resident Bush shocked observers who somehow still cling to their ability to be shocked by President Bush this week, nominating two-time Grammy winner and bald mullet inventor Michael Bolton as U.S. ambassador to the United Nations. Though lacking in diplomatic experience, the president’s supporters believe the 51-year-old soul crooner will be just as popular among the U.N.’s General Assembly as he is among people with truly horrible taste in music.

“I’m certain Michael’s smooth, soulful style will serve to soothe relations with our European neighbors,� Bush suggested, wiping tartar sauce on his ever-present lobster bib.

Regardless, political observers believe this move to be Bush’s latest and ultimate “Fuck You� to Europe, whose representatives will now all have to spend time with Michael Bolton.

“We were excited at first when we heard a rumor that the new ambassador would be American beach bunny David Hasselhoff,� explained Germany. “But then we got the real news. This is worse than an insult.�

“Michael Bolton is an asshole,� explained France. “And we do not like him.�

Spain was more diplomatic.

“He’s not going to sing, is he? I mean, if he has something to say in meetings, he’s just going to say it, right? Not sing it out like it was one of his cheesy goddamned songs, right? If we have to sit through some bullshit like ‘When a Man Needs a U.N. Security Resolution,’ we’re going to quit the U.N., no shit. Spain is not kidding.�

According to insider reports, Bush’s first choice to fill the position was Ronnie Gaylord of the pre-rock white vocal trio The Gaylords, but the president was disappointed to learn he had been dead for thirteen years.

“Michael Bolton has sold over 52 million albums worldwide over the course of his career,� boasted White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan. “How many albums have the president’s detractors sold? Probably not as many. Unless you count The Eagles. They sold an awful lot of records.�

Bolton came to a very small fraction of the public’s attention in the late 70’s, as the lead singer for the heavy metal band Blackjack. However, Bolton’s lush, pussified style didn’t mesh well with hair band riffs, and by the mid-eighties he had discovered his true gift for making music fans vomit with the whitest of all possible R&B sounds.

“It’s always been my dream to lead,� explained a surprised Bolton upon hearing the news. “Actually, my dream was to make a lot of money, but I’ve already done that. Now leading sounds pretty good.�

resident George W. Bush tossed around his executive meat Friday by pardoning 8 convicted criminals, most accused of money-related non-violent crimes and friends of the president or Republican contributors. Most notably among the pardoned was legendary bootlegger Jesse Duke, who once headed a Hazzard County illegal alcohol empire with County Commissioner J.D. Hogg.

Those who cheered the pardon contend Duke, an honest farmer and guardian to his nephews and niece, was merely trying to make his way the only way he knew how. Duke's once partner in crime, Jefferson Davis Hogg, had his crimes pardoned in 1972 by then-Governor Jimmy Carter and went on to become a well-respected County Commissioner and Hazzard bigwig. Duke, however, was labeled an outlaw, shepherd to lost sheep, and sometimes hounded by local authorities for a personal feud between himself and Hogg. The president, moved by Duke's case, issued the order forgiving all the bootlegger's past transgressions so that he might live down the shame brought to the Duke name.

"I've had a time of it over all these here years," said Duke, after a brief meeting with the president. "Always lookin' over my shoulder, waiting for the 'coo-coo-coo' of the law. I spent so many years on the run the county mechanic is practically a member of our family. But I've always been an honest, god-fearin' man just trying to do right by his kin. At long last, I will no longer have to run from the police at the drop of a hat, climbin' into my nephews' car through its windows just to make my getaway. Thank you kindly, Mr. President."

Critics contend the president has overlooked more imperative cases where clemency could have really helped individuals, including those in which some evidence exists to prove men on death row may not be guilty, cases which would act like a lightning rod for the pro-death penalty president. The president answers critics by telling them to shut their fat gobs.

Shalom Staley, of the Smithsonian, an expert on Executive Privilege, compared the president's order to those of other famous leaders.

