hursday's meeting of the minds between the ten prominent candidates for the Democratic presidential nomination at Manhattan's Pace University may not have provided a clear front-runner, but it did haul in a net full of fresh catchphrases. All candidates involved tried to sum up the complicated problems of the U.S. and international affairs into humorous phrases or puns, jabbing incessantly at each other's records and universally condemning President Bush as a major jerkoff.

The lead attraction for the afternoon, besides the boyish good looks of Sen. John Edwards, was the debut of retired Army Gen. Wesley Clark. The former NATO commander lobbed the first polite volley of the day with his backhanded compliment in opening remarks: "I'm happy to join such an esteemed group of Democratic colleagues. I can't believe you're all trailing Bush in the polls."

Clark also dealt one of the earliest catchphrases in the debate in slamming the Bush administration. "We elected a president we thought was a compassionate conservative. Instead, we got neither conservatism or compassion." A solid good start to political soundbytes, though Clark erred in claiming Bush had been elected.

Pace University Political Science professor Ingrid Northam explained the importance of a political catchphrase in an election, to sum up the heart of one's platform to Americans surfing the TV and too busy to actually seek information on candidates. But more importantly, for a field of Democrats all failing to stimulate voter interest, catchphrases can be a make-or-break way of establishing a personality the voters can appreciate. It allows them to differentiate between candidates, and the right catchphrase could put a failing candidacy right back on track. It was extremely interesting stuff and well-spoken, and this reporter regrets not having written any of it down.

After initial platforms were summarized, the catchphrase cannonade really began. Massachusetts Sen. John Kerry knocked Bush tax cuts, claiming, "President Bush calls cutting taxes for the richest Americans, 'tax relief.' Well, you know how I spell relief, Mr. President? J-O-B-S." The audience hooted and hollered as if free beer were served, and afterward nothing could stem the flow of nifty slogans.

Rep. Dick Gephardt's strategy was to attack frontrunner Howard Dean. "Dean called Medicare the 'worst Federal program ever.' He sided with Newt Gingrich on a $270 billion cut in Medicare. Governor, for a man with the name Dean, you got no class."

Dean angrily retorted, "What kind of name is Gephardt? The dumb kind, you ask me." But most irksome to the major contender was the comparison to Newt Gingrich, which Dean vehemently denied, saying, "Nobody up here deserves to be compared to Newt Gingrich." the commune contacted Newt Gingrich for a response, but upon being told he was Newt Gingrich the former Speaker of the House flew into a rage and threatened to sue us if we printed such slander.

The debate proved most successful for those already leading the pack, analysts said. Trailing candidates failed to make much headway, and some contribute it to coming to the debate ill-prepared for catchphrases. Sen. John Edwards declared, "I keep coming back like the clap," to no effect on the audience. Carol Mosley Braun failed to gain much ground with her new slogan, "Who am I? Let's find out together!" However, Al Sharpton reportedly managed to add a few points to his demographics with the rattling shout of, "Who's up for ribs?" It was newcomer Clark, however, who made the most initial impact from his first debate appearance, closing his part in the debate, "Tanks for your nomination."

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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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Ned Nedmiller come from a long line of popular sloganeers. Nary a time has this great nation hoofed it off to war without a snappy Nedmiller slogan a-hummin' in their brain boxes. In the big one it was "Give a Hoot, Smoke a Boot" and in the big one, the sequel, it was "Damn the Gravy Crank, Macie!" Them Korean War wouldna been near as keen were it not for "Loose Anus, Shank the Dentist" and who can think of Vietnam without remarkin' to themselves "Gimmie a Slice a' Mermaid Pie!" Not quite as many people as you'd think.

Ned's daddy, and the fella who shot Ned's daddy out his pee-hole (Steve) both was popular sloganeers also. Them presided over the golden age of sloganeerin', and nobody not far or near confused them with anything but the best. Dad Nedmiller often would tell stories of them days of his four fathers back when them slogans was classic and simple, and of the time when his pappercorn invented the world's most famous slogan: "Okay, Bill." That was the ringer that cemented his undying fame and created them family fortune you've been readin' about on the bubblegum wrappers and whatnot. It was the slogan against which all others would be judgemencated, and harshly so.

But that's not to say Dadmiller and Grandcracker didna dream up any no other slogans of international famousness. "Don't Wet My Bagpipe!" "A Man, A Tarpaulin, A Combustible Weasel Throne: Sioux Falls," "I Can't Believe I Porked the Pope!" "The Rancid Backbeaver State," "Don't Eat the TNT," "Remember the Alamo and Some Milk," "Give Me Liberty or Give Me Electric Sex Goggles," "We Have Nothing to Fear But Martian Sodomy Squads," and "Rowdy's Soup is Mm Mm Wet," are all to their credits. A fine legacy that's one tough horse and pony show to follow, if you don't mind me sayin'.

Ned Nedmiller has done his best to follow in their novelty-sized footsteps. Nedder made his name early with such rememberable slogans as "A Friend in Needles is in Nevada," "I'm With Stupid," "Shit Stinks," "Go Up, Space Moron," "Smells Like Kindercare," "Rachet Down the Tuna Shaker," "Asthmatics Have More Fun," "Dribble Glass, My Ass," and "Don't Spaz the Curb Monkey!" But Neddle didn't really hit his stride until he penned the counterculture hit slogan of them 60's: "Flush it Down, Charlie Brown." Them slogan captured the imagniariums of a whole generation and put Nedder on the map, as them cartographers is fond of sayin'. Ned got himself a tickletape parade for that caper, and is still beloved by acid burn-outs of all ages, yessir.

Sloganeerin' is quite a pursuit, bringing you much famousness when done right and the satisfaction of givin' folks something to say when they got nothing to say on their own. Quite a charm. And don't let a contradictionary word be spoke about the eternal nature of them very best slogans. You know what them robotic space dinosaurs will say in a billion and one years when they dig up them fossils of you and your neighbors. That's right. "Flashdance in Grover Cleveland's Ass!"

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