resident George "Foot-in-the-Mouth" Bush vowed that the U.S. would not give up the battle for Iraq until "every last American is dead and buried." Though it came out, hopefully, not as the president intended, it showed that growing discontent over the Iraq problem has not yet shaken the administration’s resolve to stay in there and really fuck things up until the Republican reign is over.

Speaking to a large group of soldiers at a U.S. military base in South Korea, also known as "the other front," the president pledged to keep a troop presence in Iraq "until the war on terror is won," demonstrating once again the president’s unfailing optimism/ignorance that a war on a concept is winnable. Look out, anger!

"The insurgents who strike at our troops… at Iraqi civilians… at the every constructive effort in the newly liberated Iraq… these cowards want the U.S. to withdraw its soldiers, so they can undo what we’ve already done there. We will not give them what they want," said Bush. Also not getting what they want are the millions of American citizen who had believed the troop presence would be withdrawn, and the thousands of American soldiers in the region who would prefer to spend their holidays with their families, alive and not being shot at.

The speech sounded almost too perfectly timed with a vote in the House of Representatives on whether or not to bring American soldiers home from Iraq, which ended in a resounding victory for the people who want them dead. The House voted down the initiative, proposed by hawkish Democrat Rep. John Murtha of Pennsylvania and denounced as a stunt by other Democrats, by 403-3.

Speaking for the majority, House Speaker Dennis Hastert (big-ass Republican, Illinois) said, "We will not stop supporting our troops when they need us most. We will not retreat. We will support our troops until every one of them is underground."

It echoed the promise of the president as he spoke to our boys overseas: "Even when every American soldier is killed by Iraqi insurgents, we will not surrender. We will give them more soldiers, fresh by the barrels, run too fast through the boot camps to be properly trained. And we will hold them there, like, ’Eh? Eh? Why don’t you kill these troops now? We’ll just make more.’ And we will continue with that response, until every last American is dead. This I promise you." The passionate speech was met with the most awkward applause ever heard in history.

The mixed message of the comment, mixed with the recent "Jesus was a fag" gaff by the president, has left some critics charging that the president no longer thinks himself fallible, safely in the beginning of his second term; others, on the other hand, charge that he just don’t give a shit anymore. This reporter sought the expert opinion of Newark University’s Noam Chauncey, not only to fill out column space, but also because it pisses off the bosses I despise so much.

"Public opinion has always been split largely down the middle on support for the Iraq War, and whether or not the American people believe the president is an asshole," said Chauncey, sipping a fine international coffee in his office at the not-fake university. "One issue decides the other. However, now the majority is moving toward War-no/Asshole-yes standing, which leaves the president with two options: One, to bow to increasing pressure and call the soldiers home, or two, to pretend he has a mandate to whatever the hell he wants while ignoring the world around him and the ever-present facts of reality. This president made his decision long ago. In fact, I don’t even know why you’re talking to me about it. We’ve known this for a long time and I’ve got shit to do."

The president cared so little about American response to his most recent approach, he promised us a quote for the article. Then, however, he had his press secretary pretend to search for something in his jacket only to pull out an extended middle finger.

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.

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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