"George Bush certainly did a kind thing for convicted bootleggers and others who were once guilty of crimes we no longer consider quite violent," said Staley, weaving her fingers together in the most enamoring way, "but no doubt some believe the president could have done more with such a tool. President Clinton knew how to play the pardon, politically—waiting until his final days of office to deal out his most controversial pardons, including friends of the Democratic party. Bush, however, could have positively changed the lives of some suffering under unjust criminal charges right now. How many wrongly-accused police officers have been forced into the private detective business over the past thirty years? The president could help ease their shame in the same way. I'm not suggesting the ludicrous, like a pardon of all charges to alleged mob boss Tony Soprano. But we can remember the times a president has provided a happy ending to the troubles of individuals hounded by the law, like President Johnson's memorable pardon of accused murderer Richard Kimble, the escaped fugitive who was proven innocent."

The pardon of Duke, whether for crimes actually committed or not, remained of minor consequence to most of the nation. However, Duke's own Hazzard county residents celebrated his presidential clemency with favorite local pastimes, including shooting sticks of dynamite strapped to arrows as a "21-gun" salute, then retiring to a local tavern to hear country music superstar Charlie Rich perform.

I think we gave up on Chernobyl too easily. I say that knowing full-well that too much radiation can make your sack blow up like a beach ball and your fruit starts talking to you and shit, which could be plenty scary depending on what the fruit is saying. I know some people who would be terrified no matter what their pear was belching out at them over the breakfast table, but I for one believe you can't live on that uptight of a level. At least I wouldn't consider it living. If I'm greeted to a chorus of "Mornin', Omar" from my fruit bowl in the morning, who's the victim? As long as they don't scream when I eat them, I don't really consider talking fruit to have a downside.

I'm not a doctor, at least when I'm not hard-up for cash, but I've got to imagine the health effects of living in a raging nuclear fallout zone have been overstated. You know how doctors are, one month immense dosages of radiation will turn you into a puddle of goop, the next month they'll give you super powers and you'll live to be 150. It's like the whole red wine thing. I'm willing to take my chances, because even in the worst-case scenario, being a puddle of super-powered goop doesn't sound all bad. No way you've got to pay normal tax rates when you're filing as "goop."

And Chernobyl itself could really be an ideal place to live, when you think about it. It's like an empty readymade city, just without all the giant Barbie dolls and the plastic Thunderbird with nothing under the hood. It'd be like Oklahoma City without the hick smell. They could hold a wild land grab like back in the old west days! Give me a cattle prod and let me loose in that place, trust me; I'll come out of the deal with Bricks Towers under my arm. It may have been Bank of Ruskie before the shit went Three Mile, but now that vault's Foghat's room, Ivan. What can I say; the dog likes to feel secure when he sleeps. Plus I think he might be catching on to the fact that the "Panic Room" in the Bricks Manor is just a walk-in closet with a bunch of pennies jammed in the door frame.

Still not sold on the whole Chernobyl thing? How would you like to wipe your ass with the electricity bill? You'd be living that large in Chernobyl, since who needs electricity when the whole town glows in the dark? And if that shit can power a submarine, it should have no problem juicing up my Mr. Coffee. It would be like solar power, without the suck.

I got to thinking about fallout this week because of The Man's reaction to my oceanizing of the Bricksmobile III: Red Bagel Edition last month when I was down in Panama. Turns out the big Bagel had a real emotional attachment to that car, and a real dead space alien on dry ice in the trunk. That's what he says anyway, the story smelled suspiciously of hooker mishap to me. But if that's the case, he can consider that problem solved, because the only law that's getting into that trunk now is the Fish Police. And it was my understanding that they were cancelled years ago. Bagel always has been the paranoid sort, however, and I don't think he watches TV. Something about mind-control dolphin sounds in the audio mix, I didn't read the whole pamphlet.

So now I'm on the commune shit list, of Bricks List as it's being called at the moment. Quite a change from the Dunkin Detail as it had been known for years. Thanks to my loyal readership of gun nuts, truckers and the vicarious, my ratings the office chicken has been tabulating are keeping me from napping under the axe, but I'm still keeping my options open for a career move to the Far East in case shit goes bad again like last year when I ate all of Bagel's astronaut ice cream. One more mix-up like that and Omar Bricks will be the top name on the commune's Comrade Exchange Program, because I don't think those sly fuckers want Boris Utzov back. Wish me luck.

Bricks Out.

º Last Column: Panama
º more columns