gotta do something. I wasn't put here to sit on my butt."

Leavitt was a controversial choice for the four remaining liberals in the U.S., with a history of "fuck the environment" environmental policy in his former position as governor of Utah. Accusers point out Leavitt's passing of laws preventing lawsuits against agricultural polluters and his opening of Utah wilderness to build government roads through. Leavitt, contrastly, points to large sections of forest in California and makes bets on how fast they'll go up in flames if ignited.

The EPA's new leader arrived the day after the agency announced they were dropping 70 investigations of coal-burning power plants for disobeying local or national ordinances for output of pollutants. Leavitt confirmed Thursday it was part of the EPA's new policy, "I didn't see it. Did you see it?"

"The enviro-nuts out there can complain all they want," said Leavitt, munching on a California condor egg salad sandwich, "but tell me this: Did you see anything? I didn't see it. I wasn't there when they supposedly dumped all this smoke into the air. Who's to say it even happened?"

"Mmm," added Leavitt, "it's endangered-licious."

Critics accuse the White House of putting crony Leavitt in charge of the EPA in an effort to pussify the agency, part of an ever-growing trend by the Bush administration to save money and gain political favor with polluting companies by relaxing environmental laws. Leavitt has been denounced by environmental advocates before for his various outrageous plans to increase government income at the expense of the ecology. Some of his plans include lighting the Statue of Liberty's torch with real fire and allowing companies to blot out the sunlight so Americans can pay a surcharge to get it back.

Among Leavitt's most outspoken plans is to drill for fire in the Earth's core, a plan which he says could increase national income grossly and create exciting new areas of energy industry, and which opponents say will cause the Earth to collapse on itself and annihilate the human species.

"Where do we get heat from?" questioned Leavitt when he spoke at an alternative energy resources conference last month. "From coal, from gas, from the sun. We're almost out of the two and the other one is so far away we can't reach it. Coal comes from the Earth, right? Well, I'll bet you anything it's even hotter deeper in the Earth. We can take liquid magma, hot Earth core, and it can probably heat your home for a good two or three years."

When dissenters claimed the process of gutting the planet's innards would destroy all living things, Leavitt disagreed. "I say it's cheap energy. You say it's the apocalypse. The fair thing to do is let me try it and we'll see who's right."

"It's high time somebody did something about the environment," Leavitt said Thursday, at his inaugural conference. "We've been around for years and it just keeps getting worse. Everyone else may be tip-toeing around the obvious, but it's high time we destroyed it. And I'll be the one to do it, mark my words."

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Talk about your shitty weekends. I've heard of Tijuana coke mule vacations that went better than this. What can go wrong at a parade, right? Try everything.

It all started out well enough. Nice day, sun's out, chicks in majorette outfits, right? Sweet. Couple of brewskies with the guys, taking in the sights. Families are out with their kids, which is always a sweet reminder that you're not saddled with any little snot goblins of your own. Old people there too, reminding you how great it is not to be them. Could have been the perfect day. Then this fucking clown shows up and it all goes to hell.

For the record: Sure, I was making fun of his poofy pink hair and all that, but ain't those dudes supposed to be all jolly and shit? Not this guy. As soon as I started clowning on his tired purple dot pants, that freakshow flew into a berserk clown rage. That dude went all postal clown on my ass. I'm telling you, this was one clown who wasn't secure in his sexuality.

It's not like I've never had my ass kicked before. Meter maids, mailmen, Tommy Frithy's auntie May—they all know how to bring it. But this clown was something different. Normally when I'm getting my dork kicked in, eventually my pathetic screams are enough to make the assailant lay off for a sec, at least long enough for me to grab the fender of a passing car and be dragged to safety. But not this clown. That dude was enjoying this shit.

