This year, don’t make a resolution to write a page a day.  Mark Foley did that, and look where it got him.

Become diagnosed as a narcolepetic with Tourette’s syndrome so it’s okay for me to swear at people and then immediately fall asleep.

Spend more time thinking about the people I care about--such as Julie Bowen from Boston Legal.

Build pillow fort in cube at work.

Continue stealth campaign designed to get Barack Obama to name me as his running mate.  (Current tactic: elbowing Barack, clearing throat, and saying “Guess you don’t have a running mate yet, eh?  Eh?")

Teach niece how to order me food from kid menus--tired of funny looks when I ask for “Mission Control Mac & Cheese” at Denny’s.

Practice ventriloquism so I can say things like “You’re boring and dumb” in meetings without being caught.

Take night classes; it’s the only way to get my license back.

Get a six pack stomach--by drinking a six pack a day and seeing what happens to stomach.

Exfoliate.

My family is very normal.  And one of the normal things we did recently was visit the famous Alcatraz prison on Christmas Eve.  Because how else would you want to spend such a holy day?

Admittedly, we did have a good reason for doing this.  The guy to the right of my father is Pierre Odier, and he wrote a history book about the prison called The Rock.  The book has sold a lot of copies, and it sold even more when the Nic Cage movie came out under the same title. Presumably, people thought they were buying a book that was connected to the movie.  In fact, they were just fattening the bank account of my sister-in-law’s father.  Ha!  Suckers.

Pierre said that the marketing people thought the book would sell more if there was a naked woman on the cover.  I enthusiastically agreed, but he said he’d rather sell fewer copies than prostitute out his work that way.  I found this comment staggering.  As someone who has spent a great deal of recent time working on a screenplay that has no artistic ambition other than transforming itself into a pile of cash, the whole notion of “artistic integrity” is about as easy for me to grasp as a Jackson Pollack painting.

Still, it’s good to have incorruptible people around, because they can point my attention to details I had missed the first time I visited Alcatraz, such as a red fist that had been painted during the Indian occupation of the island in 1969:

Now that’s spirit of Christmas!

Later, in a bizarre fit of actual normalcy, we went home and prepared presents, such as putting together a gigantic kitchen for my niece:

And come the next day, the kitchen proved to be a big hit--but she also liked my present, a kid’s digital camera:

Which is a good thing, because the camera was sold out everywhere and I ended up bidding against crazy mothers on eBay for it.  I eventually won.  True story.  And the moral of the story? I rule.

Well, okay, there’s another moral.  Which is that after piles of presents and literally hours of unwrapping, I never saw my niece as happy as when her father was giving her impromptu flight lessons:

The best things in life are free--even if they make your arms tired.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows?

Boy, if you wanted final proof that Rowling’s Nimbus 2000 is running out of gas as she approaches the end of the series, that’s pretty much your clincher.  “Deathly Hallows” isn’t a title; it’s words stuck together. 

I’d like to see the ones that she rejected before picking it:

Harry Potter and the Healthy Dallows
Harry Potter and Dearth of Heath Bars
Harry Potter and the Hello Dollies
Harry Potter and the Mrs. Dalloway

This is a reminder that one’s output suffers after cruising past the billionaire mark, but you can do some really great work while being a single mother on welfare.  Heck, I’m going to get on that right now.

Sometimes I upset people when I talk about Christians on this site, so I want to make very clear that I’m talking about certain Christians in this post--the hypocritical ones who represent stupid organizations and talk to newspapers about movies they will never go see.  There are plenty of Christians who don’t do this.  And believe me, I hate some atheists as much as I hate some Christians.  Atheists can be just as insufferable and self-righteous as their opposite numbers.  Oh, and I also hate agnostics.  Talk about a group of people who refuse to let go of the remote and watch a goddamn show; it’s always “CLICK CLICK CLICK,” gotta see what’s on next, can’t decide.

Anyway, I’m annoyed about the hypocrisy of Christians who complain about the slasher flick Black Christmas that’s being released on Christmas day.  Jennifer Giroux, who co-founded Operation Just Say Merry Christmas as a way to reclaim the season for Christians, said that the “The use of religious music—‘Silent Night’—and the nativity . . . are insensitive to Christians.”

I happen to like Christmas.  I like it when my neighbors say “Happy Holidays” to me.  I like the fact that there’s tons of food in the office at work.  I like the fact that, year after year, the Little Drummer Boy still doesn’t know how to play anything other than “pahrump-a-pum-pum.” (Talk about finding a groove and sticking with it; he was a Phil Collins for his time.)

