he United States Presidential Warning System (or “Terra Box� as it is fondly known around the White House, a tongue-in-cheek reference to the president’s speech impediment) reached its highest level Tuesday, signifying a major presidential gaffe or screwjob is impending. This news immediately scrambled foreign government officials, environmental groups and talk-show writers nationwide, who entered their own highest states of readiness and/or dread.

The little-known Presidential Warning System has been in place since the 1960’s, but it quickly fell out of favor during the Nixon presidency. Aides kept finding the siren-like device hidden in desk drawers or crammed beneath sound-deadening mattresses in the Lincoln bedroom over the course of Nixon’s term, and records indicate it was later disconnected under questionable circumstances involving a bottle of tequila and a fire axe. Efforts were made to bring the system back on-line during former president Ronald Regan’s first term, but upon being turned on the device immediately let out an eardrum-shattering blurt before quickly overheating. It then caught fire and had to be put out with a shoe.

The nation operated without a Presidential Warning System during the Bush Sr. and Clinton administrations, as the device reminded George Bush Sr. too much of his childhood nemesis, the board game Operation, and President Clinton found it seriously hampered his social life.

The current siren-less incarnation of the device, consisting of a black box covered in lighted rectangles that are color-coordinated to the various levels of presidential “terra,� was brought online at the start of the latest Bush presidency. The new system was even praised by the president himself early in his term, when he said of the device: “I made it to the fourth level last night. Take that, Simon.�

Tuesday the system registered an alert status of red, which according to the device’s manual translates to “Holy Shit� written next to a picture of a little stick man with a gun in his mouth. However, officials cannot say for certain how many times Bush has “bagged a red� since being elected, since Tuesday was also the day a White House staffer discovered the device holding up a candle in the presidential bathroom and no one was certain how long it had been missing.

“While this may seem like an opportune time to panic, it is important to point out that the red bulb on the device appears to be nearly burnt out,� explained system designer Elwood Bond. “This is a good sign that we’ve been on red alert for most of the last two years, so this is more a ‘business-as-usual’ kind of doom than anything.�

Asked if the system might be calibrated too sensitively, given that highest level of impending doom was continuously lit, Bond answered that the system really wasn’t designed with a Bush-caliber president in mind.

“I set up the system so it would go red only in dire circumstances, like when Bush Sr. approved the CDC sending samples of anthrax, botulism and West Nile to Iraq in the early 90’s, or when we gave them the helicopters they used to gas the Kurds in 1988. Or really any time after the Shah fell in Iran and we were providing Saddam and the Iraqis with arms, intelligence and free money to help them invade Iran. All those are red-level events. Maybe orange. But Bush Jr. goes red just taking a piss.�

But is there any way to tweak the system so that Bush isn’t consistently in the red?

“I dunno,� replied Bond, scratching his head. “It does have an ‘off’ switch.�

Lost Scout Earns Coveted “Distract the National Media” Badge

House Democrats Uneasy During Rare Trip Outside

Big Ratings Prompts ABC to Seek More Dancing Handicapped Shows

Strychnine Dog Food: Where Can You Buy It?

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.

º Last Column: Lee Gets a GED
º more columns

Some of you out there may think it's all fun and games here at the commune, but I assure you it's not. Fun and games were eliminated when I returned months ago, about the same time I implemented the 30% pay reductions and started receiving those death threats in my inbox. But you can't always rule with an iron thumb, as I learned shortly after being arrested for assault with an iron thumb a while back. Sometimes you have to implement diplomacy. This may be one of those times.

I am all for the occasional goofing off, when I am completely unaware of it. I heartily endorse a work environment where everyone is comfortable when I'm not present. However, when my good will is abused like a 14-year-old's johnson, it's no more Mr. Nice Guy, Alice Cooper. Hence I instituted the strict policy that all commune employees, even the meager people, are no longer allowed to host personal websites. This not only goes for time spent at the office, but time away from the commune as well, and probably infringes upon quite a few constitutional rights, not that I'm bragging.

It is necessary, I assure you. I couldn't have cared less about what my staff did in their off hours a few short weeks ago, and lament all that money wasted on expensive digital videotape. Then I discovered the unsettling image of Ted Ted, half-nude, and dressed entirely as a woman. You couldn't see the naughty bits, thanks to his concealing hands and a well-placed teddy bear, but you might as well have scraped my eyes out with a melon baler and saved me the pain. No one here could forget that frightful image, especially since print-outs of it keep winding up on the hallway bulletin board.

My confidence in Ted Ted was shaken until I found out he took the photos early in his career, when a photographer friend of his assured him all reporters got their foot in the door the same way. Word has it he even produced some candid shots of Dan Rather to prove his point, which I won't argue with, since I don't want to see them myself. But Ted Ted promised the photos were quite old and he no longer engaged in such antics and the man who posted them would mysteriously turn up missing by the end of the week. However, this did not end the whole affair. As usual, with my staff, it was only the beginning.

I'm sure it's been the same case with friends you know, one friend is found looking quite attractive in drag in an old picture, then suddenly everyone is claiming they would look better dressed as a woman. If they want to make such claims and argue them over the water cooler, fine. If they want to host a private party where they all dress up just to prove a point, I have no problem with that either. When they start devoting an exorbitant amount of work time and personal finances to hosting websites where they are dressed as women, unbeknownst to site surfers, and ask people to rate their attractiveness in relation to each other, well, that's where I draw the line. Admittedly, my line-drawing was a little late on this occasion.

As I made clear to them yesterday, I will no longer tolerate randomly surfing for poontang and discovering one of my reporters wearing a teddy and garters. This also goes to the columnists and IT associates. Particularly Randy. Your news work is getting sloppy, the broadband out there is being tested, and I am sick of reading letters from lonely prisoners.

It is also a waste of time. It is quite clear Ivan Nacutchacokov is the real honey amongst you. Suck it up and give the queen his crown, fellas.

º Last Column: 64 Bits in a Two-Bit World
º more columns