resident George W. Bush and British Prime Minister Tony Blair were shocked into jovial amiability Saturday when their reception of the 2003 Nobel Peace Prize was interrupted by the revelation they had been "punk'd" by Ashton Kutcher and his gang of M-TV pranksters.

Punk'd, a modern-day celebrity-on-celebrity Candid Camera or the poor-man's Totally Hidden Video, features That '70s Show star Kutcher and other modern pop culture icons giving another fellow celebrity a good-natured razzing. The staged Nobel Peace Prize ceremony ended Saturday when Kutcher jumped out from nearby curtains to reveal Bush and Blair to be the latest superstars added to the Punk'd roster.

Blair was reportedly surprised, confused, and slightly disappointed to find out the Nobel Peace Prize was only a spirited gag. Bush was simply confused, and after several more minutes and an explanation that the show was much like the WB's Jamie Kennedy Experiment did he exhibit vague comprehending. Bush apparently did recognize Kutcher from Dude, Where's My Car? immediately, but merely thought he had shown up to support the president's reward.

"You should have seen your face!" Kutcher yelled when he leapt from behind the curtain, to which Bush responded, "It's Dude!"

The elaborate hoax began Thursday when Norwegian parliamentarian Jan Simonsen nominated the Iraq coalition pair for the Nobel Peace Prize. The entire world was surprised by the suggestion, given the history of traditionally awarding the Nobel Peace Prize to those who work to prevent war rather than lead into it, but once the nominating committee was let in on the joke by Punk'd co-star Dax Shepard, they agreed to go along with the gag.

"Frankly, it did surprise me," Blair said late Saturday, after the joke was revealed. "I understand the Nobel Prize nominations end around February 1^st, and the ceremonies are usually held in October rather than the Saturday after a nomination. Not to mention the fact we, the president and I, started a war entirely for political purposes without a shred of evidence. That didn't seem to be a normal Peace Prize prerequisite."

Kutcher, a fellow Tool fan, was brought in on the presidential prank by Bush daughters Jenna and Barbara, with a little help by former Vice-President Al Gore. He thought it only fair after the "punking" George W. and Jeb gave him in the 2000 election, with a little help from Katharine Harris.

"One good turn deserves another, Dubya—you been Punk'd, sucker!" said a possibly inebriated Gore via phone Saturday.

A solemn Bush, described by aids as a little sour but in general good spirits, interrupted network broadcasts Sunday night to apprise the country of the situation.

"Yes, America, the stories you have heard are true. I have been Punk'd by M-TV. The award I received was not a Nobel Peace Prize after all, but a leftover M-TV Movie Award never collected by Chris Tucker for the Best On-Screen Duo Category. The man awarding me the award was not the head of the Nobel Institute Director Geir Lundestad, but a young man Lance Bass of some singing group. As always, this administration accepts minor setbacks and tries to move on. In fact, I have since formed a committee to find out if these reports of weapons of mass destruction as yet unfound in Iraq might be part of some Osama bin Laden-hosted Al-Jazeera practical joke program."

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I have not actually been in prison, but I've spent a total of three years in county jails. I keep careful track of all my minutes spent behind bars, so I know this for sure. So I'd say I have a little bit of room to lecture on prison.

Don't think I'm some sort of pervert or nothing. I only go to county jail for crimes I didn't commit, like drunk driving. I don't even own a car, so pinning a drunk driving charge on me is ridiculous. I may have been driving, but it's not my car. That has to be some sort of technicality. Two times it was a bicycle. You can't call that driving. In any case all the vehicles get returned to their owners, and I even paid the gas money.

I suppose if I had to go to prison for some non-drunk bicycling charge, I wouldn't want it to be any of the usual crimes. Drug dealing is probably the major reason why people are behind bars. A lot of people going to prison probably want to be in there for murder, like that will get them a break from the rough guys on the inside. I'd rather go to prison for doing something nobody else can do, like strangling an endangered species. The last of them. Then when they ask me why I killed the last black condor with my bare hands, I can just tell them, "He knows why." Then they'll never find out I didn't have a reason at all, and just wanted to see my name in the newspaper.

Do prisoners still get to wear denim? I miss denim. Nowadays prisoners are seen in public in those fancy-pants orange jumpsuits like they're fashion queen of England or something, ooh-la-la! I bet they spend all day beating the shit out of each other in prisons. You see an outfit like that on a man, you just want to beat the shit out of him. Even if you're wearing it, too.

