The President revealed his nominee for the Supreme Court, selecting a 54 year- old daughter of Puerto Rican immigrants who had been elevated to The Second District Court by George H W Bush. And what a genius political move it was. Sonia Sotomayor: a woman AND a Hispanic. From the South Bronx. A Catholic with diabetes. Regrettably, it looks like the search for an albino midget lesbian unwed Buddhist Bangladeshi mother with a bum leg and lycanthropy fell just a wee bit short.

It was a mite disconcerting that President Obama came up with Justice David Souter’s replacement in about a quarter of the time that it took for him to choose the family dog. Of course that dog is destined to become an integral part of the First Family. And a choice they will have to live with for ten or twelve years.. A Supreme Court Justice simply affects the country and the world for the rest of our natural born lives.

Although dogs and Associate Supreme Court Justices do share many commands. A judge must SIT on the bench. They STAY there for a lifetime. Tend to LIE DOWN at the first sight of a third rail issue. SPEAK only when questioning precedents. Clarence Thomas took a year and a half to HOUSE TRAIN. Antonin Scalia is a HEEL. Rumor has it John Paul Stevens’ law clerks regularly follow him around with a ROLLED UP NEWSPAPER. And generally all nine will BEG anytime they can FETCH a consensus.

Though they lack the votes to derail the nomination, Republicans will not ROLL OVER and PLAY DEAD. Their antagonism was evident even during the decision process. Qualms were expressed about the President’s use of the word “empathy” describing his search. It was interpreted as code for a radical left wing activist judge. Empathy, to these guys, is a pejorative. Well, there’s your problem right there. No wonder the GOP approval rating is lower than steel tipped fingernails on a schoolhouse blackboard.

A tape was discovered of Sotomayor riffing off a Sandra O’Connor quote, rhapsodizing about the hope that “a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life,” and a chorus of Conservatives jumped so far down her throat only the soles of their shoes can be glimpsed wriggling at the ceiling in choreographed mock fury.

Thus they charge Sonia Sotomayor with racism. For suggesting white men are not the ultimate end- all be- all in this country. Admittedly, this accusation has not been leveled by any real elected Republicans; just the usual peanut gallery rejects of Coulter, Limbaugh, Gingrich and Tancredo. That’s right. Tom Tancredo accusing a Latina of being racist. You can’t make stuff up like this. All the gas emitting from these blowhards is just another example of the Hummer calling the minivan annoying. What’s next? Bernie Madoff publicly complaining that the auto bailout math is suspect?

Their determination to escalate a confirmation fight has multiple motivations. 1. It’s necessary for the party to appear halfway relevant. 2. Combat provides an excellent opportunity to energize the base and raise money. 3. And most importantly; they can use the practice. Obstinacy, like a muscle, must be exercised.

I’m sick of torture. And the fact that we’re one of the countries way up there on the J.D. Powers annual “torture reliability” list makes me unwell as well. As does talking AROUND torture. What this country needs is an up front national referendum on whether we should or shouldn’t be torturing people. Oh wait. That’s right, we did have one. Last November 4th.

These aren’t your normal ordinary everyday forms of torture we’re talking about either: like 12th in line at a understaffed Starbucks or shuffling through life a Golden State Warriors fan or being forced to watch NBC’s prime time lineup against your will, I’m referring to real, state sponsored, “talk or we do something crazy” Jack Bauer on steroids kind of stuff.

The big difference being, Keifer Sutherland’s rascally television torturer gets most of his best results simply by raising his voice. “Are you going to talk?” “Never.” Compelling him to move in real close and yell in the dastardly scoundrel’s face:  “ARE YOU GOING TO TALK NOW?” “Okay. Okay. I’ll talk. Just lower your voice. The kids are trying to sleep.”

Now we got Nancy Pelosi and the CIA exchanging torture lying charges. Don’t you hate it when lovers’ spats go public? The Republicans are gleefully sliding into the House Speaker cleats up because she has little of the President’s Teflon coating. To many Americans she’s that great aunt who smiles too much at Thanksgiving and always uses your full name when scolding you for poor quality table manners. “William, only cows chew with their mouths open.”

Even Dick Cheney has gotten into the act with a recent talk show offensive defending his administration’s torture policies. And as far as everybody in the nation who sees his face being mightily offended, he’s been successful. This is not a partisan thing. A National Journal poll of Republican insiders shows 57% of them think he’s hurting the party. So pretty much everybody agrees, Dick Cheney speaking on torture is redundant.

He called the enhanced interrogation techniques used at Gitmo regrettable but necessary. And you got to love that phrase: “enhanced interrogation techniques.” Sounds like instructions on how to turn on the fluorescents at a job interview. He’s not being tortured, he’s being solicited to provide easy answers to exceptionally difficult questions. In bad lighting. And those car battery cables attached to his nipples are “nervous system awareness amplifiers.”

