Dirk Voetberg presents this holiday-themed squib.

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Gifts received, Beatle flexi-discs listened to, all is well here, hope you can say the same.

Jon decries the commercialization of the decrying of the commercialization of Christmas here. Some of Jon's humor pieces threaten to rend the fabric of time/space. This is one of them.

If you need visuals, try the video below.

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So I've finished the umpteenth draft of this Lennon/Beatles novel, which will be going out to editors after the first of the year. Positive mental imaging is, as always, welcome.

For reasons much too complicated to go into here, I found myself browsing YouTube for songs I first heard at Chicago's late, lamented Medusa's, an all-ages dance club at the corner of School and Sheffield, which I frequented in the mid- to late-80s. (Yes, I was by far the squarest guy in the joint; but one of the club's many virtues was how it accepted every kind of person, from skinhead, to punk, to sailor on leave, to chino-rific suburban kids like yours truly.)

Anyway, here were a few tunes I rediscovered:












I enjoyed being 17 again--a lot more than I liked it the first time around! Extra points to anyone who knew all the tunes.

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For reasons that must be all too obvious, the Xmas tradition around these parts includes unwrapping the presents to the accompaniment of The Beatles' Christmas albums. For some reason, no above-ground source exists for these tracks, which were end-of-year gifts to all members of The Beatles' Fan Club. (Apple released a vinyl LP in 1970, but no CD version exists.) It's a shame; they're fun, in a Goon Show sort of way.

For those similarly inclined--or attempting to mimic my life in every detail (in which case rest assured I keep the truly crappy parts to myself--there's no reason YOU should go through those too) I've unearthed a place on the 'net where the Fabs' Christmas records can be snagged. I believe this is the same compilation I got in digipak form down in the Village in 2003.

You'd be wise to stop and take a look around. Gonzo runs a great blog; lots of Beatles, and some interesting Prince, too.

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Jon turned me on to a new game called "Portal," raving about how sharp and entertaining the main character (a malevolent passive-aggressive supercomputer) was. Here's a YouTube video of the ending to give you a taste of how excellently it's both written and performed.

But that's nothing compared to the song that plays over the credits, which I've embedded below.



UPDATE: In this post Jon reveals that the song was written by Jonathan Coulton, truly a beautiful mutant if there ever was one.

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...will enjoy this site from the Monterrey Bay Aquarium. I used to be terrified of sharks (perhaps I'll write up a story or two sometime), but now I definitely like 'em.

We have an understanding; they don't bite me when I'm in the ocean, and I--well, I don't really do anything in return. That's one of the things I like about them. They're low-maintenance.

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Kate found and forwarded this neat little interview with Groucho Marx, circa 1969...

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Kate writes a damn funny blog post.

...and yes, we do call the garbage can "Satan's Nutsack."

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Apparently this song--one of my all-time favorite Beatles tunes--was deleted from "A Hard Day's Night." You can understand why--it's Lennon at his most creepily aggressive (bested only by "Run For Your Life" off Rubber Soul?)--but I still love it.

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My (extremely dirty) brother Jack forwarded me this short film. Enjoy.

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Kate wrote a funny piece here. (I helped a little, too.)

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Terribly funny. Watch it!

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My wife (whom we'll call "Norma Rae") tells the world what's going down in our apartment. It isn't pretty.

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Dennis Perrin unearthed this great old George Meyer sketch (from "The New Show," Lorne Michaels' ill-fated 1984 followup to SNL). I'd never seen it, only read it--it was collected in Laughing Matters, a very nice collection of written humor and cartoons edited by Gene Shalit.

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...is here.

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Well worth it.

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...are here.

Dare you to go up to him and say "You've got a girl's name."

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Fans? Is that right...?

Let's say it this way: For those of you interested in the Great War (which was fought 1914-18, there've been SO many and they've all been SO INCREDIBLY GREAT, I can understand if you've lost track), check out this site.

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Kung-Fu Monkey, a recovering stand-up, analyzes Democratic ineptitude in terms of basic audience management. Interesting...and, once you realize it, blindingly obvious.

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Though alcoholism is draped across my family tree like so much Spanish moss, this odyssey was simply too fun not to pass along:

"By now I trust you are aware of the nature of this initiative. For those that are not let's put it in simple mathematical terms - 2 men, 20 days, 6 continents, 5 equatorial crossings and 72 pubs. You don't need to be a genius to work out that this equals at the very least 1 severe hangover, 6 bouts of jetlag and 2 empty pockets..."

Go to their website and recommend a pub. I was very disappointed to read that they weren't going through New York City; I can think of at least four worthy pubs there, all haunts of mine "back in the day"...

McSorley's Ale House (if you haven't read Joseph Mitchell's profile on this, you must)
Chumley's (an old Village speakeasy where you can get your Benchley/Parker on)
White Horse Tavern (where Dylan Thomas died; now herds of NYU students make you WANT to die)
Ear Inn (supposedly the oldest bar in Manhattan, though McSorley's might have a thing or two to say about that).

UPDATE: Friend Greg Raskin reports, "Chumleys collapsed (literally, physically) and is no more."

Boo-hoo! How dare the world change without my authorization!

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With Halloween coming up--yes, I will be at the Aero's all-night horror marathon, at least until they bust out the Italian "gialli"--this site about Tod Browning's "Freaks" seemed necessary.

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Somebody's putting up the old radio show "The Lost Lennon Tapes" as a podcast. Originally aired on Westwood One in the late 80s. Perfect for marinating your brains, should you want to do that.

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While surfing the 'net trying to find the video where John Lennon calls Paul Simon "an evil dwarf" (accuracy is everything, folks), I found this EXCELLENT version of Paul McCartney's' "Coming Up." At the beginning, Lennon is heard praising it--something he didn't usually do.

Listen, would some of you out there devote your lives to making Beatle-type music? 'Cause otherwise, I'm going to have to quit writing immediately and spend 40 years learning how.

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Do you know about Daniel Brook's new book, "The Trap"? If not, here's an introduction and web-chat sponsored by Firedoglake.

To summarize: Brook states that the reason for supposed "apathy" on the part of 20- and 30-somethings in America is found in the crushing debt-loads that most of them accumulate via college. Pursuing one's dreams, be they activism or art or really anything BUT law or investment banking, requires a level of personal sacrifice that scares most people off.

And, having gone through it myself, I say "rightly so."

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So I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey last night. On the big screen. In 70mm. Totally sober. And I didn’t fall asleep. This is newsworthy.

2001 was one of my favorite movies when I was a kid. I was born a year after it came out, and for most of my childhood, it seemed completely reasonable that we'd have at least a moonbase by 2001, and probably a lot more. Wonder why it never happened? Oh, I remember—the country went insane.

The only thing more powerful than Humanity's unconquerable urge to explore is, apparently, its love of tax cuts.

That Moonbase? It’s been turned into McMansions.

Boy, am I glad we kept all that money out of the hands of the government. They might’ve wasted it.

You think we’d be trading blood for oil if Stanley Kubrick were running things? Do you think we’d be burning that oil and wrecking our planet? Of course not. The insane computers wouldn’t let us!

If aliens did attempt to contact us in 2001, I bet they took one look down and thought, “These jokers are beyond help…Anyway, Zorak, I like our monoliths better.”

