aw enforcement officials are bursting with pride this week over the results of the first annual Bring Your Drugs to Work Day, an unqualified success that nabbed over 3 million drug users at their places of employment nationwide. The controversial sting operation, brainchild of DEA wunderkind Dickie Milkweed, snared millions of Americans who thought the “holiday� was a long-overdue relaxing of uptight social mores and restrictions about showing up to work as high as a beautiful kite.

“Gotcha, stoners!� celebrated Milkweed, sipping a virgin club soda triumphantly, giving a mocking thumbs-up to the camera and performing an awkward little dance obviously not benefited by any groove-enhancing drug use.

“This is a great day for Tootie,� slurred commune editor Red Bagel in agreement, drunk as an ox, upon hearing the news.

Wishing to capitalize on the success of this week’s traditional Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, federal officials granted the DEA’s wish by quietly passing the new holiday into law, clamped onto the ass of the innocuous “Puppies are Beautiful� bill passed by congress in February.

However, several women’s groups have already protested BYDWD, concerned that the bummer drug-bust holiday will taint the public’s associations with Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, most notable among them the feminist groups NORML Chicks and Women for Reggae. The original, non-Fugazi holiday was instituted in 1993 as a way for parents to expose their daughters to the dangers of the workplace and to drain office productivity for the month of April.

Since then, several painfully politically-correct groups have lobbied to change the name of Bring Your Daughter to Work Day to the less-offensive Bring Your Daughter or Son or Whatever You’ve Got to Work or Some Place Else if You’re Unemployed Day, with little success due to counter-lobbying efforts from calendar manufacturers, who claim that printing a holiday name that long would force them to retool their entire operations at incredible expense.

Others have argued the highly controversial point that there’s nothing wrong with drug use in the workplace, unless it adversely affects job-related performance.

“Man, this is total bullshit waaaaaaaaaa…� trailed off temp worker Justin Penrose from a holding cell outside Chicago.

Still others, however, have pointed out that anyone who was dumb enough to fall for Bring Your Drugs to Work Day has obviously had their mental faculties dimmed heavily by drug residue of some sort, and is likely costing their employer billions in lost productivity and time spent having to explain things six or seven times.

“God I feel stupid,� lamented 79-year old Eloise Hartford, who misunderstood the nature of the holiday and brought her extensive collection of prescription medications to work on Monday instead. Most of Eloise’s co-workers were arrested for marijuana possession, leaving the lion’s share of the 14-person office’s tasks on the frail shoulders of Hartford, who tires easily.

“I should have claimed some of that reefer was mine,� complained Hartford. “I hear they have some pretty soft cots in prison these days. No beds of nails or anything anymore.�

In related news, commune editor’s-brother Gay Bagel has recently spearheaded an aggressive initiative to increase Internet access to inmates in America’s prisons, a move some have called a ratings ploy since a large proportion of the commune readership is now behind bars.

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I've put up with a lot over our many years of marriage, Deidrebane my dear. Your incessant coupon-clipping, child-rearing and flair with culinary dishes of all varieties. Your sunnily upbeat manner, and troubling habit of treating the neighbors with civility and respect. Your distaste for NASCAR. Your charity work for the betwetting orphans of Botswana, and your pitiable need to stay abreast of world events. It's been a long, tough slog up a rain-soaked hill, my dear, but only this last bit has been intolerable. With all of our servants as my witnesses, let there be no mistake about it: You WILL take back what you said this morning about Dokken.

The day started out innocently enough, at least for those of us who harbored no venom in our souls, waiting for the slightest Dokken-related opportunity to spit it free. I rose at noon, after a refreshing fourteen hours of sleep, and proceeded to peruse the Journal for its most salient feature: Get Fuzzy. As you can imagine, I breakfasted on a hearty bowl of disappointment. Apparently the volatility of soybean futures means more to some depraved individuals than the slice-of-life adventures of Satchel and Bucky. I feign no supernatural ability to explain these things, my dear.

Turned away coldly by the inky black indifference of the Journal, I opted instead to soothe my soul with a little skeet shooting from the bedroom window, with neighborhood birds standing in for skeet. Don't get started about my habit of ridding our neighborhood of incessantly inconsiderate songbirds, my dear, if they had the good sense not to side with morning folk they'd still be alive and in one compact, non-shotgunned piece. I shed not a tear, after their daily double-insult of leaving the late-night hours to the shrill noodling of crickets, in addition to polluting my restful morn with their whistling farts.

