he president outlined a plan for America's military future on Friday, speaking at commencement at the U.S. Naval Academy. Bush used the old "good news/bad news" ploy to reveal the facts: the United States will be reducing the number of military bases on American soil, but the president hopes to counter that loss in military might by establishing bases on foreign soil, including new bases in Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and others.

"The future of the military will be more streamlined," said the president, gripping the podium in his usual macho fashion, as he addressed the graduating student body. "The war of the future will have different demands on our country. Fewer domestic bases will be required, since the majority of our defense will involve keeping all countries we conquer in line."

An aide then whispered something in the president's ear, at which point Bush amended himself: "Did I say conquer? I meant liberate. Lot o' countries left to liberate, that's for sure."

Bush's speech came on the heels of a commencement for 976 graduates of the U.S. Naval Academy, all part of the outdated military we'll be getting away from the next few years.

"We will need a strong invasion force, no doubt about it," continued Bush. "And once those countries are occupied—and they will be occupied, no doubt, since we've got the largest military force on earth—there will be new demands on our fighting men and women. F'rinstance, who here knows how to strip-mine natural resources? Not a lot of you fossils, I bet."

Indeed, the fossils had no clue, which is why, according to the president, we'll have to adapt to the changing needs of the new American Empire.

"Gone are the days of the public relations departments, the good will ambassadors, and those large bodies of infantrymen who have traditionally been a pivotal part of wars. The War on Terror requires button-pushers and cool radio-controlled bombers, and a healthy load of transport convoys. And plenty of political figures we can put into power, not to mention the large built-in law enforcement groups, but that's hardly anything you need to know."

Members of the press, new enough to this to be naïve, asked the president if countries that should be operating independent from the U.S. military in months to come will welcome a permanent American military presence. The president only nodded and half-affirmed the question was asked, a clear indication that we have enough military might to assure we will always be welcome.

"And there's no limit to how much we can expand into overseas markets," said Bush, kiping a phrase from his old college business buddies. "Syria's not exactly been quiet. Iran's all acting up. There's plenty of places out there that still need to be sorted—North Korea, and tons of little countries in the former Soviet Union and all. The one place we don't need troops is where we got the most of 'em—the U.S.A. herself. Any way you slice it, the American military's got a big future. It's just not on our soil."

The fossils then broke a long-standing tradition, and instead of throwing their hats up in the air, hurled them at the guest speaker.

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I've got to admit something: Sometimes, in the past, for the sake of my career, I've done stuff that didn't exactly make me feel like a big-time actress. I told this to my shrink once (whoops, 'nother secret out of the bag) and she said, "You mean like Who's Your Daddy?" So I didn't talk to her for the rest of the hour. Big waste of money, but I showed her she can't talk to me like that. Of course I'm proud of Who's Your Daddy?, and all the shows and movies I've done. Stuff like Ho's! is the highlight of my career.

I'm talking about some of the less classy stuff I've done, both to keep the money flowing and to keep my name out there—sometimes that's more important than the money. There's some of the infomercials. I'll tell you, if anyone ever mentions the Waffle Messiah thing to me again, I'm going to have yet another scandal on my hands. But there's not much dignity in infomercials, you might know. Then there's the Metallichick comic book, dressing up for those covers. Not that I have anything against a metal bikini. But it's not the best way to make your big comeback.

Everything's changed now, though. I've got the best idea I've ever had—even better than the idea to write my own screenplay (But I'm still working on that, Nancy, so quit chapping my ass). Picture this: Child Star Fantasy Camp. That's right, a special place where kids of all ages (no one over 18) can come to pretend to be special, like the real child stars. Watched over by the world's greatest child star expert, me, Clarissa Coleman. And some various partners, whoever I can find to put up the scratch.

That's the only real complication right now. It's an otherwise perfect idea. It's not going to start without money, though, which means I've got to find some major investors right away. I'm making calls all the time to former child stars, trying to get them all signed on to appear at the camp. Guest speakers, maybe make some counselors out of the lesser stars—DeGrassi Junior High actors and stuff, or the kids from Witch Mountain. None of that solves the money problem at all. You know how child stars are with their money—I might as well be asking Orion Pictures for the moolah.

