he U.S. may have a new Attorney General by this time next month, one who makes John Ashcroft seem like a reasonable candidate for the job. Alberto Gonzales, possibly the world's most Hilteresque Hispanic-American, is set for confirmation and expected to get all the votes needed for appointment, even though he has still been defending his record on human rights. On Friday, Gonzales attempted to clarify some of his previous statements, including one made in a memo from September of 2001, stating, "America will feast on terrorists' bones when the sun falls on this war."

Gonzales, nicknamed "Francisco Franco-American" by this reporter just now, has been accused of creating the Bush White House position on human rights—summed up by the statement, "Human rights? Huh?" In his former position as White House counsel, Gonzales, miraculously keeping the president out of jail for four years, challenged that prisoners taken without evidence and without due process in the War on Terror were not subject to the same protections as other soldiers imprisoned during wartime under the codes of the Geneva conventions.

In other feats of jaw-dropping "what the fuck," Gonzales challenged the very definitions of torture accepted around the world. Previous definitions, based on ideas of "cruel and unusual punishment," were replaced with the even more ambiguous definition of "excruciating and agonizing pain." At least with this definition, Ashton Kutcher movies are now officially designated torture.

"Unusual punishment? What's so bad about unusual punishment?" defended Gonzales in Friday's seven-hour testimony to the Senate Judiciary Committee Friday. "If I get a bare-bottom spanking from Mamie Van Doren, it might unusual, but I say that doesn't qualify as torture. And those guys in Camp X-Ray—they got it so good it ought to be illegal. I mean, it probably would be, if it were on American soil. But you know what I mean."

Asked if the attorney's arguments against the Geneva conventions opened the door for the abuses at Iraq's Abu Ghraib prison, Gonzales pretended not to hear the question. Asked again, he pretended not to know what Abu Ghraib was. After a lengthy recount of the many incidents of prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib, Gonzales gave a more definite response.

"Nah. Probably not," said the attorney.

Gonzales then took a firmer stance, saying the pictures of abuse, which he owned plenty of in his personal collection, were "people who were morally bankrupt having fun." At least, continued Gonzales, it "looked like a lot of fun."

The attorney, who had by now pitted out his entire suit with sweat, was asked to clarify the infamous statement on eating the bones of terrorists.

"I was paraphrasing the Jolly Green Giant," answered Gonzales. "Or whoever that guy was. The one whose home was invaded by the tiny terrorist who stole his golden goose. We will use their bones, meaning the terrorists', to butter our bread. That's all I meant to say. I apologize if the meaning was taken that we will actually be eating the bones straight out of their bodies. I don't believe that would be very appetizing for most Americans. Not at all. Anyway, if we do it, nobody has to watch—is that the problem here?"

Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman Arlen Specter comically threw all his papers up in the air at that point, mugged for the grandstand, and told the people, "Well, I frankly don't see a problem here…"

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You know me, good people—I am not one to bitch and moan. No, wait, I'm confusing myself with my wife Arvelyn, which explains the odd choice of high heels this morning. I am one to bitch and moan. So let's get cracking, shall we?

I have had one of those ugly perspective-changing experiences this week. I decided that it is time for me to move out on my own, away from treasured friends Lee and Camembert, away from the free rent of the apartment, off to live by myself at long last. I've never had my own house, all to myself, without a wife, family, anything of that nature. I started to think it might be a lot of fun, like camping out.

With that as my ambition, I said good-bye to Camembert and Lee, packed my troubles (and unmentionables) in my ol' kit bag and moved out to find a house. Fortunately, I have thousands of dollars left over from my investment in jumpsuits in the '70s, so money is no object. But I would advise all of you out there, money or not, to buy the house in the future before leaving your current residence. Did you know they never let you move in the same day? They have all sorts of inefficient background checks and nonsense like that, and they wait for your check to clear, which I admit is a good business practice. But don't talk to me about good business practices when your living in between the commune offices and Denny's for a good long time.

Though I wouldn't say I had misgivings about the house I bought, I probably rushed in a little quick. There were some problems with the roof, mainly it being absent from the house, and the windows and doors were also missing. Which was no real problem, I can buy new windows and doors, or learn to make friends with the animals and vagrants sharing the house with me. But the most unexpected part of it all was that I moved into an "urban" neighborhood. That's right, a %100 "urban" neighborhood, in the suburbs.

Can I say "black"? Just to quit playing coy. You got to at least give me "black." In my lifetime I've been through five or six words I get used to using and then can't use anymore, you've got to sympathize. So I'll just say "black."

Yes, this neighborhood was like something out of Roots. Not the Roots I saw, really, I mean there were no slaves and everyone basically worked as middle-management and had lovely homes and dressed very modern—but they were all black. Except for the Hispanics and Asians, but sometimes I could squint my eyes and confuse them for white people, so I'm just focusing on the black people in the neighborhood right now.