As you well know, my dear, for I have explained it in detail on several occasions, nothing elevates a reflective noontime skeet-shooting spree from a pleasant diversion to the realm of the sublime like the thundering hair rock of Los Angeles natives Dokken.

The moment is crystallized in my mind like a dog trapped in amber, my dear. I had just winged a squirrel that had picked a poor time to attempt traversing the power lines spanning our property, and was marveling my shotgunmanship when you burst in, as if my privacy were nothing to be taken any more seriously than the word of a Scotsman. You burst in shouting some nonsense about orphans sleeping downstairs and the weak heart trapped within the chest of our frail, elderly, taking-her-sweet-time-to-die neighbor Mrs Weatherborrow. Most of this was drowned out by the blast of the shotgun as I spied a child's kite hovering tantalizingly just over our property line, but what you said next I will take with me to my grave, possibly on a Post-It note. Turn down that noise? That noise? Oh, my dearest Deidrebane. How you seek to wound me so, and my, how you've learned just where to stick the blade.

It would have been one thing if the racket in question had been Winger, Deidrebane. They're hardly worthy of your polite attention, my dear, say nothing of your rapture. Or if it had been a guilty pleasure like Slaughter pummeling from the speakers this morning, shaking the very air and vibrating the bathtub down the hall with each well-placed bass note. Referring to the work of those gentlemen as noise could be forgiven, albeit with a healthy slathering of condescension on the part of yours truly. But no, my wife of many a year, it had to be Dokken. It's as if the very Gods themselves have chosen the method of my slow undoing.

Have you learned nothing from my frequent lectures concerning the mannered vocal stylings of Don Dokken, my dear? Have my haikus addressing George Lynch's heavenly fretwork fallen upon deaf ears? Am I the only on in this house whose very dreams echo to the strains of "Alone Again"? Please, tell me you at least remember the driving force of "The Dream Warriors" from that Nightmare on Elm Street movie we watched. You didn't think I keep renting it again and again for the filmic content, did you? I swear, Deidrebane, sometimes it's like I'm married to a total stranger.

It's fortunate for you our neighbor to the East just put up that giant birdfeeder. Some things cannot be forgiven, my dear, but given enough concussive shotgun blasts in close proximity to one's head, it's entirely possible they may be forgotten.

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Good people, it is not very often a movie can change your life. That a movie can make you feel good to be alive, and can make you feel, after all, maybe the world is not a heaping pile of dung. I have just seen such a movie. American Booty.

Yes, you may be saying that the movie I speak of is over two years old by now, that it was over-hyped then and why see it now? Or, like the young smarmy film snob who checks me out at Blockbuster phrased it, "Dude, you ain't seen this yet? How weak."

Maybe it takes Rok Finger a little bit longer to catch on to a trend, you always have to beware passing fads like pop music and insulin. But once the hype had died down, I try to check out every meaningful piece of media in our culture. I can say with positive knowledge now that American Booty is among the most meaningful pieces of Americana produced in the past ten years.

For those unfamiliar with the film, I'll describe it briefly. An American Everyman husband, Slam Scrotum (played ably by Jock Large), is having a midlife crisis at twenty-five. His wife, Tits Ahoy (Janet Jackoff), is having an affair with some uncredited black guy, while his daughter (Kris Cum Loudy), who is also blonde and looks about the same age as the mother character, is having an affair with two midgets and their horse. Slam begins to daydream about sleeping with six of his daughter's friends (the Ass Girls of the Pretty Kitty Club, Houston, Texas) in long scenarios throughout the film.

As touchy as the subject may be, American Booty doesn't shy away from graphic portrayal of male-female conjugation. It's brutally honest, especially the scenes with the black guy, but if you allow yourself to experience American Booty you'll walk away, after a few minutes, forever changed.

Best of all, it doesn't pamper the viewer with a clearly-linear storyline or an explainable resolution. From what I could tell, soon after Slam mates with all his daughter's friends at once, the film fades out, allowing us to draw our own conclusions about morality and what possible repercussions await Slam in the future.

I usually don't "get" critically-lauded movies, no sir. Therefore I seldom recommend movies. But I have to urge you to see American Booty as soon as you get the chance. It has amazed audiences and critics everywhere--the box said Cream Machine magazine gave it "four stiffies"--and now I recommend you let it amaze you.

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