What I don’t get is how anybody can defend waterboarding a single prisoner 183 times. Operationally, wouldn’t you think the effectiveness would start to wear off after about 60 or 70? What genius kept pushing, “I know we’ve gotten nothing the first couple hundred times here, but I got a hunch, this next time- we’re gold.” Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 183 times, shame on me. As my daddy always said: 183rd time’s the charm.

The best way Dick Cheney can help this country is to creep back to that undisclosed location of his, and maybe take Joe Biden with him. Still haven’t figured out why Cheney is so obsessed with selling the positive merits of torture. Though there is that old axiom about one man’s torture being another man’s S&M turn- on, so maybe that explains more about the Cheney Doctrine than we really need to know. TMI. You want torture? Dick Cheney in fishnets. Try to pry that image out of your mind.

We sort of skipped past President Obama’s first 100 days last week due to the looming horror of the dreaded SWINE FLU EPIDEMIC, which now looks about as lethal as your average bunny rabbit furball contagion.. Although people do continue to flip out, like Egypt, which slaughtered nearly Every Pig in the Country. But fear not, Anne Coulter was nowhere near the joint at the time. All I’m saying is don’t expect BLTs to show up on the daily specials menu at your favorite Cairo deli.

So let us belatedly jump into this whole 100 day retrospective dealie thing, which recently became a heavy duty benchmark of real importance, because, hey: TRIPLE DIGITS. The media has dutifully kept us informed upon the significance of this monumental occasion and have not used their indoor voice while doing so. But this space will address the first one hundred and TEN days of the Obama administration, hence OUR look back will be 10% more accurate. 10% more comprehensive. 10% better. By being 10% later.

Exactly how has the fourth Democratic administration since 1968 fared in its first 110 days? Unh. Well. You know. About what you’d expect, I guess. Depends on whom you talk to. Not a lot of agreement. General consensus is: “too early to tell.” Or as my knock- off discounted Magic 8 Ball said when consulted: “Still not cleahr. Outlok cloudy. Try again alter.”

Some experts proclaim the 44th President has done brilliantly under adverse circumstances. Others blame him for everything gone wrong with the planet in the last 3 months including the unusually high, late spring upper Midwest humidity. Unfortunately, that vaunted Bipartisan Outreach Program was about as successful as barbed wire crib rails. As they say in Variety and exceptionally frantic frog restaurants: “no legs.”

Neither is Barack getting what you would call your major assistance from either side of the aisle. “We want to work with the President.” Mmm- hmm. The same way a starving coyote wants to work with a nest of baby ducks. One discouraging word circulating the Beltway accuses the Chief Executive of being arrogant, but you know what, at least he’s smart. Because we tried arrogant and stupid and that didn’t work.

From a comedic stand-point, I’m severely disappointed. The foremost scandal thus far has been couple of Cabinet appointments that didn’t want to pay their taxes. Which most of us can relate to. Problem is, Bush was a satirical motherlode and even Clinton hit the ground running as a corpulent womanizer. But Obama is smoother than liquid black velvet affording little purchase to hook a barb onto. Besides, you can’t mock hope. Too much like kicking a small furry whimpering thing with big eyes. Got to wait for hope to scab over a bit.

Not to mention the economy being more fragile than a spun glass step- ladder, so pretty much everyone not named Rush Limbaugh is rooting for him to succeed. But with pirates and pandemics and Pakistan all set on High Menace, the job ahead looks tougher than untying a centipede’s shoe laces while wearing oven mitts. Which is bad for the nation, the world, the planet and the solar system, but good fodder for us political comics. Of course, at this point, we members of the CCJU (Comics, Clowns & Jesters Union,) just might be wiling to take one for the team.

…more

I hate Earth Day. I’m serious. It makes my head hurt. Pours buckets full of tiredness into my soul. 40 years of watching it slowly transform from a vibrant subversive movement to an ineffectual Hallmark holiday has sucked all the energy out of me. We’re approaching President’s Day here in terms of vapid commercialization. This little hippie girl got tarted up like a hooker on shore leave payday with parades and coupons and big box stores stocking aisles to bridge the holiday purchasing gap between yellow Marshmallow Peeps and red white and blue Sparklers. “Earth Day Candy. 100% Organic Sugar. It’s green!”

I’m worn out by people so busy proving they’re planet friendly, they end up spraining their own arms patting themselves on the backs for barely remembering to throw an empty beer bottle at a blue bin. And missing. For flaunting their extreme green commitment with a personalized embroidered hemp shopping bag swinging provocatively to the front door of the Park and Rob from the back hatch of an SUV.