I'd be at the pearly gates right now, explaining to Saint Peter why I had a big floppy shoe stuck up my ass if it weren't for that ice cream truck that rolled up on Mr. Clown right as he was about to take his belt off. Thank God that clown had a weakness for Dilly bars, that's all I can say. While he was two-fisting those motherfuckers like some kind of refugee fresh out of an ice creamless desert, I managed to drag my broken ass over to an open manhole and flop down inside. By the time he realized where I'd gone it was too late—no way was he going to risk getting his big pink afro-wig wet down in that sewer.

And by the way, thanks for standing up for me, guys. I don't know what was worse, having a big overweight clown miming anal intercourse with my limp, bleeding body in the middle of the street, or having to hear you guys cracking up and making catcalls the whole time. I might have even forgiven that indignity if you guys hadn't taken the clown out for drinks afterwards. I guess I know what kind of friends I've got. The "for shit" variety.

And to add insult to injury and total humiliation, now the city's suing my ass for ruining the parade. And I keep getting letters from some jackass who says his kid is afraid of clowns now, thanks to me. But you won't believe the fucking topper of them all. That fucking clown himself sent me a scary-assed postcard the other day, with a menacing picture of himself on the front and a smear of my own blood on the back.

When I find out which one of you jokers gave him my address, you're gonna taste my cane, bitch.

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If there is one thing we are guaranteed as Americans, failing all else, it's the right to sue. Even the prisoner in the darkest and dingiest cell has the right to file a lawsuit through a two-bit shyster claiming the prison conditions have done irreparable emotional damage which requires financial compensation.

I'm going to exercise that right, fellow Americans, because I have just seen a play so obviously based on my life that they should have called it Ching! Ching! I Owe Red Bagel a Lot of Money. Oh, sure, they tried to disguise it, calling the play instead Ching! Ching! I Owe Fred Scarsdale a Lot of Money, but I recognize my life when I see it re-enacted for me in proscenium stage setting.

First off, and this is so obvious it doesn't bear pointing out: Fred Scarsdale? It rhymes with Red so plainly I needn't go any further. The judge will hear that and throw the book at the playwright, and it will be a Michener book, I can tell you that much. Plus, I've been to Scarsdale one time to research my theory about the Grand Canyon being the ass crack of a giant rock creature, though that didn't really pan out. But that's in the play, too, if you were wondering.

Second, the play is about a tyrannical journalist and editor (me) with a mysterious background (me) and high standards that none of his staff can meet (also me) and who they plan to murder in his sleep for his reign of tyranny (bound to happen), and, as a subplot, fails in all his relationships with women because of strong mother issues (me, too) and his inability to maintain an erection. This final part is the only fictional element in the play, though if the judge starts to doubt the authenticity of my claim I can perhaps produce a couple of doctors who would verify the similarities.

The playwright is some hotshot former journalist and M-TV veejay just known as R. Dunkin. Though the name sounds a little familiar, I must admit, I have no idea where I would cross paths with someone who could write. My business usually limits me to meeting with conspiracists and Washington insiders, publishing experiment results from scientists with poor methodology, and bossing around reporters and columnists. Rok Finger attempted to write a play once, but I hear it was so poor he ended up giving it away, and it reappeared years later as Rent. Even if I thought Finger possessed the babymakers enough to write a play about me, I know it wouldn't be as powerful and well-written as the Fred Scarsdale thing, and it also completely lacked music.

I'll get to the bottom of this before too long, and when I do, there better be a big fat change purse waiting for me. I am not the sort of man who displays his life to the public for a minimal price in a community theater setting. Someone out there owes me a fat shiny copper and I'm going to get it or my name isn't Fred Scarsdale. Or Red Bagel, I mean.

In the meantime, as much as I hate to admit it, you should really go see Ching! Ching! I Owe Fred Scarsdale a Lot of Money at the Appleberry Theater in Vlanch, Pennsylvania. It is a well-done rendition of a man corrupt with power until, like King Lear, he is reminded of what is important by the hero of the play, Rafael Tumpkin. And if you're not big into drama or anything, you should still check it out because of the hot love scenes between the main character Fred Scarsdale and his strumpet reporter Jill Tumken. This stuff is too good to be true.

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