On weekends our local elementary school is overrun by Mexicans, El Salvadorans and Guatamalens. They gather to play soccer, picnic, guzzle Corona, litter and ogle women with bulbous asses, too-tight jeans and flashy belts.

My friend went online and purchased INS shorts and walkie-talkies. He used stencils to make a bilingual placard that reads Immigration and Naturalization Service. (I assume they were being sarcastic when they called this menace a service, like the Internal Revenue Service.)

Every few Sundays we'll put the placard on his white van and pull up to the school. Then we'll jump out and start jabbering on our walkie-talkies and looking ultra-serious. It is hilarious to watch the mass stampede that ensues.

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The pix are of remarkably clear quality and are also quite similar to one another. I could pick him out of a lineup. Why then is he so damn hard to find?

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Oh sure, Ken was convicted because he was guilty as sin and the 12 nimrods who comprised the OJ jury were unavailable as they all presently reside in the deepest recesses of hell. These kinds of white collar crime trials are chock full of accounting minutia and boring as it gets. So nobody paid much attention. The Slobo Dan trial at the World Court retained more viewers. If it were a TV show it would have garnered ratings as dismal as the upcoming World Series. But it did eventually end in a conviction, unlike the Slobo Dan affair in which they eventually had to stifle the old coot in his cell.

But then ol' Ken had the audacity to up and die too. His phallanx of high-priced lawyers had of course filed an appeal during which he continued to live his lavish yacht and servant-laden lifestyle. And since that right is constitutional his untimely death meant his conviction got nixed. So much for any notion of any of those aggrieved parties divvying up his billion dollar fortune. Ha! Creditors and employees alike can pound sand. He's as innocent as OJ.

Meanwhile, George Weller was convicted of 10 counts of vehicular manslaughter. This conviction was handed down in absentia, as he is 89 years old and was too frail and sick to attend his own trial and assist in his defense. I had thought that was some kind of constitutional no-no too, but what do I know?

Weller now faces 18 years in prison. If he gets five years off for good behavior (what else would one expect from an 89 year old convict?) he'll be 104 when he next sees the light of day.

This guy needs to get off his deathbed, file an appeal and check out of Hotel Life faster than Rep Foley bends over a page. Perhaps Lay's lawyers could help him out.

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Here I use the term loosely, as in Dancing with the "Stars." They don't obsess over real stars like Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro, Jack Nicholson, Meg Ryan or Meryl Streep. They are too old and revered for this cheap and tawdry form of attention-lavishing.

Like animals in a zoo, the anointed few live their entire lives in the hot glare of the spotlight with helicopters hovering overhead and paparazzi jostling them on every sidewalk they dare to set foot on. If they roll down the tinted window of their limo an enormous lems comes poking in. I'd sooner shove my hand down the disposal than lead that type of phony life.

So who are these people, and what is going on in their charmed lives? Basically it boils down to Jessica (or "Jess"), Nick, Britney ("Brit",) Kevin, Angelina ("Angie",) Brad, Jen and Vince and Jennifer ("J Lo"). Then there are "sexy blondes" or "handsome studs" they are caught on tape canoodling with. Each week we're informed of their couplings amongst each other, their near-breakups, their "baby bumps" and so forth. It is frightening to consider how much of our resources are consumed by this activity.

Below them is the TomKat, which seems to have fallen out of favor for several reasons. Tom is off-puttingly intense about his creepy beliefs. And there's the feeling that he somehow traded down in hooking up with Kat. And he seems gay. And he keeps his baby in seclusion.

Rarely do these people ever get around to actually working i.e. acting in a movie or releasing a CD. When they do the results are often disastrous. See: The Mexican, Ocean's Whatever, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Gigli, Employee of the Month, Crossroads, The Breakup, Picture Perfect Mission Impossible III, First Daughter and so on. When is the last time Brit had a hit record? K-Fed puts out more material.

On the third tier are such pop tarts are Kirsten Dunst, Christina Aguilera and Brittany Murphy. Although I don't know her myself, I am almost certain the latter is what we used to call a "dirty girl." And I don't even know where I got that impression. For all I know she's been in a monogamous relationship her whole life or is an anal virgin.

Nor do I know why I am so sure that she and Dunst (and Paris Hilton, for obvious reasons) both smell bad. But I am fairly certain neither one of them ever comes completely clean. I used to think the same thing about Fran Drescher. On the other hand, I am positive Ryan smells great even after a workout or sex. Same with Jay Leno but not Letterman.

Then there are thos who make their livings fawning over these creeps. Nancy O'Dell and Billy Bush are prime examples. They've kind of become celebs in ther own rights by licking the rims of the stars. Nonetheless O'Dell probably smells ok but I am not at all sure about Bush. He might reek like the TomKat's bed.

