Economy Fine, According to Poll

n a recent poll of Enron CEO's, the American economy was said to be doing "just fine right now, just fine."

Enron CEO and acknowledged Ponzi-scheme expert Ken Lay, queried while attending a White House get-together with his butt-buddy George W. Bush, the alleged president of the United States, put to rest rumors that the economy was about to go south, or was, in fact, already in the tank.

"That's a lot of horse shit," Lay said, laughing heartily. "I mean, sure, a few thousand people have been laid off recently, and maybe one or two of 'em are going to have to sell their boats or their vacation houses, but from where I sit... ha ha, excuse me, I just find this very amusing... from where I... ha ha ha!... from where I sit... oh, dear god, this is too much..." Lay chortled convulsively for a few minutes, then paused to wipe tears from his eyes. He took a few deep breaths with the aid of what appeared to be a large canister of nitrous oxide, and shook his head vigorously. Finally somewhat composed, he continued, "From where I sit, the economy is just peachy-fucking-keen! Ha! Ain't that right, Cracky?"

Lay then reached over to smack the alleged president hard on his backside, which caused him to nearly drop the glass pipe and butane lighter he had been holding up to his face, and to cough and choke on the voluminous clouds of acrid smoke that billowed from his mouth and nose.

"Oh, yeah. Whatever you say, Kenny," Bush said, once he had regained his composure. "Kenny's my main man," he went on, "whatever he says, you can trust it to be truthorious."

When asked if he thought most other Americans shared his rosy view of the current economy, Lay said simply, "Ha! Who gives a flying fuck? What color are their parachutes?"

To which Bush chimed in, "Yeah. Joke 'em if they can't take a fucking."

Lay then stared hard at his compatriot for a few long seconds, and finally commented, "You know, you really are a fucking idiot, Cracky, just like everyone says."

"Shut up!" retorted Bush. "Am not!"

The two then engaged in a slap fight that lasted nearly ten minutes, with Lay appearing to get the best of Bush by feinting with his left hand and repeatedly connecting with his right on Bush's cheek.

Asked for further comment on the state of the economy, Lay just waved his hand in dismissal and chuckled some more.

Signaling that the interview was concluded, Bush then turned his attention back to the glass pipe and lighter, ignoring both Lay and this reporter.

The event was a simple Saturday morning gathering that featured Colin Powell doing a sprightly tap dance for the guests, followed by John Ashcroft demonstrating some of the latest torture techniques on a group of unnamed Middle Eastern detainees and a ritual deflowering of all the underage daughters of the White House staff. Brunch was served, and it was a hearty Texas-style repast, composed of hearts of retarded felon salad in a balsamic vinaigrette and baked Mexican baby head with truffles.

Cheney Comrade Injured During Hunt for Bin Laden

Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines

Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.”

Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment

"My body is like a well-oiled machine—both are really oily."

I joined a gym yesterday. I didn't know it could be court-ordered to join a gym. I suppose if nothing else it's a good warning to everyone else not to snack on pork rinds during court proceedings, but in my defense, it's not like it was a murder trial or nothing. Just manslaughter.

The gym's not so bad, really, if you know where to look. Only suckers stop at the machines with the pully slinky things or those machines where you run and never go anywhere. There was some comedian who said I don't run unless I'm being chased, but I think he was just pissed off at me for eating pork rinds while he was trying to do his act.

Gyms have hot tubs and showers and all sorts of cool things. The showers have hot water, but you have to shower with all these guys who are probably gay. They were watching me the whole time I showered. Only one of them said anything, some security guy who came up to me afterwards and said you can't take firearms into the shower, there was some law against concealed weapons in the club. I told him it was in a holster but there was no way to conceal anything while taking a shower. He didn't think it was funny and I'm on warning at the club.

I tried losing weight hundreds of times before, but I always gain it back when I start breathing again. You can try to keep it sucked in all day, but I'm telling you it doesn't work. You just turn blue and pass out, which is another thing that pisses off judges and stand-up comedians.

One time I bought one of those electric machines you hook up to your body and lose weight with electricity. I tried it on everything, and I mean everything, but I never lost any weight. Well, it made my balls shrink up to the size of peanut M&Ms but that's not the kind of thing you can brag about.

What they need is some kind of bulimia machine or something. Those bulimics lose shitloads of weight. I'm not talking a big Willy Wonka kind of contraption, just some kind of box where you spit the food after chewing all the flavor out of it. Take a chicken wing, munch on it until the flavor's gone, then spit it into the box, maybe even throw the bone in. Man, if it turned the spitty crap back into food, you'd have a million-dollar idea. But all the food lobbies would be pissed.

That reminds me, I'm out of pork rinds.

º Last Column: Yuppies Driving Douches
º more columns

Never let it be said Clarissa Coleman lets a defeat get to her, 'cause I'll kick the guy who says it in the balls.
Case in point, the disappointing showing of my new UPN sitcom Archipelago Law. I had a shot at the big small time, the 6th network, and it didn't hit. The executives were pricks and had it in for us since day one, but I'm not bitter about the missed chance screwed up on purpose by those gargantuan dildos. No, I pick up the pieces and move on, looking for some Elmer's glue.

That means moving back to the world of commercials. No doubt I would rather be doing movies, car show appearances, or the penultimate acting experience, television, but if those avenues are drying up in this nasty recession, I can still turn my attention to commercials. Commercials are more popular than ever. Commercials are on TV, in movie theaters, on radio, on big signs by the side of the road, in front of urinals when you pee (I hear), on the sides of buses, and constantly popping up your ass on the Internet. Sounds like ripe material for me to exploit.

Sure, I can get all pissy about it like Cher when she sunk so low she had to do that infomercial, but I'm a survivor, like that fat naked gay guy. You can rub my face in a big pile of crap, what do I do? I shrug, tell you to get me a Kleenex, and come running back for more. Well, not for more of the crap, but… never mind. The analogy is about to make me throw up.

The point is, I can do commercials. I even make an art out of it. A lot of actors say they could never do commercials, because they're so gaudy. Hello! You'll show up to the Oscars with your ass hanging out and resting on a trolley cart because some fashion designer says it's cool—you're already a tool, at least get paid for it. Some actors say they can't do a commercial if they don't believe in the product. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't have a problem acting with a puppet who's supposed to be an outer space alien who eats cat, but the minute he brings up the subject of cheap long distance your credibility is stretched to the breaking point? Shut-up and tell them the number, collect your check, and hit the road, Pacino.

I make an art out of commercials. Really, I work at it, like a method actor. I even put up mirrors in weird places at my apartment, then forget about them. That way I open a cabinet looking for the peanut butter, see my face and get surprised—now I know what it looks like to be surprised by how good that peanut butter is. When I act surprised, by golly I can make it convincing. I sort of retrieve that emotional memory of seeing a lady's head in the pantry with my peanut butter. I could write a book about it, really, if books weren't so goddamned boring.

You may remember that commercial I did back in 1996, when I'm cleaning my face with the zit cream and smile real big, saying, "Pimples can't do shit against Extra-Strength Oxy!" They cut out my line and just showed my surprised expression when the zit cream worked, but my face said the same line better than my voice did. I knocked that bastard out of the park. I bet if I called up Oxy tonight and told them I was doing commercials again they would jump at the chance to shoot a sequel. I could be like that Orbit gum girl, a recurring commercial character.

For anyone who says commercials aren't creative—get over yourself. It's not like Gunsmoke on Gilligan's Island was a great idea either. At least UPN can't cancel me if I'm selling a beer to minors.

º Last Column: The Revolution Will Not Be Televised
º more columns