There’s no organized religion in 2001 the movie, all of Humanity’s spiritual urges apparently having been replaced by groovy Sixties design. But Kubrick's vision of the future is far from perfect. For one thing, it’s as white as Greenwich Country Club. And if you see this—RUN!

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I am wearing new glasses. They look pretty great; with luck--and enough bourbon--by this weekend my marriage of nearly six years will stop being a sham. Unfortunately, they have temporarily impaired my funniness, which is located in several small muscles in and around my eyes. But because I take my thrice-weekly commitment to you so very seriously, here's a new video from Dirk.

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Alan Greenspan is a lot like Henry Kissinger; both men got famous while in jobs that, if you’re doing them right, shouldn’t make you famous.

But among a certain crowd—old white guys—the cult of Greenspan is second only to the cult of Warren Buffett. If either one of them could also win the Super Bowl, they’d become Dictator-for-Life.

Now Greenspan has written a memoir, where he supposedly sets the record straight about his 20 years leading the Fed. Greenspan’s got what I like to call “Gore’s disease”: the only appropriate time to speak your mind is after you’ve relinquished all power and influence. Anything else is just rude.

The book’s first bombshell is Greenspan’s admission that our war in Iraq is really about oil. The second bombshell is anybody who doesn’t realize this already, won’t believe Greenspan, either.

The book also talks about other facets of Greenspan’s life—for example, his years as a jazz musician. So that’s why he kept interest rates so low for so long—he was on the nod.

Let’s face it: Greenspan’s book will be a lot more talked about than read. After all, nobody really wants to know what Andrea Mitchell likes in bed. On the other hand, now you know what to get Gramps for Christmas.

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OJ Simpson is in the news again, this time after some sports memorabilia was ripped off from a seedy Vegas casino. The cops think he might have been responsible, but OJ was happy to come in for questioning. "I'm not the kind of guy to cut and run."

[Does the world need more OJ jokes? I don't think so. Instead, here's a new short from The Elders of the Dark Tower (of Xxoron).]

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Researchers at Aberdeen University in Britain have determined that oral contraceptives—commonly known as “Man’s best friend”—do not increase a woman’s risk of cancer. In fact, the researchers say, the pill actually reduces the risk of some cancers. Specifically, the sentient, inter-uterine kind.

This is perhaps the most devastating cancer of all, since you have to pay to send the tumor to college.

Since the pill was introduced in the early 1960s, there have been literally hundreds of studies on its risks and benefits. After all, Cosmopolitan’s got to put something on its cover. But while the pill doesn’t increase your risk of cancer, unfortunately having sex does.

Just kidding. Like you would’ve stopped anyway. “Every—body’s—gotta—die—sometime.”

Despite the positive conclusion, the report is being dismissed by some as “junk science.” “We have no problem with their methods,” one critic said, “we just reject any research having to do with people’s junk.”

Over the past 50 years, more than 300 million women are thought to have used oral contraception, often for prolonged periods of time. Great—all those dry spells just became my fault.

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As everybody knows, today marks a profoundly important day in the history of our country. After September 11th, America—and the world—would never be the same.

All around the globe, the wicked celebrate this anniversary, while the good and decent pause in their labors only for a moment—then rejoin the fight with redoubled resolve.

It was an attack on our values, even on our way of life. But this challenge has brought us together, showing that while we may disagree on many things, on this issue all Americans speak as one.

We all know the story: a small group of highly trained fanatics, working in secret and brainwashed after years of exposure to poisonous doctrine, came together to execute a plan surely authored by Satan himself.

That these misguided young men were successful is tragedy enough. But the greater heartbreak is that their actions have inspired others around the world to follow in their footsteps. The conflagration they started shows no signs of abating.

I’m talking, of course, about the founding of The Yale Record. On September 11, 1872, a group of students at Yale University created what was to become the first humorous undergraduate periodical. Once unleashed, this type of humor spread relentlessly, as if guided by some aged-yet-ageless scotch-drinking bird.

Now, 135 years later, what was started in New Haven has engulfed the entire planet—on TV, in Hollywood, and on the web, college humor is the dominant form of comedy in America and the world. Not bad for a bunch of people who were probably half in-the-bag.

So have one on us today, because at The Yale Record, we may not remember everything, but we will never forget.

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Still recuperating after finishing a draft of this Beatle book. So instead of new Newsbreaks, go check out the incredibly amazing Midwest Teen Sex Show.

Thank God Kate didn't see the one about "Older Boyfriends."

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Two weeks ago, a 76-year-old woman disappeared during a hunting trip with her husband. This is called “a backwoods divorce.”

Amazingly, the woman has been found, and it looks like she’s going to make it. Grizzly Adams, meet Grizzly Eves.

Authorities found Doris Anderson at the bottom of a canyon near Baker City, Oregon. “Thank god you found me,” she said to rescuers. “I gotta get home and watch my shows.”

She and her husband Harold had gone bow hunting. That’s a variation of the sport where instead of killing the animal, you decorate it.

Mrs. Anderson was slightly dehydrated and had suffered a small injury to her hip, but was otherwise unharmed. It’s remarkable, considering that the only tool she had was her upper plate. Maybe she used it like a throwing star.

Doris’ sister Iris credited her survival to prayer. And an intense desire to kick Harold’s ass. “Just going to take a leak, huh? I’ll give you a leak.”

I don’t like Harold’s chances. That’s no old lady, that’s a Terminatrix.

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As you may have heard, there’s a new book out that goes inside the Bush Presidency. It’s called “Colonscopy.” No, actually, it’s called, “Dead Certain,” which is inspired. Everybody will think it’s half-right.

The President granted the author unprecedented access to himself and his advisors. Cheney, Rice, Luthor, Bizarro, Manta Ray…

Bush said that, despite the pressure of being President, he feels he has to be strong. "I fully understand that the enemy watches me, the Iraqis are watching me, the troops watch me, and the people watch me," Bush said. We watch “30 Rock,” too, but you don’t see Tina Fey invading anybody. Maybe we should stop watching him, and see if that helps. It certainly would make us happier.

But, President Tough-Guy admitted, “I do tears.” That’s different from crying. Crying involves deep emotion, and the possibility of learning something. “Doing tears” is just a side-effect of Ambien.

Still, it’s nice to finally know what the President thinks he’s doing. You know—the strong, silent type. Like John Wayne. Or maybe Travis Bickle.

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I'm finding that more people watch Newsbreaks when they're NOT every day (convenient for me, I know, but true). So I'll do 'em Mon/Wed/Fri for a while, okay? Okay.

In the meantime, I saw the movie "Monterey Pop" over the weekend, and was knocked out by Jimi Hendrix. Here's a clip; enjoy.

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No new Newsbreaks today. But Monday--definitely.

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I'll be back tomorrow. I hope.

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In New Orleans today for the second anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, President Bush marked the occasion with a moment of silence. In other words, he just stood there. “And…scene. That was me during Katrina. Wanna see me during 9/11?”

After six or seven other moments of silence, the Performance-Artist-in-Chief continued with his speech. "New Orleans,” the President said, “is going to be better tomorrow than it is today." “Yeah you right,” somebody yelled. “You won’t be here.”

Did you know that the levees won’t be finished until 2015? If George Bush had been running D-Day, both sides would’ve just turned French.

2015 is eight hurricane seasons from now. Eight. President Bush has this charming habit of playing Russian roulette while aiming the gun at other people.