So I, like Jennifer Giroux, don’t like movies that besmirch Christmas.  And nothing does that more than movies like Deck the Halls, the recently released atrocity starring Matthew Broderick and Danny DeVito.  Why was there no outcry about that?  What about that Ben Affleck movie last year, Surviving Christmas? A movie like that isn’t insensitive to Christians?

What about Tim Allen, who has now released three Santa Clause movies?  Three is half of six, which is 1/3 of the way to 666, the Number of the Beast.  So I now have theological proof that Allen is the Anti-Christ.

Unfunny and overly sentimental movies that wallow in treacly pablum in order to make a quick buck off of Christmas are far worse and far more insidious than a movie like Black Christmas, which at least wears its cycnicism on its celluloid sleeve.  I find a slasher movie released on December 25 to be like a guy walking around wearing a sandwich board that reads “I DOUBLE PARK AT EVERY OPPORTUNITY.” You may not like him, but you can’t fault his integrity.

Christians should be thrilled that Dimension Films is releasing this movie as counter-programming. It gets all the weirdos into the movie theater on Christmas and off the streets.  Won’t Christmas be nicer knowing that anyone who wants to spend the day watching a slasher movie is, in fact, watching a slasher movie?

Because personally, I’m sick of those creeps coming to my door and interrupting my own holiday.  And you can always tell who they are.  Most people want to borrow a cup of sugar or maybe some mulled wine; the slasher fans always want to borrow some blood pudding.

How was your day?  Did you do something interesting?  If so, do you have something to say about it?  How will you say it?  How will you phrase it?  Have you thought about it?  Are you going through the motions, or are you awake?  Did you do something funny?  If not, did someone else do something interesting or funny? Are you awake? Can you steal something? If you can steal something, can you make it your own?  Can you do it?  If not, why not?  If yes, how soon?  How fast? How good?

It’s not so difficult.  It’s not so painful.  And if you don’t do it, you’re nothing.  If you don’t do it, you’re less than nothing.  Even if you fail, you’re still something.  You’re still something.  You’re almost nothing now. You’re almost less than nothing.  Fear is nothing.  Fear is less than nothing.  Didn’t something happen?  Don’t you remember it?  Are you awake?  What happened to a page a day?  You would have surpassed the entire works of Victor Hugo five times over if you had followed that advice.  You would have wallpapered the world with words.  Instead you’re living on other people’s words. Other people’s pictures. Other people’s stories. Books.  Movies.  Articles.  Manifestos.  Successes.  All those people who looked at nothing and pulled together something.  All those people who stared infinity in the face and made a pattern that meant something.  Said something.  Was something.

Where are yours?  Where are your words? Where is your blood?  Where is your life?  It’s not so difficult. It’s not so painful.  It’s only fear.  Fear is nothing.  Fear is less than nothing. Where are your words?  Did you ever have them?  Do you have them now?  Where are they?  How soon can you have them?  How fast can you have them? How good are they?  Are you nothing?  Are you something?  Are you awake?  Are you awake?  Are you awake?

I’ve been thinking about selling my condo and buying a house, but I have so much to do before it’s ready for the market.  I have to paint the entire place.  Update the appliances.  Set a trap for the wild armadillo.

I recently learned about “house staging,” which seemed like a really great idea.  House staging is where you pay someone to fill your place full of furniture so that it looks “homey” and more appealing to a prospective buyer.  I have heard, of course, about eccentric people who keep large collections of random furniture for use at some point in the future, but I never thought of them as home stagers. I always thought of them as “other people’s grandmothers.”

I like the concept of home staging.  A buyer walks into your place, newly filled full of plants, paintings, and expensive accoutrements, and says “This could be my home.  I could live here.” And then all the stuff goes away and the buyer finishes the paperwork and walks back into the place, looks at all the empty rooms, and exclaims “I’ve been had!  I need to go hire a home stager and sell this dump.” Given the frequency of this cycle, I’d guess that home stagers have even more job security than morticians.

I think the concept of staging could be carried into other aspects of life.  I like the idea of walking into my company’s holiday party and introducing my date as “Vesper Lynde, treasury agent.” I could have fake stuff into my cube, such as a fountain or a vibrating massage chair.  I could lease a BMW to drive around in, or perhaps a jet pack.

