he White House, always on the search for rare species of human beings or close approximations, unearthed an impressive find last week: A female conservative. Defying usual stereotypes, the so-called "right-wing woman" is apparently not a career politician or from the deep rural South. In fact, she's completed higher education and appears to be not at all an idiot of any sort—though field-testing leaves the possibility open. And, perhaps most startling of all, the administration found the rare species in the most unlikeliest of places—within its own ranks.

The alleged female Republican is Harriet Miers, White House attorney and personal lawyer to the Bush clan for years. Born and raised in Dallas, a small state in the country of Texas, Miers earned several accolades for her legal work and previous appointments by Texas governor George W. Bush, no relation to the current president. Though she lacks any bench experience, discounting bus stops, Miers is a respected lawyer, despite being personal attorney to the president and the White House counsel.

The president, sorely in need of just such an animal, nominated the conservative woman for the Supreme Court immediately. It's a move that fits the Bush dynasty tradition, given President George Bush I nominating ultra-rare find conservative black man Clarence Thomas to the court in 1990. At the time, the senior Bush ignored several charges of sexual harassment and a bench history of seat-filling rather than leading, promoting the move as a huge victory for diversity.

"The Democrats want to cater to special interest groups and make nominations to curry votes," said Bush. "My administration is truly interested in minorities—real minorities. Right-wing blacks, archconservative women, gay members of the NRA, born-again Christian Jews. If you're one of a kind and can't find a friend in the world, maybe I'll put you on the Supreme Court!"

Little boy Bush was equally proud of his unique find.

"I'll tell you, soon as I found Ms. Miers here, I wanted to mount her," said the president, awkwardly laughing alone at his own joke during the press conference to announce the nomination. "You know… 'mount her' like… like a tiger I hunted and killed or something. Not like… you know. Kill her and stuff her kind of mount her. 'Cause she's rare and all. Special. Not that I wanted to kill 'er or anything. Not really. I just… maybe like a butterfly. Shove a huge pin through her. I'm not really gonna do it or anything, but you know what I mean…"

Despite our knowing the intention, the president carried on for a few more minutes to explain the poor joke. Reporters eventually interrupted to ask questions about Miers' qualifications, and the conservative response to the fact Miers has no history on the bench to judge her politics by.

"Gentlemen… and girl reporters, too: We can't get side-tracked on politics at a time like this. We were lucky to find a lady Limbaugh fan, and I'm darn well going to make sure she gets rewarded for being one of a kind. We have the space on the Supreme Court now, we needed a woman, and I'm pretty sure she fits the bill. We'll have doctors verify she's what she claims to be, but assuming that all works out, I think you're gazing at one heck of a Ultimate Justice. Whatever they're called."

Miers herself towed the official line, pledging her service to the Bush Round Table, but did let slip that years of settling the president's dirty out-of-court business finally paid off.

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Every year when Christmas rolls around, kids everywhere are treated to the months of anticipation and hours of fun that only a really awesome Christmas present can bring. Unless they get a robot dog that's retarded.

Last year for Christmas I got a retarded robot dog. It doesn't do anything cool. I was hoping that my robot dog would have heat vision or at least be able to curse in French, but all it does is eat puppy food and pee on the couch. I told my mom and dad that we should check the instructions, because they probably put the batteries in backwards. That happened one year when I got the Hot Wheels Detailing Shop for Christmas and it started smoking and caught the drapes on fire. That wasn't such a big deal though since Billy Doogan down the street got the same thing and his Hot Wheels always looked lame after that, he could never get the paint to go on smooth and all of his cars looked like they were fresh out of a burn ward. But last year I was excited about the robot dog so I thought we should check the directions. My mom and dad said that Santa hadn't brought any directions but I think they were just afraid of being wrong again, like the year I wanted the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers video and it turned out dad got confused and got me Nightly Muff'n Pussy Rangers instead. Dad thought we should just keep it but mom made him take it back and get the right one.

So last year I was stuck with a retarded robot dog that probably had the batteries in backwards. Or maybe it's just deflective from the factory, but something's definitely wrong. My friend Carl Washbaum got a deflective Poo-Chi for his birthday one time and all it would do was rub it's butt on the floor while it made the noise from electronic battleship, and mine is at least ten times more screwed up than his. I even think that mine's getting bigger, which is definitely not supposed to happen. If it keeps this up, pretty soon I won't be able to close the lid on my toybox.

At least Carl's deflective Poo-Chi was fun for a while. We used to hide it under his older sister's bed and she would run around, looking for her cell phone every time it went off. Mine just makes whining noises and chews on an old tennis shoe. And if you thought a Tamagotchi had to be fed a lot, you obviously have never owned a retarded robot dog.