This guy has been President for six years, and I still can’t decide whether he’s mildly retarded or terrifyingly brilliant. Getting it done by 2015 is a lousy way to protect New Orleans, but it’s perfect timing to blame a Democratic incumbent. Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for President Jenna.

Meanwhile, the press is reporting that unidentified pranksters did a number on Karl Rove’s Jaguar. They wrapped it in plastic, put eagles on the back, and stuck a big Barack Obama poster in the back window. Is it too obvious to say something like, “These are your tax dollars at work”?

I’m just glad Rove is taking it in the right spirit. You never know with these guys—one man’s harmless prank is another man’s Reichstag fire.

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According to the AP, more and more parents are attempting to toilet-train their children from birth. Actually, from the article, I can’t tell how many people are doing it. Maybe the writer just has freaky friends. That’s how freelancing gets done—trust me, I used to do it. Nothing you read in the media is an actual “trend.” It’s some writer either trying to butter someone up, or shame them into acting normal.

Apparently, even tiny babies can be trained to signal when they need to “go potty.” That’s the clinical term for it, comes from the Latin. If it was me, I’d give them a little air horn. [imitates air horn] It’s not pleasant, but you want to make sure you hear it.

A woman for DiaperFreeBaby.org—I guess “.com” was taken—says that infants as young as 3 to 4 months can be trained to initiate bowel movements on cue. I imagine someone with a baton. With enough kids, you could create the ultimate weapon.

These techniques mimic ones that have been used for millennia in places like rural Africa, where people are too poor to afford diapers. Okay, but on the other hand—when you live in rural Africa, the world is your bathroom. In rural Africa, it’s impossible to take an unscheduled dump in the middle of a Payless.

Pretty soon, every public bathroom will have to have a cartoon character painted on the stall. “Howdy, Partner! You have to be 36 inches tall to ride this ride.” It’s all fun and games until some preemie takes the plunge.

This article is being forwarded like crazy around the corporate headquarters of all the diaper manufacturers. Get ready for some big-budget “scare stories.” [photo of Michael Jackson] “HE wants easy access to your child’s genitalia.”

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Attorney General Alberto Gonzales announced today that he’s resigning, effective September 17th. Mr. Gonzales said, quote, “I want to spend more time wiretapping my family.”

It’s not clear who will be the next Attorney General. I say it should be a computer. Introducing the Gonzales 9000—you just feed the Constitution in one end, and the machine does the exact opposite.

The pressure on Gonzales to resign has been relentless. I must’ve gotten five or six emails about it. When the Santa Monica Peace Party talks, Alberto Gonzales listens!

Democrats on the Hill are rejoicing. They say Gonzales’ resignation proves the system still works. And by “the System,” I mean, “the Bush Administration does whatever it wants, and Congress pretends it made them.”

But the Democrats know that the job isn’t over—now it’s time to really put the screws to the Administration. If things break just right, they hope to force President Bush to step down sometime after March, 2009.

I know, I shouldn’t be so hard on the Democrats. They’ve had a tough decade. But you know what they say: When the going gets tough, the tough indulge in meaningless symbolic grandstanding. Okay, okay—I’ll be nice. How about “transparently self-serving political triangulation”?

Don’t listen to me—today’s a happy day. First Rumsfeld, then Wolfowitz, then Rove, now Gonzales—this is more than just lame duck lethargy. This is a classic case of rats deserting a smirking shit.

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...here's a wonderful sketch from Peter Cook (the father) and Dudley Moore (Roger). Enjoy!

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The embargo continues. Twelve hours a day on this book. I'd work less, but my boss is a jerk.

Meanwhile, behold the power of good writing. (Jon says he thinks it's Jack Handey.)

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Beatles: Yeah, Yeah, Yeah
Newsbreaks: No, No, No

If you don't know Homestar Runner, you should. Here's a favorite of mine.

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Yes, still Beatling, but I won't leave you hanging. Here's a funny video sent to me by my friend Sam Pratt...

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I'm back to Beatling, so here's a tremendously funny video by Dirk Voetberg and friends...

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For best viewing, allow the video to load completely. Audio version is here.

Princeton has been awarded the top spot in the US News rankings of America’s finest colleges. That sound you hear is thousands of bowties being loosened in celebration. And that other sound you hear is thousands of “Future Princeton Alum” t-shirts being slipped over the heads of America’s most miserable children.

Princeton’s triumph comes as more and more schools are opting out of the annual report, which they call “a beauty pageant.” Trust me, it might be many things, but if an Ivy League school is winning it, it’s not a beauty pageant.

Seriously, the critics have a point, and I’m not just saying that because Yale came in third. Actually, that’s pretty good, given its obvious handicap. [picture of Bush]

I’m saying it because the last thing schools like Harvard, Yale and Princeton need is another reason to get all high on themselves. They don’t really consider themselves part of the United States—which would be fine, except they keep inflicting their alumni on the rest of us.

Fact is, graduates of Yale, Harvard, and Princeton cause much of the world’s woe. If you see someone in a business suit doing the perp walk, or in front of a bullet-pocked wall about to be shot by an angry mob, you can pretty much guess where they graduated.

On a personal level, I do my best to keep the destruction down to a minimum—you think you don’t like Newsbreaks? Just be happy I don’t run the Federal Reserve. Instead of being actually evil, I try to top out at “mildly annoying.”

Oh well, failed again.

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An Oxford professor named Nick Bostrom believes that it’s “almost certain” that what we experience as reality is merely a computer simulation, controlled by an advanced intelligence. It is also “almost certain” that this dude was at ComiCon last month.

The ramifications of Bostrom’s theory are quite profound: all of human existence may simply be a weird species of porn. Fine—at least somebody’s enjoying it. But what it all boils down to on a strictly human level is this: yes, it’s okay to punch Ann Coulter. In fact, God would probably be psyched if you did. “Look at that dude! He’s totally freaking out.”

If life is like The Sims, or better yet, D&D, things suddenly make a lot more sense. Because as anybody who played D&D can tell you, there are only two appropriate responses to any situation:
1) I kill it.
2) I try to have sex with it.

When I heard Bostrom’s theory, I wasn’t squiked out or anything. I was relieved. It explains a lot. Why, for example, Steve Jobs thinks he’s God.

But Professor Bostrom hasn’t answered the biggest question of all: who owns the movie rights?

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A new study says that reckless behavior normally associated with teenagers now extends into the mid-20s. You know what kind of behavior I’m talking about: binge drinking, risky sex, fighting in Iraq…

If I was still in my 20s, I’d make sure my parents got a copy of this report. Maybe two, in case the first one got vomit on it. But since I’m a little older, I immediately thought of bad roommates…In every group, there’s one guy who’s always late on the rent. The guy who makes Ramen when it’s his turn to cook. The guy with the moaning girlfriend. Well, if this study is accurate, he’s not just an a-hole, he’s a trend.

All sorts of groups have noticed the shift in behavior. For example, the National Campaign to Prevent Teen Pregnancy announced it would now include mothers in their 20s and 30s. I guess the plan is, they’ll come from one side, Kevorkian’ll come from the other. In twenty years, there’ll be no one left.

I have to admit I read this story with a bit of regret. I never did any of those things in my 20s—at least I don’t think I did. Maybe I blacked out. Anyway, now I’m 38 and the fun is over. Of course, people my age also indulge in risky behavior. Like getting a mortgage.

