he White House faced embarrassment this week when their usual method of distracting the population with lesser problems backfired, leading them to unintentionally misdirect public attention back to the original problem. While the administration hoped to draw notice from earlier remarks misdirecting national awareness to the slave trade.

Popular theory is the White House misdirected media attention to the Middle Eastern slave trade to distract from the continuing aggression in "free" Iraq, and possibly some of the Nixon comparisons President Bush has endured over the course of the week; when Middle Eastern allies such as oil magnate/American investors Saudi Arabia took offense at the promise of sanctions, the White House sought to avert public outcry against the ally by launching a new attack—this one, accidentally, drawing notice back to the failing economy and bleak financial prospects for most Americans.

"It's a shame in this country that men and women can work all their lives and having nothing to show for it," said Condoleezza Rice, as a few aides standing by gave each other quizzical looks. "Especially in America, a country recognized world wide for having so much prosperity. And yet, we're losing quality jobs everywhere but the service industry. The president is most definitely angered by this, and is sorry he's passed so many economic policies to keep it in place."

Failing to recognize that the disparate situations between the rich and poor in the United States was the same initial social ill so many wars were started to draw attention away from, Rice continued to assault the very structure of American finance.

"America continues to make advances in industry, medicine, and of course, commerce—advantages only a handful of Americans will fully experience, since the system is built to allow only partial upward mobility, preserving a luxury status for a privileged few, who triple their earnings by sending skilled jobs overseas and cutting the bottom out from the working classes."

Concluded Rice: "That seems to me a much more devastating problem affecting this nation than the 800,000 slaves reportedly trafficked through the fine countries of our allies, right?"

It was a classic clusterfuck as only this administration could manage, doing potential damage to four and a half years worth of social reform rollback and securing the position of the upper classes. Realizing their mistake the Saturday after the statement was made, the White House had little choice but to keep the misdirection rolling.

"The War on Terror is at its worst," said Press Secretary Scott McClellan, rushing into the press room Saturday morning, while most of the reporters were still pretty hung over for a long night's/morning's drinking. "We have elevated the terror level to 'fantastic,' which is uh… pretty bad. We've heard rumblings throughout the Middle East that Al Qaeda may be preparing for another strike on U.S. soil. And if intelligence hasn't picked up anything on that yet, they most certainly will within the next few hours."

Though the War on Terror is a subject that hasn't unified Americans with the same strength it originally did in late 2001, it seemed like the safest place to leave public scrutiny until everything had blown over, or at least until the next major summer blockbuster got everybody talking about Batman or alien monsters or something again.

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Did I mention I had to break down and get a job? Yeah, turns out the New Mexican tit isn't as milky as I had assumed and they actually expect me to drag my own load here. What a bummer. But the upshot is that I'm not entirely sure what it is I do at my new job. Hard to get too stressed out when you have no idea what's going on.

I'm working for a company that makes the nameplates that go on a certain brand of walkers for the elderly. I couldn't make that up. I'm in the office, but downstairs there's a warehouse full of boxes of little metal tags that say "GERIATRIX" on them. I wandered down there once when I was trying to find the can and it was like remembering a Twilight Zone episode where you can't quite remember what the twist was. But I did survive my brief foray across the white-collar/blue-collar divide, possibly because my fuchsia shirt denoted me as a neutral party.

I definitely started here on the right week, since yesterday I just got paid to attend the company picnic. The pic-a-nic (I've been possessed by the spirit of Yogi Bear lately) was a raging blast, before it was over the lawn was soaked with keg beer and vomit. Frumpy CEOs and buttoned-down executive-types got naked and rode the mechanical bull, which turned out to actually be the third-shift supervisor from shipping. There was a contest to see who could hit a marshmallow the furthest with a golf club, and traffic was stopped on I-25 due to an unusually heavy marshmallow coating in the right three lanes. I ate three chicken sandwiches and an orange dreamsicle, then spent the rest of the afternoon practicing stomach-stretching yoga postures to keep food from squirting out when I opened my mouth to speak. Viva la picnic!

My access card stopped working today. I feared for a second that Big Brother may have made me an unperson for my transgressions against the greater good, but it turns out there's just a server down. This seems to only effect me, so it makes me feel pretty cool to think that I have my own server. I wonder if it could bring me a club soda? *ding ding* Stewardess!

So far I've gotten in twice with other people, and once I snuck to the back door and did the secret knock and some Hispanic guy let me in. Next time, I'm going over the wall with both guns blazing. Either that or I'll just hang around by the door until someone with a working card decides to go in. Still undecided on that one.

