Now that it's winding down I think we can all agree: 2002 was a brutal teeth-rattling anal probe of a year.

It truly was the best of times, the worst of times. Except without the best of times part. Everything turned fetid and funky during the Double Deuce. The world went haywire, like we entered a bizzaro dimension.

Priests were horny, pilots were drunk and our shadowy government had its own shadow government. We color-coded our fear, the war on terror was expanded to include anyone who ate at Shoney's and the "Dude, you're getting a Dell" dude got canned.

Everybody in the country got obese EXCEPT Liza Minnelli. Fires raged through the forests but not in the crematoriums, which could explain why Ted Williams ended up on ice. And even Michael Jackson acted a tad peculiar at times.

We just finished gobbling Cipro to fend off the anthrax and now we're lining up for smallpox vaccinations. But before we climb back into the handbasket bound for warmer climes maybe we can squeeze in one final glance back at that twisted bitch, 2002.

President Bush became fodder for late-night comics when he failed to read the instructions on the back of a pretzel bag. But no one was laughing after he delivered a rousing State of the Union speech. Highlights included an unprecedented 10-minute break as the president crowd-surfed up to the bleachers and back. It was also the defining moment when he labeled Iraq, Iran and North Korea as an "axis of buttholes." The phrase was later modified at the insistence of network censors.

Unfortunately, before we could go all daisy-cutter on the rogue nations, Iran was forced to withdraw from the axis of evil due to a hamstring injury.

"Obviously, we're disappointed," said Iranian hard-liner Kamal Tarzai. "We worked diligently to attain our current level of evilness, but when you blow a hammy that's pretty much all she wrote."

Instead of assigning AOE status to another country, the Bush administration used rotating substitutes to fill the vacancy, including Germany, Canada and Rold Gold, depending on who was choking the president or calling him a "squinty chimp-like moron" at any given time.

The winter Olympics went off without a hitch in Salt Lake City thanks to increased security precautions, including squads of Mormons wielding socks filled with dimes. The only controversy occurred when two members of the Russian curling team were disqualified for banned substances. Instead of sweeping the ice with little brooms they used Swiffer WetJets. The lemony fresh scent gave them away.

By spring, a simmering sex abuse scandal threatened to engulf the Catholic Church. It stemmed from the age-old quandary: how to protect vulnerable priests from the seduction of cunning, hunky minors.

After meeting with Pope John Paul II, American cardinals and bishops crafted a plan to begin the healing process. Critics derided the new policy as overly vague and cautious. The biggest problem the church hierarchy faced was that they were improvising doctrine.

"If only the church had some kind of authoritative source," lamented Cardinal Bernard Law. "A book perhaps, that offers guidance and spells out the differences between right and wrong. Something that can be taken as gospel. Unfortunately, no such book seems to exist."

The economy foundered for much of the year. The stock market went up and down like a whore's drawers. Companies crashed under waves of accounting irregularities. Just as we teetered on the brink of recession the White House unveiled a far-reaching jobs program. They created a shadow government. Secret bunkers up and down the Eastern seaboard were staffed with mid-level employees from the executive branch. And what else do you need really? Because nobody delivers streamlined efficiency and aggressive innovation like unsupervised civil servants who can't be fired.

Presidential spokesman Ari Fleischer reassured a jittery American public. "Only after a nuclear holocaust cripples the nation will the shadow government step in. They will maintain essential federal functions such as scheduling shadow meetings with oil tycoons, collecting huge donations of shadow cash and pardoning the Thanksgiving turkey. Also they will be responsible for adjusting the color-coded terror alert system to its highest setting, bowel-evacuating umber."

Summer provided the welcome distraction of World Cup soccer. For several weeks the country virtually shut down, as it does for any major soccer event. Television ratings were phenomenal. Most games handily won their 3 and 4am time slots beating out infomercials for the Leon Spinks Lean Mean Lard Dehydrator and pulling in the key demographics of burglars, doughnut makers, breast-feeding mothers and Tara Reid on diet pills.

After a rise in shark attacks, experts recommended swimmers not enter the water while menstruating or immediately after having their arms gnawed to bloody stumps by farm machinery. They also discouraged the use of chum-based sunscreens and shiny jewelry, especially ankle bracelets engraved "Blow me, shark."

Five years after their deaths, Mother Teresa and Princess Diana were back in the news. Mother Teresa continued on the fast track to sainthood when the Vatican attributed a miracle to her. The only stumbling block to the beloved nun's beatification that remains, is the persistent rumor she once killed a guy by locking him inside a gasoline-soaked Porta-John and toppling it into an active volcano in a "Jackass"-style stunt gone awry.

Following a high profile trial, Diana's former butler revealed the princess never fully recovered after being dumped without explanation by the great love of her life, George "Goober" Lindsey.

Jimmy Carter won a Nobel Prize by defeating Danny Bonaduce in "Celebrity Boxing." Justin Timberlake dumped Britney Spears, claiming he wanted a girlfriend who focused less on a career and more on his wiener. Lisa Marie Presley married, then divorced Nicolas Cage, saying she yearned for the stability and deliciously hot sex she had with her previous hubby, Michael Jackson.

And to no one's surprise Jackson was named Father of the Year, beating out Ozzy Osbourne and Robert Blake. During his acceptance speech he offered sage parenting advice. "Don't let younger children play with the Elephant Man's skeleton because small bones could pose a choking hazard. Administer a breathalyzer to Aunt LaToya before allowing her to babysit. And most importantly, never let a game of Got-Your-Nose get out of control."

But like all things horrid and painful, 2002 has to end sometime. Unfortunately, 2003 doesn't look to be much better. Yet there is a ray of hope. Because of impending wars, global warming, toxic pollution levels and our own soaring obesity rates, there's an excellent chance we could all be dead by spring. Let's keep a happy thought.

Auld lang syne.

Remember the terrorist attacks? They were all over the news, happened sometime last September. Remember? We were numb for a while, and then we vowed to change our priorities once and for all and focus on what's truly important in life.

But that was before we discovered deep-fried Twinkies and "American Idol" and the "Anna Nicole Show" and we were totally going to vote in that midterm election but by then we were caught up in the Winona trial. Now it's just over a year since the World Changed Forever and we're planted in the same couch groove except it's wider and deeper, more like a couch canyon, but if we don't buy and fry the Twinkies the terrorists win, right?

So we learn a valuable lesson: priorities are hard to change. That's probably why they became priorities in the first place.

Now it's the holiday season. That means the kids will want toys. Doesn't matter that our 401(k) is gutted, we're one swiped stapler from being canned and we're gearing up for yet another freakin' war; innocent hearts won't be denied at this magical time of year. Children will scramble down the stairs early Christmas morn hoping to find the must-have toy of the season.

Well here's a suggestion for the youngsters: blow it out your tiny butts. You're not the boss of us.

Maybe we can't change our own priorities but we can damn sure reshape our offspring. Kids aren't hardwired for priorities yet. Act now and we can steer them down a more spiritual path, one not dominated by fads, trends and materialistic lust. They'll thank us for our selfless parental courage later. Or they'll gobble Ritalin like Skittles while sobbing uncontrollably to their therapists. Either way we save some coin this Christmas.

Let's look at a few of the hot toys this holiday season and some possible less expensive options.

Rapunzel Barbie: How utterly groundbreaking! It's Barbie but with slightly different hair. The geniuses at Mattel have done it again! Forget it. This plastic princess has skanked her way into our wallets too many times. Go to Goodwill, score a castoff Barbie, then bobby pin that hair wad from the shower drain to her head. Everybody wins.