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Scientists believe that Abraham Lincoln may have had a facial defect called microsomia, where one side of his face was much smaller than the other. This condition is also known as “fucked-up face.”

Microsomia joins a long list of ailments — including smallpox, heart disease and depression — that modern doctors have diagnosed in Lincoln. Just once, I’d like to hear what parts of Lincoln worked. Clearly other things made up for all those flaws. “I know you won’t believe me, but Abraham Lincoln had a spectacular ass. He was like a dancer, or something.”

I think we should give Bush everything Lincoln had. We could probably do it in a weekend. Smallpox and depression—they practically do themselves. For heart disease, we could borrow Cheney’s; he’s not using it. The only hard part would be shrinking Bush’s face without shrinking his brain, too…Actually that’s perfect—he’s leaving.

Scientists don’t know what causes microsomia, but they do note that, as a boy, Lincoln was kicked in the head by a horse. This plan of mine’s getting better and better. “Excuse me, Mr. Bush? I think you might want to look at this horse. Its back hoof has a secret message from Jesus.”

Mount Rushmore sculptor Gutzon Borglum described the left side of Lincoln's face as “unfinished.” Lincoln’s ghost retaliated by killing Borglum six months before Mount Rushmore was complete. Lincoln was noted for his sense of humor. And his practice of “dim mak,” or “the death touch.”

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A state-run newspaper in China is reporting that the executive responsible for all those lead-tainted toys has killed himself. Meanwhile, in a completely unrelated piece of news, Karl Rove is leaving the White House…God, if he were only Chinese…

President Bush said, quote, “Karl’s moving on down the road.” God, I hate the folksy thing. It’s like Thurston Howell III pretending to be a Beverly Hillbilly. “I’m rich as hell, but you can’t hate me because I’m also inarticulate.” He’s like a corn-pone Nixon. “Sure, my background gave me opportunities you didn’t have. But don’t worry, I didn’t take advantage of them.”

Rove said, “I'm grateful to have been a witness to history.” Whatever you were, Karl, it wasn’t a witness. Witnesses can be called to testify.

“At month's end," Rove continued, "I will join those whom you meet in your travels”—what is he, President Appleseed?—“the ordinary Americans who tell you they are praying for you."

At least that part is true—we are praying for President Bush. Because it’s obvious what happens when he’s on his own.

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A: Next week. I won't be anywhere near finished with the draft, but at least I won't be totally screwed.

Meanwhile, I encourage you to go read some columns by my very funny friend, Mark Bazer.

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Day 444 of the Great Beatle Book Freak-Out. Meanwhile, here's something funny from Dirk Voetberg...

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(Folks, I'm up against several deadlines regarding this Beatles novel I'm doing, so here's a Newsbreaks from earlier this summer. Enjoy.)



Audio version is here.

The bald eagle, once nearly extinct, has been taken off the endangered species list. As a result of the ruling, the eagle will now be known by its new name: “chicken.”

“We think every American should be pleased by this news,” the White House said. “Now can everybody please shut up about the environment?”

The eagle has been under the protection of the Endangered Species Act. At least that’s what liberals call it. Conservatives call it “which animals to make fun of when we want to build a power plant.”

Since this is the Bush Administration, you have to wonder: are the eagles really safe, or have they just been voting Democratic? “We’ll thin those bastards out!”

The birds’ comeback is largely due to an unexpected ability to adapt to urban sprawl.

By the way, do you know how French people pronounce “Mall of America”? “Le redundant.”

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A new study from the Stanford School of Medicine shows that preschoolers prefer the taste of food when they think it comes from McDonald’s. So just to update you, the score stands at Satan 453 trillion, parents zero.

When presented with the same exact food, the lead researcher said, “the kids actually thought the McDonald’s food tasted better.” That’s pretty striking. But what’s amazing is they thought the McDonald’s food tasted like food.

This study surprises no one who’s been around small children, all of whom would sell their father into slavery for a Happy Meal, if that were possible. (And rest assured, one day that will be possible.) That little kids are susceptible to marketing is not the depressing part. The depressing part is we never get any less susceptible. “No, dear, we’re not getting McDonald’s. Mommy has to go get her Wonderbra.”

The study was meant to highlight the growing problem of childhood obesity—emphasis on the ‘growing’—as if being knee-deep in huge-ass kids wasn’t enough. I’ve seen toddlers one could only classify as “gas giants.”

Fact is, this problem would be easy to solve if we really wanted to solve it. Is it any wonder that the kids in the study were all low-income? That’s not a cheeseburger, kid—it’s class warfare. And you’re lovin’ it.

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Friend and fellow Record alum Matt Fogel directed the following--who will be the millionth person to see it?...Could it be YOU?



And don't miss this priceless review.

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A couple in Arkansas have just had their 17th child. Someone get these people TiVo.

Jim Bob and Michelle Duggars have racked up ten boys and now seven girls. They’re white, of course, so this is just a fun news story, instead of say, a campaign issue.

Thirty minutes after giving birth, Michelle, aka the walking population bomb, was already talking about having another. “It went fast,” she said. Yeah, well, practice makes perfect.

All seventeen children have names that begin with “J”—that’s the kind of people we’re dealing with. They’re also—surprise!—home-schooled. I bet they’re all getting a splendid education. The Duggars have the same student-teacher ratio as the University of Arkansas. I’m not kidding. I looked it up.

At this point, Michelle’s been pregnant for over 25% of her life. And no, she’s never read any Margaret Atwood. They’ve also gone through 90,000 diapers. This landfill has been brought to you by the Duggars.

Don’t get me wrong, I love kids. But this isn’t raising a family. This is creating your own private army.

The couple, who has no other claim to fame—how could they, there’s no time—has been featured on the Discovery Channel. Unfortunately, not during “Shark Week.”

Anyway, I don’t think it’s a good idea to publicize them. If I were the Chinese, I’d be pissed.

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Sean Penn has a new fan: Hugo Chavez. Apparently the two spoke on the phone recently, as Penn traveled through Venezuela. “I didn’t recognize him at first,” the actor said. “Somebody handed me the phone, then I heard this voice say, ‘Spicoli, this is Mr. Hand.’”

Chavez praised Penn for opposing the war in Iraq, as well as calling for the impeachment of President Bush. “It’s a fairly rare thing for me to pick up the phone,” Chavez said. “Usually I just leave comments on blogs.”

According to the Venezuelan state news service, Chavez goes by “Anonymous.” So, flame with caution.

Chavez called Penn “one of the greatest opponents to the Iraq invasion.” To the degree that’s true, it’s incredibly depressing. It’s like saying, “Our only hope to fight global warming is Laurie David.”

Over my lifetime I’ve watched this weird transformation: all our actors are frustrated politicians, and all our politicians are frustrated movie stars. Meanwhile, the rest of us are just frustrated.

The only other time this happened was during the Roman Empire, when Nero became an actor. We all know how that worked out. On the other hand, he did become the first person ever to receive the Thalberg award in advance.

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Twenty one years after the Challenger disaster, NASA is about to send another schoolteacher into space. What do they have against teachers? I thought they were all the good students.

