he whole wide world heaved a giant sigh of relief this week with the news that disaster had been averted: despite Mother Nature’s best attempts to rob us of one of our most beautiful people, pretty Czech supermodel Petra Nemcova has survived the Asian tsunami. Accidentally trapped in the midst of the ugly foreign tragedy while on a glamorous beach vacation, Nemcova soldiered through the big wet mess by clinging bravely to a tree while her photographer boyfriend was tsunamied to his apparent death. Nemcova sustained only moderate injuries in what international aid workers are calling “a miracle from God.�

That same miracle, however, killed over 155,000 foreign peoples, most of whom can charitably be described as “nobodies.� To date, the bodies of over 155,000 nobodies have been found in disaster recovery operations throughout southern Asia. The search for celebrities continues.

In the wake of the recent tsunamic free-for-all, American President George W. Bush has vowed vengeance against all nations suspected of harboring or supporting the deadly ocean waves. Early reports indicate that the Middle Eastern nations of Iran and Syria are already on the president’s tsunami “shit list.�

Other nations known to have studied tsunamis in the past, including Jordan and Turkey, are reportedly also under close watch. Lending credence to the theory that oil and evil go together like beef and cheese, Bush also suggested that Saudi Arabia is skating on thin ice regarding their own tsunami-harboring status.

“This terrible tragedy has earned the president precious political capital, and he intends to use it,� explained the Secretary of State Colin Powell, indicating that American troops were even now readying to kick the Iranians’ tsunami-loving butts back to Tehran.

Little is known about the elusive tsunami, whose name comes from the Japanese word for “big fucking milkshake.� First described in the 1964 pop hit “Love Tsunami� by Little Johnny Maxwell, scientists have been unable to determine where the giant killer waves come from, or where they hide out between attacks.

“A tsunami is apparently some kind of big wavy thing,� explained University of Minnesota geologist Hans Goering. “I know, woo—scary. But apparently a lot of those people didn’t know how to swim or something. In addition, we believe that this event may have featured an unprecedented number of surfing fatalities. Kids should take heart and remember to always wear a bicycle helmet while surfing. Also, don’t fall asleep in a hut on the beach.�

Nemcova’s miraculous survival has brought hope to millions in the region, who take heart in the fact that despite the widespread misery and destruction prevalent in so many countries bordering the Indian Ocean, no famous or really beautiful Americans were killed in the tsunami attack. Meanwhile, international aid groups continue to search the wreckage day and night for signs of anyone you may have heard of.

he U.S. may have a new Attorney General by this time next month, one who makes John Ashcroft seem like a reasonable candidate for the job. Alberto Gonzales, possibly the world's most Hilteresque Hispanic-American, is set for confirmation and expected to get all the votes needed for appointment, even though he has still been defending his record on human rights. On Friday, Gonzales attempted to clarify some of his previous statements, including one made in a memo from September of 2001, stating, "America will feast on terrorists' bones when the sun falls on this war."

Gonzales, nicknamed "Francisco Franco-American" by this reporter just now, has been accused of creating the Bush White House position on human rights—summed up by the statement, "Human rights? Huh?" In his former position as White House counsel, Gonzales, miraculously keeping the president out of jail for four years, challenged that prisoners taken without evidence and without due process in the War on Terror were not subject to the same protections as other soldiers imprisoned during wartime under the codes of the Geneva conventions.

In other feats of jaw-dropping "what the fuck," Gonzales challenged the very definitions of torture accepted around the world. Previous definitions, based on ideas of "cruel and unusual punishment," were replaced with the even more ambiguous definition of "excruciating and agonizing pain." At least with this definition, Ashton Kutcher movies are now officially designated torture.

"Unusual punishment? What's so bad about unusual punishment?" defended Gonzales in Friday's seven-hour testimony to the Senate Judiciary Committee Friday. "If I get a bare-bottom spanking from Mamie Van Doren, it might unusual, but I say that doesn't qualify as torture. And those guys in Camp X-Ray—they got it so good it ought to be illegal. I mean, it probably would be, if it were on American soil. But you know what I mean."

