resident George "Foot-in-the-Mouth" Bush vowed that the U.S. would not give up the battle for Iraq until "every last American is dead and buried." Though it came out, hopefully, not as the president intended, it showed that growing discontent over the Iraq problem has not yet shaken the administration’s resolve to stay in there and really fuck things up until the Republican reign is over.

Speaking to a large group of soldiers at a U.S. military base in South Korea, also known as "the other front," the president pledged to keep a troop presence in Iraq "until the war on terror is won," demonstrating once again the president’s unfailing optimism/ignorance that a war on a concept is winnable. Look out, anger!

"The insurgents who strike at our troops… at Iraqi civilians… at the every constructive effort in the newly liberated Iraq… these cowards want the U.S. to withdraw its soldiers, so they can undo what we’ve already done there. We will not give them what they want," said Bush. Also not getting what they want are the millions of American citizen who had believed the troop presence would be withdrawn, and the thousands of American soldiers in the region who would prefer to spend their holidays with their families, alive and not being shot at.

The speech sounded almost too perfectly timed with a vote in the House of Representatives on whether or not to bring American soldiers home from Iraq, which ended in a resounding victory for the people who want them dead. The House voted down the initiative, proposed by hawkish Democrat Rep. John Murtha of Pennsylvania and denounced as a stunt by other Democrats, by 403-3.

Speaking for the majority, House Speaker Dennis Hastert (big-ass Republican, Illinois) said, "We will not stop supporting our troops when they need us most. We will not retreat. We will support our troops until every one of them is underground."

It echoed the promise of the president as he spoke to our boys overseas: "Even when every American soldier is killed by Iraqi insurgents, we will not surrender. We will give them more soldiers, fresh by the barrels, run too fast through the boot camps to be properly trained. And we will hold them there, like, ’Eh? Eh? Why don’t you kill these troops now? We’ll just make more.’ And we will continue with that response, until every last American is dead. This I promise you." The passionate speech was met with the most awkward applause ever heard in history.

The mixed message of the comment, mixed with the recent "Jesus was a fag" gaff by the president, has left some critics charging that the president no longer thinks himself fallible, safely in the beginning of his second term; others, on the other hand, charge that he just don’t give a shit anymore. This reporter sought the expert opinion of Newark University’s Noam Chauncey, not only to fill out column space, but also because it pisses off the bosses I despise so much.

"Public opinion has always been split largely down the middle on support for the Iraq War, and whether or not the American people believe the president is an asshole," said Chauncey, sipping a fine international coffee in his office at the not-fake university. "One issue decides the other. However, now the majority is moving toward War-no/Asshole-yes standing, which leaves the president with two options: One, to bow to increasing pressure and call the soldiers home, or two, to pretend he has a mandate to whatever the hell he wants while ignoring the world around him and the ever-present facts of reality. This president made his decision long ago. In fact, I don’t even know why you’re talking to me about it. We’ve known this for a long time and I’ve got shit to do."

The president cared so little about American response to his most recent approach, he promised us a quote for the article. Then, however, he had his press secretary pretend to search for something in his jacket only to pull out an extended middle finger.

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"There's nothing like riding the rails, although that in itself is not an endorsement."

You'd be surprised how far $50 and a sack full of wetnaps can get you. Or maybe you wouldn't, if you'd say not very far. It's true. Not very far.

That's the first thing I learned during my history of riding the rails. I spent my college years, 20 through 20 ½, living my life as a hobo. I shared my stories with fellow vagabonds, dined on whatever I could find, and went wherever my whim took me. I usually didn't get too far before my whim was busted by a cop and thrown in a holding cell on a charge of vagrancy. I suppose I was pretty easy to catch with my stomach always yodeling. I didn't find much for dining.

You meet interesting people when you live the lonesome life of a hobo. Some of them will do sex things to you for money, but I wasn't having none of that. Those people want money. One of the guys I met was Randy Railroad. But that was just his name when he was doing sex things to you. I forget what his normal name was. It wasn't as cool as Randy Railroad, I'll tell you that.

He once told me, "Scrotum,"—that was my railroad nickname—"my dad said if you aren't handsome, at least you should be handy." Then he stole my knapsack. But he was right, if I understand it correct. Some people can get by on their looks or dumb luck, other people have to get by on their skills. This is why I work at the commune.