This stunt is designed to reverse some bad publicity at NASA, currently fighting rumors that some of its astronauts have flown drunk. Here’s a photo of the mission commander, Scott Kelly, arriving to get suited up…What’s he holding?…Oh, okay. I thought it was a bottle of tonic.

The mission is being delayed while they fix a cabin leak, but whenever Endeavor does lift off, one of its passengers will be Barbara Morgan. Like McAuliffe, Morgan will sit in the middle seat on the ship's lower level. “My butt feels cold…as if there’s some kind of eerie presence…”

NASA denies that this is just a morbid publicity stunt. “This mission will allow us to conduct important research. If humanity is ever going to colonize other planets, we need to find out why teachers explode at high altitude.”

Unlike McAuliffe, who was supposed to conduct lessons about life in space—“Lesson one: it’s short!”—Morgan's teaching will be limited to an hour of answering questions from schoolchildren. Who planned this? It’s August! The only kids in school are the ones forced to take summer school. “So, are there any questions for Ms. Morgan?…Come on, people, this uplink is costing a million dollars a second…Wake up, Spicoli!”

NASA officials say Morgan’s flight is designed to inspire children. As somebody who was a kid at the time, I’ll tell you, Christa McAuliffe certainly inspired me. “Eff that!”

If time permits, Morgan will also make videos of the crew's activities as educational materials. “Okay, kids: here’s how to do a zero-g tequila shooter.”

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Dirk Voetberg has done another funny film...

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Long plagued by piles of pigeon poop, the city of Hollywood has come up with a humane solution: it’s going to give the birds contraceptives. The plan is yet another slap in the face to the Bush Administration, which sponsored the current abstinence-only program.

They’re going to mix a special chemical in with bird food, and scatter it all around the city. “We tried condoms, but they didn’t work. The birds were actually pretty good about wearing them…But they couldn’t put them on without ripping holes in them with their feet.”

Most are applauding the plan as sensible and humane, but a few are worried about the effect on the birds’ morals. A spokesman for Focus on the Family asked, “What kind of message are we sending to our America’s children? I say, we just kill ‘em.”

Moreover, some animal rights activists are concerned about the contraceptive’s effects on the birds’ health. Officials in Hollywood aren’t concerned. “We find that very, very few pigeons smoke.”

Overbreeding may be a problem in Hollywood, but the pigeons next door in West Hollywood are a different story. There, the problem is loud dance music. And a chronic shortage of feather-styling products.

It’s unclear why there are so many pigeons in Hollywood, but a few old-timers think it’s a new twist on the same old story. “Millions of ‘em came into town back in ‘62, when Hitchcock was doing ‘The Birds.’ Every pigeon back East thought it was going to be the next Lassie. I used to see whole flocks of them pooping all over Schwab’s drugstore, hoping to get discovered…But that’s not the way this town works. You can’t just poop on somebody and become a big star. It’s the other way around.”

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Film director Ingmar Bergman died today at the age of 89. Reportedly, his last words were, “Hey! No cheating!”

Bergman influenced generations of directors, most notably Woody Allen, who described him as "the greatest film artist since the invention of the motion picture camera." Of course, asking Woody to describe Bergman is like asking John to describe Yoko. In homage to his idol, Allen is expected to die later this week. It all depends on what happens with the financing.

The head of the Cannes Film Festival praised Bergman for showing that “cinema can be as profound as literature. And require just as much reading.” Even Ain’t It Cool News got into the act, calling Bergman “Sweden’s Rob Zombie.”

Bergman was the last link to the golden age of foreign cinema, where themes like alienation, mortality and loss were considered awesome date movies. “What would you do if there was another Black Death? I know what I would do—I’d have sex ALL the time…” Once you get somebody thinking about the fragileness and brevity of our time here on Earth, their brastrap practically unhooks itself.

The intellectual breeds seldom, if at all; Ingmar Bergman helped everybody get laid. And that, to me, is the true definition of genius.

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NASA is reeling after a report yesterday that some of its astronauts have flown drunk. Well, maybe “reeling” isn’t the right word. How about “ashamed and remorseful”?

NASA has a rule stipulating that there be at least 12-hours from “bottle to throttle.” The fact they already have a cute nickname for it doesn’t reassure me. The popular image of astronauts is of clean-living straight-arrows in love with danger and discovery. Now we find out they’re the guys from “Jackass.” “Steve-O was in geosyncronous orbit, holding the funnel. It was AWESOME.”

For years, people have been saying that human astronauts are obsolete, and that robotic missions make more sense. “I’m sorry, Dave, but I think you’re totally wasted.”

People are concerned that NASA’s image problems may make it hard for them to get funding. I think just the opposite is true. Congress loves people who are more incompetent than they are. That’s why they won’t impeach Cheney or Bush. A bunch of drunks in orbit is like a giant space shield covering Congress’s ass. “You think we’re bad? Just look at this video from the International Space Station.”

Still, you have to wonder what this does to NASA’s plans to go to Mars. Maybe nothing. Because science isn’t the point. You want data, you send up a satellite. But only humans can create really great reality TV…“Ares-1, this is Mission Control. You are veering off-course.” “I ain’t off course. I’m going to that bitch’s house.”

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A cat in a Providence nursing home seems to be able to predict when someone is going to die. Twenty-five times now, Oscar has climbed into bed with someone, and within two hours, they’re dead. And people wonder why dogs are more popular.

‘Course his odds are pretty good—let’s see how Oscar does at a junior high school.

Staffers at the home say the cat is a godsend: “Now, you take your meds! Don’t make me go get Oscar!”

But frightening old people is just the beginning. One five-minute segment on Al-Jazeera, and the war could be over tomorrow. “Sure, sure, take the oil. Put a Hooters on every corner—just don’t send over the Death Cat!”

I bet Oscar’s getting pretty frustrated. Twenty five times, he climbs into bed, and twenty five times, someone picks him up after the person has kicked off. “Wha-? What are you doing? I was going to eat that!”

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Oceanographers say that a large, carnivorous species of squid is invading Calfornia’s central coast. They don’t know why the Humboldt squids have appeared, but I think I do. They’re waiting for the next big earthquake. “Dude, trust me—it’ll be sweet.”

Obviously, that’s a long-term plan. In the short-term, the arrival of the squids may mean the end of fishsticks as we know them. The Humboldt dines on Pacific hake, the main fishstick stock. Try to say that five times fast.

The first time a Humboldt was spotted here was in 1997, when it swam past the camera of a submersible. “Hey, I think that squid just flipped me off!”

The squid is really an amazing creature. Not only does it have a large brain—which means it knows exactly what it’s doing, thank you very much—the squid is the only species that resembles both male and female genitals.

The Humboldts used to confine themselves to the warm waters around the equator, but now are ranging more and more widely. This is expected to put pressure on sharks, the squid’s main competitor for food. Discovery Channel has already got the rights to the pay-per-view. “Fifty Humboldts! One Great White! Who will win?”

Scientists say that the squids pose no threat to marine mammals, and human beings are of course completely safe. Sure. That’s what they said at Munich.

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As you probably know already, actress Lindsay Lohan has gotten another DUI. In other news, the sun came up.

Apparently she was chasing her assistant through the streets of Santa Monica. Sorry, her ex-assistant. In Hollywood, if your drunk, coked-up boss is chasing you in her SUV, you get out of the car and let her run you over. That’s called “paying your dues.” Then, when you’ve made it, you can kill your assistant.