LEGO Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Playset: With this 591-piece set, kids can build the Hogwarts dungeon. One drawback, the sonofabitch retails for $69.99! But there are other popular movies besides "Harry Potter." For a fraction of the cost your kids can have Eminem and the Trailer of 8 Mile Playset. Containing 26,456 scraps of razor-sharp sheet metal, your child can build a life-size replica of the doublewide where Eminem and his slutty mom lived, and unlock the wonders of a dead-end white trash existence. Keep plenty of Bactine and bandages on hand during assembly.

Chicken Dance Elmo: Obviously, Elmo has fallen hard from the heights of his "Tickle Me" fame. Now his behavior, like a brain-damaged uncle at a wedding reception, indicates he suffers from a serious substance abuse problem. Sad. If you're looking to deliver a message on the evils of addiction, consider Urine Soaked Nolte instead.

Paint-Your-Own Chair: I swear. From Curiosity Kits, retailing for $35 and recommended for ages 6 and up. This is hot on the heels of their wildly successful Unclog-Your-Own Toilet and Refinish-Your-Own Hardwood Floors. No need to waste money on a licensed contractor when you've got toddlers and power tools.

Retro Trends: Care Bears are back. There's also a 25th anniversary edition of Trivial Pursuit and special 50th anniversary Matchbox cars. But if you're going old school, go all the way. Give your kids a stick. Kids love sticks. And whether it's poking a corpse they find near the river or jabbing through the bars at zoo animals, nothing does the job like a stick.

Spiderman Action Figure: The wall-crawler's a flash in the pan. Go for something with proven longevity, like a Larry King Action Figure. He comes with pontificating power and detachable suspenders. Pull his string and he speaks on a wide range of subjects, with only the earliest signs of dementia evident. It's Rip Taylor's world, we just sweep up the confetti in it. If you're making a list of all-time greatest puddings, tapioca better be at or near the top. If you ever have to flag down a cab naked, wait until your erection subsides. You look less desperate that way. Know who can take a punch? Goldie Hawn. Gnat Balls, Wisconsin, you're on the air!

Ladies, are you curious about the man you're dating? Do you wonder if he's Mr. Right or Mr. Replaceable? Well, you'll soon find out. All questions will be answered come February 14.

Maybe you've had sex with him. Maybe you've met his family. Maybe you've had sex with his family. (Applies to Alabama residents only.) But you don't really know a man until he gives you a Valentine's Day gift.

Valentine's Day gifts are emotional trail guides, providing crucial insight into a man's character, his feelings for you and his commitment to the relationship. As soon as you open it you'll know whether to move in with him or file a restraining order.

Follow this simple gift-to-feelings conversion chart to figure out what exactly he's saying to you.

Diamonds, automobiles or romantic getaways: He's cheating on you. Probably with another man. It's a classic distraction maneuver. He dazzles you with something lavishly ostentatious then rips your heart from your chest while your guard is down. Ditch this evil bastard before he has a chance to hurt you.

Jewelry: He may not be gay. He may be bi or it could just be an experimental phase. But obviously with this purchase he is trying to compensate for his laughably small penis. If this is how you envisioned your Prince Charming, by all means hang on to the swishy needle-dick.

Cigarettes, potato chips or toothpaste: Even though he only earns 40 cents an hour working in the prison laundry, he still thought of you while shopping in the canteen. Obviously, he is considerate and caring. Now don't you feel ashamed for refusing to mule in a kilo of flake for him? Relationships are two-way streets you know.

Giant heart-shaped box of Godiva chocolate: He's not buying the big-boned theory. He thinks you're fat and with this cruel gift he's trying to push you into a nougat-filled abyss. After you morph into a gelatinous manatee then he can feel justified in dumping you.

A 59-cent box of conversation hearts: He has the soul of a mystic. In his own shy way he is trying to express profound sentiments. Just read the cryptic messages contained on each candy heart. Cool Kid, Oh Boy, Hot Stuff, etc. Hang on to this dreamboat.

A dozen red roses: Could he be anymore predictable? What's next, a card? Stinking loser.

Flowers dug from your neighbor's yard or swiped from a cemetery: He's fun loving and impetuous. There'll never be a dull moment with this big gregarious lug.

Stuffed animal (store-bought): It was probably a thoughtless last minute purchase, something he grabbed at the convenience store when he stopped to buy condoms and a box of zinfandel before cruising over to the sorority party.

Stuffed animal (handmade): He adores you and wants to give of himself to win your approval. It may be just a tube sock stuffed with bellybutton lint and pubic hair trimmings with a magic marker face, but to you it will always be your Valentine Weasel. Cherish it as you do the special, special man who made it for you.

Lingerie: William Butler Yeats once wrote, �You need but lift a pearl-pale hand and bind up your hair and sigh; and all men's hearts must burn and beat; and candle-like foam in the dim sand, and stars climbing the dew-dropping sky, live but to light your passing feet.� It is the same sentiment today best articulated with the purchase of crotchless and/or open-nipple attire.

Nothing: Obviously, this is a man that holds you in the highest esteem. He respects you and your integrity. He doesn't try to buy your affection with mere baubles. He knows the feelings you share are so acutely heartfelt they can never be expressed, so he doesn't even try. Nor does he acknowledge those feelings or allude to them. The same way he doesn't speak or often remember your name. Truly, you have found your soulmate. Now be quiet, the game is on.

2001 bristled with tragedy. There was heart-biting despair, weepy anguish and everything we cared about seemed lost or damaged. And that's just what happened to the music industry.

It was virtually nonstop bad news for music. Album sales dropped like they were kneed in the nuts. According to the tracking firm Soundscan, sales were off almost 3 percent. That's freakin' unheard of in this age of shameless promotion directed towards every demographic niche, when even fetuses shop at Best Buy. Apparently, the record industry strong-armed Napster out of business for nada. Radio stations are mired in an advertising recession, and touring acts play to echoing empty venues. While some of that can be pinned on the wheezing economy and the aftermath of Sept. 11, mostly it's because the music produced in 2001 smelled like ass.

There was nothing of substance to grab on to. No dominant trend propelled the industry. Nu-metal got pushed aside by nu-soul, which got walloped by nu-grunge, which fizzled. When the most talked about musical event of the year was a series of holiday Gap commercials, it's no wonder industry analysts are hunkered down in a sulking whisky-funk.

Where were the summer anthems of years past like "Macarena" and "Mambo No. 5?" Where were those grating jingles that wedge in your brain, sucking up all the airtime and pushing you to the brink of a bouncy and infectious suicide? Want to know who let the dogs out in 2001? No one. The dogs did not go out. They stayed inside gnawing on furniture, urinating on the rug and turning feral and mean. That was the state of music last year.

The good news is 2002 has got to be better. No way it can get any worse. So here now are a few predictions of what to expect from the music industry in the upcoming year.

America will turn once again to romance. And to capture that mood, the song most frequently requested at weddings is "Suck and Let Go" a minimalist punk electro ditty by Peaches. Number two on the list is another Peaches tune, "Fuck the Pain Away." Ah, memories.

Whitney Houston will continue to shrivel. Over the summer the skeletal 46-pound diva will die in a drug related incident. While attempting to snort cocaine she is sucked inside the rolled up $20 dollar bill where she suffocates.

Calling George Harrison's death a wake-up call, Jon "Bowzer" Bauman will rejoin Sha Na Na in the year's most eagerly anticipated reunion tour, electrifying the crowds at county fairs and car shows all across the country. Unfortunately, the gangly greaser's return forces Sha Na Na to dump their current frontman, David Lee Roth.

Jill Sobule releases her long awaited follow-up, "I Went Down on a Girl."

A white and noseless Michael Jackson will release a new album with enough macho posturing and swaggering bitch-slappy bravado to finally convince everyone there's nothing creepy or desperate about him, no sir. Nothing at all.

NSync's Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears will announce their engagement. No wedding date is set but Britney tells reporters she hopes to wed sometime within the next few years and that she intends to remain a ravenous cockteasing virgin until then.