If there’s a danger of staging, it’s that you eventually want it all to become reality.  I’ve been accused of spending too much of the day in a dreamworld, but at least I know enough to eventually stick my head back under the ozone layer.  I see people walk around with clothes and cars they can’t afford, and those are people who take staging too far. They decide they don’t just want to stage it; they want to live in it permanently.  You want to keep your kids away from these sort of individuals--although I don’t mind if they come see my condo when I have an open house.  I think they’ll like all the vases filled with flowers.

(I walk into the pub to meet my co-workers.  The waitress greets me and we hug.)

ME: (Sitting down)

CO-WORKER: (jaw dropped)

ME: What?

CO-WORKER: If you’re able to walk into a bar and hug the waitress, you can be pretty sure that you have a problem.

ME: I actually like to think of it as having the solution.

Disclaimer: This post is about a bloody battle between a snake and an alligator, which was really cool because the snake won and ate the alligator, but you should stop reading if you’re totally grossed out by this sort of thing, which would be too bad and you should engage in extensive self-analysis.  I mean, if you can’t get jazzed about a boa fighting an alligator, do you really have your priorities in life straight?

I have a friend who loves nature.  His apartment is filled with plants, frogs, and flowers.  He once showed off his new TV stereo system by turning on a nature show. I said, “Usually people put in The Matrix or something.  Not a lot of people need to hear crickets chirping in 5.1 surround.”

This weekend, I mentioned something about the famous fight between the alligator and the python in the Florida everglades.  I said, “The pictures were all over the Internet.  The python ate the gator but it was too much and its stomach exploded.  It was cool.”

He looked at me disdainfully.  “What, did you read that in The Enquirer?”

“No man, it really happened.”

“Snakes don’t eat things and explode.  If they eat it, they can digest it.”

“Oh yeah?  Look, you know your plants, but what are you--some sort of...of...snakeologist?”

He just shook his head. But when I looked it up on the web, I realized that in the year that the incident had happened, scientists got involved and basically proved that my friend was right.  This account in particular explains how scientists concluded that the facts were more complicated that how the news reported them.

For example, the alligator was indeed partially digested at the time they found the corpses.  So it seems unlikely that the boa was unable to eat its prey.  Furthermore, the boa was found with his head missing.  That seems to suggest that the boa ate the gator, went about its merry way, and was killed later by a second gator.

Do you see what this means?  There was a second shooter!  Just like on the grassy knoll!

“What makes you think Oswald didn’t act alone?” “Because of the angle of the shot, the involvement of Jack Ruby, and because we couldn’t find the President’s head.”

The entire thing illustrates my love/hate relationship with the scientific community.  Frankly, I was disappointed to find out that the snake didn’t explode, because that would have been just cool.  Having this illusion stripped from me reminded me of all the other cherished beliefs in my life that science has cast into doubt, such as the existence of Loch Ness and the ability of a radioactive spider to survive long enough to bite someone and give him powers.  Plus, it seems to suggest that sometimes the Internet disseminates false information.  No frickin’ way!

On the other hand, National Geographic’s theory means that there was not one but two fights between a giant boa and an alligator.  To which I say: Thank God for science.  Because I dig sequels.

Furthermore, I think that National Geographic’s analysis raises awareness of the ongoing boa/python conflict, and that we should all be on alert.  I think it makes sense to think of them as a pair of rival gangs.  The alligators are the Gats, and the pythons are the Bluebloods.

GATS: Did you eat one of our homies last year?

BLUEBLOODS: Yeah, bro, but then one of your crew came along and bit off our guy’s head.

GATS: That’s straight up, and we’ll do it again.  You ready to throw down?  Right now?

BLUEBLOODS: Nah, just ate a cheetah.  Gimme a week to digest, then bring it on.

I didn’t expect any helpful energy-saving tips when I opened up the newsletter from Pacific Gas & Electric Company, but I thought at least maybe I would get a useful reminder such as “Wear sweaters in the house.” That’s a useful tip.  I’m completely okay with getting that tip.  Instead I read: “Lower the thermostat five degrees from where you would normally have it.  You’d be surprised how much energy you can save.”

Oh, well, I didn’t even think about how easy it might be to simply lower the thermostat.  That’s just brilliant.  Except for the fact that at the height of winter--when the icy, death-white fingers of the Norwegian Frost Giants curl around your throat with bone-chilling ease--five degrees in your house is the difference between wanting to play sand volleyball in your living room and curling up on the carpet, desperately trying to hibernate until the St. Bernard can find you with his barrel of bourbon.  Five degrees is nothing to simply write off.  I couldn’t even the read the rest of the newsletter; I knew it would be stuff like “Think warm thoughts.  If that doesn’t work, think warmer thoughts.”