My question is, how do I get the media to stop telling me this kind of thing? I thought the whole point of the internet was to let me customize my news so it was, you know, news.

Lindsay Lohan getting wasted is not news. I expect her to be wasted. That’s what Lindsay Lohan is for. In the grand tradition of wackadoo blonde actresses, we expect her to embarrass herself in public until she either one, dies, or two, gets too fat. What other possible future could she have? “Lindsay Lohan discovers new particle”—that would be news. This girl’s only real accomplishment has been entering AA before she was even legal.

Honestly, I wouldn’t even bring it up except that it happened like, eight blocks from my apartment. “So I guess you feel all cool?” No, I feel scared. Seeing Lawrence Fishburne in an IHOP is cool. Dying because Lindsay misheard one of the 12 Steps is not.

I gotta admit, though, she looks pretty good in the photo. Mom always said to me, “Son, marry a girl who takes a good mug shot…You know, just in case.”

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Today is Daniel Radcliffe’s 18th birthday, which means he now has access to 40 million dollars. And, ten times that many sex partners.

Earlier this year, Radcliffe made his stage debut playing a tortured teenager obsessed with horses in the famous play, “Harry Potter and the Tortured Teenager Obsessed with Horses."

Radcliffe insists the money won’t change him. Change him to what? “I liked Dan before he went Hollywood. Back when he was seven.

There were no limos, no paparazzi. There was just Corgi cars and digging in the dirt with a stick. Spillin’ Kool-Aid down the front of your shirt. Playin’ ‘till the sun went down, then coming home sweaty, tired, and lightly covered in filth.”

I remember one time, Dan and I—that’s what his friends call him, “Dan”—were torturing a grasshopper in front of my Mom’s old house. All of the sudden Dan turns to me and says, “I gotta poop.” Just like that—just like any normal person would say it: “I gotta poop.” So I said, “Go under the porch. That’s what I always do.” But Dan was afraid of spiders—this was before he was a big star. Nowdays, I’m sure he’s got a spider-butler or something.

So I said, “I’ll go in there with you.” Ah, those were the days—hiding under my Mom’s porch, watching Dan Radcliffe poop. That kid was salt of the earth. He even wiped himself with a rock.

When Mom smelled it, I told her it was raccoons. I stuck up for you, Dan—don’t forget me, okay?

I should’ve kept it. Probably would’ve been worth something.

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This morning, the Bay Area was struck by a small earthquake. Well, I guess somebody didn’t like the way Harry Potter ended.

The earthquake was minor—easy for me to say, right?—but officials for the US Geological Survey stuck up for it: “There are no small earthquakes,” they said. “Only small cities.”

They’re very protective of their quakes, over there at the US Geological Survey. I wouldn’t go so far as to say they ROOT for them, but…

They all cluster around the seismograph chanting, “Go! Go! Go!”

They quake struck at around 4:40 in the morning, and knocked out power to about 1,000 people. Pacific Gas and Electric said that they were investigating the cause of the outage. How’d you like to have that job? “I’m not sure, but I think it was an earthquake.”

The only major damage was reported by an employee at a Safeway in Berkeley. Two large plate-glass windows were broken. “At first I didn’t think ‘earthquake,’” the guy said. “I thought, ‘Awesome—the revolution has started!…My blog actually worked!”

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Officials for the town of Brattleboro, Vermont, have passed a temporary ordinance banning public nudity. The law is an emergency measure following a recent rash of townspeople airing out their uglies.

All I can say is, one person’s emergency is another person’s tourist attraction. I just wonder if my plane tickets are refundable.

If the law doesn’t work, maybe they’ll call out the Vermont National Guard.

Oh, wait, they can’t. They’re in Iraq, fighting to give women the right to wear less clothing…I’m so confused.

Apparently there’s a lot of nudity in Vermont—during the summertime, at least—but this year, things were getting out of hand. In addition to the usual sunbathing and skinny-dipping, teenagers were riding bikes and holding hula-hoop contests. It got so bad that parents had to start begging their kids to stay inside and play video games. “All that fresh air is bad for you! It makes you…pregnant!”

The last straw came when a senior citizen was spotted in downtown Brattleboro wearing nothing but sneakers and a fanny pack. Naked teenagers are one thing, scrotal dragging is another.

Vermont has a “live-and-let-live” tradition, and Brattleboro, even more so. One townsperson said she guessed nudity “rubs some people the wrong way.” But of course the real problem is, it rubs all people the right way. The really right way. All the chimps in charge are afraid the rest of us are secretly bonobos.

I know which I am. If I could look at naked people all day long, I really don’t think I’d need much else…The thrills! The chills! The excitement! This just might be the way to solve global warming.

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Archeologists in Ventura, CA, have discovered a pair of 130-year-old outhouses. They’re calling it a treasure-trove. So far they’ve unearthed a pistol, a knife, whiskey flasks, two dog skulls, and a set of false teeth. All I can say is, if that’s “treasure,” you guys would make really bad pirates.

Of course, we are talking about California. “Kids, look—according to this plaque, this McDonald’s has been here since 1963.”

My Mom loves to read plaques. That’s why she likes Europe so much—the plaques are more entertaining. You know what Europeans call a 130-year-old outhouse? “The outhouse.”

The archeologists say that the deeper they dig, the worse it smells. And the worst part is, they have to use those little trowels. They have get right down in it, that’s the Archeologist’s Code.

I can imagine one of them saying to the other, “Think the Holy Grail’s buried down here?”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Do you think the Holy Grail’s down here?’”
“Nah.”
“Then I’m breaking out the freakin’ dynamite.”

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I went to school in New Haven. This is what everybody who went to Yale says. They’re just begging you to ask them for more information. Then when you finally pry it out of them, they mumble, “Oh, Yale.” Like “perhaps you’ve heard of it…It’s not much, but we like it.”

Yalies are divided into two groups, those desperate to prove they’re regular guys, and the other kind—we all know what they’re like. I think this comes from going to a really rich school in a really poor town. Or, we all could be assholes.

When I lived there twenty years ago, I called New Haven “yesterday’s city tomorrow.” But I can’t call it that anymore. This week, the city will become the first in the nation to issue ID cards to illegal immigrants. The cards are supposed to help reduce crime by allowing illegals to use banks instead of carrying cash. They will also let the workers use city services, like libraries. So if you want to get on the list for Book Seven in Spanish, call right now.

Naturally, conservative groups all across the country are mobilizing. One based in North Carolina is worried that New Haven’s plan will harbor terrorists. They’re so worried that they’re encouraging illegal immigrants all over the US to move to New Haven, so that they swamp the city’s social services. Wait—who are terrorists?

I love North Carolina. It’s like the South Lite, which means they only want to go back to 1950, instead of 1750. Their state motto should be, “We’re not as batshit as South Carolina, but you can see it from here!”

Illegal immigration is a complex problem, and it’s one that won’t go away. There’s one country filled with people who will risk their lives just to have a decent life, right next to another country filled with people who can’t even get up to change the channel.

Will the cards work? I don’t know. Maybe they’ll start a national conversation, something more than…“Lalalalala—I’m not looking at you, I’m not looking at you…Wait a sec, you missed a spot…Lalalalala…”

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For centuries, human beings have dreamed of colonizing Mars. And why not? I mean, we’ve done so well with this planet. Now scientists say they might actually be able to do it. ‘Course, it won’t be easy: Mars has a rocky, desert-like surface, fierce ultra-violet radiation, and an atmosphere loaded with carbon dioxide. In other words, it’s the Valley.

