Clinton Administration Trashed White House

n investigative arm of Congress known only by the shadowy moniker of the General Accounting Office released a report on Tuesday detailing the extensive damage found by the Bush administration upon moving into the White House following Clinton's presidency. The report was requested by Rep. Bob Barr of Georgia, who found a badly decomposed mackerel in his suitcase after a recent round of bi-partisan prankery in the House and was as pissed as a Kennedy on St. Patrick's Day.

"When we got here, this place looked like a cross between Animal House and The Money Pit," stated Barr, flaunting his knowledge of house-themed comedy films.

According to the GAO report, Bush administration staffers found a veritable house of horrors upon moving into the White House in January of 2001. Drawers were glued shut, toilets were plugged with cement, and a life-sized wax statue of former president Gerald Ford was found in a compromising position in the Lincoln Bedroom.

Additionally, White House phones with speed-dial buttons marked with innocuous titles like "Pentagon" and "Chinese Food" were programmed to dial 1-900 sex numbers and a dildo wholesaler in Texas. One couch was horribly burnt, another was found floating in the pool and a large block of very old cheese was found beneath a dresser in the Blue Room.

Apparently, vandals had also damaged keyboards by removing all of the "W" keys and had burned a dirty limerick into the carpet of the Vermeil Room as the Clinton administration moved out of the White House last year. An unknown party also made off with a large presidential seal and the presidential mini-fridge, the investigative arm of Congress said on Tuesday.

But the General Accounting Office stopped short of making its own estimate of the extent of the damage reported by aides of Republican President Bush after they moved into the White House a year and a half ago, instead giving the White House a vague "shithole" rating.

It was not clear how much of the reported damage was intentional, or who was responsible for writing lyrics to songs by The Doors on multiple walls in neon-colored markers. It's difficult to assess how much of the repair money would have had to be spent anyway as part of the usual nightmarish presidential transition, the GAO said.

"Who the fuck knows, man?" GAO staffer Larry Worthram said of the damages. "They should just be happy the damn place is still standing, you know? I heard about some wild shit going on here, you know what I'm sayin'? Good times, man, good times. And it's all cool, you know, but I for one wouldn't try to reuse any of the bedding in there. But that's just me."

The report noted Bush administration estimates that it had cost some $14,000 to get West Wing of the White House and adjacent Eisenhower Executive Office Building into shape and to remove the smell of stale gym socks and leftover pizza after the Bush team moved in.

Barr requested the report from the GAO last year after he heard the touching story of a female Bush staffer who was injured when she tripped over a beer bong while the new administration was moving in on Jan. 20, 2001.

"Apparently those Clinton boys were a real group of party guys, some real fun lovers," Barr said of the report. "Assholes." Clinton's office in New York had no comment on the GAO document or Barr's big, blubbery butt.

The GAO recommended a "check-out" process for departing presidential staff in the future that includes detailed cleaning instructions and a 30-point checklist involving the mandatory cleaning of mini-blinds and conditions under which the departing president will be charged for carpet cleaning expenses. The checklist will have to be filled out in triplicate and signed by the departing president, under penalty of forfeiture of the White House security deposit.

The GAO report also noted that there had been damage observed during previous presidential transitions. Two people told the GAO that the damage Clinton's team found in 1993, when Bush's father had just moved out, was even worse than in 2001, and that they'd never seen so many used condoms in their whole entire lives.

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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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Drug lords of the world can rest easier now, Clarissa Coleman is out of the narcotics business once and for all.

Before the feds jump on my gullet they should know I didn't really mess with anything illegal. Coca plants or whatever they call them, cannabis, all of that already illegal stuff is off limits as far as I'm concerned. The whole point of getting involved in narcotics in the first place was to create a drug that's both legal and gets you fucked up. And I think I can say I failed, so have no fear, D.A.R.E., you won't have to keep kids away from my product. It doesn't exist.

Everybody enjoys a little buzz now and again, let's not kid anybody. I'm sure Bob Dole got lit on something now and then, I have a friend who has a messed up arm like that and he sure didn't serve in the Gulf or wherever. Just an acid trip that confined itself to his right arm and has yet to stop. My challenge, as I thought of it while getting baked a few weekends ago, was to create a legal upper/downer/all-arounder and peddle it to my friends, family, and yes, some street junkies or whoever wanted a hit of my wonder drug.

Some of you are probably thinking I don't have what it takes to make a highly-addictive non-lethal narcotic, since I never got my college degree or anything. But you naysayers can hold your tongues. I'm sure the guy with crack had a lot of guys telling him he couldn't do it, like the D.E.A. or the cocaine companies. I'm not going to let that stop me.

I will, however, let failure stop me. And I've had way too much of it. Don't let anyone fool you, the guy who created crack must have been a scientist or something, though I don't know of any college that has a major drug research and development department. Maybe he's self-taught, but either way I wouldn't want to challenge him at chess. Because he's got to be smart, and I don't know how to play chess anyway.

Really I'm not saying I can't create an exciting psychotropic chemical trip in bite-sized pill form, I'm just saying that I can't do it with the equipment currently available to me. Which is to say a bath tub and a blender. I've bought tons of cleaning chemicals and food spices, hoping some kind of combination will produce the exact kind of buzz I'm looking for: A sustained feeling of exhilaration or light-headedness. Instead of such a feeling I've often just created some mild or severe form of chemical poison which has resulted in three trips to the emergency room and too many blackouts to count. Doctors have advised me to give up my experiments entirely, or at least stop using window cleaner, it's a dead end.

I may be finished with drug creation for good. At least until there's no more blood in my stool. It's probably for the best. Leave the drugs to the drug scientists and the Child Star columns to the Child Star columnists, I say, at least just now I said it.

It's too bad, I had real visions for safe, legal alternative to the current crop of dangerous drugs out there. I was only really stopped by the fact I have no business working with chemicals or drugs in any fashion. Until the day I hook up with someone to do that mule work for me I guess I'll be stuck as a fan of drugs rather than part of the creative process.

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