Justin Timberlake dies suddenly in what doctors describe as "a massive testicular implosion resulting from acute seminal fluid backup."

Following the success of cartoon-pop band Gorillaz, The Banana Splits come out of retirement with a critically acclaimed album, "Split for the Coast." All except for Splits guitarist and lead singer, Fleegle who died of heartworm in 1987 and is replaced by David Lee Roth.

Mick Jagger's solo album will finally break the magic mark of 10,000 units sold, when each of his illegitimate children buys one.

MTV announces they will begin airing video footage of rectal surgeries, Congressional procedure coverage and snuff films as part of their ongoing effort to play anything except a music video.

In a stunning upset, boy band O-Town walks off with eight Grammys, including one for Lifetime Achievement. Afterwards a Grammy spokesperson explains, "Big deal. We felt sorry for the talentless little acne-wagons so we threw them a bone. It's not like anyone takes this crap seriously. Come on, we're the Grammys!"

Maintaining proper etiquette at your office holiday party is crucial in these times of economic uncertainty. Use this easy to follow guide to keep your fast track reputation intact.

Use proper business protocol. Even though music is playing, food and alcohol are being served and people are laughing, the office party is most definitely a business function. Behave accordingly. For example, while moderate drinking is acceptable, use of needle drugs is not. So shoot up in the car before entering the party. That way you should hit the door like a battering ram of teeth-grinding frivolity.

Determine proper attire. Unless it is a black tie event, an open-nipple rubber cat suit is considered de rigeur. Add a floor-length cape of baby otter skin to stand out from the crowd without diminishing your professionalism.

Acknowledge your boss. Find your boss soon after arriving. Thank him for hosting the event and take a moment to chat but don't monopolize his time. Once you see that he is engaged in conversation with someone else, take advantage of the opportunity to go have sex on his desk with the little hottie from Human Resources.

Acknowledge your co-workers. After you have finished having sex on your boss's desk, check to make sure that no sticky notes, memos or calendar pages have stuck to the hottie's sweat-slick ass. After returning to the party be sure to describe the hottie's technique and overall effort in great detail to your colleagues. This reinforces your position as a team player.

Mingle. Introduce yourself to someone you don't know. It may turn out to be someone who can help you on your next project. Not the mingling type? Then find someone who looks as miserable as you feel and ask if they want to duck into the supply closet to get high and badmouth the senior management.

Take care of your clients. If you have clients that are attending the party, remember they are your responsibility. Hover over their shoulders throughout the evening to make sure they don't steal stuff. Before they leave, escort them into a conference room and perform a full cavity search. Maintenance usually keeps a stock of rubber gloves, but be sure to put them back when finished.

Spouse appreciation. If spouses are invited, make sure they are treated as real people and not just an appendage. When introducing your spouse or date to a co-worker, include pertinent information to help break the ice. "Honey, this is Dave. He's the one I always talk about. You know, that prick from Accounting who steals my food out of the refrigerator."

Glad-handing. When being introduced to someone, make sure you look that person in the eye and greet them with a firm knuckle punch or chest bump. Don't worry about remembering their name, just refer to them as "dog" and announce to everyone within earshot that you are now totally down with this person. They'll appreciate the mad props.

Give wisely. If you are expected to bring a "Secret Santa" gift for a co-worker, determine the cost range and come prepared. The trick is giving something that is practical yet fun. Something like a sex toy. Everybody loves sex toys. Especially the kind that can be worn under clothing and that rotate when you flip a switch.

Don't be afraid to volunteer. Offer to finish off any leftover food that would otherwise go to waste, even if it means you have to vomit first, which you promised yourself you weren't going to do this time. Also, if the bar starts running low on supplies, whip up a batch of your special office egg nog: Kahlua, Seven-Up and Wite-Out.

Leave gracefully. A good guest always knows when to exit. Right after the police have subdued and cuffed you is generally a good time. Don't forget to thank your boss on the way out, and to wish him happy holidays.

Then we're all agreed: Thanksgiving came along at exactly the right moment this year.

After the widespread anxiety and heaving uncertainty of recent events we needed a warm fuzzy holiday, an excuse to gather with loved ones around big tables creaking beneath the weight of carb-laden comfort food. A turkey so mammoth it could be mistaken for a succulent Great Dane flipped on its back. A trough of beets, yams pyramided to the ceiling, a bushel basket of dinner rolls, a full carrier group of gravy boats, giblets galore and a pumpkin pie topped with a dollop of mincemeat pie.

We strap forks to the wrists to prevent a crippling attack of carpal tunnel and windmill in the grub. There's no stopping until we hit tablecloth and then we suck the stains from our napkins. It is a frenzy that would mortify hyenas.

Afterwards, we shower the cook with praise and unbutton pants to let blood circulate to our throbbing digestive tracts. And right there, in that quiet moment as we begin to slip into a languorous stupor, that's when we have our Norman Rockwell epiphany.

We do a quick inventory of the familiar faces surrounding us, a Scorsese-style 360 degree slow pan around the room. Here are the most important people in our world, the people we cherish above all others. Our. Loved. Ones.

How is it then, that with seemingly no effort on their part, they still manage to drive us right straight up the freakin' wall?!

With just a well-remembered gesture or tone or phrase or inflection in the voice, they totally punch our buttons, torque us off and push us to the brink. They make us crazy! Grrrr! Which leads to the next question: just what kind of brain-numbing snake oil was that huckster Rockwell peddling anyway?

It's not supposed to be like this. United we stand, we're in this together, never go against the family, yada yada yada. Pundits are practically beating us over the head with the new post-terrorism tight-knit family unit. Oprah, Rosie and The View chicks all swear by it.

Is it us then, is it our problem? Why can't we achieve some higher level of squishy tolerance? Are we the shallow hals, sitting there, picking cranberry skins out of our teeth and taking offense at everything that gets said?

"You look good." Just what the hell does that mean? "How have you been?" We don't remember signing on for this kind of interrogation. "We miss you." Ah. Now it's clear where this is going. This is about the goat-sacrificing Satanist with the felony rap sheet we were living with over the summer isn't it? God, that is so over! Not that it's any of their business.

If they want to know, they should just ask, like normal people instead of prying in their benevolently tolerant way. Dammit, if we weren't oozing stuffing out of every orifice we would stomp off to our room in a huff and slam the door behind us. Except of course, that we're in our 30's and don't live here anymore.

Well, at least until we bring our belongings in from the car. And even then it's only for a few months. Just until we find another dot-com willing to offer us a fat signing bonus, lunchtime massages and a foosball table in the conference room. Then we are out of this dump. So just back off. You're not the boss of us.

What's that? Another piece of pie? Well, all right, a small one. Laundry? Sure, we've got some laundry that needs to be done. And you'll fold it afterwards and use fabric softener, won't you? Mmmm... softly fragrant.

Sleep in tomorrow? That sounds okay. Yeah, bacon and eggs and hash browns and waffles and fresh squeezed oj for breakfast sounds fine. And a little more of this pie couldn't hurt. Hey, maybe later we'll build a fire in the fireplace and play cards.

By the way, does anyone know how many days until Christmas?

So far the tastiest moment in the great hooch saga was when presidential spokesman, Ari Fleischer went all Tony Soprano on the White House press corps' ink-stained asses.

Responding to a question about the president's reaction to his daughters being cited for underage drinking, Fleischer dialed his orbs down to the Heavy-Lidded setting favored among loan sharks and growled, "I would urge all of you to very carefully think through how much you want to pursue this. You fuckin' hear what I'm saying to you, you fuckin' needledicks?"

It was beautiful. Finally, a front line flak that has the stones to go after the media jackals, to threaten to rain down a vindictive turdstorm on those low-minded sucks for their shameless liberal bias.

