resident George "Whitewash" Bush tried to put to rest the media uproar over his service record in the national guard with a brief prepared statement Friday. Bush revealed his mixed feelings for the Vietnam war, saying once and for all his personal feelings about the conflict stemmed from the apparent lack of oil or natural resources for plundering in the country.

"Before I have alluded to personal reservations about the Vietnam war," the statement began. "These were private concerns, but since the media is preoccupied with the past, let me at last tell everyone I believe the war in Vietnam was misguided. I believe any military action that puts men in danger, when there is no profit to be made in oil or rich natural resources, or a lone figurehead to be vengefully removed from power, is wrong."

It was a dangerous statement for a war-hungry president during an election year, an area that could be mined by election-greedy Democrats and any forgettable third party candidates who might appear on public television or radio to complain. Even conservatives who traditionally back the president expressed initial worry about the president's dedication to the war on terror, or plans for a second term war on Iran, Syria, and Rendibaba, a little shit of an island unknown to everybody but rich in coal.

"Make no mistake," press secretary Scott McClellan responded, fielding questions from frothing reporters, "the president has no doubts about military action in Iraq or any country that supports terrorism. The president stands firm on wars for vengeance and resource exploitation. In Iraq we had both."

And the war on terror?

"That falls under the column of vengeance," assured McClellan, drawing a line with his hand. "Column A, vengeance. That's like Iraq, or Panama or something. Florida. Column B, we're talking exploitation of natural resources. President's all for that. I mean, really for that. Sometimes we have to talk him out of invading ally countries like Mexico. Loads of fat, juicy resources down there. Make his mouth water."

The president's statement could be seen as a desperate act by an administration beleaguered with a bad news week, including continued focus on intelligence mistakes and a plea from WMD inspector David Kay for the president to admit there are no weapons in Iraq. A greater problem during the week was the unearthing of questions about Bush's service in the National Guard during the year from 1972 to 1973, and records could only prove he served nine days in uniform that year, unless you count the Good Humor Man outfit he wore during a summer job.

For supporters of the president, the hope is the statement, no matter how unexpected, will allow the discussion to slip out of public light and turn national attention toward things the president likes, such as apathy, or J. Lo-Affleck gossip-dishing. For Democrats, many are optimistic that the statement will further entrench the president in an uphill battle to explain his role in the Iraq war.

"Ya-wa-hoo!" screeched Democrat presidential nominee front-runner John Kerry, who then proceeded to do a sort of jig most resembling a Riverdance theme. Further questions were not answered as Kerry hopped, twisted, and scuttled into the streets outside, in the direction of the setting sun, presumably hoping others would join him as in a Dr. Pepper commercial.

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The first time someone saw two men slapping their palms together in greeting, one single thought inevitably bubbled its way up from the primordial ooze:

What the fuck was that?

Yes indeed, what the fuck was that? And more importantly, who started this crazy shit? Good question, and good of me to ask it. However, one cannot begin to discuss the history of the high-five without first exploring the origin of its parent gesture, the handshake.

The handshake is a gesture with a long and storied history, dating back to ancient times when everyone hated everyone. Mothers and sons, fathers and brothers, anyone could kick your ass and take your muffins at any time. These were brutal times and people behaved accordingly, ruthlessly exploiting the weak and dickless. It was a bad time to wear open-toed sandals.

During these harsh times, whenever two people approached on a country road, or in the livingroom, there began a dance where the participants would circle each other cautiously, right hands at the ready on their weapon of choice, be it a sword, a dagger, or a book of pithy puns. If, in the verbal parrying that ensued, it was determined that the threat of being beaten into fruit leather was acceptably minimal for both parties involved, the two people would then extend their empty weapon-hands and shake them, as a way of saying "I'm too tired to kill you today" or "I can't get this smell off my hand."

Eventually, after hundreds of years, the traditional handshake began to fall behind the accelerating pace of modern life. Basketball games were slowed down unacceptably since entire teams were constantly stopping the game to shake hands after a successful slam dunk. And in normal public life, too many jokers were doing that thing where they rub their middle finger on the inside of your wrist while shaking hands, which feels really perverted. An increasingly homophobic population was also growing less comfortable with the thought of men touching each other's hands for entire seconds at a time. Could a cockshake really be that far off?

The time had clearly come for a new, modern greeting, something quick, violent, and devoid of intimacy. Nature wasted little time filling this vacuum in the form of University of Louisville forward Derek Smith in 1980. Angry over being pantsed by fellow teammate Hubert Sanders on the previous play, Smith took a running leap at Sanders mid-court, in an attempt to punch Sanders' nose into the back of his shorts. Due to Smith's poor motor control and Sanders' serendipitous choice of that moment to wave to his girlfriend in the stands, the would-be beat-down resulted instead in a thunderously loud palm-on-palm slap that all present mistook as intentional.