If I do go to prison, I'll bet it'll be for a crime I didn't commit. That's what mom always said, but I think that was just her way of threatening me so I'd remember to turn the lights off when I leave a room.

Being a fugitive would be the best. Take off running, hopefully in denim and not a jumpsuit, and then you got to try to make it to the county line, since the North doesn't have an extradition treaty with the South yet. I'd make it across the Mason-Nixon line and then just stand there and laugh all day and night. Unless they send someone after me like a good friend or best buddy—getting my best friend to hunt me down, that would be just like the cops. Except I don't have any friends really. So the joke's on them. But I bet my mom would volunteer for the job.

It would be nice being in a gang, if I went to prison. I don't see why gangs in prison would be any less picky than gangs on the outside, but if I got into a gang, that would be good for me. We could watch each others' backs and we could even work the kitchen. That's where the majority of contraband comes in through, says mom.

Even if they didn't let me in, I would start my own gang. At first nobody would want to join, but I have a never-ending supply of cookies coming in from the outside. I'm in good with the Girl Scouts. If I could get to work the sewing room, my crew and me, I would make jackets for all my gang. Who's not with me now? No jacket for you, G-Dollar.

I'm getting real excited about this prison thing now.

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Goddammit! I'm tired of America taking away my rights.

Add "cooking" to the ever-increasing list of things you're not allowed to do in this country anymore. I was having another fun weekend night off from my job, and had everything all planned out: A lot of drinking, some cruel prank phone calls, and smoke-cooking whatever I could find leftover in the freezer. Well, you can see where this is going, even if you graduated from public schools. The cops knock on my door, mine, and tell me I can't cook.

I don't think it was meant as a critique, once minutes of arguing straightened it out. Apparently, now get this, it's illegal for you to cook in your own house. This is bullshit of colossal proportions.

Don't get me wrong, all y'all. I'm not some bleeding heart queer doing it pro bono for the ACLU, or as I like to call them, Domestic Al-Qaeda. I voted for the Patriot Act, and since I wasn't a congressman it took a lot of deception on my part and I eventually got out of it with a fine, but that should tell you how committed I am to upholding law and order. Except for those dreadful spin-offs. I figured I was white and voted Republican, there was no way my rights would be infringed upon.

But, Oh Contrary. That's the French saying for bullshit, and those French are on to something. If the government wants to know what books I buy, I'm perfectly okay with that—I like to write to Dennis Miller himself sometimes just to let him know I'm putting money in his pocket. If the government wants to know what websites I go to, fine, I don't care; as long as they know occasionally Ramon Nootles borrows my computer to surf for some really freaky weird sex shit—I'm the one surfing turkey-hunting sites and entertainment news. I've let the government so far in they can tell me if I've got bowel obstructions. But here's where I draw the line.

A man's home is his castle. It doesn't matter if his castle looks like a trailer on the outside or not. Keep fucking with me, I'll stow every one of you all in the dungeon. I'm not shitting around here, guys. I'm small, but I'm spry. Just test me. I'm a good American, I always vote, I pay most of my taxes, and now I want to be left alone so I can do whatever the hell I want behind closed doors. If that means I want to start a bonfire and blacken fish in the privacy of my living room, there's not a damn thing you can do about it. In a fair and just America. The America I grew up with.

What do you expect me to do? I've given this country all I can, short of military service or volunteer work. I'm a hard worker, I make my opinion known, sometimes three blocks over in the dead of night, and I salute that goddamn flag every time you run it up the pole. You want my blood, too? Or do you want me to turn informant? Rat out all my red-loving friends at the commune just so I can cook anytime of the day or night, despite EPA emissions standards, and be left in peace and quiet? Because in spite of our differences, these people at the commune are my friends. That's what America is about, in my book: Freaks and normal people, no matter how different, can put aside their differences to be friends, and really rake in the dough.

Not that I'm saying I won't do it, mind you. Some of these whack-jobs can stand to have the fear of G.W. put into them. I think Lil Duncan has committed an obscene act with every object on or in her desk. And Bludney Pludd, I don't think the DSM-IV even has names for the kind of perversions he's capable of. Call me up. We'll chat. You dish your dirt and I'll dish mine. But don't send anymore uniforms to my door—I certainly rate higher than that.

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