I’m sick of the politicians. All of them. The supposedly sympathetic ones, staging their sanctimoniously phony photo- ops in front of CGI forest glens, while their staff is under strict orders to do everything in their power to stall environmental reform to the point of arguing about punctuation. And the unsympathetic ones simply wear me out, expressing their smirking faux concern over the larger problem of cow flatulence.

I’m way weary of the corporations weaseling their way into our wallets with nonsense as transparent as the curtains at Grey Gardens. “Earth Day, brought to you by Dow Chemical. Without whom this event would neither be possible, nor necessary. Co- sponsored by Mobil- Exxon. Spanning the globe to find new ways to teach fish to breathe oil.”

And you know who just drains me? Those big hotels shoving their laminated cardboard placards into our faces from the top of the bathroom sink with the sole design of instilling guilt. “We here at Acme Rest want to see the burrowing barn owl smile. So don’t make us wash your sheets. Oh sure, you can have new towels if you want. You’ll kill Bambi’s mom. Its up to you.” Hey, I just want new towels from the previous guy. Is that going to be a problem?

The naysayers? These people are exhausting. You’d think that since Obama had rescued the fair damsel Science from 8 long years of Executive dungeon darkness, that people would at least say nice things about her hair. You’d be wrong. “We don’t know what’s causing the greenhouse effect. You’re costing jobs.” As opposed to costing lives. Then the idiots keep lighting matches to see how high the pool of gasoline has risen. Hey! Your shoes are wet. What else you need to know?

Al Gore puts me to sleep and Prius drivers make me want to plotz. Not the Prius. The drivers. The EPA? I get drowsy just thinking about them. With their impenetrable lack of bark and bite and teeth and the same goes for the media who can’t even get worked up for one freaking day a year and yeah, that also means me. As I said, I hate Earth Day. But you know what? It sure as hell beats the alternative.

Excuse me, but I got a couple of questions. What’s the damn deal? The hell happened? Am I missing something? I mean, come on, Barack Obama assumed office almost two entire complete whole months ago and I look in the paper and guess what? Equivalence. The war in Iraq…  rages on; Global warming… continuing hotness. AND in case you haven’t noticed, the economy… major suckage with the emphasis on the uck. The hell is up with that? I thought we were in line for some change. This sounds like a serious case of the old same old same old. The biggest difference since January 20th is Rush Limbaugh now dresses like a Sopranos Family hit man and his head has gotten bloatier. If that’s possible. 

And now Mister Smarty Pants Commander- in- Chief is talking about how any significant improvement is going to take time. “Don’t expect too much too soon.” Oh yeah, great. Change, but small change. Nickels and pennies and dimes. Maybe one of his advisors should remind him that his constituents are not an incremental people. Rather, we have the attention span of hickory ash in a wind tunnel. In the land of “too much is not enough,” tomorrow is too far into the future by at least two days.

This “baby steps” approach is definitely not what people had in mind last November. Pretty sure folks were thinking more along the lines of something wonderful right away. Snap some fingers. Wave some wands. Tall buildings being leapt in a single bound. The righteous smiting of foes. Who can take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew, cover it with chocolate and a miracle or two? The President can. The President can, ‘cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good. And why did we think that? ‘Cause Obama done told me.

We should be waking up right now swimming in sunshine and rainbows and Mylar balloons. Instead; storm clouds all around, and its raining bailouts and bank failures and bedbugs. I’m not kidding. Bedbugs have made a comeback. In the USA. That’s a straight shot of third world right there my friends. I think I would have remembered hearing anything in his stump speeches about bedbugs. What’s next: cholera? Yellow fever? River blindness? Angelina Jolie adopting domestically?

How long are we supposed to wait before the President kisses boo- boo and makes everything all better? Another month? Five weeks? Five weeks and two days? I know. I know. I know. It took longer than sixty days to get us into this mess, it’ll probably take sixty more to get us out of it. But after his first sixty days, FDR had ended Prohibition, vanquished the Depression and was two thirds of the way into world peace, until that spoilsport Fuhrer came along.

Maybe the problem is geographic. After all the District of Columbia was built on a swamp. Kind of hard to hit the ground running when your landing ramp has the consistency of She Crab Soup. Not to mention all the potholes, rolls of red tape and barbed wire the opposition thoughtfully installed as welcoming gifts. Knowing this, I still don’t care. I just want better.. No, scratch that. I want best. And I want best right now. And as an American I’m perfectly within my rights to keep complaining, wee, wee, wee, all the way home. So I will.

Can we stop with the waving of the sharp instruments for a minute and speak rationally to this whole ugly recession mess we find ourselves currently mired in? C’mon. You know what recession mess I’m talking about. You’re packing a bag lunch and taking mass transit to visit the public library to use their ancient computer to check out the job classifieds on Craigslist for crum’s sake. Yeah, THAT recession mess. Well, you’ll be glad to hear we’ve positively identified the bad guys responsible for this meltdown and they end up having awfully familiar faces.