Screw you, PG&E.  I’m presenting my own tips for staying warm.  That’s right.  This site, which is completely unaffiliated with your corrupt and morally bankrupt institution, is willing to shoulder your burden and provide the energy saving tips that all right-thinking people need to survive the chilly months ahead.  You can save energy and warm up by:

1. Getting in bar fights.

2. Dancing around the room playing air guitar to Franz Ferdinand’s “Your Diary.”

3. Calling your friends and relatives whom you’re steamed at and get into blood-raising shouting matches.

4. Reading the blogs in your daily feeds out loud, acting out the posts with elaborate hand gestures and reciting the words in a heavy Scottish brogue.

5. Drinking Irish coffee with breakfast, hot buttered rum with lunch, and hot toddies with dinner.  Food optional.

6. Taking a hot bath with red food coloring in the water; turn on the shower and pretend it’s the last days of Krakatoa.

7. Buying up remaindered Ann Coulter books and starting bonfires all over town.

8. Juggling midgets.

You’re welcome.

As many know, the wondrous Sarah B. has turned her concept Cringe into a book deal, as well as a television series that just finished filming its pilot.

Cringe is where people stand in front of an audience and read excerpts from the diaries or journals that they kept as teenagers.

I am sad that I can never participate because I didn’t keep a diary as a teenager.  But it did occur to me that I wrote a few diary entries in junior high, so this past Thanksgiving I ransacked my old bookcase at my parents’ house to find it.  I did, in fact, find the journal.

Of course, the first thing to notice is that the journal is actually an official Judy Blume diary given to me by my mother one Christmas:

Which leads to the inevitable question: why did my mother think I was gay?

I knew that the diary contained mostly blank pages.  The only thing I remember writing was an account of me challenging another kid to a fight after school.  We fought and eventually the police got involved.  I wanted to re-read that entry, but I completely forgot that I filled out the introductory page as well.

Here’s how I filled out the Introductory page at age 12:

I LIKE: Comics, girls, The Greatest American Hero, rock n roll parties, fun, space stuff, adventures, books, and stuff that makes me look glamorous.

Oh. So that’s why my mother thought I was gay.

Note to younger self: Look, Liberace, I’d worry less about the glamor bit and concentrate more on taking the steep turns less quickly on your way back from dinner with your prom date.  Such attention to detail will ensure that your date doesn’t throw up, which will help get you laid a lot faster than whatever extreme makeover thing you’re going on about.

As for “rock n roll parties"--settle down, Greased Lightning, you’re not exactly the leader of the T-Birds.

I HATE: School, fights, poison oak, acne, crime, snobs, Ronald Reagan, peas, hikes, manners, and people with no sense of humor!

Actually, I still hate most of these things.  Hikes can be nice.

THIS YEAR IN SCHOOL: Will be told probably later in this package called Judy Blume’s (yes Judy Blume!) diary.  Do you have any comic books?

There’s going to be a television show with this kind of material?  I don’t know if I can stand another ten seconds of this, much less a half hour.

Some material in this diary may not be suitable for children or adults.

Okay, sorry, I was going to transcribe the entry about the fight, but I’ve reached my limit--much the way one can only take about twenty minutes of any movie starring Amanda Byrnes.  I’m going to go de-tox.  I haven’t been this glad not to be twelve since the day I turned thirteen.

There’s a lot to hate in the world and I’m constantly reshuffling my top five to make way for new entrants. For example, wouldn’t it be nice if every person who says things like “I’M YER NUMBER ONE STUNNA” was dropped from a tall building? But I think a powerful new contender has to be the trend of rich people tossing off racial or ethnic slurs, and then going to “leaders” of those racial or ethnic groups in order to ask for forgiveness.

This happened when Mel Gibson was arrested for drunk driving and started in with an anti-semitic rant; after the dust settled, I read that he met with Jewish leaders in order to discuss the incident and formally apologize. Similarly, Michael “Kramer from Seinfeld” Richards recently broke into a racist tirade at an L.A. comedy club, and he hired a PR consultant with “deep contacts in the black community” in order to help repair his public image.

Sadly, here’s how I expect those initial conversations go:

IDIOT CELEBRITY: Hi, I’d like you to talk to the press on my behalf and say how we talked and how what I did was wrong but it’s not really my fault.  It was the fault of our culture of racism and violence and Martha Stewart products, and stuff.