So dramatic and unexpected was the gesture that it energized the crowd and soon caught on nationwide, with Smith and Sanders playing along since Sanders had no idea what had happened and Smith didn't want anyone to know he was that big of a gimp. The truth didn't come out until years later, when Smith was pantsed at a book signing in Michigan in 1993, and responded by high-fiving an elderly woman in the face who was waiting in line to buy a John Grisham book on tape.

Since that fateful day, the high-five and its low-five and non-altitude-specific variants have become ubiquitous in modern life, from urban culture and youth sports leagues to the embarrassing climax of many a John Tesh concert. Due in no small part to the gesture being co-opted by such blanchingly uncool impostors of the funk as Tesh and living duck decoy Bob Sagat of television near-personality fame, intricate and complex handshakes, complete with high and low slaps, snaps, fist-hits and pointing were developed in the inner cities to keep white people everywhere feeling lame and inadequate for the foreseeable future.

In recent years, the gesture has continued to evolve, with the traditional high-five now being used almost exclusively in sporting events and corporate seminars. In hip-hop culture, the high-five has been replaced entirely by the fist-hit, a "less-faggy" gesture residing more comfortably near to the border between violence and greeting. At our current pace, by 2050 we'll have come full-circle with the re-acceptance of the "kick in the face" greeting popular in ancient times. And with any luck, I'll be long dead by then, or at least cryogenically frozen in a threatening pose. Good day.

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Wish me luck, keep your fingers crossed, and break both your legs. Clarissa Coleman is all lined up for a big audition.

I don't usually tell you about auditions, I know. I like to keep some secrecy, some little things private to myself. That and I forget about them until the last minute most of the time. But this is different. This is no piddlin' "Hey, Remember the Songs of the '80s?" infomercial audition. This is a series television audition, no kidding. Real network TV! Well, UPN, and that counts as network TV in a few circles outside of Hollywood. But I'm excited all the same.

I was sitting around on New Year's Day, trying to figure out whose underwear I was wearing and how I got a hold of them, when my agent Dusty called. Usually it's not good news, he just wants to talk about the World's Fair of 1967 and what a grand time it was, that or how I still owe dues from 1989 to the SAG, but today was different. He had a part for me to read, a real live part!

I was skeptical, at first, who wouldn't be? But I checked, and the phone was indeed plugged in, and none of my commune office mates was hiding in the room. Not a camera in sight even. It really was Dusty, and once I verified he wasn't having another "living flashback" to the '80s, I would be on cloud nine.

Sure enough, the audition was real. It turns out a sitcom producer named Matt Viggoschultz was a big fan of my Court-TV appearances where I denied knowing anything about those injuries related to the Waffle Messiah, and wanted to know if I was working. Well, sure, if you count picketing E!'s Star Dates show with a sign that says, "First Date Action Guaranteed," but nothing that couldn't be dropped quickly for a rebound shot at television! He mailed (industry term for sending through the postal service) a copy of the pilot script for his show and I loved it! The binding was shiny and the font they used was original and clever. After I read it, it got even better.

It's a Friends-style show, with a little bit of Survivor mixed in, with a touch of Dragnet to make it work. In the pilot episode, a group of chums get shipwrecked on a desert island paradise, where they have to overcome their differences and learn to trust each other to survive the harsh environment. One of them is voted in as the tribal lawman, and when one of the buddies is murdered, the lawman has to solve the murder.

I knew it would be an effort to play this kind of role each week and make it believable, having never been stranded on a desert island where I played the role of law enforcer before, but I was determined to be a part of this project, no matter what I had to do. Producer Viggoschultz then informed me he wanted me for the lawman's sidekick, his girl Friday Shelly, which is a smaller role, yeah, but one I'm definitely more fit for. It's a shame, though, that beard was starting to come in pretty nice before he told me.

I was meant to play this role of Shelly, and nothing will stop me from playing her, short of not getting the part. Which is why I've been rehearsing my monologue all week. In the past I've always used the same piece for auditions, but it's never worked out for me—I think I'm just getting too old to do the "I want a give the world a gweat big hug!" bit from Who's Your Daddy? that I used for years. This year I'm using Susan Sarandon's "boycott G.E." Oscar speech, and if they look like an apolitical crowd I'll just use Halle Berry's three minutes of crying Oscar speech. Either way, I'm getting this role. 2003 is going to be the year of the comeback for Clarissa Coleman.

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