fter years of staunch, stiff-jawed and clenched-buttocksed opposition to human cloning research, President Bush issued a startling reversal to his January "Pig Men" State of the Union address this week, and now is apparently in favor of the controversial scientific pursuit.

A tearful Bush, admittedly "a little behind" on his TV viewing due to "the usual work b.s.," finally got around to viewing the fifth and final season of HBO's acclaimed drama Six Feet Under on DVD this week, an event that seems to have had a profound effect on the president.

"Just being reminded that everyone you know will die one day, that really makes you think," explained the president, not previously known as a fan of thought.

"Keith!" Bush suddenly shouted, mid-sob. "Why'd he have to go so young?"

Those in the terrifying position of being close to the president's thought processes claim that a recent twelve-hour DVD marathon viewing of the show left Bush in a deep near-thoughtful funk, a condition aides hadn't seen the president in since the cancellation of Timecop in 1997.

"Seeing that documentary really got me thinking about the people close to me, and how to keep them from ever dying, ever," explained Bush. This reporter chose not to take this opportunity to explain the difference between drama and documentary, or the inevitability of death, to the president.

"At first I was thinking about time travel," continued Bush. "But that never worked out so hot in those Michael J. Fox movies. Plus, it gets all confusing and hard to follow the story. Then I thought about the fountain of youth, but I couldn't think of any movies where that really worked either. I just kept thinking of the end of Gremlins where that scary thing melts in the fountain—yuck. Anyway, then I turned on the SciFi Channel and that got me thinking about human cloning."

Reports indicate this is not the first time the president's opinions and policies have been changed by popular entertainment, including Bush's proposed tax breaks for hot rod owners last year after viewing The Dukes of Hazzard, and the president's call for storm windows to be installed in the White House after finally getting around to seeing Twister in 2001.

Critics have long suggested that most of Bush's policy moves and public statements over the course of his two terms have been inspired by old Clint Eastwood movies and various Chuck Norris action vehicles. Debate rages concerning the timing of Bush's 2002 statements about clamping down on whistleblowers, coming as they did days after the president reportedly attended a screening of the environmentally-themed Steven Soderbergh film Erin Brockovich.

"I guess it's easy to feel one way about a subject, until it potentially affects someone you care about," Bush explained about his change of heart in the cloning debate. Asked if he would then be sending his daughters to Iraq to help with the nation-building efforts, Bush ignored the question and asked if this reporter had time to stick around for a spontaneous viewing of Top Gun on DVD.

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Dudes, us rock 'n' roll die-hards can longer lie to ourselves: Rock 'N' Roll is dying.

Who among us is a music doctor, a hard rock Dr. House, who could diagnose when exactly rock 'n' roll contracted its fatal disease? It might have been the first time Richard Marx released his first album, or as late as when Russell Crowe thought he had the balls to rock. And no doubt we can put a lot of that blame on the cancerous influence of corporations. These modern corporations are leeches who suck the life right out of rock 'n' roll, nothing like the good corporations who gave the Who, the Rolling Stones, the Sex Pistols, and Pearl Jam before their big wide-release breaks.

The way I see it, we have two choices: We can sit back and wear black kerchief armbands and piss and moan about the death of rock 'n' roll—or we can save it. Guess which one Derek Zomny is all 'bout.

I speak the fothermuckin' truth when I say I have the one band that can save rock 'n' roll. I'm not so different than Jon Landau in Rolling Stone years ago, saying with certainty, "I have seen the future of rock 'n' roll and his name is Bruce Springsteen." My case is exactly the same, except for Rolling Stone had readers. Also, I am in the band that is the future of rock 'n' roll: Face Mask.

Despite being the lead singer/songwriter/lead guitarist/manager/van driver/owner for the band Face Mask, I have no bias when I say we are the best fucking band out there right now. When people ask me what is our sound, I say pure fucking beauty, man. We aren't like other bands and we refuse to sound like them. We aren't like these other bands that came to save rock 'n' roll but just kipe the original sound of some other band. Oasis? Puh-leeze. They're sub-Beatles. The Strokes? The Velvet Underground meets the Buzzcocks. We sound like the band Jesus would have had and nothing else.