Don't get me wrong, friends—I love black people. At least the idea of black people. And I tried to get along with everyone, I surely did. The first Thursday night a bunch of my neighbors were having some sort of "big black jam" in their backyard and I, trying to be friendly, joined them immediately. For a while everyone just studied me curiously and smiled with feigned politeness, but eventually one racist—I don't think it's going out on a limb to say racist—came over and asked me to leave; that I wasn't "family," and his backyard jam was strictly limited to "family" only.

And as much as I hate stereotypes, these people get awful loud when they're watching their "black shows," like ER. They were so busy screaming at me to get away from their window before they called the cops that I couldn't even hear the diagnosis on the fat kid, though I guessed diabetes. Once I get my TV I'll be able to watch in the peace and quiet of my own white home.

So now people are moving out of the neighborhood. I mean, it's only one family, and they claim their house was sold before they moved in when I challenged them with it, but it's enough so I can take a hint. Maybe one day the Rok Fingers of the world and the… uh… well, you know, black people… maybe one day we'll sit down together at a table and share a mutually agreed-upon non-ethnic food. But until that day, I'm going back to live with Camembert and Lee. My white brothers.

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Baseball fans love nothing more than debating who was the best of the best, and which of the game's many legends are deserving of enshrinement in the hallowed Hall of Fame. Boring, I say. I'd rather see newborn monkeys processed into chewing gum than sit through another of those inane debates. No, what interests me is the exact opposite. Who exactly were the worst of the worst, the most pathetic, inept baboons ever to strap on cleats? Who were the miserable excuses for human evolution that made us retch the most, clutching our privates in wonder at how these crack babies made it to professional ball in the first place?

Who can forget Frank "Gas Can" Whitmore? Frank was famous all across the Caribbean League because bringing him into a game to stop a rally was like trying to piss out a house fire after drinking a gallon of turpentine. In both cases, your dick would catch on fire instantly.

Then there was Lennie "Three Strikes" Driscoll. This human marvel couldn't hit the ocean if he fell out of a submarine. I saw one game where every time Driscoll came up, the ump would give him two strikes just for stepping into the batter's box, to save time. This guy would strike out in batting practice. I saw one game where he was wearing a jersey at least ten sizes too big in hopes the pitcher would hit him accidentally, so he could get on base for the first time all season. Only then the wind picked up and Driscoll ended up taking off like a kite, and he was called out for leaving the batter's box as he flew over the opposing team's dugout, swearing all the way like a foul-mouthed angel.

There was "Shoeless" Joe Montegle and "Cupless" Joe Smitz, the middle infielders for the Flagstaff Fag's Half in 1971, both of whose careers ended on the same messy double-play attempt.

And I haven't even mentioned the worst catcher I ever saw, Phil "Nose Bone" Drummond, who had a nasty habit of jumping out of the way whenever the ball was coming too fast, leading to a fatwa being issued on his head by the Minor League Umpires' Insurance Fund. Phil was also renowned for his hard-nosed play on close plays at the plate, like the time he took out an umpire in a bone-jarring collision when Phil was trying to get out of the way of a runner that was coming home.

Few lists like this would be complete without Blind Willie McTipp, the second baseman for the North Shore Riggers in the mid-seventies. I could write an entire column just on the many problems raised by having a seeing-eye dog on the field. Not only did the dog constantly fight McTipp over the ball, but Willie would be dragged off the field involuntarily every time somebody in the crowd started hucking around a Frisbee, which made the infield defense a little shaky.

Surprisingly, Willie wasn't the only legally blind player ever in pro ball, since Wenchell "Lights Out" Croup was in the same league a few years later, as a first baseman for the Stone Valley Nothings. By then, dogs had been outlawed from most stadiums thanks to the Southby Spineless Weasels' "Neuter Night" promotion mishap in 1980, so Wenchell was on his own, which made things interesting to say the least. For the most part, he depended on his teammates yelling when and where they were throwing the ball, like "NOW! CROTCH!" Croup was almost killed several times in 1982 when the team got a new shortstop from the Dominican Republic who didn't speak any English. But you can bet your concussed ass he learned the important parts of Spanish real quick-like that season.

But inept as they all may be, none of these paragons of motor-skill deformity could hold a candle to Hodge "Black Hole" Lightner, the centerfielder for the Long Island Dutch Ovens for most of the 1960's. Hodge set a minor-league record for going three entire seasons, 1961-1963, without ever touching the ball. By bat, glove, or hand, Hodge remained unsullied by horsehide for three long seasons. Players of the day considered Lightner to be something of a miracle, since the team's entire training staff, mascot, and most of its fans either caught or were hit with the ball at least once during that time span.

But Lightner had a unique talent for making spectacular diving attempts at catches, no matter where on the field or in the stands the ball was hit, and never actually making contact with the ball. Fans loved his hustle and management kept bringing him back, season after season, on the mistaken belief that Lighter was "so close" and just on the verge of "busting out." Those hopes ended one day in 1967, when Lightner was trampled by fans during a "free ice cream" promotion at the Dutch Ovens' home park, Home Field.

There were more terrible players than just those, of course, but even thinking about these guys is giving me indigestion. Butter me up with some Pepto Bismol next time and maybe I'll tell you the rest.

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