recent round of standardized DMAS testing in America's elementary schools has revealed that in spite of President Bush's ambitious "No Child Left Behind" education policy, at least one American child has been left way the fuck behind.

"I don't like schoolin'," explained eight-year-old Topeka, Kansas boy Rodney Camaro, exhibiting numerous symptoms of left-behindedness, including messy, uncombed hair, untied shoelaces, a poor vocabulary and a fondness for pro wrestling.

Camaro was brought to the attention of education officials earlier this week when test results revealed that someone had actually scored a zero on last month's DMAS, a feat previously thought mathematically impossible.

"You get twenty-five points for just making a pencil mark on the page," explained testing director Earl Winters. "Fifty for writing your name. Ten for turning in your pencil at the end of the test. This kid must have eaten his pencil, he's a miracle."

So what happened to Rodney? According to the boy's family, Rodney's father's wages from his job at a local rubber vagina factory have been insufficient for the family to afford a professional tutor to help Rodney learn his ABCs and lefts from rights.

But many argue that the local schools have failed Camaro, as evidenced by his vague concept that North is "up" and only a dim awareness that money comes in various denominations. Camaro is often swindled in cash exchanges with his fellow students, however, due to his fondness for nickels.

"Ain't nothin' better than a nickel," Rodney explained, proudly holding up a 1997 nickel the boy paid $5 for last month.

Rodney also displays an appalling lack of knowledge about nutrition, history and math. According to the boy, a balanced diet includes the food groups of chocolate, milk chocolate, and Nerds. Rodney's teachers also detailed the boy's unique mathematical techniques, which include performing subtraction by running all the numbers in the equation together and adding a negative symbol, as in 4-3=-43. All reports indicate that Camaro is equally inept at science, and reads at a pre-natal level.

School officials insist that Rodney's the one who has let them down, refusing to get smart and clean up his act in spite of a generous grading curve that somehow has enabled Camaro to advance to the third grade, singularly on the merit of getting older.

When asked about the major players during WWII, the eight-year-old replied simply "Nutsies." Camaro was unable to elaborate with any more hilarious details.

America's schools have also failed to teach Rodney a single thing about politics, as well, given the boy's inability to name the current U.S. president, or, as he is known to Rodney, the "Karate King."

"Karate King don't want no name, Karate King don't need no name," the boy explained patiently in the face of this reporter's adult ignorance.

Despite Camaro's lack of awareness of the president's existence, President Bush already has plans for the boy, hoping sweep Camaro under the rug by offering Rodney an appointment to one of the government's major science posts, just as soon as he gets over his weakness for public urination.

Though as of press time, it was still unclear which of the two, Bush or Camaro, would have to stop peeing in public.

acing falling approval numbers that recently dropped lower than Bob Hope's balls, President Bush this week resorted to his usual tactic of becoming more conservative when threatened. The president may have gone too far this time, however, alienating even his core base of religious assholes.

After having his personal dog walker rejected for a seat on the Supreme Court, and his backup neo-Nazi facing a similarly tough uphill climb, Bush outlined a bold new philosophy in a televised speech on Sunday.

"Jesus was a fag," the president announced to a stunned roomful of didn't-know-Jesus-was-a-fag listeners. "Love everybody? The meek shall inherit the earth? Give me a break. The man didn't even have a reliable hairstyle."

"Women should be seen, not heard," continued Bush, attempting to carve out his own niche deeper in the dogmatic hinterlands. "But by 'seen' I mean just their eyes, as the rest of their sinful bodies should be covered up in padded dog-attack training suits to restore some modesty to this once great nation."

Over the course of the president's speech, Bush called for the dismantling of the Internet, a moratorium on all music, and the banning of all dancing that isn't line dancing. This latest development has renewed national debate over where the president is crazy like a fox, crazy like a cuckoo bird, or stupid like a bathtub.

Bush's approval rating dipped even lower during the speech, scraping audibly against some theoretical bottom of the barrel, and an instant poll immediately afterward pegged the president's approval at 12%, a record low for a US president and below even the ratings for Osama Bin Laden, syphilis, sour milk, Gigli and total thermonuclear annihilation. Political observers, however, were most impressed that a full 12% of the population still support Bush.

"Apparently more Americans than we had previously assumed agree with the president that Jesus was a homo," explained a stunned Walter Dumruch, of the McClurg Institute. "God knows how long they've been waiting for a political figure to give voice to their inner convictions. The president takes these results as a mandate to push forward with his new 'Screw Jesus' agenda."

