Bush Declares Environment Part of 'Axis of Evil'

n his brashest act against ecological ideologies yet, President Bush declared the environment to be part of the "axis of evil" that includes Iraq, Iran, and North Korea. The environment, said Bush, in a speech written for him by a college buddy he hired, has conspired to deprive America of its much-needed fossil fuels and energy with blatant threats to "cut off" the availability of these fuels and deprive the world of oxygen.

"It's like some villain out of that new James Bond movie, which opens tomorrow," said Bush at a meeting with oil lobbyists and business friends Thursday. "The environment is threatening the safety of America and our way of life by taking from us what is ours. The reason oil and gas is so expensive—doesn't that just make ya mean mad?—is all because the environment has decided to hold out for better treatment and reduced emissions and stuff. I say we stand up and tell them where we stand!"

Afterwards, in response to reporters' questions if he was out of his mind, Bush stated: "I am in full possession of all my facilities, and I want to keep it that way. We must act now to crush the evil regime of the environment. All these threats to America, from earthquakes to hurricanes, it's all the environment's fault. I will not allow this assault on Homeland Security^TM to continue by 'Mother Nature' and her axis of evil buddies."

The White House has stated its opposition to the 1997 Kyoto Protocol, signed by environment-friendly former president Bill Clinton. The Kyoto Protocol is an international treaty in which the United States pledged, with other countries, to reduce dangerous greenhouse gas emissions by seven percent in an effort to help the environment. Bush's assertion is that the Kyoto Protocol will be a threat to the recovery of the economy, which thrives much better when businesses run rampant and unchecked, left to police themselves in areas of deadly emissions. Bush elaborated Thursday that to obey the Kyoto Protocol is to play right into nature's diabolical plan to extort America.

"It is high time," said Bush, then pausing to laugh as he realized he said "high," "that America stop coddling terrorists like the environment. They're our emissions and we can make them if we want. And it's high time Mother Nature stopped holding back on the fossil fuels—we all know you got more. You know what we call someone who dishes out a little bit o' goodies and then stops all of a sudden? A tease, that's what."

The environment, according to Bush aides, has caused America to curb its business such as automobile manufacturing, logging and textile manufacturing, and nuclear arms production. The environment is also believed responsible for mudslides, tornadoes and tropical storms, earthquakes, and other "natural disasters," and the White House is warning it that the heat will only go up until the environment ceases its actions.

America's demands: Unlimited fossil fuels, quicker replacement of oxygen, warmer climate in the winter and colder climate in the summer, and as many trees as we can chop down and turn into furniture.

"We're through jumping through your hoops, environment," said an angry Bush, addressing the sky. "Get rid of all this terror, and the way this whole city stinks. If you don't, we have no alternanative but to consult the U.N.—" Bush and a few buddies laughed in each other's directions. "…and take action against this direct threat to our safety. Remember, we know where you keep your rainforests."

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Kind friends, I'm more than aware of America's fondest for the individual. Actually, strike that, I'm simply aware of it, I doubt it's possible to be more than aware of something, it's the knowledge-based equivalent of being more than dead, you either are or aren't. Suffice to say I know of our need to be individuals, I myself am an individual along with my wife and friends, so I do not suggest we all needlessly conform. And even if I do suggest that, I'm willing to understand when people don't obey. But one thing is damn sure, and there is no quarter given for this fact: There is no "I" in "camp songs."

As Den Boss (I am neither mother nor father to any of them, it's shameful to lead them on like some adult den leaders do) of Troop 54, I am the short, thin green line between fascism and full-out hippie love fest. I will have neither, particularly the latter. I will even take a significant helping of the former in order to avoid any smidgen of the latter, to be blunt and honest. And until last week, order was held and maintained by Den Boss Rokwell T. Finger. Until a freckled kid, I'll refer to him as "The Turd" in order to protect small children from the shame of their actions. Okay, I can give you a hint, his real first name is Todd and his last name begins with a C., he's roughly 9, but that's all I can give you without incriminating him. If you write to me here at the commune I'll send a discreet e-mail sharing his name, just between you and me, but otherwise, "The Turd" thing is still in effect.

During an especially well-tempoed version of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," I heard a clattering off-key voice chime in, a second late I might add, and bring the whole thing tumbling down like a fat man on glass platform shoes. This voice was high-pitched, so I knew it wasn't my own, again starting up without my control under the boisterous sway of the song's appeal; it was one of the boys.

The freckle-faced Turd was the culprit. It was more than poorly-executed singing; I could tell by his flustered face, the squeaks of giggles from others, and the half-smile his wide-open pie hole was curtained by that the Turd was a revolutionary, a Che Guevara amidst my stolid camper robots. Well, naturally I warned him it was fruitless to defy our singing rules, and I thought that would work. Needless to say it did not.