Go ahead. Guess who’s to blame? No, not the subprime mortgage brokers or Bernie Madoff and his ilk or those reverse Robin Hood hedgefund speculators throwing trillions of dollars worth of derivatives around like paper towels at a chili cheese dog eating competition. Nope. The dastardly bums that created the world wide financial crisis is… us. That’s right. You and me. And I hope we’re happy.

For making former Silicon Valley start up CFOs toil as Indian casino valets. For driving down the price of 2 year old Porsche Boxters to the level of a 96 Taurus with a blown head gasket. For forcing casseroles and meatloaf onto the menus of 3 star Michelin chefs. It’s all our fault. And how are we doing it? By not buying enough stuff. Damn us anyway. How dare we?

Who cares whether we’re employed or not? Don’t we realize we are the pistons that drive the free market engine? It’s our God- given patriotic duty to go out there and buy stuff we don’t need with money we don’t have to impress people we don’t like. We don’t do easy. We do compulsory.

Remember how good it felt to buy that brand new DVD we had no intention of ever watching? Aren’t you just itching to tear the shrink- wrap off of something with your teeth right now? Anybody can conspicuously consume when things are going well and money geysers from the ground like it did between the Bushes. It takes a true retail soldier to run up credit card bills when banks are raising interest rates so high, it would not be too far off the mark for them to utilize a dorsal fin as a logo.

I wouldn’t get this squishy if I wasn’t seeing pubescent girls get punched in the gut with our selfish frugality. Girl Scout Cookie sales have sunk to levels not seen since Jimmy Carter was scolding us while wearing cardigans. The Girl Scouts! Okay, that’s it. I don’t know which of you commie pinko yellow rat cretinous toads managed to hypnotize the rest of us into believing we’re so broke we can’t afford a couple of measly packages of Thin Mints, but you’ve gone too far. You fiend. How soon before we take out our parsimonious wrath on the innocent producers of Sham- Wow and Snuggie?

Ladies and gentlemen, I implore you; open your wallets. Ask yourself, “what would Paris Hilton do?” It doesn’t matter what you buy. A Jonas Brothers lunch box. A $75 grass fed, hand massaged, Kobe beef porterhouse steak, bathed in boysenberry infused truffle butter. A 96 piece Limited Edition Pewter Napkin Ring Set in the shape of the characters from the Lord of the Rings. Ford. Besides, this isn’t about you and me people. This isn’t about America. This isn’t about Detroit. This is about the Girl Scouts.

The President is not what you call dim. He’s obviously aware the only thing worse than a bleakening economy is a bleakening economy where the most depressed of us are forced to watch the least depressed of us get handed eight figure bonuses. And no, that’s not counting the two figures to the right of the decimal point. It’s one thing to be supplementing your diet with discount cat food. It’s another thing to have your nose rubbed into the tiny tins by the people responsible for compelling you to munch on the Meow Mix.

So, St. Barack made a big deal of reassuring the public that at least a modicum of accountability will exist on his watch by announcing a cap on executive salaries for the banks that want to be part of the government bailout. And the number of banks that are looking to be part of the government bailout is approximately… all of them. Times two.

In retrospect, it’s not difficult to figure out why all these trusted financial institutions went belly up. The people they got running those things have the same sense that god gave a beach pail full of green plastic Easter grass. Proved to be more self- centered than the backstage bathroom mirror at a Debutantes Ball in the Hamptons. Crazier than naked flagpole sitters in a blizzard.

They bought into their own Tom Wolfe “Masters of the Universe” BS. Mesmerized by the siren song of a little thing called unregulated greed, which ended up sucking them drier than a four- day dead possum on an interstate outside Tucson. Making them weep and keen and cry that it was up to us to bail them out or all hell was going to break loose, and we, like the large mouth suckers we are, snapped at the bait. Pulling muscles in our rear haunches rushing to give them palettes full of cash before our retirement accounts retired for good.

So what do they do with all our bailout money? Help out society and homeowners by fixing the sub- prime mess they created? What are you, nuts? They spent it on themselves. AIG arranged a little spa vacation at a Ritz- Carlton.. Citigroup tried to buy a $50 million corporate jet then put their name on a stadium. Wells Fargo planned a staff retreat in Vegas to “recognize team members by emphasizing their value to the company.” Recognize their value to the company? The company’s broke. You could recognize that value with a shovel, a six- foot hole and a pointy stick.

AND despite their worst year since Hoover, Wall Street passed around 18 billion dollars in bonuses. To the exact same idiots steering our grocery carts down the pet food aisle in the first place. Who will undoubtedly find loopholes the size of Saskatchewan in the President’s edicts, but, at this point, like the size of the Valentine, it’s the thought that counts. Even if only one guy gets his hands slapped, its ten more red knuckles than we’ve seen in 97 months.

