ollowing former chief U.S. weapons inspector David Kay's admission pre-war intelligence was practically "all wrong," officials in the Bush administration came forward with announcements everyone was, ostensibly, "shocked."

Staff members ranking as high as the vice president and "president" issued statements on how "shocked" (quote-unquote) everyone in government was about the lack of chemical or biological weapons in Iraq after the fall of Saddam Hussein's regime. Press secretary Scott McClellan said the president himself sort of "dismayed" and "curious" about the "failure" of prewar intelligence. When asked by reporters if the White House planned a probe into the intelligence problem, McClellan restrained a smile and promised someone would get on that "right away."

Conservative news agencies posed questions to McClellan on how the president viewed intelligence and homeland security in the wake of the discovery, while more liberal news agencies questioned the press secretary on the legitimacy of the Iraq war if intelligence has proven faulty. Meanwhile, in the back of the room, one man screamed at the top of the lungs that the president knew, of course he knew, goddammit, everyone in the administration had to have known and they rode into the fucking White House looking for the first excuse to head into Iraq with guns blazing just like daddy did, Jesus Christ, has everyone else on the fucking planet gone so deaf and blind they can't even see the president's a lousy fucking liar? But McClellan did not take questions at that time.

Statements from the White House were seen by many as damage control after Kay's Wednesday admission to a congressional committee early Iraq intelligence claiming Saddam Hussein was developing a program of weapons of mass destruction (or WMD, as the kids are saying) was incorrect. Kay described the "lapse" as a massive intelligence failure, and painted the president as much a victim of the fuck-up as the hundreds of Iraqis lying dead under rubble and blown up by landmines.

"Boy, did we screw the pooch on this one," laughed Kay, to an unforgiving congressional audience. "Yikes. Tough room. But seriously, folks, you know who we should give it up for? Mr. Bush. That's right, the president. I know it's not popular to say so, but I think he's doing a bang-up job and plainly he just wanted to do the right thing and had no idea how shitty this intelligence was. Really, we're talking Pig Latin intelligence or something. Waaaay off, no kidding. I think they were even in Iceland—hey! You gotta give me that one. C'mon. Show the love."

Friday Bush followed the administration's campaign for getting over this as quick as possible by releasing an official statement ripe with quotation marks.

"Obviously we would have done things 'differently' if the intelligence had been more accurate. Assuming that it was accurate—I still say, really, there's no way of telling if anybody's got weapons of mass destruction on them or not. You can hide them anywhere. I've got mustard gas, hidden in a tree house from when I was 12 years old, little gift from dad, nobody ever found it. You telling me Saddam can't hide something in all of Iraq? But I'm getting off message here. We're obviously facing a 'failure' of intelligence here. Everybody here in this administration wants 'peace,' no one more so than me. But if I had it all to do over again, knowing the 'threat' Saddam Hussein poses to the world, I would have done things very much the same. Our 'coalition' in Iraq is 'ready' to 'hand over' the 'country' in the 'next few months,' give or take two or three years."

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"I remember it just like it was yesterday, the summer that my brother Goose and I spent trying to build our own airplane. We had it on good authority that none other than the Great Gildersleeve himself would be making a public appearance in St Louis in a month's time, and we weren't about to consider the option of not being there. We begged mom and dad for weeks, but they failed to realize the importance of this event, or the relative insignificance of the 36-hour drive to St Louis. Perhaps if we'd had Stephanie on our side we could have turned the tides, but she was strictly a Fibber McGee girl and she distanced herself from the negotiations, most likely because she was angling for a new bike for her birthday. So it remained for Goose and I to find our own means of transportation to St Louis, and a homemade airplane sounded as good as any.

Our first prototype was a simple model consisting of an old mattress we found in the garage with a red racing stripe painted up the side. And it may have gotten the job done if it weren't for Goose, who was scared by a bee when we were hoisting it up onto the roof and let go of the mattress-plane early, which slid off the roof and into our neighbor's pool. Similar was the fate of prototype number two, an old garbage can tied to a pogo stick, which slid down the roof while Goose was climbing in and ended up putting a big dent in the hood of Dad's car. Goose caught pure hell for that mishap, and I had to join the 4H Club just to provide an alibi as to where I was that afternoon.

Goose thought we should go with one of his designs for our third prototype, and I humored him although I was doubtful because of Goose's well-documented lack of imagination. Prototype three ended up being a big cardboard box with a picture of an airplane taped to the side, and all I have to say about that is I'm glad Goose broke my fall. He's probably lucky he sprained his ankle as well since Mom was pretty steamed at Goose for cutting up the "A" volume of the family encyclopedias the way he did.

After that mom and dad both forbade us from attempting any more flights to St Louis, and we ended up having to listen to the Great Gildersleeve on the radio instead while Goose was propped up on icepacks. It probably would have been more fun to be there in person, but I imagine then we would have missed the fun that night when we heard that great crash outside and all ran out to find dad in the driveway amidst a mangled pile of homemade airplane parts."

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My life was a horribly small, dark, petty place, let me tell you. I was a shell of a man—worse than a shell, I was a magic shell, hardened by the cold ice cream of the world, and quite delicious, filled with nuts. I forgot what I was saying. Oh, yeah—my life was pointless and full of tragedy. That was before I met Melinda. And after I met Melinda, too.

Melinda was my girlfriend. What a day that was. Everyone said she was just using me to make her boyfriend nauseous, but I don't believe them. She was pretty mad when she said it, too, so I don't believe her either. I met her, both of them, actually, when I was working as a safety bar for an amusement park roller coaster. It was tough, but I got to ride for free all the time. Now who's the jerk, Mr. Big and Mighty Safety Inspector? I didn't see you ride one of the rides while you were closing the place down.

But in them halogen days, when I first caught a sniff of Melinda's perfume, I knew she would one day be my girlfriend. And then break up with me later that day—trust me, I know my luck by now. Doesn't mean I give up on love. I fell for Melinda hard, right off the top of the roller coaster, and she was the only one who came to see if I was alright. When she had safely removed all the money and metallic items from my pockets, she called for an ambulance. But I got up and skipped out before that, I ain't paying for no ride when you can sneak into a tire well and ride free. Before I left, though, I let Melinda know I was keen on her with an obscene gesture, and told her I'd be around the fair—I had no place to live, so I had to keep walking so as not to get busted.

Fate intervened later because I was picking up shells at the fair's shooting range (not much pay, but it tightens your reflexes for being shot at) I saw her fighting with her boyfriend two stands down, at the ring toss. I took a break and decided to hang close by, hoping I could nuzzle up close to her and leave my scent—my flirting skills ain't all that, maybe, but you always can tell when I like a woman. Then she surprised me, because she grabbed me by the head and gave me a big kiss. It was a shock, believe you me. I'll always remember what she said—"If you're not serious about setting a date, then maybe I'll just marry any retard that comes along!" It cracked me up. I love it when someone says "retard."

But it was not to be. Her boyfriend apologized immediately and they went out to get shitfaced, at least that's what I overheard. Still, I'll always have the memories. And her purse. She didn't notice that. I didn't want the money, of course, just the souvenir of my fiery Parisian romance. At least I think it was Paris. It could have been Austin. All Texas looks alike after awhile.

Valentine's Day rules. One of these days I'm going to spend it with someone who willingly spends it with me.

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