Like any band, we had to start by playing covers of our influences. Josh (rhythm guitar, though sometimes the lying prick will tell girls he's lead guitar, as if) was really into the Edge a long time ago, but now he listens to mostly Clapton. So we worked "Sunday Bloody Sunday" into our repertoire. Nash, our bassist, has always been a big Rush man, so we had to play "Tom Sawyer," and since him and me both like the Zep, and I could do the shit out of a scream, we covered "Immigrant Song," too. We used to have a big fat drummer named Sticky Pete, too, and he made us do some Primus shit we weren't into, but we kicked his ass to the curb for a more photogenic dude on skins, Clint Warhawk. He's not an Indian, but fuck if you can tell that. And he's really into Guns 'N' Roses, so we added "Sweet Child O' Mine" to our latest set list.

I don't have to tell you guys, however, that the real test for a band is their original material, and nobody has the fucking original material we do. I write songs like John Lennon and Paul McCartney were locked in a fucking room with Kurt Cobain and Bob Dylan. You go into that room and maybe you find nothing but blood and entrails and a pile of pure genius songs, that's what it's like in my composition book where I compose.

Songs like "You Don't Bring Me Malt Liquor," "Tongue Death," "Fancy Fucking Girl," and "Trip on This Shit, You Cock" (an instrumental, but not because I couldn't think of lyrics) will go down into the rock history books next to "Eleanor Rigby," I guaran-fucking-tee you.

This may all seem like cocky boasting to those of you who haven't heard us yet, but I swear, Face Mask more than lives up to the expectations I give you. And anyone who doesn't believe me, and will be in the Richmond, Virginia area May 25 is welcome to come to Thomas Jefferson High School on prom night and see the future of rock 'n' roll, alive and kicking. We also do stage-diving.

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Cancer's just not as funny as it used to be. I mean, seriously, remember when cancer used to be hilarious? Like dad would come home from work and you'd be like "How's your day, pops?" and he'd say "Just found out my liver's rotted through with cancer!" and you'd both laugh and laugh? Those were the days.

Nowadays you have to pretend like it's breaking your heart that somebody's going to start pooping out lungs soon and you can't even giggle when they're moaning "I'm dyin' here, I'm really dyin'!" It's a total drag. People just don't have any kind of sense of humor about themselves anymore, everything's all "Woe is me, I live out every moment in agonizing pain." Thanks a lot for bringing me down, asshole. I just spent four bucks on this ice cream for nothing.

When I was a kid, if one of your classmates had cancer you were allowed to push him down the stairs and say his dad's a fag; that made you popular. And I don't remember the kids with cancer complaining, they just appreciated the attention. That's all anybody who's got three months to live wants, anyway, is attention. It shouldn't matter if it's "pretending to listen to all your crybaby stories" attention or "pushing you in your wheelchair off a ski jump" attention, that's really splitting hairs. And hey, don't give me all that sore-loser bullshit about your wheelchair being all ruined now, if you hadn't bet on yourself you'd have plenty of money to buy another one. I know I do.

Don't forget that other cancer dude who smoked you on the ramp is living the good life over in the traction ward, and you know he's not complaining.

What really gets me though, are all these bleeding-heart liberals who don't even have cancer but still get their Volvos in a bunch when I think something's funny. Like when that commercial comes on in the theater, before the movie, with all the bald little kids talking about cancer research and blah blah blah. Now that's some funny shit! You see those kids? They're balder than my dad, and they're only like five! Where do they find those freaks? I'm telling you, I could watch that shit all day if I didn't have a theater full of Good Samaritans pelting me with popcorn and booing and shit. Please. Like any of them had cancer when they were kids.

I tell you, the world's full of people trying to ruin my good time. If it's not some pastel-colored killjoy petitioning to cancel a hilarious show like World's Greatest Police Chases, it's some other curmudgeon telling me I can't visit the fat camp unless I'm a family member. I tried telling that guy they should charge admission, because I know at least a dozen guys who would bust a nut watching those lard-assed little kids try to run an obstacle course and falling down and having asthma attacks and shit, but wouldn't you know he's one of those lost-cause fruits who puts a child's "dignity" ahead of profit. Like any of those little butterbutts wouldn't trade his or her dignity for a big slice of pie. He didn't think that was funny either, and the bastard confiscated my pie.

I tell you, it's a lonely life, being one of the only guys out there with a sense of humor. And hey, it's not like I fail to see the humor in my own misfortune. Just last week, some lady's little yappy dog ran out in front of my truck and just creamed the thing, made a real mess of the front end. And I had just washed the damn thing. But did I mope around, like the world had just crapped in my salad? No way, I laughed my ass off! Did you see how far that little dog flew? Jesus Christ, I thought that thing was some kind of rubber dog for a second there! Holy shit that was funny.

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