Brad is supposedly the hottest hunk on the planet. But it is a documented fact that smokes. That isn't very sexy. He smells like ass.

I've learned a new Spanish word in my quest to learn the primary language of my country solely by osmosis. It is separatos.

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If the grass grows beyond a certain height we must methodically mow it down. And edge. And weed. And seed. And feed. And trim, if we can figure out how to make the plastic string feed. When paint inevitably starts to peel we install vinyl siding. And so forth.

The same is true on a macro scale. Man despises anarchy just as nature deplores a vacuum. We install governments through various means ranging from the pure democracy that brought you Hamas in Palestine and the well-oiled machine that is the Iraqi government to brute force to the communism prevalent in China, Cuba (where the dear leader is clinging to life) and North Korea. Regardless of the system chosen, millions of people toil night and day to formulate "policy." In a democracy these are called lawmakers. These are the people who perpetuate such fallacies as the "War on Drugs."

Yes, I did mention North Korea if not its Dear Leader Mr. II. Is this guy a show or what? A wine-guzzling, meth-dealing, womanizing a-hole in lady's sunglasses, ill-fitting suits and elevator shoes who looks like he'd be more at home in a gay bar, presiding over a ridiculously goose-stepping million man military and a hapless populace where nobody works or eats because of his communist philosophy! Dear Leader indeed. These people are rooting around for grubs or roadkill while the soldiers and Mr. II and his servile whores feast upon filet mignon and lamb chops imported from his buds in China. Relief aid! When he finally made good on his threat to test an A-bomb it turned out to be a one-ton dud, essentially an M-80 in a mailbox in middle America. Take 10,000 of those and you would have a mini-Hiroshima. And for some reason the folks revere this joker and refrain from ripping his head off. Between cocktail parties, ineffectual UN types wring their hands over him and craft spineless "UN Resolutions" to no end. Take that, Mr II!

Go figure. Some contend N-Kos are brainwashed but I am not buying into that. The urge to eat overrides any political nonsense. What is up with that?

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But first I must confess to some personal bias stemming from some incidents in my own teen years. This was the 70s. All teens were sexually active starting at age 15-16. Most girls of that age were avidly doing it with guys 18-19 years old, as they had cars and jobs. Also, when I was 17 a girl moved in next door. She was from Alabama and boasted a 36C-24-36 figure at 5 foot 6. When we needed to buy liquor she was the go-to gal. No ID required. I endured much ribbing when it was revealed that she was, in fact... all of 12. But going on 13! Then there was Ms. George, my comely History teacher who'd plop her miniskirted ass on my desk and hold forth about the American Revolution or something. I'd be too dumbfounded to act upon her obvious flirtation.

So yes, I think sexual activity among teens is healthy and to be encouraged---so long as it isn't my kids. But the sticky wicket comes when adults decide to join in the ongoing teen sex orgy. Particularly middle-aged farts like Rep Mark "I Will Pop Your Zits" Foley. He admits having explicit chats with teenage boys online but denies actually acting upon his impulses. His longtime lover is a Palm Beach doctor, so perhaps he doesn't want to risk blowing (pardon the pun) his sugar daddy gig. But it strains belief to think that he has never partaken of a more-than-willing teen.

Though no one will admit it, Foley's real offense was being a gay with a propensity for younger partners. It's the fact that these were boys that has everyone's feathers ruffled. Had they been nubile gals he pursued it would've been a different story. Ms. George's history confirms this. One Congressman was nailed for nailing male pages and was ousted. Another was nailed for nailing female pages and won reelection.

But it really gets murky when a female adult does it with a randy teen dude. (For some reason one rarely hears about lesbian adults hitting on curious teen gals.) First of all there is the physiology of it. If the teen didn't want to have sex with her, he could not get it up. And it is hard to imagine a teenage boy who couldn't sport a woody for the likes of this. Look for Scarlett Johansen to play her in the movie version.

All I am saying is that we need to strip away the hypocricy and deal honestly with the issue of teen sexuality. Think first of your own teen years. When did you first have sex and with whom? How was it?

I can recall my stepdaughter having a sleepover when she was about 16 years old. I made a point of avoiding the basement for fear of what I might see parading around. Nonetheless she informed me of how painfully aware her friends were of me eyeing them. For all I knew, I hadn't even glanced at a one. The same unconscious thing occured walking into Costco with my wife the other day. She said, "She's young enough to be your daughter. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Ouch.

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1) I'm older and presumably more mature. Being close to death myself, making jokes about other people's death is not quite as much fun as it used to be. Actually, making fun of dead people stopped being so much fun after an entire Christian university turned on me after something I'd written about one of their dead classmates.