What? You think the media doesn't apply a double standard in these kinds of situations? That elected Democrats and their spawn are treated the same as Republicans and their Republican progeny? Then explain the bloody incident in 1978 when Amy Carter shot a man just to watch him die.

You would think something like that would garner a few headlines, right? Teenage daughter of the president guns a man down in cold blood. A thrill-killing at the hands of the soft spoken freckle-faced Baptist girl. But no. Most news bureaus ignored it completely, or buried it as a human interest piece.

Crazy thing is the guy didn't die right away. He was in a coma for a few months hooked up to a respirator. They thought he was going to be a vegetable but he regained consciousness and started to show signs of improvement. He was able to communicate with his doctors through a series of blinks and was squeezing the hands of his loved ones. The prognosis was good. Then Amy Carter shows up at the hospital, high on uppers and finished the job by jamming an icepick in his eye.

Again, zilch for coverage. Carter pays a fine, receives some counseling and the whole thing is swept under the rug, almost as if it never happened. But now that the White House is occupied by a staunch conservative, it's a whole new enchilada.

Ever since the election controversy, left-leaning reporters have been licking their chops, waiting for the chance to nail one or both of the Bush daughters. Phase Uno of their fiendish plan was planting a variety of alcoholic beverages in bars and restaurants throughout the Austin area where Jenna, the twin built for sin, is a college student. Then the media advertised the availability of said spirits. Then they hired bartenders to dispense the liquor and musicians to entertain bar patrons. And in a final stroke of evil genius, the media raised the legal drinking age to 21. Then the media crouched on their hairy haunches, monitoring a police scanner. It was pure entrapment, a set-up from the words Go...get me another Jell-O shot.

How could the media be so sure the girls would take the boozy bait? They had seen to that months earlier. In a frenzy of muckraking, the press had uncovered the details of George W. Bush's long ago DUI arrest. Mr. Bush explained that the only reason he had concealed the incident for 24 years was to shield his daughters, who are both as fragile and beautiful as glass figurine angels handblown by hillbilly artists working at Dollywood, and also highly impressionable.

His fears proved too well founded. Perhaps it was their eagerness to win parental approval or maybe their utter pliability is some kind of inherited condition, but for whatever reason the girls were quickly lured down the high octane trial blazed by their Pops.

Now instead of giving this family time to heal in private the media gleefully savages the girls, insinuating they are supposed to be held accountable for their own actions somehow. Even President Bush is dragged into the bitter debate which is, of course, staggering nonsense. Could someone please point to where it is written that a father is responsible for instilling common sense and moral character in his children? What kind of liberal elitist propaganda is that?

Let's step back from the brink of hysteria for a second. Cancel the impeachment proceedings. This incident needs to be kept in perspective. Sure, laws were broken but there is something much more important to consider. According to all reports, the girls were in a bar and were drinking. They may have even been drunk. And while all indications are this is normal behavior for both of them, they were not, repeat NOT, engaged in karaoke.

And at the end of the day, isn't that kind of good sound judgment we all pray for our children to have?

I turned outlaw during the third grade, a pint-sized desperado lured down a wicked path by a craving I couldn�t control.

Twice a week I left school pretending to walk home for lunch, which was permitted as long as you went home. But I didn�t. Instead, I ducked into a dimly-lit joint down the street. I couldn�t help myself, I was jonesing for the good stuff.

Soon as my tiny figure darkened the doorway, the man behind the counter knew what to do. He slapped a hamburger on the grill. That�s right, I had a cow on my back. I was hooked on burgers.

Let the other saps at school choke down a brick of institutional-grade meatloaf, I was feasting on a juicy little joy bomb, a sensory delight. Hamburger is just steak in comfortable clothes. It is a magic medley for the taste buds, the perfect union of meat and bun, exploding with flavor and crackling with condiments. It dazzles the palette with its simplicity, overpowers with charbroiled intensity.

Hamburgers swing. Always hip, always appropriate, fitting in at truck stops, cock fights or wedding receptions. Hamburgers are one of the first kid-friendly foods we encounter in life, compact and graspable. Not to mention they are the bane of picky eaters due to their utter mouth-wateringness.

Hamburgers rule. They knocked hot dogs off their popularity perch right after World War II and never looked back. Since then a wide assortment of gastronomic wannabes have come gunning for them -- pizzas, tacos, chicken parts -- but nothing can replace burgers, or even tarnish their sizzling image. Until now.

For weeks the beef industry has been ravaged by unrelenting reports of infectious bovine disease rolling in from across the pond. Experts assure us that for now, America�s beef supply is untainted but no one expects the firewalls to hold much longer. Since May is National Hamburger Month it seemed high time someone stood up for the beleaguered burger. If this is to be our final summer of beef-gorging innocence, we might as well kick out the jams.

Let someone else sing the praises of sirloin, filet mignon and crown roast. If you want to get gushy over tenderloin, prime rib and mountain oysters, more power to you. Maybe they all have their good points. But for me, the cow begins and ends with the most exquisite of foods, the penultimate patty, the coup de grease...the burger.

If you own a backyard grill, time to fire up that sumbitch. No doubt you already know your way around those savory little wheels of beefy tissue, so you don�t need any advice. Except maybe douse the flames just a smidge, you�re cooking the damn things, not cremating them. But for those who are sans grill, you need to locate a suitable burgerteria in your neck of the �burbs and pay homage to that savory sandwich.

Naturally, we are not talking about fast food establishments. Those antiseptic, soulless calorie distribution centers serve a purpose, but making your tongue swoon and your taste buds vibrate orgasmically with their assembly line repertoire is not one of them. So if you stumble into a place with warming lamps and microwaves and toys served as a side dish and kids swimming in a bacteria lagoon of colored plastic balls, just turn around and walk out fast.

What you want is a diner, a lunch counter or a greasy spoon. If the floor crunches when you take a step and you realize they don�t serve peanuts in the shell, chances are you picked a likely spot. If the cook�s T-shirt is so covered with grease stains you can give yourself a full-blown psyche evaluation by using them as a Rorschach test, you�re definitely on the right track. Bonus, if a non-filter cigarette dangles from the corner of his lip while he flips the patties. If the waitress, whose age you can only estimate to be between 40 and 200 repeatedly calls you "hon," welcome to burger heaven.

Everyone needs safe harbor from the small storms of everyday life, a place to put aside the multi-tasking, to unwind and regroup. Hamburger joints offer sanctuary. A burger is the king of comfort food because it�s a flashback on a bun. With the first bite you are transported back to a more innocent time when your world revolved around simple pleasures like cartoons, running fast down a hill for no reason and throwing rocks at someone you were totally crushing on, then refueling with a burger and shake.

So cast aside office woes and forget about your cholesterol for one glorious day. Find a hang-out where the burgers leap off the grill like trout from a stream, and let yourself be pampered by a spatula technician. Order a burger. Cheese it if you want. Bite into your delicious past.

Would you like fries with that?

There is nothing smirky or punk-ass about him. That�s just something he does with his mouth. He is actually a source of strength, perched in the corner of my home office, all sideburns and twitchy lip with eyes locked in a permanent state of droopy-cool. A reminder not to take anything too seriously.

The collar of his rhinestone studded jumpsuit is turned up high and open at the throat. A blue scarf dangles seductively. His hair is impossibly black, swept back and big, marred only by the bulb and shade protruding from the top of his head, throwing off a hunka-hunka burning light.

If you know me, you know my Elvis lamp. We�ve been together for over two decades. He is a holdover from my bachelor days, the lone piece of furniture I contributed to the marriage.

What, you thought maybe I bought the lamp while married? That my wife signed off on the purchase of a giant Elvis lamp? That maybe we went shopping together, with a fabric swatch to make sure the specific King of Rock and Roll illumination device we picked out matched the window treatments? Is that what you thought? Ba ha ha! Again I say, ba ha ha! Good one.