What we’ve been experiencing is bank robbery in reverse. The perps didn’t even bother wearing masks. And triggered absolutely no silent alarms. The problem is, those security cameras in the lobby are pointing the wrong way. You should do what I do. Now, every time I make a deposit, I ask the teller for 2 pieces of identification. “Oh yeah, what’s your mother’s maiden name?”

**
Catch Durst in Tahoe Feb 10- 16. And Chicago Feb 19- 29. Okay. March 1st. Don’t get all persnickety.

A politician making lemonade after being pelted by a bushel of media chucked lemons is as familiar as red yarn on the handle of a black bag on the luggage carousel at O’Hare. But few alive have seen the likes of Rod Blagojevich. Not content to stir up a nice cold pitcher or erect a simple stand, the former Illinois Governor is challenging Minute Maid’s supremacy in the field of citrus concentrate. Refusing to exit the stage quietly after removed from office, he instead has gone on the offensive. Some might argue the 52-year-old Democrat has given a whole new meaning to the word “offensive.”

His fruity crusade began after being impeached by the Illinois Assembly on a vote of 114-1, leaving many to wonder: who the hell was the 1? His barber? No. Turns out it was his sister-in-law. After all, she’s got years of cranberries and stuffing to share with the guy. Then, in spite of delivering an impassioned yet loopy closing argument, the State Senate voted 59-0 to convict and booted Blago right off his gubernatorial perch into the long snaking lines of the newly unemployed.

Because of his inspirational theatrics, every former playbook for arrogant politicians accused of scandal and disgrace has to be thrown out the window.. So, if you ever find yourself caught dead to rights, here’s a revised list of the top 10 actions to take. The classics still apply. None of the following will work without being applied over a base of: deny, deny, deny. Remember this is about survival. Follow Master Blagojevich’s lead. Chances are he will make more from his book deal than he ever hoped to extort from his constituent victims.

10. Hold a press conference to read a poem. Stay away from the arty crowd like Verlaine, Rimbaud, or Sylvia Plath. Pick a heterosexual who didn’t commit suicide. Someone classy, like Kipling.
9. Remember who is the victim here. You are. Claim a vast left or right wing conspiracy. The more fantastic the presumed motivation, the better, such as: they had to get rid of you in order to raise taxes. Or they kicked you out because you knew too much.
8. Two words: The View.
7. During all media appearances, carry a Bible. If no one’s going to buy that, try Winston Churchill. A book by him. Not desiccated pieces of his mummified corpse.
6. Witch Hunt. Keep repeating the phrase: Witch Hunt. Which hunt? This hunt? That’s right. Witch Hunt. Occasionally throw in an “unconstitutional” as well, just to break it up.
5. Compare the effect on your family to a national disaster. Pearl Harbor. RFK’s assassination. The day CBS canceled Dallas.
4. Keep telling the press that you CAN’T WAIT to tell your side of the story. Then never ever ever get tricked into telling your side of the story.
3. Can never go wrong blaming lawyers. Fire one of your defense attorneys. “Though convinced of my innocence, he was terrified to offend the powers that be.”
2. Lump yourself in with other oppressed leaders like Ghandi. Nelson Mandela. Martin Luther King. Joseph Stalin. Hah. Last one was a test.
1. Finally, the number one reason you can’t quit is you don’t want to send the wrong message to your children. “This is not about me. This is about standing up for the kids. And the elderly.”

It might have been the shortest honeymoon this side of a drunken Britney Spears careening off of quarter poker video games in Vegas. I’m talking about Barack Obama’s relationship with the press after his Inauguration as the 44th President of the United States. His hands- off grace period might even have edged into negative territory. There was no celebratory carrying over the threshold here. This was more like- dropped like a sack of potatoes on the porch. Major veranda dumpage. Honeymoonus interruptus. The epitome of a honeymo.

First he was criticized for giving a workmanlike speech. “Very un- transcendent.” “Where was the poetry?” Then, even though he mentioned no names, he was faulted for dissing George W Bush by declaring that America is ready to lead again, implying that someone, who shall remain nameless, wasn’t very lively in that whole “leading” line of activity.

Why stop there? He could also be accused of fostering a frigid climate, failing to float ethereally out to the podium, neglecting to turn the Reflecting Pool water into wine, demonstrating an obvious refusal to feed the multitudes with 7 loaves and 7 fishes, a marked inability to part the Potomac and not raising Lincoln from the dead. And while we’re at it, how come he didn’t he use his ears as wind baffles to protect the crowd from the briskness?

But that’s the media. And that’s their job. The rest of America couldn’t care less. Wedged tighter than jarred anchovies in the middle of 2 million of their closest friends, the multitudes were just happy to see or hear or even be near this defining moment of democracy. For many, it was like going to heaven and coming home. Only they had to walk. Both ways. The Metro lines were so long you’d think they that had pinned hundred- dollar bills to the seats. And cabs were like available mortgages in Florida: a charming but imaginary concept.