2) I have children, daughters even so pornography isn't quite so harmless anymore. Before having my own daughter I never really thought about how every woman in those filthy videos and pictures was someone's daughter, preferring to believe they just sprung up from sea foam like some kind of Greek goddess. But I was in the delivery room when my wife gave birth, and believe me that isn't how it happens. I'd just feel weird look at that stuff now, and also a lot harder to justify to the wife my vast collection of daddy-daughter porn now that we have kids of our own.

3) I actually have a job and other responsibilities. At my most active period on this site I was spending about 4 hours a day in Bad Samaritan related activities. It was certainly more fun researching (really, I researched things) and writing several posts a day that'd end up getting dozens of comments instead of sending out resumes and cover letters which would just end up in a shredder in some office I didn't even want to work at anyway.

4) I was just so completely wrong about Bush and Iraq that I'd just rather not discuss politics ever again. While I don't honestly believe that, it certainly feels that way sometimes. And the days where I'm secure in my political beliefs are even worse, because guys like the Iranian President scares the beans out of me. This dude honestly wants to be the guy who brings on the Armageddon, and there are millions of Muslims who are behind him, and millions more Evangelical Christians who wouldn't the end of the world so much either. Most days I'm ready for us to go back to sticking our heads in the sand (instead of our tanks?) and just ignoring the whole Middle East so that we can avoid anyone pushing one of the Big Red Buttons (and I'm not talking about Staples' "Easy Button" folks) for long enough to me enjoy at least a couple years of my retirement.

5) I'm happy. It's hard to want to take a shit on anyone else when you are happy just using the bathroom. And really, I need to feel like shitting on someone else to write some of the stuff I used to write. Things are going alright for me, so I don't feel the need to shit on anyone else to make myself feel better. The past couple years I've been so happy I'm completely satisfied using a toilet.

So, I guess if you really miss the old Bad Samaritan you should be pulling for a divorce, another big terrorist attack, the country to go into a recession, something bad to happen to one my kids, or that time starts moving backwards. It seems likely that one of those things might happen. Personally, I'm pulling for the last one.

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Due to soccer season my diet consists of Spicy V-8, wheat germ, Crispix cereal, salad, wine, codeine and Metamucil. As a result my chronic diarhea has turned to constipation. I sit on the toilet for days on end. It feels like I am birthing the huge-headed Mohammed Atta. There is so much grunting in my bathroom it sounds like a sex orgy at the Playboy Mansion. Yes, I have my own bathroom. We all do here. My wife's boasts the rarity of a window. Actually it has 2 windows overlooking my driveway.

I drove my new-to-me 2004 Kia into the driveway and parked it with the driver's window down. Later on I was dawdling in the front yard and felt that unmistakable urge in my gut. Time to go squeeze out another Atta over the weekend. I take note of the open window, darkening skies and rustling leaves. I don't want to let the Kia get flooded and grow all mildewy like my 97 Geo, which also sits in the driveway awaiting my son's eventual passing of his driver's test. I don't want old women dispensing advise to me that always seems to involve club soda, vinegar or diluted bleach. I am not into Helpful Hints from Heloise. But like the juror in that commercial, I gotta go RIGHT NOW.

I get the bright idea to use my wife's sacrosanct bathroom so I could watch over the car and make a mad dash to close the window if need be. I am sitting there for 15 minutes and I just sawed off a 1/2-Atta. The other half is stuck like Winnie the Pooh. Not to mix metaphors, but it's a sensation not unlike being ass-augered by Ron Jeremy. Down comes a torrent of rain akin to a tsunami. A tidal wave threatens to float the tiny Geo away. I must save the Kia!

So I quickly push out the second 1/2-Atta and peer at my wife's toilet paper dispenser. Dammit to hell, it is just the roll with one tiny woman-sized scrap clinging to it. This won't suffice. So I do that butt cheek-squeezing, pants around the ankles waddle one does under these unfortunate circumstances. Out to the driveway I go. It is a pretty long one but in the lingering drizzle it seems longer that the Great China Wall. By the time I reach my destination and realize I don't have my keys I am in utter despair. I wave to my neighbor.

By the time I waddled back the rain had ceased entirely. I started to roll the window up with me bare, bloody, shit-covered ass in a squishy puddle on the seat. Then I think of the time I left all the windows up and doors open on the Geo for days. That strategy had worked better than all the bleach and vinegar and club soda and carpet freshener solutions ever had. So I rolled it back down along with all the others. Air that sucker out bigtime.

It's just like that old adage about locking the barn doors after the whores have bolted. It might actually be a good idea, depending on whether all the whores have bolted or not.

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