LEADER: I see.  And what do I get out of helping you salvage your alleged Hollywood career?

IDIOT CELEBRITY: You get your name in the papers, further associating you with the racial and/or ethnic group that you represent, which helps solidify your credentials as the go-to person for that entire collective.

LEADER: Fantastic.  You have a deal. But listen, you’re not really racist, are you?

IDIOT CELEBRITY: Oh no no. I just stubbed my toe and a bunch of racial epithets came out.  But, I mean, that doesn’t make me racist.

LEADER: I should say not!  I look forward to doing business with you!

Here’s how those scenes should go:

IDIOT CELEBRITY: Hi, I’d like you to talk to the press on my behalf.

LEADER: I see.  Now be quiet for a moment...I’m getting a message from the racial/ethnic group that I’m supposed to represent...it’s like a billion voices in my head, all whispering the same thing…

IDIOT CELEBRITY: And?  And?  They say that they forgive me?

LEADER: They say that..that…

IDOT CELEBRITY: Yes?  YES?

LEADER: ...that you’re an asshead, that you should have stopped with the first Lethal Weapon, and that your so-called religious epic was actually a glorified snuff film. Get the hell out of my office.

However, I’m a realist. I know that this trend is likely to continue in full force as even more famous people with deep pockets spew hatred and bile into the world, causing even more leaders to line up behind them in order to scarf up the resulting publicity. Therefore, I’ve decided to become one of those leaders.  Despite being straight, white, and middle-class, there’s nonetheless a group with which I’m closely identified in the public eye: People who hate people who make turns without using a turn signal.  Therefore, I’m making myself available to any celebrity who makes a turn without signaling and thus elicits a public outcry.  Come to me, let’s talk about it, and maybe I’ll go to the press and speak on your behalf.

But you have to be smart about it.  For example, I recently met with Britney Spears and it didn’t go well:

BRITNEY: I took a left-hand turn without signaling and now everyone hates me.  Can you talk to the media and say how sorry I am about it?

ME: Well, Britney, I represent a group that really hates people who make turns without signaling.  Why did you do it?

BRITNEY: My hands were full.  I was balancing my baby on my shoulders while snorting crack and signing Kevin’s divorce papers.  The steering wheel and routine functions of the car just became an afterthought.

ME: Okay, I’ll speak to the press on your behalf--

BRITNEY: Yay!

ME: BUT only if you agree to certain conditions.  First, when you’re driving around with your kid, use a goddamn babyseat like everyone else.  It’s your baby, not a football.

BRITNEY: That’s a sound parenting tip!

ME: Second, don’t marry any more gold digging rap star wannabee dancers.  Third and most important, stop using letters such as “4” and “U” in the place of actual English words such as “for” and “you.” For example, in the title of your Top 40 smash “I’m a Slave 4 U.” Prince did that first--and you, Britney, are no Prince.  It’s annoying as hell when you do it.

BRITNEY: Got it!  Thanks!  Okay! 

ME: So I guess I’ll call up the newspapers and start saving your reputation.

BRITNEY: That’s awesome!  2 R 2 Good 2 B 4-gotten!

(pause)

Oops.

ME: Get the hell out of my office.

Previous studies have indicated that consuming red wine may help prevent obesity and age-related diseases, while increasing strength and endurance.

But now a new study confirms that red wine also leads to amazing superpowers.

Leading scientists monitored a test subject who drank great quantities of red wine over the course of several months, and as a result became able to lift cars over his head, defy gravity, and perform stunning feats of heroism.

“It wasn’t just the wine by itself,” explained one of the lead researchers.  “Our test subject consumed the wine for a significant period of time, and then uttered the phrase ‘Sauvignon!’ Apparently, this word is one of the key harmonics of the universe.  It caused an ear-splitting sound, much like a billion grapes being crushed at once.  When the smoke cleared, our test subject was wearing a spandex outfit and cape, and found himself endowed with abilities such as strength and flight.”

Although the test subject now responds to the name “Captain Cabernet,” he hasn’t actually taken the step of fighting crime.

“I will fight no crime until it’s time,” explained the test subject, who preferred to remain anonymous in case he does, in fact, wind up with a rogue’s gallery of supervillain adversaries.

Captain Cabernet also possesses a strange power called “wine vision.”

“That one isn’t very useful, though,” said the lead researcher.  “Wine vision just means that Captain Cabernet laughs and giggles whenever he looks at anything.  In effect, he’s seeing the world through rose-colored glasses.”