No, "E" and I are a team from way back. He�s my talisman, my confidant, and yes by God, I�m not ashamed to admit it, my friend.

But friend or not, there is still no getting around the fact that the King is three and a half feet of raw, glaring kitsch. An eyesore. Jarring and jangly, coming at you out of nowhere, like a forearm shiver from a drunked-up hillbilly in the parking lot of the discount smokes and bait shop.

He is a great hulking ceramic beast. An insult to anyone with even a modicum of taste. So over-the-top tacky he would hurl Martha Stewart into a grand mal seizure. Interior designers can only gaze upon him through a pinhole in cardboard. If Feng Shui were a superhero, Lamp Man would be his archenemy, stomping down chi at every opportunity.

When we have female visitors I hear my wife warning them in a hurried hiss as they come down the hall. I know they steel themselves before walking in, yet still they flinch at first sight of him. There�s just no way to prepare oneself for how the King dominates the room, overpowers the decor. Afterwards, I hear them consoling my wife like she grew an extra butt cheek.

Which helps explain the tense ritual that occurs this time every year in my house. The one where my wife tries to convince me to donate the King to her annual yard sale.

After a frenzied bout of spring cleaning my wife is eager to dispose of any possession which might require future dusting, washing or waxing. She prowls the premises turning her stone-cold appraiser squint on everything not nailed down, built-in or load-bearing, sizing up not only what needs to go, but what will move, what the yard sale public is clamoring for.

Used to be, having a yard sale was a pretty straightforward deal. Drag a bunch of crap out on to the lawn, set up a couple of card tables to hold additional crap, put a sign up at the end of the street so that that people who felt like they didn�t own enough crap already could swing by and haggle for more.

It was casual and hobby-like. A pleasant way for old folks to spend their Saturday mornings. People got to meet their neighbors and paw through their belongings. And if you actually stumbled on some kind of bargain like a one-wheeled lawn mower without a blade for only a dollar, bonus.

But that was before the collectible market went gooney. Before eBay became a national pastime, before Antiques Road Show convinced everyone that crap plus time equals treasure. Now everyone�s a bargain hunter looking for that one big score so they can quit their day job and become a full time crap trader.

By now most people have done a thorough inventory and assessment of their own personal crap. They know it�s worthless. So they figure others must be hoarding all the good stuff, the high-grade, top of the line, primo crap. And they�re out to get some. They want a piece of the crap pie. Before the value falls out of the crap market and crap turns into... well, crap.

My wife recognizes this ruthless scavenger mentality. She knows how to hook them, knows that certain buzzwords and phrases mobilize their ranks, phrases like "Elvis memorabilia." (She�s also after my Elvis toenail clippers and Taking Care of Business melon baller.) Like a Colonel Parker with ovaries, she wants to cash in on the King. If she happens to do so by disposing of the ceramic monstrosity currently haunting her house, that would just be a happy coincidence.

But I draw the line. The King stays. For the sake of my inner bachelor. And as a memorial to every guy who�s ever decorated with neon beer signs or cinder block shelves or traffic cones or seats swiped from stadiums or blacklight posters or inflatable furniture or a driftwood dining set or a car battery ottoman.

The King stays.

By the way, those blacklight posters are worth a fortune in certain crap circles.

It's all about the glittery muscled arrogance of Hollywood. The screaming junkie-like need of Celebrities to be noticed, acknowledged, feted, fawned over and lavished with a slobbery, weepy, sick-sexy love. The same stab of emotion that the Versace-less Prada-less, uncosmetically-enhanced, tap water-swilling yokels in the heartland must feel for their tractors. Or so the Celebrity class assumes.

The Academy Awards ceremony has not been canceled. Repeat, NOT been canceled. It will in fact go on as scheduled even though by every objective standard the year 2000 was a raging canker sore of cinema.

Maybe the worst year ever. A sprawling Battlefield Earth-Gone in 60 Seconds-Pay it Forward-Autumn in New York-Blair Witch II-Hollow Man-Big Momma's House-Coyote Ugly kind of year. A year when Jim Carrey and The Director Formerly Known as Opie working in tandem could grind the memory of Dr. Seuss into so much big screen corpse-sausage and convert it to a bonafide box office smash.

Yet we're supposed to forget all that and focus on the rare isolated triumphs and singular moments of beauty, like weedy little flowers that spring up in a festering landfill.

Meanwhile, theaters in Manhattan jacked their ticket price to $10. A cool sawbuck to gaze upon the spectacle of Dude, Where's My Car? This follows closely the news that most major movie chains will replace their liquefied popcorn butter with the urine of concession stand workers.

Cost cutting effort? Or perhaps just a general disdain for the non-discriminating taste of a populace that made Adam Sandler, and Pauly Shore before him, an obscenely wealthy mega-star? Hard to say. We should just shut up and be grateful. Anything spilling out of Hollywood is to be cherished and clutched to our sweaty yokel-bosom.

So in the spirit of unquestioning dewy-eyed Celebrity adoration, and as mandated by the United States Constitution, here are my predictions for the most magical night of the year, Oscar night.

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is edged out for Best Foreign Picture by darkhorse, The Rugrats in Paris.

Although Steven Soderbergh snags the Best Director trophy for his riveting, visually compelling work in Traffic, he admits during post-show interviews that working with Julia Roberts in her racy, revealing Erin Brokovich attire was "like overseeing a non-stop bonerfest, so in that sense was more rewarding."

Sylvester Stallone is given a Lifetime Achievement Award after promising to just go away.

Kevin Costner takes home one of the willowy girls who escort folks on and off stage throughout the ceremony. Unfortunately, he guesses wrong and ends up with the one who used to be a man.

The Best Song award goes to Bob Dylan. Accepting for the grizzled bard is the Soy Bomb guy, who writhes shirtless and spastic for a full 20 minutes until blood vessels burst in his nipples. It is considered by many to be the high point of the night.

Surprise couple of the evening are Katherine Hepburn and Gervase from the original Survivor. They suck face like they're at a spiked-punch prom until Jack Nicholson beseeches them from the stage to get a room.

During the pre-show hype, hate-hag Joan Rivers insults one starlet too many and is gang-stomped to death on the red carpet. With her dying breath, Rivers describes her assailants as several women who looked "atrocious, ghastly, like they stole their dresses from homeless drag queens, a rodeo of whores, pul-eeze."

While accepting his award for Best Actor, Russell Crowe is interrupted when a boozy Meg Ryan lurches towards the podium, spewing a string of profanities directed first at him, then at men in general. The situation escalates into a heated gender feud as the ex-lovers are joined on stage by an all star cast, including Gene Hackman, Luke Perry, Minnie Driver, John Cusak, Bjork, Reese Witherspoon, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Gary Sinise, Hillary Swank, Bruce Vilanch and two of the Baldwin brothers, the fat one and the squinty one. There is some shoving and talking smack but finally order is restored when Charlton Heston fires off several rounds from a Glock he had hidden in his truss.

Sylvester Stallone returns his Lifetime Achievement Award after signing a deal for a Saturday morning animated show, The Get Carter Babies.

Melissa Rivers announces she will continue her mother's shrewish legacy after inking a deal with Satan. She will maintain a television career even though she is so utterly devoid of talent her blood can be used as an antidote for people suffering from excessive talent. Also, she thinks Jennifer Love Hewitt looks like a trick or treater at the mental ward in that dress, and those shoes are totally vomit-inducing.

Sitting at home wrapped in tent canvas, Marlon Brando says screw it, and breaks the seal on his third gallon of fudge ripple which he spoons out of a monkey's skull.

This summer, forget everything you thought you knew about golf.