"The Wheels on the Bus" did not go 'round and 'round, my friends. Old McDonald's Farm was full of blithering, retarded animals, including cats that mooed and chickens that made farting noises. And instead of coming around the mountain when she came, the bitch downright derailed. I was furious, more than furious, which I think may be possible to a reasonable extent.

I had a choice, right then and there: Allow my authority to vaporize to a pudgy anarchist or make an example of him to the others.

It wasn't a pleasant choice, obviously, but I took the only realistic course of action: I abandoned Turd to the wilderness as Troop 54 packed quickly and left. He believed his punishment was gathering nuts and berries, and in a way it was since he must have done that to survive his long stay in the woods and find his way back to civilization. I received stern criticism, true, and lost the command of my scout regiment, but at least I have left an indelible lesson of the importance of conformity impressed upon them, especially one arrogant young boy.

Turd has since managed to find his way back, judging by the signatures on the legal summons, and nobody is happier than me. Hopefully he'll grow up one day and, when a gaggle of young boys are put in his custody, he'll realize a stern rod can shape any young Jimmy Dean Rebel-Without-A-Cause into an impressive soprano.

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It takes a lot to shame Rok Finger, friends. Three counts of indecent exposure, a national trial for treason and a bastard child in Spanish Harlem have all failed in the past. But I have to begrudgingly admit that like a Nazi eating a ham 'n' Russian front sandwich, I've bitten off more than I can chew. I am a failure as a physical trainer.

In my brazen youth of two months ago, I volunteered to help my nephew Camembert, a scrawny wire-thin nerd for whom the very word "wormy" was invented, get back into top peak physical condition, like yours truly. It was an embarrassing incident to say the least, for both myself and poor Camembert, who to this day is still checked into a clinic for those with critically poor self esteem, listed in stable but serious condition.

Camembert, son of my wife's sister Gretastock, was recently in a severe car wreck and had been milked like an attractive cow by the insurance company during his stay in the hospital. On top of everything else, now they wanted him to hire some expensive physical trainer of vaguely Swedish descent to get back into shape. Ha! I'd rather him die than be taken advantage of like that! Camembert wasn't ready to go quite that far, but through arrangements with my wife, Arvelyn, I put myself in charge of his physical recovery.

Well, needless to say the first few weeks are better left unmentioned. It was nobody's fault, to look at it objectively, Camembert was way too eager to please and I rushed in a little uninformed. I still say he walked a good minute like a veritable stallion, even if the doctors with their all-powerful "medical science" say the spine is broken and he'll never walk again. I was disappointed, sure, but I could still do a lot for upper body strength even if he was paralyzed for life. Still, you should have seen him walk for that minute, it was quite a sight.

As most of you know, I don't like to work out with fancy gym equipment, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my jock. So I was damned if I'd let Camembert do the same. The first step was to lift my car, just like I used to keep in shape. And let's be fair, people--it's a Volkswagen, it's not a Cadillac or anything, I'd say it's fair game and definitely not "cruel and unusual punishment" like the Geneva Convention says in that quote the judge cited. But, admittedly, perhaps Camembert was a little out of practice to start so big. I say if you can do it there's hardly a greater confidence booster. I surmise with his legs all floppy thanks to Mr. Toothpick Spine that fiery little Camembert couldn't quite get the leverage he needed. I assure you when I set it to neutral I was only trying to help him in his effort and of course I wouldn't have done so if I had any inclination the car would roll on him, but I guess that's why they give you a driver's manual, to detail these sorts of things.

I was at my most desperate by this time, as you might guess, and I had basically given up on my proven methods of training. And knowing me, you'd probably say, "Rok, acupuncture?" Yes, acupuncture, you precocious, smarmy bastard. And when did we get on the first name basis all of a sudden?

The eastern art of applying needles to pressure point seemed like a sure shot to overcome Camembert's numb legs and now-broken arms. I thought I might at least stimulate the muscles and keep them in shape while he was incapable of moving them. Let me tell you now, good people, acupuncture is the biggest Chinese put-on since that papier maché wall they constructed. It's clearly just a scam to earn back from gullible round-eyes the money they lose in their restaurant buffets. Either that or a specific kind of needle is required that they keep secret, because I can tell you the crochet needle is not an effective replacement.

Camembert forgives my well-intentioned mistakes, at least while the demoral fills his bloodstream. Whether or not I'll ever forgive myself is another story.

Okay, I did. Phew. It was hard to live like that, but it's taught me a lesson. There are just some things Rok Finger isn't cut out to do in life. But I'll always know I should try it first just to make sure it is or isn't one of those things. Who knows? Maybe there's still a carpenter, beer distiller, opera singer, or astronaut in me still waiting to get out.

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