Crazy Ivan's atomic closeout.

Of course rightwing talk-show hosts aren't responsible for the hatefilled rightwing militia groups burgeoning in this country. It's those damn feminazis who are to blame. Sure, think about it, if it weren't for their outrageous socialistic demands for so-called equal rights, our patriotic paramilitary groups could concentrate on targeting the real number-one threat to democracy as we know it: fluoride.

Our loyal talk-show hosts are focusing national dissatisfaction on the true betrayers of the American Way: those who would provide the opportunity to succeed to everybody, even obviously unworthy infidels who worship weird pagan gods. Heroes like Rush and G. Gordon and Mark from Michigan should be given the Medal of Freedom, not subject to attacks from fellow travelers like those Pinko Clintons. But until our priorities are transferred from our supposedly elected "leaders" to our brave A.M. Freedom Fighters, this country is doomed to wallow in swamps of pseudo justice.

I can't believe the militias are afraid the U.N. is going to invade America. Hell, the U.N. couldn't organize a bridal shower.

* San Francisco, California, where Pete Wilson is running for President, so he can do for the country what he's done for the state: drive us into an economic hole, making us less attractive as an immigration destination, thereby raising the quality of life for those of us still stuck here.

They caught another nut case trying to pierce White House security. Fortunately, they were able to detain Jesse Helms at the West Gate. Just kidding. Talking about an entirely different flippo unit altogether. Some guy jumped the south fence and ran screaming towards the First Residence. It's getting so bad, the homeless in Lafayette Park are complaining the White House is starting to bring down neighborhood property values. Clinton has been shot at more often than a Bosnian Mosque. His staff might want to consider changing the official colors of his reelection campaign from red, white, and blue to camouflage green. Finally, they closed off Pennsylvania Avenue to vehicular traffic. It's a sad reflection on our society that we have to put a Club[TM] on the front gate of the President's home.

I don't know why they're shooting at Clinton; they're never going to hit him. He never assumes a single position long enough to get a bead on him.

* San Francisco, where the mayor's Matrix program calls for panhandlers to be fined for aggressive begging, which simply proves that in politics logic is as necessary as a prehensile tail.

Our boy Bin went to Moscow for the fiftieth anniversary of the end of World War II. Well, he had to go somewhere. He couldn't really hang with his war buddies, now could he? The best we can say is, he didn't start World War Ill while he was there. The celebrations were supposed to be scattered an over Eastern Europe, but unfortunately there were just too many wars going on. I guess it's hard to get all weepy nostalgic when you can't tell the fireworks from the mortar rounds.

"Ooh ... aaah ... is that blood?"

Things aren't all that great in Russia, either. Because of Chechnya, Yeltsin is about as beloved as acid rain at a Smurf picnic. Clinton figured he could pry some concessions out of the Russian leader, but that proved harder than crowbarring Boris's bottle of vodka away from him on stage at a Red Army karaoke bar. Fifty years. Wow. You know, that's the whole problem with our generation. Unless we get cracking and start some massive worldwide struggle against the forces of evil, we're going to be stuck without any anniversaries to celebrate in the future. We're just lazy, I guess. Of course, if we just hang out long enough, I'm sure something will pop up. Isn't that right, candidate Dole?

* St. Paul, Minnesota, one of the Twin Cities. The Evil Twin that the Minnesota family keeps naked, chained to the wall in the attic. Shhh, we're not supposed to talk about it in polite company.

So, while Clinton was in Moscow chowing down on crow piroshkies, and cruising the chorus of the Kirov, the Russkies were making plans to sell their nuclear technology to Iran. Why not sell them oil rights to Chechnya while you're at it? Aren't these the same exact guys who gave the world that nightlight with a half life called Chernobyl? Who in his right mind would buy nuclear plans from Crazy Ivan's Atomic Closeout? "All Isotopes Must Go!" I mean yeah, sure, it's wonderful that these fledgling capitalists are finally getting a handle on this free-enterprise thing, but a discount-plutonium stand? I'd think twice about high-tech acquisitions from any country that hasn't quite mastered the subtle intricacies of the steam-powered toaster. But that's just me. * Las Vegas, Nevada, where all the deadheads are in town. it's easy to spot them in the casinos - they're the ones who aren't betting but still intently watching the roulette wheel go round and round and round.

So now the freakin' deal is, Kato Kaelin is a stand-up comic. Warning: This is Not a Joke. He's opening for Louis Anderson at Bally's in Las Vegas. I'll tell you what pisses me off about this. The lack of respect they have for real stand-up comics who have devoted their lives to their craft. Not just me. Nooooo. That's a whole different ball of wax. You don't have the time to hear my rant on how the bizness only wants watered-down sweater-comic pretty-boy hack thieves who are using stand-up as a greased chute to a gig as the wacky neighbor next door on "Who's the Dufus," New on Fox! Do not endorse this pseudo-celebrity carpetbagging. Rather, encourage Mattel to create a Kato Kaelin doll: "Incredibly lifelike. It doesn't do anything. It's Malibu Barbie's Dreamhouseguest."

* Las Vegas, where the high-rollers are pissed off about the invasion of the deadheads. That's right, the rich freaks are miffed at sharing their territory with the poor freaks.

They're selling the Richard Nixon stamp - the first official release by the Post Office that has people spitting on the wrong side. I saw the Richard Nixon funeral last year, and with all those glorious eulogies, to be honest I was afraid they buried the wrong guy, cuz the guy they put in the ground was a fuckin' saint. I don't think he's really dead. He's coming back. You know he is. He's at some Swiss spa getting Keith Richards's blood. Nixon's going to get Pat Buchanan to stump the entire state of New Hampshire kissing his naked, puckered butt, muttering, "I am the crook. I am the crook." Nixon in '96.