My parents thought I might have fun with my robot dog if I taught it to do some tricks. Billy Doogan has a robot parrot that he taught to say "Fuck You Asshole" just like in Terminator so I thought my robot dog might be able to do some cool tricks too. But unless you consider crapping on the kitchen floor to be a real special trick, my robot dog just plain sucks at tricks. No "Simon Says", no adapter to connect to my Nintendo 64, nothing. I did see him eat a potato beetle over by the pantry one time but I'm having a hard time figuring out how to impress my friends with that one.

It's hard not getting your butt kicked at school when you're missing a front tooth and you whistle when you say "Miss Spankenauber" in class. Everybody thinks you have a crush on the teacher and that means serious underwear violations. Richie Turner really does have a crush on Miss Spankenauber, but his dad brought him a GameCube from Japan last month so he's pretty much untouchable.

If you think a lousy retarded robot dog is going to keep me from coming home with snapped underwear elastic and that it's going to restore my status among my classmates, you're sorely mistaken. At this point, there's only one thing that's going to set things right: a robot dinosaur.

A robot dinosaur would be bound to do some awesome tricks, and probably could eat other kids' robot pets alive. Maybe even other kids. And I bet it could do my homework, too, or at least scare Miss Spankenauber into giving me less workbook pages to do every night. And I'm sure it's got some kind of flashcard mode or some kind of educational thing going on somewhere in there, easily making it a better choice than that lame-o "LearnCo Systems Tutoring Funputer" that I know my parents have been looking at. And I'd be willing to bet you never have to mash up a heartworm pill into a robot dinosaur's food every night.

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To all those who have ever made fun of me, I have one thing to say: Eat a rotten cow out. For everyone who said or insinuated or made some kind of rude hand gesture suggesting my sister was more talented or smarter or cooler than I was in any case, I have one thing left to say: My sister is a gigantic sci-fi nerd.

That's right, my sister, Cassandra Coleman, the big-time successful lawyer and Harvard grad, the big-time book author, she's just a big old Trekkie underneath it all. Nobody was shocked more than me, I'll tell you that. The last thing you expect when you show up to a major metropolitan sci-fi convention is to find your sister at the head of the Terry Pratchett book-signing line dressed as Xena, Warrior Princess. In fact I'll make the bold declaration that any time you find your sister dressed as Xena, Warrior Princess, outside of a traditional costume party, is bad news.

She noticed me right away, and the mortification set in her face right away. She knew her cover was blown. Anyone who doesn't know, my sister sees herself as the downright respectable member of the Coleman family, although the rest of us like to put her in her place with a random insult or well-placed firecracker once in a while. But once word got back to our family, she knew all the jokes that had come before would pale in comparison.

Finally! That's all I have to say. Every time I show up to her office or palatial apartment she rolls her eyes like a bigshot or whatever and asks real condescending-like, "I suppose you need to borrow some money?" She's such a pretentious dildo all the time, thinking she's better than everybody and just chomping at the bit to put people in her place, and I would tell her so whenever I go there, but then she wouldn't lend me the money. One of these days I'm going to show up and pay her back, then really let her have it. And now I got all the material I need. It's my turn to roll my eyes and "tsk tsk" her, back to the stone age.

Since I was getting paid to show up to the convention, wearing my Queen Tongue outfit and signing autographs and such, I couldn't wait to blast her for it. That book-signing line was too long and ornery to wait around, but I knew I'd see her again since most of the convention spazzes show up for the filk prom. I was supposed to be on hand as a celebrity square dance conductor, so I would corner her there and give her the business.

To cut this story down to column length, let's just say the rest of the convention went splendidly and I was treated with supreme dignity and respect by all the pasty nimrods in attendance. A few of the guys asked me to dance, and some of them weren't all that bad looking, by sci-fi convention standards, and I would have danced with them, too, if I hadn't been wearing my Metallichick costume to the prom, since those bullet bra points can pierce the skin pretty easily with little force. I was the belle of the ball, like… well, like one of the handful of girls at a sci-fi convention. But my sister was off in the corner, sulking like the ugly duckling and staring at me guiltily.

When I caught up with her she was all but begging. "Please don't tell the folks, Clarissa," she asked me. "You know they get on me for every stupid little thing. You mention one thing about my Voyager fan fiction and the Spock jokes won't stop over the Thanksgiving dinner table."

Well, she was right about that. Give her credit for knowing the mom and pop, she's at least smart about one thing. And school subjects, so that's two things. So I told her I would keep her secret safe from the family, as long as I was allowed to tell anyone else I wanted to. She agreed, and then proceeded to tell me about the fantastic lesbian undertones of Xena and Gabrielle, and I pretended to care, a real sisterly moment.

It was a half decent time, for a sci-fi convention. And as soon as I figured out a way to tell everybody what a nerd she was, except my parents, I had some fun myself. I know they won't ever find out if I just put it in my column, reading something I wrote would be too much like showing support.

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