And even with all those people, not a single arrest was made. Not that there wasn’t any crime. After all, Congress was still in session. But, except for an overriding fear that someone might be crushed or speared by Aretha Franklin’s hat, the executive transition was peaceful. The only glitch of the day was when Barack Obama and Supreme Court Head Justice John Roberts danced around the oath like two frozen footed teenagers on a first date. Then two Senators went down during the Congressional Lunch. But Ted Kenney is fine after suffering from fatigue. And 91 year old Robert Byrd quickly recovered from being informed that the new president is actually a Negro. “What? He fathered two black children? Unnnnnh.” Thud!

Dick Cheney garnered much attention in his Dr. Strangelove garb. Apparently Voldermort’s enchantment spell wore off an hour early. Reportedly, the outgoing Vice President was in a wheelchair due to a pulled hamstring while moving boxes. Apparently, even empty, Pandora needed them back. The Vice- President moving his own boxes. Yeah. I buy that.

Finally, to show their affection, the crowd lovingly serenaded George Bush’s departing helicopter as it flew overhead. Poor baby. Hardly anybody paid attention to his farewell address, and absolutely nobody asked for a forwarding address. Then again, with the shape he left this country in, let’s just put it this way; he is not getting his security deposit back.

It is the wackiest photo-op since Sarah Palin went herself a-turkey-farming. Three ex-presidents, the current president and the future president all kicking it old school, chilling in the Oval Office talking about what cool carpeting abounds. The five of them together IS a great image. And if Barack Obama is serious about that economic stimulus plan of his, we could raise a ton of money selling poster-sized copies of this historic gathering for use as a bipartisan dartboard. And George the Younger conveniently positioned himself in the middle to act as a natural bulls eye.

What the New York Post dubbed Club Prez was either a power lunch on steroids or the world’s most exclusive fraternity hazing. Can’t you just imagine the elders pulling an Ashton Kutcher and pranking Obama with a dribble glass or faking a Pakistani nuke strike on Kashmir? Nobody knows what subjects were breached, but the general consensus is personal experience was offered up as advice. For instance, the Bush boys and Jimmy Carter might have cautioned against getting stuck in the quicksands of the Middle East and Bill Clinton probably advocated the installation of an in-house dry-cleaning operation. I’d love to report that the five of them fought like raccoons, knocking over furniture and bloodily emerging with torn lapels and black eyes, but they all sucked it up and played nice. I’m sure nobody wanted to answer to Laura if anything happened to the new china.

The Oval Office bonding picture is destined to become as iconic as that Vegas snapshot of the Rat Pack outside the Sands that people regularly Photoshop themselves into. An insertable gap in the photo appears between Clinton and Carter, who reportedly get along like tinfoil and teeth. Something having to do with who deserved the title of “Mister Peace Maker” back in the 90s and who deserved “Mr. Grandstander.” Jimmy Carter (and isn’t he getting a bit long in the tooth to still be called Jimmy?) is starting to exude that smug self-righteousness you normally associate with your priggish Aunt Hoogolah. Starting to look like her too.

As lease-holder of the residence where lunch was held, Dubyah was the very soul of genial host, but does appear to be chomping at the bit to get the hell out of public housing. “I want to thank the President-Elect for joining the Ex-Presidents for lunch,” forgetting he’s contractually obligated to stick around until January 20th. Complaints arose that Obama upstaged the President by addressing the press. But come on, upstaging George Bush? At this point, a #2 pencil stuck in a ceiling tile could upstage George Bush.

This is only the second time in recent memory anybody’s seen such a congregation of POTUSes and I doubt the fancy word guys have come up with a plural moniker yet. So here’s our chance for linguistic immortality. There’s the old favorites. Assembly. Army. Pride. Quiver. Swarm. Parliament. Clutch. Caucus. Mob. But I’m shooting for something more suitable. Like the locusts: a plague. Or maybe the lapwings: a deceit. Stud of mares–yeah, you wish. Closer to a prickle of porcupines. Labor of moles. An unkindness of ravens. Shiver of sharks. Lamentation of swans. Mutation of thrushes. Nah, none of those work. Gaggle? Giggle? Sludge, snort, flutter, bloat? Jamboree? No. no. no. Wait. I got it. Port-a-Potty of POTUSes. Inimitable, alliterative and apt.

- Will Durst

Okay. Just so you know: the Top Ten Comedic News Stories of the Year are as different from the Top Ten Legitimate News Stories of the Year as a tarantula infested banana tree is from a small paper bag of locking quarter inch steel washers painted blue. Other stuff might have had a bigger impact on America and the World, such as an African American guy whose middle name is Hussein winning the Presidency of the United States. But so far, Mister Agent of Change is about as funny as over the counter ear drops. You can’t mock hope right now. Too much like kicking small whimpering furry things with big eyes. Oh, he’s bound to loosen up after a few weeks getting kicked around on Pennsylvania Avenue, but until then, here are the stories from 08 that were most filled with humorosityness.