Scientists are also quick to warn against overstating the positive effects of wine.

“It’s not like everyone should run out and start drinking barrels of wine.  Oh sure, you’ll gain super strength and flight.  But so far, there’s no surefire way to maintain a secret identity--not with the way your teeth get stained.”

Biking can be an excellent source of cardio exercise.  However, don’t make the mistake of thinking that you can simply jump on a bike and start riding.  The battle lines between cars and bicyclists have slowly been drawn for years, and you need to understand the rules of engagement.

In order to be a part of bike culture, you must follow a series of very specific cultural directives.  Mainly, it’s necessary to be a fascist in your quest to hog the road, weaving in and out of driver blind spots as though your sense of equilibrium has been permanently damaged by listening to Metallica at full volume.  Is your green, orange, and yellow spandex too tasteful?  Don’t feel shy about adding a purple helmet and pink shoes.  Curse out cars who veer as little as two inches in your direction, and curse out anybody with a “MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT” bumper sticker just out of general principle.  Be sure to carry a cloud of smugness around you that ensures that every motorized vehicle within visual range understands your inherent superiority and your ability to save the environment from destruction by sheer virtue of your finely tuned calves and pedaling acumen.  Most importantly, remember that road signs are simply a suggestion, not a directive.  Glide past Yield and Stop Signs as though they’re project deadlines at work, and stare blankly at any motorist who screeches on the brakes in an attempt to avoid hitting you.

Bicyclists sound like a hard-bitten bunch of felons, don’t they?  Don’t judge too harshly; they’re simply reacting to their environment.  Most drivers fly into a fit of road rage at the mere sight of a U-lock.  In their eyes, call bicyclists are a pack of potential eco-terrorists, and should be exiled to Romania where they can ride up and down hills to their heart’s content.  Drivers feel as though that if God intended people to ride bikes, he would never have created five-lane highways.

Motorists and bicyclists constitute one of the great blood feuds of the last century, making the Sri Lanka’s Tamil Tigers and Sinhalese majority look like the cast of “Up with People.” Good way to burn calories--if you survive the experience.

I was so stupid as a kid. I always worked hard to win sports trophies, although I was terrible at everything. Baseball, soccer, basketball--I was awful at them all.

But then I realized I could just visit sporting goods stores and buy the trophies myself.  Cut out the middleman.

Now it’s great.  I keep a big trophy case in the middle of living room.  By now I’ve grown quite a collection. It’s a great icebreaker. People look at it and exclaim “My God!  Soccer and basketball and--rugby?  Lacrosse? You must be really good!”

I just smile and say, “I like to think so.”

The lumbering Irish Boston bouncer peered at my driver’s license and said “Were the elections as big a deal for you guys as they were for us?”

I looked up at him in abject terror.  He wants to talk politics?  I don’t know much, but I do know never to discuss politics with someone who’s four times as large as I am.  Particularly when you don’t know where they stand.  I thought to myself: Huge, Irish, a bouncer.  What political party is that?  Green?  No wait, the Greens aren’t named after Ireland.

I said, “Ha ha ha, mumble mumble, ha ha, oh that Governator, yeah, that’s our Arnie, ha ha ha.  I need Jameson’s whisky now.”

It actually has been strange to be doing my little trivial work things on the east coast all week while serious and substantial events have been transpiring throughout the country.  The Dems retake the senate.  Rumsfeld resigns.  Britney splits with K-Fed.

The Rumsfeld thing was brilliant on Bush’s part.  He waited until after the election so the move didn’t look like desperation, and it also significantly helped disrupt the election news cycle.  The ink on headlines such as “NANCY PELOSI: THREAT OR MENACE?” were only starting to dry when the story hit, drawing attention back to the White House and a ridiculous symbolic gesture of change in regards to Iraq. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that it matters.  Rumsfeld had already lost most of his power, and I could almost hear the song in Bush’s heart (to the tune of Justin Timberlake’s “Sexy Back") as he pressured the guy into resigning:

We’re sending Rummy back
(Yeah!)
‘Cause he really blew Iraq
(Yeah!)
The dems took congress, what a heart attack
(Yeah!)
But no worries ‘cause we’ll take it back
(Take ‘em to the bridge!)

Like I said, serious change in our country.  And speaking of which, did you read that Ryan Phillipe wants spousal support from Reese?  S’matter, Ryan--your residual checks from Cruel Intentions starting to run out?