Asked if the attorney's arguments against the Geneva conventions opened the door for the abuses at Iraq's Abu Ghraib prison, Gonzales pretended not to hear the question. Asked again, he pretended not to know what Abu Ghraib was. After a lengthy recount of the many incidents of prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib, Gonzales gave a more definite response.

"Nah. Probably not," said the attorney.

Gonzales then took a firmer stance, saying the pictures of abuse, which he owned plenty of in his personal collection, were "people who were morally bankrupt having fun." At least, continued Gonzales, it "looked like a lot of fun."

The attorney, who had by now pitted out his entire suit with sweat, was asked to clarify the infamous statement on eating the bones of terrorists.

"I was paraphrasing the Jolly Green Giant," answered Gonzales. "Or whoever that guy was. The one whose home was invaded by the tiny terrorist who stole his golden goose. We will use their bones, meaning the terrorists', to butter our bread. That's all I meant to say. I apologize if the meaning was taken that we will actually be eating the bones straight out of their bodies. I don't believe that would be very appetizing for most Americans. Not at all. Anyway, if we do it, nobody has to watch—is that the problem here?"

Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman Arlen Specter comically threw all his papers up in the air at that point, mugged for the grandstand, and told the people, "Well, I frankly don't see a problem here…"

If I go into a restaurant at ten o'clock at night, and they are not closed this time, I should be able to order a venison sandwich and get it. I have said it before, I'll say it again.

Good people, is this America, or communist Italy? We live in the richest and freest nation on earth. Freest? That doesn't look right. Free-loving? Wrong implications, but I see little alternative. You know what I mean—we love freedom. We have endless resources and, Lord knows, if I can afford a venison sandwich, there is no good reason why I should not get it.

Don't tell me it's Christmas Eve, missy. I didn't order a calendar. I ordered a venison sandwich. Venison has to be the fifth or sixth most popular kind of meat in the world. How can a national chain like McDonald's run out of it so fast? That's pretty ridiculous.

As you can guess, this really did happen. I had something called a "Big Mac" instead, some kind of cow meat or something, with salad dressing slathered all over it. I prefer my meats not to be slathered. Basted, or painted, perhaps. Never slathered, and certainly not drenched. Unless it's with barbecue sauce, but this wasn't. So yes, a nasty cow meat sandwich with slathered-on salad dressing. I promptly threw up. That was my Christmas present.

Camembert and his girlfriend Elvis were quite embarrassed. I think they just like to challenge me now. I'm paying for Christmas dinner, I reminded them, I'm the one who should be embarrassed about throwing up. But I wasn't. Because as I said, they didn't give me what I originally wanted—my stomach doesn't compromise. It wanted venison, and it knows the difference between deer meat and cow meat slathered with salad dressing. McDonald should be ashamed of himself. I tried to get him on the phone, but those disrespectful slacker employees just kept calling him a clown. In my day, we respected our wealthy corporate founders.

I'm not sure, good people, what it is about Christmas that puts me in the mood for a tasty venison sandwich. It has long been my cross to bear. That and the large cross in my backyard, but I'm not finished building that quite yet.

Jesus had a cross to bear, too. It was called being the son of a popular Fellow. It's not easy being God's son. Everybody expects a lot from you, and they will not stop mentioning all the great things your Dad has done. And what have you done? That's all they want to know. And that's why Jesus made the venison sandwich—his gift to mankind.

Well, to make a bad column short, I got my venison sandwich finally, no thank you, McDonald's. It was Camembert and Elvis's gift to me. I was touched, right to the very heart. Girl Elvis apparently went and slaughtered a deer in the middle of the night just to make it for me. That's what Christmas means to me—deer meat, wrapped in a bow.

Their gift? I got them a subscription to Friday Magazine, the magazine for people who really like Fridays. It was the only thing I could get on Christmas morning at 7 a.m., they have a 24-hour subscription hotline. But I believe they both like Fridays.

What? Should I knock myself out for a gift on Christmas morning? I don't even have the sandwich anymore. I thought it was quite generous of me, considering.

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