I've got big plans for this thing. My first big idea was that we get all really big people for the camp, so all the guests, adult or children or whatever (big stupid kids are welcome) will feel 4 feet tall. We've also got tutors for everyone, who hang out on the set and just sort of stare at you while you're on the phone to your agent. Did I mention everyone gets an agent? It's all one guy, so that part will be cheap. But you always feel like you're his favorite client, even if you're one of 200 kids at the camp.

No kidding, this camp will have it all down. We have three different trailers for each kid, and as your ratings climb higher, you can demand a bigger and bigger trailer. Plus all the amenities. M&Ms (blue only), small finger sandwiches, vodka (kids 8 & older only), a personal masseuse, physical trainer, your own personal entourage and a gangsta rapper (every kid needs a bad influence). If you're a really big star (if you paid the really big star fee) you can even get on our simulated Conan O'Brien show, with Eric Roberts as everyone's favorite not-Craig Kilborne talk show host.

After that peak, the real fun starts. The ratings start to dip. The liquor turns into hard drugs, which turns into homemade drugs and crack-mixed-with-heroin (crackoin). And then… cancellation. That means you leave camp—you don't have to go into syndication, but you can't stay here.

I suppose we could build on a whole "level 2" fantasy camp thing, but that would start to be spooky. Like my real life. What happens when you get to the part where you open your own fantasy camp? Reality would probably eat itself, that's what.

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In a tree on a hill
by a glimmering lake
lived a boy named LeCroy
and his father, LeJake.

In the simmering sun
on the year's hottest day
the boy went for a walk
in the town of Demon's Bay.

Though he was well liked
the boy was misunderstood
by his father and brother
and the rest of the brood.

But since his brother was only
a sock hung on the wall
and the rest of the family
just a bag of rubber balls,
it was really his father's
approval he sought.
And one day would earn!
Or so he thought.

LeCroy had some talents,
he had quite a few,
he could tell if the sun was lying
or if the wind had the flu.
He could tell you when the snails
were all achy and tired
and which ones of the worker bees
had recently been fired.
For LeCroy was attuned
to frequencies obscure.
He tuned in some strange wavelengths,
you can be quite sure.

But all his father knew
were figures and facts
of tariffs and treaties
and pardons and pacts.
He couldn't understand,
nor did he care,
about the subtle vibrations
of which LeCroy was aware.

So LeCroy took a walk
to clear his sensitive head.
He saw light waves and microwaves
and a pill bug's bed.
But how could he prove
to his father LeJake
that he really was useful
and not just a flake?

Just then in that moment
as the answer he pondered
up a crooked side street
he carelessly wandered.
And there in the ditch
by the side of the road
was a marmot named Harmon
and a three-fingered toad.

Both Harmon and toad
held their stomachs in gripe
for they had ate apples
that were not quite ripe.
And they felt as sickly
as sickly can be.
So LeCroy scooped them up
and took them back to his tree.

LeCroy's head was racing!
Finally he would prove
that his talents were useful
and LeJake's heart would move
when he saw how LeCroy
nursed these unfortunates to health.
Because everyone knew
that good health is true wealth.

So LeCroy brough them home
and tucked them into bed
and brought them sweet wasp's milk.
And to them he read
six bedtime stories
so soothing and mild
that Harmon and the toad
both soon slept like a child.

And when LeJake came home
LeCroy proudly displayed
his recovering invalids
and the progress they'd made.
But LeJake was not happy
and LeJake was not proud
He raised up his eyebrows
and he shouted aloud:

"LeCroy! Get them out!
Before I smack on your head!
That frog soiled my pillow
and that gopher shit in my bed!
I am so angry
that I could eat my hat!"

And LeJake was not kidding.
He ate it, at that.

So LeCroy ran away
with the marmot and toad
and they lived in a ditch
by the side of the road.
And they lived on happily,
for each was understood
for not thinking the same
or eating the things that they should.

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