n a recent poll of Enron CEO's, the American economy was said to be doing "just fine right now, just fine."

Enron CEO and acknowledged Ponzi-scheme expert Ken Lay, queried while attending a White House get-together with his butt-buddy George W. Bush, the alleged president of the United States, put to rest rumors that the economy was about to go south, or was, in fact, already in the tank.

"That's a lot of horse shit," Lay said, laughing heartily. "I mean, sure, a few thousand people have been laid off recently, and maybe one or two of 'em are going to have to sell their boats or their vacation houses, but from where I sit... ha ha, excuse me, I just find this very amusing... from where I... ha ha ha!... from where I sit... oh, dear god, this is too much..." Lay chortled convulsively for a few minutes, then paused to wipe tears from his eyes. He took a few deep breaths with the aid of what appeared to be a large canister of nitrous oxide, and shook his head vigorously. Finally somewhat composed, he continued, "From where I sit, the economy is just peachy-fucking-keen! Ha! Ain't that right, Cracky?"

Lay then reached over to smack the alleged president hard on his backside, which caused him to nearly drop the glass pipe and butane lighter he had been holding up to his face, and to cough and choke on the voluminous clouds of acrid smoke that billowed from his mouth and nose.

"Oh, yeah. Whatever you say, Kenny," Bush said, once he had regained his composure. "Kenny's my main man," he went on, "whatever he says, you can trust it to be truthorious."

When asked if he thought most other Americans shared his rosy view of the current economy, Lay said simply, "Ha! Who gives a flying fuck? What color are their parachutes?"

To which Bush chimed in, "Yeah. Joke 'em if they can't take a fucking."

Lay then stared hard at his compatriot for a few long seconds, and finally commented, "You know, you really are a fucking idiot, Cracky, just like everyone says."

"Shut up!" retorted Bush. "Am not!"

The two then engaged in a slap fight that lasted nearly ten minutes, with Lay appearing to get the best of Bush by feinting with his left hand and repeatedly connecting with his right on Bush's cheek.

Asked for further comment on the state of the economy, Lay just waved his hand in dismissal and chuckled some more.

Signaling that the interview was concluded, Bush then turned his attention back to the glass pipe and lighter, ignoring both Lay and this reporter.

The event was a simple Saturday morning gathering that featured Colin Powell doing a sprightly tap dance for the guests, followed by John Ashcroft demonstrating some of the latest torture techniques on a group of unnamed Middle Eastern detainees and a ritual deflowering of all the underage daughters of the White House staff. Brunch was served, and it was a hearty Texas-style repast, composed of hearts of retarded felon salad in a balsamic vinaigrette and baked Mexican baby head with truffles.

alifornia Congressman Gary Condit, upset at his absence from national headlines lately, has vowed to do "whatever it takes" to get his name back in the public eye again soon.

Speaking today at a rally in a town square in the heart of what he refers to as "Condit Country," the long-time member of the House of Representatives and noted blow-dry enthusiast told a crowd of five hookers, three migrant workers, a homeless man with a skinny dog tied to his shopping cart and a pair of ten-year-old skateboarders that he was determined to become the "number one story in all America" once more.

In a rousing bit of oratory, the Congressman pointed his finger at the crowd and said, in a voice that hardly sounded at all as if he'd been taken over by space aliens, "What do I have to do, kill another intern? I'll kill an intern, if that's what it takes. That's how dedicated I am to you, the people who vote. When you go to the polls, I want you to remember the name Condit. Of course, it's not as if I've already killed any interns, you understand. After all, I do have a solemn agreement with the Levy family that I will not talk about the murder or subsequent disappearance of their daughter, Chandra, or any of the particulars of my personal involvement in that bloody business, but I'm just saying, I'll go that extra mile for you. Because I care about you, and I care about your votes."

Privately, Condit blamed the media for his recent lack of headlines.

"Ever since that ridiculous dustup in New York, it's gotten harder and harder to get my picture in the paper," he said with a grimace. "In just one short week, I went from twenty-seven national face shots—and I mean front page!—to zero. Zero, zip, zilch, nada. Hell, I had to send a publicity photo of me holding a bloody knife along with a stack of hundred dollar bills laced with anthrax to the Enquirer just to get a bottom-third headline a month ago. Bastards."