PGA Announcer: (whispering) We�re back at the fourteenth hole, where Tiger Woods has this short putt for birdie, and to regain a share of the lead. It is slightly uphill and should break gently to the right. He�s lining it up... (yells) Oh my God! Out of nowhere Davis Love III levels Tiger with a flying drop kick! Woods is stunned. Love tries to finish him with an atomic knee drop but Woods rolls clear. Tiger scrambles to his feet and tries to set himself for the putt, it�s about a three footer... What�s this? Tiger�s own caddie comes running in from the fringe and cracks him across the skull with a seven iron! Tiger is face down on the green and he appears to be convulsing. Can you believe what you�re seeing, Jesse "The Body" Ventura?

Body: I�m in shock! That�s not nearly enough club for a swing like that. If he would have used a driver and rotated his hips more, there would be skull fragments and pieces of brain flying around like melon chunks at a Gallagher show. Just grip it and rip it, you pansy. Hey, speaking of unbelievable, check out the rack on that blonde cheerleader on the end. Those titties rock! Now that states are going around naming official snacks, Utah can pound Jell-O up it�s whitebread ass, I declare those jiggle-babies as Minnesota�s state snack. Hoo-haw! As governor, I can totally do that you know.

PGA Announcer: I�ve never witnessed this kind of carnage on the links before. I think I may become ill.

Body: And we owe it all to the vision and foresight of one man: Vince McMahon. He�s done for the PGA what he did for the NFL. He got rid of the boring crap and just serves up the juicy parts. This is what the fans want, plenty of action and gore and cleavage, you betcha.

PGA Announcer: But I�m confused. Why would Tiger�s own caddie turn on him like that? It seems devilishly unsporting.

Body: That�s not Tiger�s caddie. It�s Tiger�s arch nemesis, "The Hindu Hitman," Vijay Singh.

Vijay: (to the cheering crowd) Yes, yes. Can you smell please what it is that Vijay Singh is cooking?

Body: Welcome to the XGA, Tiger! This is golf in the extreme! It�s old fashioned smashmouth golf with plenty of throat ripping, eye gouging action just like I remember from the days when Arnold Palmer and Ben Hogan were having at each other.

PGA Announcer: Let�s go to the twelfth, where Phil Mickelson delivers a devastating elbow smash to Ernie Els, causing Ernie�s tee shot to bounce into the parking lot.

Body: Sonofabitch better not hit my governor�s limo. I just had it detailed. Mickelson tries a fallaway slam but Els scissors his legs out from under him. Here we go now. Els slaps his patented move on Mickelson: the ball scrubber! That�s gonna be all she wrote. There�s no way out of this. It�ll sound like he�s been sucking helium when he talks for the next month and chances are he�ll never reproduce again.

PGA Announcer: So the more long lasting the damage inflicted, the greater the thrill. Interesting. We�ll be back at the Bo-Bo Brazil Sleeper Hold Invitational right after this important message.

McMahon: Hello, I�m Vince McMahon. If you�re like me, you�re sick and tired of golf being played by some pampered candy-ass in ugly pants who needs total silence just to pick his nose. That�s why I created the XGA. It�s got something for everyone; exploding putters, quicksand in the bunkers, pungi sticks and bouncing bettys in the rough and a drunked-up John Daly careening down the fairway in a golf cart with a loaded .45 in his lap. Plus, no holds barred physical contact between golfers. So everybody�s got a crack at the belt. Or the cup, or the green jacket or whatever they win at these things. Check out the XGA! It�s hardcore and stone cold! And you better believe that none of these players replace their divots.

Body: The XGA! It breaks par while kicking ass!

McMahon: And be sure to watch this fall, when I bring on my newest league, the XBA. It�s bowling to the extreme! Really hot looking women in wet T-shirts bowling with human heads. Now that�s entertainment.

Note to the yowling hordes of the freshly downsized: quit yer bitchin'.

Everybody's bemoaning this gut-wrenching economic downturn and their abrupt dropping of wealth. First stock options tanked, then jobs disappeared. Boo-hoo. Deal with it.

Sure, the tsunami of layoffs doesn't bode well for the peon-friendly perk-intensive workplaces that have become the norm but holy crud, they were just some kind of freakish blip on the employment scene. You knew that sweet ride couldn't last.

Say adios to your signing bonuses, benefit packages and lavish perks. No more free lattes, office massages or company Porsches. No more cubicle Jacuzzis, conference rooms with aromatherapy candles or company sanctioned naps. Forget about the lax dress code and the bring-your-child/pet/crackwhore-to-work policy.

Now it's back to the sweatshop mentality of yore, where bosses actually boss and hiring standards are enforced. Last year a drifter with a shaved head and prison tats who showed up to interviews with a human foot in a sack was being wooed by six different companies to fill a VP slot in marketing. Today, he'd be lucky to score a low level position in accounting.

Big deal. At least you have a shot at landing another job. You're only being jacked around by a heartless merger-spawned mega-conglomerate. I was ripped off by my very own mother.

You heard right. I got screwed by dear old mom. My financial security, gone. My early retirement, pissed away for no good reason. All thanks to the woman who gave birth to me, nurtured and raised me. Talk about your mixed signals.

The following is a tragic but true story.

I was browsing in a funky old used books and music emporium near my house last week when something caught my eye. Nestled behind several inches of bulletproof glass, protected by an array of video cameras, trip alarms, floor-mounted motion sensors and armed guards was a treasure of heartbreaking beauty. A Fantastic Four Marvel Comic, # 48, "The Coming of Galactus."

All right, maybe it was just inside a Plexiglas cabinet with a couple of candy wrappers on the floor and a baggy-pants skateboard jockey lurking nearby, but the cabinet did appear to be locked.

What snagged my attention about this particular rarity was that it belonged to me. Or had in the past. Maybe not this very copy, but the exact same issue. I checked the price tag: $700. I was gazing upon a $700 comic book.

My mind raced, trying to remember the last place I had seen my copy of Fantastic Four, Marvel Comics, # 48, "The Coming of Galactus." Oh, yeah. Last spotted in my mom's garage sale approximately 25 years ago, along with all my other comic books, priced to move at 3 cents each. As philosopher and poet, Homer Simpson has been known to proclaim, "D'oh!"

I called my mom later that night and let her have it with both barrels. How dare she dispose of my valuable property, she had no right, what was she thinking, was there something wrong with her brain, I'll never forgive her, expect to hear from my attorney, etc. Until she finally said something about it being my idea to sell all my comic books in the first place because I wanted to make room for my collection of Mott the Hoople memorabilia, and that I had even filled out the 3 cent price tag with a magic marker I had taken from her sewing kit. A blue one, if she wasn't mistaken.

Well, there's no use trying to talk to her when she's babbling incoherently, so I just hung up. Obviously the woman is totally disconnected from the secondary collectible market. Because the comic book fiasco isn't even the worst of her financial miscues.

Get this... she let me play with my toys. It seems incomprehensible now, but it's true. Instead of trying to preserve the mint condition of my toys by keeping them sealed in their original boxes, high up and out of reach on some shelf in a controlled environment, thus guaranteeing their value to a collector in the years to come, she just handed them over and let me engage in play-like activity. It was insane.

I probably lost a bundle in defaced army men alone. Especially since one rainy Saturday afternoon I used an electric pencil sharpener to create a platoon of coneheads. Hey, war is hell.

Fortunately, over Sunday dinner, just before I went all habeus corpus on her ass, my mother and I reached an out of court settlement. For my emotional suffering I received an extra piece of blueberry pie.

And there is more good news to report. I checked back at the bookstore and the price for the comic book in question has been slashed to a measly $595.

When it gets to 3 cents, I'm buying it. I don't care what my mom says.

Did you know...

To honor the birth of Jesus, the Three Wise Men arrived in Bethlehem bearing gifts of frankincense, gold and a Hungry, Hungry Hippo game.

