Incarnations of Al Gore.

Al "Quit Calling Me Scarecrow" Gore is switching gears again.

He fired, I'm sorry, I mean, reluctantly accepted the health-related resignation of his campaign manager, Tony Coelho. Then he replaced Coelho with the presiding Secretary of Commerce, Bill Daley, brother of the current mayor of Chicago and son of the late Richard Boss Daley. The man who did for mayors what ketchup did for cocktail sauce.

This could be just what the doctor ordered, though Robo-Veep's campaign keeps spinning and twisting and twirling in ever-widening circles, as he tries pleasing each and every person he comes in contact with. Kind of like Clinton without the charm, which is like calling the Mojave a beach without the ocean.

But you got to love Al Gore. You got to. Or he'll be really really really sad. And then he might just do something drastic like change his clothes again.

I, for one, am not looking forward to the Shorts, Tank Top, and Flip-flops Al Gore. The Tight Polo Shirt Al Gore was frightening enough to star in a Wes Craven horror series. Some possible future Al Gore incarnations:

* Roots Al Gore: Mr. Tennessee. Overalls, work shirt, and bandanna. Barefoot, he carries a broken mouth harp in back pocket.

* Dot-com Al Gore: Black Metallica T-shirt, ripped jeans, Doc Martens. Three piercings, two visible.

* Brave New Al Gore: Silver unisex jumpsuit and beret. Wraparound shades. Tipper in spandex.

* Hip-Hop Al Gore: Baggies, one leg rolled up. Knit Cypress Hill hat worn low. Oakland Raiders jersey with tiny holes in front.

* Ikea Al Gore: Crisp chinos, polo shirt, and mustache. Nicely trimmed. He's already got it in the closet.

* Ralph Nader Al Gore: Think Colombo. Rumpled $200 suit. Raincoat: even wrinkles have wrinkles. One tie, dirtier than Tonya Harding's living room rug.

* Eau Claire, Wisconsin, which they say is French for "clear water." But yesterday a local confided that the true definition is French for "convenience store." I tend to believe him.

This can't be good. The top three finishers in the seventy-third Scripps-Howard National Spelling Bee were all home-schooled. Which means they do not go to public school, nor do they go to private school, but rather to the privatest of all schools, the one that comes with no seat in the back of the room next to the terrarium to crouch down in. You know, the one where the teacher also happens to clean the poop swipes out of your undies. The kind of school where you can never finesse whether or not you had a homework assignment. Finally proving to America how efficient a one-to-one teacher-to-pupil ratio really is.

* Atlanta, Georgia, where locals love to tell out-of-towners to meet them at the corner of Peachtree and Peachtree. Sixteen different intersections qualify.

In an attempt to narrow his search for a running mate, George W. Bush is sending out background questionnaires to prospects. Due to my string of incredibly well-placed inside sources, I am now able to leak portions of that questionnaire directly to you, with no hidden obligation on your part.

1. The most important quality I would bring to a national ticket is:

A. A fierce dedication to uphold the Constitution of the United States.

B. The electoral vote guarantee of an important swing state.

C. Respect and dignity.

D. Money. Lots and lots and lots of money.

2. The investment of portions of Social Security in the stock market is:

A. A good idea.

B. A great idea.

C. A great idea the public will come to trust after I've talked to them about it.

D. The worst idea since oyster-flavored Popsicles.

3. Please spell potato. Singular and plural.

4. True or false: Hunting is better than golfing.

5. Did you ever know, or work with, or have as a good friend, Jack Kennedy?

6. Jeb Bush's children are:

A. Black.

B. Red.

C. Brown.

D. Short.

7. As an impressionable youth, I experimented with:

A. Pot.

B. Coke.

C. Acid.

D. Campaign Finance Reform.

Will Durst doubts anybody interesting could pass the Bush test.