Acknowledging the fact that he could possibly lose an election for the first time in his political career, Condit admitted that he did have a backup plan, just in case.

"In that event—which, according to my staff and my family, is highly unlikely—I do have a contingency plan. My contention is that there's no such thing as bad publicity, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to keep my name out there for the public. So, if for some unforeseen reason we actually lose this election, I've got a provisional contract with the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas to do six shows a week under the billing 'Gary Cee and His Spectacular Disappearing Interns.' Hell, I could make millions just doing that," the Congressman admitted. "Those bitches work cheaper than you'd ever imagine, and there's never a shortage of supply."

Asked how he would handle a return to life outside the Beltway, Condit brushed off the idea that it would require a big adjustment.

"You know, I came up the hard way," he said, "going door to door selling hair-care products and blowing guys in gas station rest rooms for pocket change. I know what it's like to have to scrabble. Just don't you worry about me, bub, I'll get along fine."

In response to Congressman Condit's remarks, the Levy family issued a prepared statement through a designated spokesperson, who said, "What the fuckin'-ay cocksuckin' hell? Shit! Shit-fuck! Fuck that shit! Fuckin' fuckety goddamn motherfuckin' fuck."

If there are three sure signs that you're getting butt-raped by lady luck, they're these: you're sick, you're stuck in a waiting room watching a Behind the Music special on someone under the age of ten, and you're listening to Aaron Neville.

This past week I found myself with the lady's strap-on broken off in my poop basket for sure, as I came down with some heinous malady and spent the better part of an hour in some doctor's waiting room before this mannish nurse-thing told me that they didn't accept my "Skipper's Choice: Long John Silver's Health Insurance Discount Card." Before I could lodge a protest, or even throw an elbow, I found myself being dumped out onto the sidewalk by a pair of orderlies the size of East German ballerinas. You can bet the double-mortgaged farm that I cursed the commune and their shitheel "benefits package" the whole way home.

According to the Physician's Desk Reference, I have the Polynesian Swine Flu. I blame that bastard Ramon Nootles. If anyone in this office has been getting up-close and personal with Polynesian swine, it's Nootles.

I've been coughing up some kind of incredibly nasty gelatinous mustard all day. So far I've been on the phone to UNICEF, the CDC and MAPO about this, but none of them have been able to help me. That third company actually makes machines that process taco shells, I'm not sure who I thought they were supposed to be.

What's up with this supposedly space-age society we're living in? We can put a man on the moon, and write a song about it, but we can't eradicate these germs? And what about the mosquitoes, and horse flies? What the hell good is the military if we're at he mercy of these vermin? I'm all for downsizing the military—if by that you mean shrinking the tanks and missiles down to miniature proportions to blow up viruses and box-elder bugs and whatnot. I can't be the first one who's thought of this.

I've drank so much cough syrup in the last two days that I went to work three times this morning before I realized that I was still laying naked in my bathtub at home, wrapped up in the shower curtain like a pig in a blanket. From there I started going through my medicine cabinet alphabetically, hoping to hit upon some miraculous flu-curing combination somewhere in that pharmacological potluck. No luck so far, but a word to the wise: those herpes pills may provide a powerful buzz, but you'll also grow a third eye in your asscrack. Sometimes it pays to read the small print.

One thing I've learned is that it's best to buy a shot glass specifically for NyQuil shots. That shitty little Dixie cup they give you is worthless, and trust me, your regular shots will taste like Martian ass from that day forward if you try to multi-task with one shot glass. You'll never that disturbing tang all the way out.

I feel like I'm sitting in my own head, looking out at a movie about desk accessories. Good God, that's creepy. I plan to spend this afternoon finding a way to mechanically suction out my sinuses, and also take a jack-handle to whoever's been piping in this Aaron Neville. Again, I suspect Nootles.

Sweet Lord, let me die. I think I just coughed up my own nuts. Bricks out.

º Last Column: Handle with Care
º more columns