By stepping off the edge of the political world and officially becoming too conservative for even the nation's the most extreme conservatives this week, the president embarked on a journey through uncharted territory that has left critics at a loss for words.

"It's weird, it's almost like he's wrapped around to almost being liberal now, but not really," mused Danby Frinkman, local man of letters. "He's lapped the field, in terms of conservatism, but no one's sure what that means."

What it most certainly means is that Bush will have to reconsider his nomination of Samuel A. Alito Jr. for the Supreme Court, since even a man so conservative that he doesn't believe in dinosaurs or long hair on dogs would be seen as too soft to be in keeping with the president's current philosophy. Several deposed foreign dictators and cartoon villains are likely to be considered for the president's next nomination.

Bush's political handlers hope these recent developments can be explained by an external trauma, like the president being hit in the head by a falling brick some time last week, or anything a shovel-hitting intervention might be able to correct. The president's handlers hope to jostle Bush back to his comfortably untenable "Jesus was Straight/Screw the Poor/Bomb the Brown People" conservative agenda by early next week at the latest.

The tension in this office, sir, has become a big pussy boil. If that sounds gross, be clear I do not mean a boil on a lady's parts. I mean a boil filled with pus, which is quite gross in itself, but I'm not going too far with it. This boil has popped all over us. Watch out where you step in the commune offices—pus is everywhere.

I've just been informed by my sage counsel Sully to cut out the pus references. We can actually see the number of visitors deteriorating before our eyes. Very well—on with the story the metaphor supported.

Things came to a head (non-pussy) a couple of months ago when we noticed, despite all the promises from my brother Gay Bagel that we would be up to our necks in new advertisers, we had not a single one who had presented anything to the commune. I became curious, hoping like hell a conspiracy was involved, and it was a doozy, sir: Gay Bagel got all his advertising contracts from the shadiest, shittiest, most fly-by-night-non-batmen product people around. All this talk about raising the respectability of the commune, and this is what he had done—lined us up a bunch of cheaters and hoodlums I wouldn't have gone to myself. And I have extremely low standards where money is concerned.

When we settled our battle over the commune out of court, as you surely won't remember unless you were there, my part of the deal was the raise commune readership by a hundred percent. Well, I gave him 300%—we have easily four readers, at least, because I've met them at the commune Enthusiasts Club meeting. That's not counting all the other thousands of readers I see on the weekly ratings section—I'm not sure those are all that legitimate. Something else Gay was in charge of. But for his part, Gay gave us nothing back. Deal broken, in my book.

I told him our agreement had come to an end, in the most dramatic fashion possible—from atop Omar Bricks' mechanical bull desk. I nearly made my way entirely through my declaration, thirteen seconds, when I was bucked. That's an office record! But it was enough so Gay got the point anyway. He threatened to take me back to court. I suggested, however, than we settle this like men—nineteenth century men. Rapier fighting. He gasped in order, and I had to repeat myself, a little slower, and then he agreed to it.

I'm no slouch as a rapier wielder. I can carve my initials into an opponent in one swift motion, no big deal. But I can also leave my full mark, "Redward Bagel, Esquire." That's nothing to scoff at, although come to think of it, putting my favorite magazine after my full name may be just a little obnoxious. As for Gay's skills with a sword… they're passable.

So we met early in the morning, at the break of noon, just the two of us since none of the staff wanted to get up that early. We started the duel when the cock crowed, and since neither of us had brought a chicken, there was considerable waiting around. I kid you not, it was the rapier battle to end them all, one blade narrowly missing the other tubby body, swishes and fwips in the air like you've never heard. Both of us are now completely shaven, in all areas—that's how close it all was. I nearly died of excitement, and a deep stab just above my heart which I made with my own sword.

The ending was climactic, at least I climaxed. In the end, I blocked one of Gay's strikes with a foot and disarmed him, throwing his sword aside, useless as a eunuch's tool. I put the blade to his throat and spared his life on two conditions: One, that he relinquish all control to the commune, two, that he never tell dad. He's dead, but I don't want him hearing about it anyway.

So… the war of the Bagels is at an end. The victor: Me, Red "Victor" Bagel. And you must call me Victor.

So keep a close eye on everything here. Things are about to forever change—back to the way we used to run it all.

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