Before Santa Claus, John the Baptist distributed presents to children around the world. Unfortunately, many kids were severely traumatized after being forced to sit on the lap of a headless man and he was quickly replaced by the jollier, and easier on the eyes, Saint Nick

Santa's middle name is Pugsley.

Santa's first crew consisted of highly trained lemurs. But their shoddy workmanship and frequent breaks to groom each other for parasites slowed toy production to a virtual standstill. According to the current contract, elves are allowed only two 15-minute parasite grooming breaks per shift.

During the filming of White Christmas, Danny Kaye died from choking on his own vomit. Kaye's final scenes were shot by attaching his corpse to an overhead boom with fishing line. Extra crew members had to be hired to fend off the gathering swarms of flies but the results speak for themselves. The movie has become a holiday classic and also spawned the highly successful Weekend at Bernie's franchise.

According to a radio survey, the most requested Christmas songs of all time are "Jingle Bells," "That Fa La La Song," and "Who Let the Dogs Out?"

Eggnog remains far and away the most popular of the nog-based beverages, easily beating out both olivenog and clamnog.

The Island of Misfit Toys was briefly considered as a site for the television show, Survivor.

The most common questions children ask Santa: "Is your beard real?" "What's your cholesterol level?" "Is Rudolph's red nose the result of years of alcohol abuse?"

The most common questions investigative reporters ask Santa: "Are you still dating Courtney Love?" "Where the hell is the Nissan Pathfinder I asked for last Christmas, lardo?" "Is your beard real?"

Cutting down a tree and bringing it indoors during the holiday season is meant to symbolize Man's unrelenting domination over puny Nature.

A lot of mail intended for Santa's workshop accidentally ends up at the neighboring compound, Superman's Fortress of Solitude.

In many parts of the world, cheese balls are an affliction, not a delicious holiday snack.

Office Christmas parties are the perfect way to show off social skills and launch a fast track career advancement plan. Just follow a few simple guidelines to stand out from the crowd. Always check the toner level in the Xerox machine before running off copies of your ass or other body parts. Use of hallucinogenic drugs is not yet widely accepted in a corporate environment, so it is best to eat the peyote buttons on the ride to the party. Be polite but not afraid to voice a distinct opinion. If you think your boss's wife dresses like a whore who specializes in fetish play, let him know it in no uncertain terms. He'll respect your honesty.

If a house doesn't have a chimney, Santa will usually jimmy the patio doors or break out a front room window to gain access.

During the Leopold and Loeb trial, prosecutors tried to bolster their case by issuing a subpoena for Santa's Naughty list. But citing the "sanctity of the lap," the presiding judge quashed their effort.

Elves are colorblind, but that still doesn't excuse their garish bell-laden wardrobes.

Of all the reindeer, only Blitzen ever served time in a Turkish prison. Although, he later characterized it as just a "crappy ultra-strict petting zoo where sodomy was rampant."

Santa Claus is the third most recognizable person on the planet, trailing only Muhammad Ali and Helen Hunt.

If your vacation plans include a visit to Disneyland this summer, brace yourself for a hard, ugly jolt. The teeth-grittingly Happiest Place on Earth has undergone a radical upheaval. No, they haven't bounced Mickey and brought in a chain-smoking wombat as official spokesrodent. Not yet anyway, but that day may not be far off.

Just take a gander at the mug of some male employee. Not his flat, dead eyes. Right there, south of the schnozz, just a hair north of the pie-hole. A bunch of hairs as a matter of fact. Unfreaking real. The kid is sporting a 'stache. Flaunting it, actually. And he's got the blessing of the suits upstairs, too.

An edict has been handed down from on high. For over 40 years the company has banned theme park employees from cultivating facial hair. But now, hard up for fresh worker drones, they have backed off that fascist stance. Mustaches are okey-dokey, beards, still verboten. Big Walt must be spinning in his freezer.

And while it's true, the company founder and namesake himself wore a soup strainer, he was also a savvy businessman. The clean shaven kisser rule was part of Walt Disney's effort to draw a distinction between his sanitized and aggressively wholesome amusement park with the more traditional carnivals of the day, which were nothing more than rickety skanktowns oozing drifters and corndogs.

Still the implications of this fundamental policy shift are staggering. Mustaches will give employees a whiff of follicle freedom, bestow upon them a kind of Village People/Magnum PI/Goose Gossage cockiness. That's heady stuff for the pre-programmed replicants which currently patrol the park.

Once the handlebars, pencil thins and Fu Manchus sprout, no one knows where it could lead. Sideburns, a soul patch, maybe even God help us, a mullet.

Mullets, for those who've never attended a monster truck rally or pro wrestling match or Whitesnake concert, or watched an episode of "Cops," or gone bowling, or cruised the Dairy Queen in a souped-up Camaro, or scored some crystal meth from the trailer park just outside of town, are those bi-level short-on-top, long-in-back haircuts popularized in the '80s. (For the purposes of this discussion, the mullet shall refer only to the male fashionistas who staggered down this dark path. Female versions of the cut, sometimes called the fullet, are another beast altogether.)

Billy Ray Cyrus was the achy-breaky mullet poster boy, but plenty of other celebs fell under the mullet's sway. Chuck Norris, Patrick Swayze, Mel Gibson, Michael Bolton, Alan Jackson, Joey Buttafuco, Wild Bill Hickcock and Napoleon all have been documented wearing the "guido" or "neck warmer." Other mullet de plumes include ape drape, redneck rug, soccer rocker, beaver paddle, tweaker tophat, Kentucky waterfall, Rogaine mane and Restraining Order Mortar Board.

The mulleteer tries straddling two worlds with his surly 'do. By keeping his hair shorn and tidy in the front he conforms to the corporate ideal of a hard-charging comer, a take-no-prisoners, all-business go-getter, and thus is able to hold down that key position at Jiffy Lube. But from the back, those locks cascading gracefully down his neckline, that's letting his freak flag fly, baby.

He sees himself as wild and untamed, a quasi-free spirit swaggering through life demanding respect, like his stylistic role models, the professional wrestlers, an ancient tribe of mullet people themselves. In truth, he is a rebel without a clue. A man conflicted, torn in half. The same undercurrent of homoeroticsm that runs rampant through the world of wrestling - sweaty buffed men in fetish wear, putting moves on each other like the pile driver and the figure four leglock, pul-leeze, why not just have Judy Garland blaring over the intercom as they sashay into the ring? - threatens to tear Mullet Boy apart, too.

He wants to feel macho, hard and edgy, sucker-punch manly, to be accepted by his peers. Yet the desire to throw off some feminine vibes is so overpowering he is willing to walk into Super Cuts and sacrifice his skull to the fashion travesty sometimes known as the "mud flap." In more ways than one, the mullet is a cry for help.

And sadly, tragically, it is inching back from the boonies into the mainstream. A coffee-table opus, "The Mullet: Hairstyle of the Gods," hit bookstore shelves in January. Publications such as the Washington Post and Entertainment Weekly have recently reported on the increase in sightings. Web sites abound, both celebrating and vilifying (there's that paradox again) the mullet. The Gucci menswear line this spring featured be-mulleted models. And now this outbreak of the retro-coif among the smile-bots at Disney, while still in the theoretical stage, pretty much seals the deal. The mullet is here to stay.

Is this a trend you should jump on? Maybe the mohawk bandwagon rumbled out of the station without you. Maybe you missed out on pony tails, the branding/scarification mini-fad, even the cargo pant craze, now you're worried about being labeled terminally unhip. But really, is a mullet any way to get back in the game?

Unless you have an appearance scheduled on "The Jerry Springer Show," or are going to be racing on the NASCAR circuit, or opening for Sawyer Brown, chances are a mullet won't be considered a plus.

If you're applying for a job at Disneyland, that's a different story.

