n a move pundits suspect was designed to improve the president’s poll numbers among the nation’s comedy writers, George W. Bush ate complete shit off a bike during a ride at his Texas ranch last Sunday afternoon. The president spoke for reporters while covered in several comical facial bandages and wearing an arm sling this week to address the topic of his crash, which Bush claims he participated in to prove a point about his increasingly unpopular Iraq policy.

“Even when things don’t go exactly as planned, and you hit a goddamned pothole on the road to liberation, you’ve got to climb back on that nation and ride her home,� Bush declared. Though the vaguely sexual imagery unnerved some, many felt that this was one of the most successful of the president’s many pathetic attempts to save face after an embarrassing mishap.

Many were reminded of the well-publicized shit-eatingº the president performed off a Segway human transporter at his father’s summer home last year, happier times for a higher polling president who was then able blame technology for his clod-like behavior. Others were also reminded of a January 2002 incident in which a pretzel got the better of the president during an attempt at eating, ending with Bush’s dramatic tumble into a coffee table. Though that incident shared little in common with the president’s latest tussle with gravity, many still enjoy bringing up the story at the flimsiest pretext.

Bush claims that a rabbit darted out in front of his bike on Sunday, forcing him to heroically swerve onto a treacherous rocky outcropping to avoid going Paperboy on the adorably wayward rodent. Other witnesses claim the president ate shit on smooth pavement after removing one hand from the bicycle’s handlebars to scratch his asshole.

The president was accompanied on the ride by his personal doctor, bicycle riding coach Noel Yongstrem, a Secret Service agent, and some neighborhood kids who tagged along to make fun of the Bush’s lame bike. According to eyewitness reports, Bush’s crash elicited peals of laughter, pointing, and sarcastic clapping from everyone in the group except the unnamed Secret Service agent, who panicked and ran off into the woods, leaving the downed president to fend for himself.

Bush suffered minor abrasions to his chin, upper lip, nose, right hand and both knees in the accident, but the most serious injury was to the president’s pride, White House spokesman Trent Duffy said. Despite the spill, Bush was able to bravely ride the rest of the way home with only minor sniveling and a snotty nose.

Surprisingly, the president sustained his injuries in spite of witness reports that he was wearing a helmet and mouth guard at the time of the accident. White House doctors believe this can be explained by the fact that Bush’s helmet likely came off during the crash, since the straps had been tied in a knot under his chin due to the president’s ongoing difficulty with latches, snaps and buttons.

According to the White House, President Bush has expressed a desire to ride in cars from now on, leaving two-wheeled transportation “to kids and the Chinese.� No word yet on whether or not he’s going to keep up with the helmet and mouth guard.

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Back in my school days I was of truest retro nature, riding a camel to school in a day when all the kids rode dromedaries, or at least Malibus. Can you pluralize Malibu? Sounds like a sickly French school bus to me.

Bas Lurman or no Bas Lurman (though of course I prefer the former), I have to say that retro anything is a good excuse to wear the clothes you get off the old couples when you do those home invasion robberies. You agree, no? Not fewer than seven times have I had the fashion-savvy passerby comment upon my depression-era negligee and feather boa. But I have to admit that even I cringe at those old high school yearbook photos, thinking as I did at the time that I was posing for a Playboy spread. Quite the challenge for a young Wisconsin boy but we're of scrappy stock and suffer for our art.

And suffer we did! The episodes with Scrappy were the hardest Scooby Doos to watch, indeed. I always thought "Scooby Doo" sounded like something you find on your windshield after you get your car out of long-term parking at the airport. But still the courts would not hear my intellectual property suit, which was a shame since its pinstripes were exquisite. Am I getting through to you?

I'm so confused... if only Alex Trebek were here to help me out in my time of need…

-dissolve-

"Welcome to the show Stu, why don't you start us off and pick a category? Your choices are: "Kidd Rock's in My Outhouse!" "High School Fashions of the Damned" "Andy Rooney's Hemorrhoid Pillow" "Things You've Eaten By Accident" and "What's In This Damn Shampoo?"."

"I'll take Vanna White for a ride, Alex!"

"That's not an option, Stu. That's not even the right show."

"Judges?"

"Goddammit Stu! Only I can question the judges! You're treading on thin ice mister!"