It's funny how trains used to be the quickest way to get from one place to another. Then planes literarily swoop down and snatch that right out of the trains' mouths. It just goes to show you, everyone who's good at something: Someday we'll invent something else that goes faster. Or if I'm mixing my metaphors, whatever would be the best way out of that. And I'll make myself a rum and coke while I'm mixing.

You don't see too many hobos these days. Or maybe you do, but I'm missing out on those secret inner circle hobo meetings. As near as I can see it, there are two possible reasons why there are so few hobos anymore: One thing, maybe the economy has gotten good enough to make hoboing a bad choice, with the added possibility that industrial areas or opportunities have sprung up so close together all over America there's no need for real travel to find ways to support yourself. Or two, of course, intergalactic bounty hunters are hunting them for their scalps.

I suppose it's possible all the hobos are hopping planes instead of trains, just like paying travelers. But you've got to be a goddamn fast hobo to do that. I say if you can run fast enough to hop a plane maybe you don't need the ride at all. What could Seattle offer you that would be worth going there? You need to go to a big college like the kind you see in movies and become a ringer for the track team. Like Shaq in Blue Chips, but for track.

Now I'm worried. I'm going to have to find a friend to go out with me and time the max speed a hobo can achieve. With shoes and without.

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The time has come once again for my annual pilgrimage to Graceland—my first pilgrimage, actually, and I admit I'm randomly selecting the date rather than choosing some important date. And no, I'm not a fan of Elvis Presley, I've never even met the man. I'm a fan of Paul Simon's Afro-themed album, especially the song where he lets me call him Al.

Admittedly, I should have done this earlier, but I forgot to establish house rules during the great Rok Finger absence. This would be better done as a house meeting, say, than a column, but I had space to fill and I'm looking to beat cheeks to the airport as soon as it hits 2 p.m. here.

It boils down to one major credo: Camembert is in charge. Sorry, everybody else—meaning Lee. But somebody had to be picked, and this time it's Camembert. Maybe next time it will be you, Lee. But not likely. It will probably be Camembert then, too. And if he blows it this time, I'll just hire a sitter or something, or allow Stu Umbrage or somebody here at work be Acting Rok in my place.

The fact is, Camembert is the only one who can be trusted not to burn the house down or sell it to immigrants for crystals. In many ways, Lee is superior to Camembert—hell, in most ways. Lee is definitely more fun to hang out with, less scared to try new things, and the fact he can walk is always a plus. If I were looking for someone to take to Vegas or join the Foreign Legion with, Lee would be the only choice. But the simple fact is Lee is somewhat irresponsible, and I'm not convinced that head injury is completely healed.

I can trust Camembert to keep things boring while I'm gone, and that's what's important, right? That there is no fun while I'm gone. Without my level head around to counter Lee's brazen foolhardiness, there should be no fun. And Camembert will make sure of it. Just look at his life before we showed up—sure, he had his apartment all to himself, but he had no rock band posters on the wall, no black lights in the apartment, and it was a smoke-free environment. I'm talking all kinds of smoke, even Lee's peculiar tobacco. It's obviously a lot better with us around, no one would argue, or we'd kick him out of his wheelchair; but with me on the road going to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee, the fun needs to be reigned in just enough to make sure I don't return home and find the whole place owned by some Heaven's Gate cult or something.

This will obviously be a big boost to Camembert's ego, but that can't be helped. I'll be sure to remind him who's the real pharaoh of the temple when I get back, and allow him his little iron-fist Al-Haig rule for a few weeks. Lee seldom listens to me, so I doubt Camembert being in charge will crimp his lifestyle much. But the simple fact is Camembert is responsible and Lee is not. And the new swinging single Rok Finger may not care too much for responsibility, but when I get back and see all the damage and angrily ask, "Who's responsible for this?" I won't have to wait for the answer.

Now, Camembert, this of course does not mean I want you living in my room—your old room—and wearing my pants and/or other clothes while I'm gone. I don't want you fiddling with my things, watching my TV, looking at the naked lady magazine, or using the phone in the case of emergencies. No, you can't take the dress off while I'm gone. I'm still the big boss, as like as I'm alive.

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