A collection of musings, random observations and curmudgeonly bon mots, all served piping hot.Actress Kathleen Turner is shaking up audiences in the London production of "The Graduate" by strutting around stage bareass naked. The 45-year old actress is portraying the seductive Mrs. Robinson. So, answer me this: Kathleen Turner peels off all her clothes in front of a room full of strangers and it's hailed as a theatrical triumph; I do it and I'm banned from Johnny Rockets for life. Where's the justice?Fresh off their wildly successful "Innocent as O. J." national book tour, devastated parents John and Patsy Ramsey say they've been overwhelmed by fan response. And knowing the importance of striking while the iron is hot, the grief-stricken but still media-savvy couple, hope to soon be auctioning off some of JonBenet's sparkly little pageant dresses on eBay. A fragrance launch is also in the planning stages. I think it's fabulous how they've managed to get on with their lives in a classic lemons-to-lemonade conversion scenario.Whitney Houston delivers an unforgettable performance, even wrecked on peyote. Or, as the singer's publicist called it, "suffering from a bit of a sore throat." The diva, who has endured some personal embarrassments lately, including a pot scandal in Hawaii, being booted from the Oscars at the last minute and rambling, incoherent interviews, still tears the place up once she hits the stage. Sure, the people in the front row caught some splatter from her projectile vomiting between songs but that only added to the festive atmosphere. It was reminiscent of a Gallagher show.If you're anything like me, you'll agree that the music scene has never seemed so vibrant and just downright awesome since hunky teen boy bands began ruling the charts. Let's hope this trend continues for years to come. I was fortunate enough to meet one of the Backstreet Boys recently and it was quite a thrill. I don't remember the specifics of our conversation but he did say something that really hit home, something to the effect of, "Please don't cut me anymore. If you untie me and let me go now I won't say a word to the cops, I swear." Of course, I'm paraphrasing. But what a charmer.Note to Slyvester Stallone, who recently lost a three picture deal because of his waning box office clout: wise up, beefcake. America is clamoring for a sequel to your greatest screen triumph. It's time for "Stop or My Mom Will Shoot II." Give Estelle Getty a topless scene and your talking a record breaking opening week. It worked for Kathleen Turner.It's just one man's opinion, but wouldn't snuff films gain more mainstream acceptance if the killing blow was delivered by cuddly sock puppets, like the one from those Pets.com commercials? Then it works on two levels.Good news, bad news for comedy aficionados. The bad news is Foster Brooks, bowing to the forces of political correctness, has abandoned his slobbering drunk act. Good news is, he now slings the yuks while pretending to be whacked out on crystal meth. And take it from someone who parties with bikers almost every weekend, Brooks' take as a surly, paranoid tweaker is bust-a-gut hilarious. Audiences in Branson are eating it up.And from our Miscellaneous file: I'm no theologian, but I'd bet real money that hell is eerily similar to a renaissance fair.If you've been working at the same job for over five years, why not storm into your boss's office and demand that they give you an enema? What are you afraid of? They can only say no, right?Color me curious but, if it's true that all you really needed to know you learned in kindergarten, why don't people walk into restaurants and order a paste and booger fajita?Whoever said "Love means never having to say you're sorry," apparently never got drunk and made a pass at his wife's mother.Unlike a lot of so-called liberals, I still give money to the homeless. But now I make them perform a traditional Irish step-dance to earn it.Whatever happened to courteous service in this country? It seems like nobody cares anymore. I can't tell you the number of times I walk out the door after making a purchase without getting so much as a "Have a nice day" from the hooker.And finally, take it from yours truly, here are the complete set of rules to live by: never play cards with a man named Doc, never eat at a place called Mom's, and never ever get a lap dance from a gal named Itchy.

Senior studs aren't just getting it on, they're getting it done. Don't let the gray hair and rambling stories about a time when cars cost a nickel fool you, these aging slabs of man-beef are stone cold playas.From the loins of geezers flows the squiggly brew of conception. Sperm of the elderly is suddenly a vibrant life force. Old guys are nixing the early bird dinner specials to stay home and impregnate their womenfolk. Teeth in a glass and a bun in the oven, that's a virile badge of honor these days.Larry King, 66, is about to become a pop for the second time in two years. Even before they could exchange "I do's" Michael Douglas, 55, has Catherine Zeta-Jones in a delicate condition. Thin White Duke, David Bowie, 53, will become the Thin White Dad in August. Richard Gere, 50, became a father for the first time last month. Tony Randall started reproducing at the age of 77 and hasn't stopped since.Warren Beatty, Woody Allen and Clint Eastwood are just a few of the AARP set who recently sired rugrats. And the Artist Formerly Known as Scotty, James Doohan, will boldly go where few men have gone before, when he begats on April 1, just weeks after his 80th birthday. Insert your own "beaming up" joke here.Obviously, there's a surge in geriatric jiggy. No surprise. It's a brave new sex-you-up world out there. Even with age verification software there's still no way to keep a headstrong gramps out of the cyber porn. Global warming knocks some of the chill off and means better circulation of the blood. Once sweaters and summer jackets get peeled, it's katy bar the door.Of course the 900 pound gorilla in this steamy mix is Viagra. Boner pills. Stiffy pez. Say hello to my little friend. Erections are like handguns: if one's in the house, chances are it's gonna get used. Or at least shown around. Seniors are now locked and loaded.Yet just because a few fogies are embracing their inner horndog, getting their swerve on, doing the horizontal hula, boinking like the ship just iceberged, doesn't explain the rash of bambinos. Old guys are at the pharmacy every week buying back pills and arthritis meds. How tough can it be to toss some rubbers in the cart?These high profile pregnancies must then be a conscious decision. And the well-heeled celebs are doing it to reclaim some turf, taking back their lost prestige. Simple as that.Everything changed, all the standard perks of being a filthy rich old guy were devalued once wealth became so readily attainable to the unwashed masses. Cash in some stock options, launch an e-bidness, go mano a mano with Regis and voila, you're loaded. Is that a gazillion in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?Trophy homes, trophy cars, trophy boats and trophy dogs, once the exclusive spoils of the mature and mighty, now litter the 'burbs, common as mini-vans trying to pass themselves off as something other than a mini-van. Even the quintessential trapping of old school machismo, trophy wives, have lost their cachet. These salon-fresh, tae bo-toned creatures, so svelte and exotic, once conveyed a sense of ultimate validation. A celebration of all things penisy. "Look who clings to moi. The girth of my johnson must be staggering." Or so the TW implies.But now that any parent-mooching, Cheetoh-popping, caftan-swaddled, techno-minded social troll who happens to design an Internet site allowing users to name their own price for a foot massage has access to "Baywatch"-grade arm candy, just marrying hotness is no longer the be-all, end-all certification required by truly powerful men.However, if the trophy wife happens to swell with child, that's point, set, jenga! A whole new level of status is conferred on the proud papa. "Not only has the monstrous size of my johnson been established, but also the fact that it's fully operational." Or so the birth announcements might trumpet. Also, there is far less pillorying in the tabloids if TW-1 gets pregnant and kept around for the long haul instead of traded in for a newer, bosomier model.Analyzing this trend of fossil love pales beside the ramifications it has for the barren. Harnessing the potency of senior sperm could provide a major breakthrough in assisted reproductive technology. Rumors of a geezerseed web site, while still in the planning stages, have electrified couples unable to conceive through conventional methods; i.e., the kind of methods that don't require an old fart's baby-juice to go chugging through fallopian tubes, in the slow lane, blinker on for the entire trip.Soon the infertile will be able to point and click their way to a blessed bundle. Which is way more convenient than knocking on singer David Crosby's door -- who not surprisingly is 58 -- with a sob story, a skin mag and a Tupperware crisper, asking to borrow some sperm.