10. Proposition 8. Organized religion goes out of its way to guarantee that gays will not be burdened with the right to be as miserable as the rest of us.
9. New York Governor and Emperor’s Club member, Elliott Spitzer. Flies a hooker from New York to DC, because as we all know, there aren’t enough hookers in DC. (535 that I can think of offhand) Gives her 4 grand and puts her up at the Mayflower Hotel. Now, that’s a liberal. A conservative will try to get it for free in an airport men’s room stall. Demonstrating fiscal responsibility.
8. Joe Biden. Has potential to fill gaffe gap being vacated by George Bush. Inserts foot in mouth so often, he should invest in mint- flavored shoelaces.
7. National Political Conventions. James Dobson’s Focus on the Family called for a storm of biblical proportions to disrupt outdoor acceptance speech of Barack Obama on last day of the Democratic Convention. Hurricane Gustav slammed into New Orleans canceling first day of Republican Convention. Proving that either God has a sense of humor or… be extremely careful what you ask for.
6. Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich. Gives a bad name to people with bad names. Something about the Springfield Capitol makes it work like a halfway house in reverse.  Economy is so bad, Hair Helmet probably offered free shipping with Barack’s Senate seat.
5. The Primaries. 1: Former Arkansas Governor Mike Huckabee raises hand at a New Hampshire Presidential Debate when asked, “who doesn’t believe in evolution?” In May, he explains he is still campaigning because “at this point, its survival of the fittest.” 2: In Philadelphia, Senator Hillary Clinton says “in this race, I am Rocky Balboa.” Obviously forgetting that in first movie, Rocky loses.. To a black guy.
4. President George W Bush. Lame duck, but a good ducker. International community furious at Muntadhar al Zaidi. Not for trying to hit the President with his size 10s, but because… 1.) his aim was bad, and 2.) he wasn’t a centipede.
3. Senator John McCain runs worst campaign ever. That includes New Coke, France in 39 and Cloris Leachman on Dancing With the Stars. Doesn’t know how many houses he has. Should do what I do. Every time I get 4 houses, I trade them in for a hotel.
2. The Economy. When everybody in America knows the name of the Secretary of the Treasury, that’s not good. Line of the year courtesy of an anonymous Wall Street broker: “This is worse than a divorce. I’m worth half what I was… and I’m still married.”
1. Governor Sarah Palin. For those destined to go cold turkey on Bush, she is like a dose of methadone. And she’s sticking around. How you going to keep them down in Juneau after they’ve seen Neiman- Marcus?

Political comic, Will Durst, who writes sometimes, expects an even better list in 2009.

The President of the United States looked into the sole of another foreigner- twice- as a pair of shoes was flung at him during a Baghdad press conference on a surprise visit to Iraq. And though a lame duck, he proved to be one hell of a ducker. Some might say “the mother of all duckers.” The biggest shock may be how well he went to his left. And thank god it WAS a surprise visit or the assailant might have had time to assemble an arsenal more potent than his size 10s. Any half way decent computerized re-enactment would surely show size 13 Timberlands clipping their intended target.

An international outcry has arisen over the actions of Muntadhar al Zaidi the irate Iraqi TV reporter slash shoe- flinger. Not because of his “if the shoe flies, hurl it” philosophy, but because his aim was so ducking bad. And he stopped after two shoes. That’s right. For the first time in what may be recorded history, a person is the recipient of worldwide scorn for not being a centipede. A female centipede. Because then chances increase tenfold he would have had a matching handbag or fifteen to lob as well.

Another remarkable aspect of this bizarre incident is the response of the Secret Service, which was slower than a mail- in- rebate check from a Bulgarian internet provider. Is that the normal practice during a transition? To guard the outgoing President by throwing the ‘B’ team in there? Obviously they have to train the new guys some how, but you’d think they could bone up on a Deputy Secretary of the Interior or something.. Maybe the ever ducking VP. However, closing ranks is one thing our intelligence community does know how to do, so don’t be surprised to hear the CIA back up the Secret Service by confiscating all video footage and floating a single shoe theory.

The best way to honor George W Bush might be to adopt his free market attitude and think of this as a shopportunity. To help get this country back on its feet again by encouraging future footwear tossers to support our domestic shoe industry and buy and heave American. I can see the newest Nike Ad: Al Zaidi winds up. He begins to throw. Freeze frame. Zoom in on a photo- shopped Swoosh on the side. Lower sixth simple Helvetica: “Just Do It..”