The plan would be to pump greenhouse gases into the atmosphere, introduce bacteria to start photosynthesis and finally plant trees. So it won’t be anything like the movies; it’ll be more like driving Hummers filled with pinecones and yogurt.

NASA says the project would be called off if any life was found to already exist on Mars. Oh, sure it would. “Okay, everybody: put the vast mineral wealth back. We all gotta leave. Steve found lichen.”

If humans ever did colonize Mars, the low gravity there would cause people to grow extremely tall. Short kids would go there for summer camp. I can already see the ads in the back of The New York Times Sunday Magazine.

And of course there would be the usual corporate interest. “I claim this planet in the name of the National Basketball Association!”

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Officials for the Taste of Chicago admitted today that some visitors to the festival got salmonella and had to be taken to the hospital. “I’m such an idiot,” one patient said. “I saw the sign and thought, ‘Oh, that’s just Italian for “little salmon.”’”

For those of you who’ve never been to “the Taste,” it’s a 10-day swath of blacktop offering food from local restaurants. They all set up booths, and all the booths have signs like “Try our 95-degree tunafish.”

That’s the thing about the Taste. Every year, it’s hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Only at the Taste, they make you eat it. And then charge you eight dollars.

Literally millions of people come through every year, mostly tourists from tiny little towns all over the Midwest. I can just imagine one of them sitting in a porta-potty, and thinking, “Now I know why them big city folks always walk so fast.”

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The President spoke to the press today, and it was vintage Bush. All the elements were there:
[ __ bogus sincerity]
[ __ defiant condescension]
[ __ refusal to acknowledge reality]
[ __ fake-folksy self-congratulation]

He started off by mentioning the death of Lady Bird Johnson.
[ x bogus sincerity]

He told people angry over his pardon of “Scooter” Libby that “it was time to move on.”
[ x defiant condescension]

He called any future withdrawal from Iraq “a disaster.”
[ x refusal to acknowledge reality]

And he finished by saying, “if you ever come down and visit the old, tired me down there in Crawford, I will be able to say I looked in the mirror and made decisions based upon principle, not based upon politics.”
[ x fake-folksy self-congratulation]

During the speech, Bush told the press that we’ve entered a new stage in Iraq, something called “Phase IV.” According to Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, this is “Depression.”

But he’s not depressed—that’s our job. He’s defiant. He acts like Iraq is something he inherited from those idiots in the first Bush Administration. Our President is definitely the kind of guy who gets mad at YOU when he loses his keys.

Privately, a lot of people in Washington are saying that Mr. Bush is drinking again. My question is, “How could you tell?”

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I noticed today that if you start playing a video before it is totally uploaded to your machine, there can be weird lags in the video that totally screw up the jokes.

Anybody else have this problem? Punchlines and images not synching up? Makes the whole thing kinda sucky, to be honest.

My only suggestion is to let it load fully before playing. Any video dudes have thoughts?

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People have asked, “Why aren’t Newsbreaks more popular?” Up ‘til now my answer has been, people are obviously watching them in large groups in front of their computers. So if YouTube says “4 views,” the real viewership is somewhere around 50,000 people.

But now science has given me a whole new excuse. Researchers at Washington University in St. Louis have found that people’s understanding of jokes decreases as they get older. And as we know, most people who use the Internet are well over 65.

Participants in the study were given several panels of a cartoon strip, then asked to pick the funniest ending. Younger adults did 14% better than older ones, and both groups totally destroyed the woman who draws “Cathy.”

“We’ve solved a pair of the world’s great mysteries,” one researcher said. “Why strips like ‘B.C.’ and ‘Beetle Bailey’ have sucked for decades…and why newspaper editors keep running them.”

So what appeared to be bad taste is actually degenerating brains.

The scientists tested two groups: adults over 65, and a bunch of students from the University. Their recommendation is simple: “Old people should smoke more pot. That makes EVERYTHING funny.”

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You know what’s wrong with the world today? Too much religious tolerance. Pope Benedict XVI did his part today by releasing a document declaring all other religions bogus. “Christ established here on earth only one church,” the Pope wrote. “I just happen to be the leader of it.”

President Bush praised the announcement. “Benny’s a uniter, not a divider.”

Privately, however, the President was less enthusiastic. “Tell Scalia to quit texting me.”
[pwn3d!!!!11]

But an Anglican official in Rome stressed that “there's the official position, and then there's the huge amount of friendship and fellowship” between Catholics and the rest of the world’s religions. A Vatican official agreed, saying: “We’ll certainly wave at you all down in Hell.”

This document follows one on Saturday which reinstated the Latin Mass. This was seen as a direct attack on American Catholics who, like the rest of us, would rather suffer eternal torment than learn a foreign language.

Observers say this is probably the last of Benedict’s moves to roll back the clock. Then again nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.

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This morning, I read the following headline: “Robber disguised as tree robs New Hampshire bank.” Sounds like a Newsbreak, right? Practically writes itself, which I like, ‘cause I’m not getting paid. So then I read the story and find out that, in fact, the guy wasn’t wearing a tree costume, he just had leaves and branches duct-taped to his head. Folks, this is why people read comic books.

In real life, The Penguin is some guy who stands on his front lawn all winter with a carton of eggs clamped in his crotch.

And The Joker’s just some dude who wears makeup and likes to goose people.

The guy didn’t even have a gun. He just asked for money, and they gave it to him. “I was afraid he’d give me Dutch Elm disease.”

For obvious reasons, I’m not going to give the name of the bank. They’re pretty embarrassed. Anyway, you probably know it already; it’s the one that goes bankrupt every Halloween.

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Dennis Perrin has written an excellent music-review spoof.

And Dirk Voetberg would like to introduce you to...The Enigma!

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Keith Olbermann's "Special Comment" in the wake of the Libby commutation is 100% correct. Watch the video here.

For those of you who prefer to read, the transcript is below, but the take-away is simple: Bush and Cheney must resign for the good of the country, and since they won't, Congress must impeach them.

"Finally tonight, as promised, a Special Comment on what is, in everything but name, George Bush’s pardon of Scooter Libby.

“I didn’t vote for him,” an American once said, “But he’s my president, and I hope he does a good job.”

That — on this eve of the 4th of July — is the essence of this democracy, in seventeen words.

And that is what President Bush threw away yesterday in commuting the sentence of Lewis “Scooter” Libby.

The man who said those seventeen words — improbably enough — was the actor John Wayne.

And Wayne, an ultra-conservative, said them, when he learned of the hair’s-breadth election of John F. Kennedy instead of his personal favorite, Richard Nixon in 1960.

“I didn’t vote for him but he’s my president, and I hope he does a good job.”

The sentiment was doubtlessly expressed earlier. But there is something especially appropriate about hearing it, now, in Wayne’s voice.

The crisp matter-of-fact acknowledgement that we have survived, even though for nearly two centuries now, our Commander-in-Chief has also served, simultaneously, as the head of one political party and often the scourge of all others.

We as citizens must, at some point, ignore a president’s partisanship. Not that we may “prosper” as a nation, not that we may “achieve”, not that we may “lead the world” — but merely that we may “function.”