So between the pic-a-nic thing and the access card thing, so far I've managed to go three days without learning what my actual job is here. I'm hoping to make it a month, but hey, you know I like to dream big. And in two hours I have my half-hour nap, which should seem like a thick, juicy, two-pound steak to an underfed Ethiopian boy. Come to think of it though, I could also go for a thick, juicy, two-pound steak, which would seem like a long nap to someone who stayed up too late bowling last night.

Tonight it's me and the bed 'til the cows come home. Then, it's me, the bed, and the cows. The possibilities are needless. I mean Endless. Yeah. But seriously, the thing that gets me through the day is remembering that no matter how long the day is, I know that it will end with me naked in bed, with about a half-dozen codfish. Wait a minute.

Though Mr. Timeclock tells me that I have an extra 15 minutes from Monday (though I think this is bullshit and I have at least an extra hour, but it's not been good to argue with Mr. Timeclock since his wife left him, he can be a little rough around the edges), so I should be able to cut out of here like a pair of retarded left-handed scissors at 5:15, for an arrival time at Umbrage International Apartment of 5:35pm. And you can be sure my tray tables will be in their upright and locked position (any idea how to get the tray tables DOWN in my car?) and I most certainly won't be locked in the lavatory, smoking a blunt and leafing through a porno magazine, with my socks hung over the smoke detector, muffling its cries for help.

God, I hope that clock isn't fast. And I hope a guy in a big fiberglass Droopy Dog suit gets elected president and his inaugural speech consists of grabbing the microphone in both oversized paws and shouting "LET'S GET LOOOOOADED!!"

We've all got to hope.

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The next power play for all the chips on the table isn't until November of 2008, of course, but I personally find this the most exciting time in any election, sir. For we are entering the Quickening—on both sides of the political line, we're in that glorious moment when the candidates have foolishly announced themselves running for the presidency. The blood has hit the water and the brutal clash has started which will soon leave only two men standing. Four, if you count the tickets on both sides, and we might as well.

The American people all know me as a lifelong Democrat, those who don't know me for Uncle Red's microwave popcorn do, at least. It should hardly be a surprise I'm more interested in the Democratic side of this free-for-all. You might initially think I enjoy watching Republicans shred each other like Spartacus-era gladiators, and I certainly do, but my real thrill is observing the process by which we decide who will be the most bulletproof candidate we can run against the other party, and his little buddy, who is officially referred to in party circles on both sides as "the Gilligan."

Some of you may have a tough time stomaching the blood and gore when it's happening to candidates you like, but I say it's America's natural vetting process for potential presidents. Think of it like beating the shit out of a kid you like in order to make him a better boxer 20 years from now. If that's ever really happened to you, let me tell you now from my own experience that those kids never understand it if they don't get into boxing after high school. But for our candidates, heading into the cruelest arena we have in modern times, it's the best medicine. If only we had attacked John Kerry's Vietnam record during the primaries we could have really prepared him for the horseshit that awaited him in 2004.

I'm personally thankful that Hilary Clinton has strapped on the cat claws this early in the game, and she's going to make mince meat of any who really opposes her on her way to the White House. You can hardly blame her, she had to keep her complaints mostly to herself since back in 1993 when her husband took office. Any woman out there who's ever made the mistake of letting their husband drive somewhere when he didn't know the way should be able to identify—sitting back, watching him fuck up and knowing anything you say is just going to cause more trouble. She certainly wants it bad enough… but can she get it? None of the other Democrats have the balls right now to bring that A-game attack back to her, leaving her soft and vulnerable for the Republican contenders, who aren't about to play kitten games with her like her own party.

The other big contender right now is Barack Obama. He's black, he's from Chicago, and he's only been in the Senate since 1996, which makes him one of the less experienced candidates in the mix. As if he didn't have enough going against him, his middle name's "Hussein." Name a popular Hussein that people like—go ahead. Even if you can, I bet you couldn't name five. He represents a new America to many, an America of diverse cultural backgrounds and the open arms of the Democratic party embracing everyone, across racial, religious, and even party lines. He has no shot in hell. They're playing lightly with him so far, because you can't really say anything negative about a guy who hasn't done much in Congress at all. His real drawback is going to be overcoming a name you simply can't imagine as president. President Obama? Really? Are we ready for that? Maybe if he had received my letter in time he could have changed his name to Chad Scott, always a winner.

That's actually all of the candidates. Sure, there's John Edwards and a few other people we could mention, and maybe I'll waste a column on them next time. In the meantime, let the feast on the candidate flesh continue.

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