And doubt not there will be future footwear tossers. At every public function, every so called speaking engagement, every shopping mall opening; sandals and sneakers and boots and broughams and pumps and wing tips and stilettos and slippers and especially loafers will rain down on the 43rd President of the United States like taunts upon the Yankees right fielder from the bleachers of Fenway. A pelting that should be sufficient to discourage him from visiting the Netherlands for pretty much ever.

You won’t even have to actually propel anything to knock him off stride. It’ll be enough to disrupt any security detail to swiftly bend down and take off one shoe, quickly rise with it, then leisurely remove a stone or pick some gum off the tongue or restring the laces. Of course, if certain liberal factions get their way, this will just be the first in a long line of items being chucked at the W, in the hopes that eventually somebody throws the book at him and it sticks.

- Will Durst

Don’t forget the BIG FAT YEAR END KISS OFF COMEDY SHOW XVI. Will Durst, Johnny Steele, Jim Short, Steven Kravitz, Debi Durst, Michael Bossier and Arthur Gaus. 6 cities. 6 nights. 769 laughs. willdurst.com or 415.820.9628

THE CLUELESS CUP

In an upset worthy of Marin Day School covering the spread against the Green Bay Packers through the first three quarters of a spirited scrimmage at Lambeau Field, the coveted Clueless Cup appears to be on the verge of falling out of the clutches of President Bush’s staff for the first time in 8 long years. And the usurper is a little known agency that has blissfully slipped the bonds of reason and floated into the chasm of ludicrous self- delusion. Or to put it in layman’s terms: delivered another Congressional report.

Wackier than a Sumo wrestler in tap shoes, these pointy headed nincompoops from Cambridge, Massachusetts, (where else?) have caught dense in a bottle and driven it to a new area code. According to the National Bureau of Economic Research, they have reached the irrefutable conclusion… er, the results of one of their studies is indicative of…, and they are quite certain of its validity… that, yes, your suspicions were correct, we are indeed… in a recession. They said that. Monday.

Who knew? …more

It was as refreshing as a secret waterfall in the Sahara to see the FBI video of Democratic Massachusetts state Senator Denise Wilkerson stuffing part of a $23,000 payoff into her bra at Beacon Hill’s Fil- A- Buster restaurant under the shadow of Boston’s Capitol dome. Just for the sake of bipartisanship. In national politics these days, you hardly ever hear of a Democrat getting busted for corruption. Not because they’re any more honest by nature. Its just… who’s going to bribe a Democrat? They can’t get anything done. Besides, if you do give them money, they don’t know what to do with it. They put it in the freezer for crum’s sake. Or their undergarments.

On the other hand, take Alaska Senator Ted Stevens. Please. He not only knows what to do with the money, he knows how to earn the money and the optimum manner in which to solicit more money. Mister George Washington of the Bering Strait knows a thing or two about cash. But he’s not very conversant with that whole going gently into that good night thing. The fifth sitting US Senator to be convicted of a felony vows to appeal his conviction all the way to the highest court in the land or until he gets kicked out of the Most Deliberative Body in the World. Whichever comes first. And presumably, costs less.

Requesting a speedy trial, the 84 year- old Moses of the Tundra was rapidly found guilty on seven counts (co- incidentally, one for each Senate term served) of violating federal ethics laws. The legal way of saying “as crooked as a dump truck full of corkscrews.” Forget the quarter million dollar improvement to his house that he assumed to be included in his fifty- dollar refurbishing estimate; let’s go straight to the $2700 massage chair given to him by a restaurant owner. Adamantly refusing to accept the gift, the Senator did agree to store it in his basement rec room. For 7 years. Subsequently, he rammed through a 2.7 million dollar project building a road to the restaurant of the very guy storing the chair in his basement. Hopefully, those banks we’re bailing out can earn a fraction of that kind of return on investment.

Republicans across Alaska and the country (you know- Joe the Plumber’s Uncle Grumpy and Tina Fey’s look alike) are urging Stevens to resign, as nobody wants to give the impression that Alaska voters are in the habit of electing felons, which might make other choices they made look a bit silly as well. But calling Stevens stubborn is like saying the Himalayas are curiously bereft of PGA tour worthy golf courses. He’s Pre 49: A fierce patriarchal force in politics since before statehood who insists he can still be an effective advocate for Alaskan citizens if rewarded with an eighth crime spree. Erh, Senate term.

Voters get to pass the final judgment on both Senators as Stevens and Wilkerson soil their respective state’s ballots in tawdry re- election attempts Tuesday. Stevens did receive a bit of good news when the Alaska Division of Elections determined he was able to vote for himself. Even though convicted felons are ineligible, he still gets to go to the polls because… he hasn’t been sentenced yet. A moral victory perhaps, but the last victory either he or Ms. Wilkerson will probably experience for a long long time. One can only hope.

- Will Durst