But just as essential to the seventeen words of John Wayne is an implicit trust — a sacred trust:That the president for whom so many did not vote, can in turn suspend his political self long enough, and for matters imperative enough, to conduct himself solely for the benefit of the entire Republic.

Our generation’s willingness to state “we didn’t vote for him, but he’s our president, and we hope he does a good job,” was tested in the crucible of history, and far earlier than most. And in circumstances more tragic and threatening.

And we did that with which history tasked us.

We enveloped “our” President in 2001.

And those who did not believe he should have been elected — indeed, those who did not believe he had been elected — willingly lowered their voices and assented to the sacred oath of non-partisanship.

And George W. Bush took our assent, and re-configured it, and honed it, and sharpened it to a razor-sharp point, and stabbed this nation in the back with it.

Were there any remaining lingering doubt otherwise, or any remaining lingering hope, it ended yesterday when Mr. Bush commuted the prison sentence of one of his own staffers.

Did so even before the appeals process was complete…

Did so without as much as a courtesy consultation with the Department of Justice…

Did so despite what James Madison –at the Constitutional Convention — said about impeaching any president who pardoned or sheltered those who had committed crimes “advised by” that president…

Did so without the slightest concern that even the most detached of citizens must look at the chain of events and wonder:

To what degree was Mr. Libby told: break the law however you wish — the President will keep you out of prison?

In that moment, Mr. Bush, you broke that fundamental compact between yourself and the majority of this nation’s citizens — the ones who did not cast votes for you.

In that moment, Mr. Bush, you ceased to be the President of the United States.

In that moment, Mr. Bush, you became merely the President… of a rabid and irresponsible corner of the Republican Party.

And this is too important a time, sir, to have a Commander-in-Chief who puts party over nation.

This has been, of course, the gathering legacy of this Administration. Few of its decisions have escaped the stain of politics.

The extraordinary Karl Rove has spoken of “a permanent Republican majority,” as if such a thing — or a permanent Democratic majority — is not antithetical to that upon which rests: our country, our history, our revolution, our freedoms.

Yet our democracy has survived shrewder men than Karl Rove.

And it has survived the frequent stain of politics upon the fabric of government.

But this administration, with ever-increasing insistence and almost theocratic zealotry, has turned that stain… into a massive oil spill.

The protection of the environment is turned over to those of one political party, who will financially benefit from the rape of the environment.

The protections of the Constitution are turned over to those of one political party, who believe those protections unnecessary and extravagant and “quaint.”

The enforcement of the laws is turned over to those of one political party, who will swear beforehand that they will not enforce those laws.

The choice between war and peace is turned over to those of one political party, who stand to gain vast wealth by ensuring that there is never peace, but only war.

And now, when just one cooked book gets corrected by an honest auditor…

When just one trampling of the inherent and inviolable “fairness” of government is rejected by an impartial judge…

When just one wild-eyed partisan is stopped by the figure of blind justice…

This President decides that he, and not the law, must prevail.

I accuse you, Mr. Bush, of lying this country into war.

I accuse you of fabricating in the minds of your own people, a false implied link between Saddam Hussein and 9/11.

I accuse you of firing the generals who told you that the plans for Iraq were disastrously insufficient.

I accuse you of causing in Iraq the needless deaths of 3,586 of our brothers and sons, and sisters and daughters, and friends and neighbors.

I accuse you of subverting the Constitution, not in some misguided but sincerely-motivated struggle to combat terrorists, but instead to stifle dissent.

I accuse you of fomenting fear among your own people, of creating the very terror you claim to have fought.

I accuse you of exploiting that unreasoning fear, the natural fear of your own people who just want to live their lives in peace, as a political tool to slander your critics and libel your opponents.

I accuse you of handing part of this republic over to a Vice President who is without conscience, and letting him run roughshod over it.

And I accuse you now, Mr. Bush, of giving, through that Vice President, carte blanche to Mr. Libby, to help defame Ambassador Joseph Wilson by any means necessary, to lie to Grand Juries and Special Counsel and before a court, in order to protect the mechanisms and particulars of that defamation, with your guarantee that Libby would never see prison, and, in so doing, as Ambassador Wilson himself phrased it here last night, of you becoming an accessory to the obstruction of justice.

When President Nixon ordered the firing of the Watergate special prosecutor Archibald Cox during the infamous “Saturday Night Massacre” on October 20th, 1973, Mr. Cox initially responded tersely, and ominously:

“Whether ours shall be a government of laws and not of men, is now for Congress, and ultimately, the American people.”

President Nixon did not understand how he had crystallized the issue of Watergate for the American people.

It had been about the obscure meaning behind an attempt to break in to a rival party’s headquarters; and the labyrinthine effort to cover-up that break-in and the related crimes.

But in one night, Nixon transformed it.

Watergate — instantaneously — became a simpler issue: a President overruling the inexorable march of the law. Of insisting — in a way that resonated viscerally with millions who had not previously understood — that he was the law.

Not the Constitution.

Not the Congress.

Not the Courts.

Just him.

Just - Mr. Bush - as you did, yesterday.

The twists and turns of Plame-Gate, your precise and intricate lies that sent us into this bottomless pit of Iraq; your lies upon the lies to discredit Joe Wilson; your lies upon the lies upon the lies to throw the sand at the “referee” of Prosecutor Fitzgerald’s analogy… these are complex and often painful to follow, and too much, perhaps, for the average citizen.

But when other citizens render a verdict against your man, Mr. Bush — and then you spit in the faces of those jurors and that judge and the judges who were yet to hear the appeal — the average citizen understands that, sir.

It’s the fixed ballgame and the rigged casino and the pre-arranged lottery all rolled into one — and it stinks. And they know it.

Nixon’s mistake, the last and most fatal of them, the firing of Archibald Cox, was enough to cost him the presidency.

And in the end, even Richard Nixon could say he could not put this nation through an impeachment.

It was far too late for it to matter then, but as the decades unfold, that single final gesture of non-partisanship, of acknowledged responsibility not to self, not to party, not to “base,” but to country, echoes loudly into history.

Even Richard Nixon knew it was time to resign

Would that you could say that, Mr. Bush.

And that you could say it for Mr. Cheney.

You both crossed the Rubicon yesterday.

Which one of you chose the route, no longer matters.

Which is the ventriloquist, and which the dummy, is irrelevant.

But that you have twisted the machinery of government into nothing more than a tawdry machine of politics, is the only fact that remains relevant.

It is nearly July 4th, Mr. Bush, the commemoration of the moment we Americans decided that rather than live under a King who made up the laws, or erased them, or ignored them — or commuted the sentences of those rightly convicted under them — we would force our independence, and regain our sacred freedoms.

We of this time — and our leaders in Congress, of both parties — must now live up to those standards which echo through our history:

Pressure, negotiate, impeach — get you, Mr. Bush, and Mr. Cheney, two men who are now perilous to our Democracy, away from its helm.

And for you, Mr. Bush, and for Mr. Cheney, there is a lesser task.

You need merely achieve a very low threshold indeed.

Display just that iota of patriotism which Richard Nixon showed, on August 9th, 1974.

Resign.

And give us someone — anyone – about whom all of us might yet be able to quote John Wayne, and say, “I didn’t vote for him, but he’s my president, and I hope he does a good job.”

Good night, and good luck."

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