-jarring return to reality-

Last year I met those Hansen kids in person and I have to say, those were some cute motherfuckers. We're talking cute beyond all intelligible speech. I had to communicate through a hand puppet the whole time. If I'd had more time to prepare, it probably wouldn't have been a boxing puppet of Hitler dressed up as a nun, but it was short notice and all. I don't think they really meant what they said about my ruining of their lives and all that. Crazy kids.

But a restraining order is a restraining order, as my dad used to say. And this one, I believe, has also been ratified by NATO. That can't be right.

I was just commenting the other day: Man, Clorox sucks on cereal! Oh, wait -flips through mental file- I guess the relevant comment would actually be: I need to come up with a plan for my life. A mission, even. Do you have a mission, should I choose to accept it? Why thank you, I love Spanish architecture! Haha. That one never gets old. Seriously though, my plan:

(Read slowly, 'cause I don't write that fast.)

Five years from now, I'd like to be, for all intents and purposes, Bjork.

There you go. That is my five-year plan, though Dad tells me it shouldn't have taken five years just to come up with that. I told him to bite it, Hotsy.

Anyway, now I see a wayward soul trying to put a parking ticket on my windshield outside, I must go and act as his conscience. I did mention that I'm three inches tall, and a cricket, right?

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You've caught me on cloud nine, good people! With my pants down. But I assure you I was just scratching it. I can't be distracted by masturbation and not even depressed by the implication—Rok Finger may have met the possible woman of his dreams!

I'm not getting too ahead of myself, I guarantee you. I'm not saying this is the woman I'm going to marry, or I'm sure it's a woman. But I've met a very charming, loving, supportive possible woman and I can't wait to find out more about her/him. Hopefully her. Not to put all my eggs in one basket, but I haven't been this in love with a woman (hopefully) since my late wife Arvelyn. That bitch was never on time.

And Molga is punctual! For six days in a row I showed up on time in the chat room and she was there, just when she said she'd be. We talked and talked and talked the night away! Conversation with Molga was like conversation with myself! But half the work. She's every bit as confident, traditional, paranoid, and angry as I am. It's like I've met myself, with breasts. Hopefully breasts. They look like breasts in the picture.

Yes, I've seen her face—and I'm a believer. I believe in love, like only a miniature, stodgy, past-his-prime man in love can believe! She's not classically lovely, like the Sphinx, but her nose has been worn off by time in the same fashion. She has a beautiful, large brow, heavy reddish cheeks like two slabs of raw pork, and a smile as big as her heart and as wide as her neck. Oh, if she's a woman, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen! That's what I told myself when I first saw her and I'm sticking to that.

For Molga and I it was love at first sight of her typeface. She was a lovely Times New Roman, I, a stern-but-sensitive Arial, yet we instantly recognized the extreme disgust for hippies and slackers in each other's words. We were drawn to each other across a crowded room, like two strangers wearing magnetic helmets and metal breastplates. From that first day we talked about our mutual disinterests and everything that should be wiped from the face of the earth with fire or genetic manipulation. Molga! The name just rolls off your lips, after tenderizing your tongue and busting out your front teeth.

For all my bitterness and black-hearted cynicism for the past few months, I have to admit, the Beatles were right: Everybody's got something to hide but me and my monkey. And my monkey is Molga. We're in love and want the world to know it, except for her boyfriend and family.

So Molga said we'll celebrate our one-week anniversary by meeting each other in person. She hopped a plane and is on the way to visit me here in the United States right this minute! Oh, how I pray for her quick arrival, and for her to be a woman. Once again I'm not entirely sure of the fact, but I have reasonable faith it is the case.

I asked the new commune stock Russian, Boris, if he knew Molga at all, since she is from the Ukraine. He speaks very little English, even less when you sneak up on him at the urinal, but I didn't garner as much that he's never met her. I figured it was a long shot, Russia's probably twice as big as Utah, if my map is any indicator. I did get that "Molga" translates as some kind of unusual fairy tale creature, that much I could gather. I'll have to ask her about it when she arrives; the best Boris could explain with his broken English was the word "Yeti."

Oh, Molga! I'll count the hours until you arrive! Especially if they have a "Delivered in 10 hours or your ride is free" policy of some sort.

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