The mo better man.

In the fight for the ultimate politically correct villains, extraterrestrials are getting the short end of the Hollywood stick this year. Why? Simply because there's no Alien Anti-Defamation League to vindicate their rights. It is totally not fair. So, in their defense, I accuse the makers of Independence Day of wanton stereo-typing, rampant prejudice, and extra-terrestrial bashing, and hereby issue the Alien Anti-Defamation League's demands:

Our first demand is for a more sophisticated interplanetary visitor wardrobe, something from one of the hot new design houses. More DKNY, and Missoni. Less Kevlar and copper pipes.

Demand number two: Stop with the E.T. jokes already. No self-respecting alien wants to be compared to that bigheaded, Reese's Pieces-eating, potbellied, bicycle-basket-riding, red-fingered twerp. "Phone home," my ass.

Demand number three is filmmakers start focusing on inter-alien relationships. Aliens are people, too, you know.

Demand number four: Nobody can show aliens having blue Jello blood or saliva made out of acid or earwax that takes the rust off of bumpers or any of that weird stuff. Cool the icky factor. Lip gloss would be nice.

* Los Angeles, California, where they regularly sell maps to the stars' homes. It is also common practice to rent your integrity to the highest bidder.

To say that Bob Dole has had problems articulating his vision is like intimating that the Antarctica tourist board has been slack in its attempt to attract surfing conventions. The man can't even convince himself. So far his best stab at it has been, "Bob Dole envisions an America that is different. . .maybe." Bob Dole is totally opposed to our quality of life becoming worse. A vote for Bob Dole is a vote in favor of our country becoming better, somehow. His actual new campaign slogan is "Bob Dole: a better man for a better America." Just call him the Mo Better Man. Better try to get more specific there, dude. The man is obviously in the midst of an identity crisis.

Dole found a way to make smoking hazardous to the Republican Party when he said he didn't know if cigarettes are addictive, which at this late date is similar to NASA throwing in its lot with the Flat Earthers. Apparently Bob missed the Surgeon General's warning that cautions: "Close proximity to the money associated with this product may cause you to lose perspective and shove your feet into your mouth so far your intestines could become pierced by uncut toenails." Seeking an anal escape hatch for this misplaced foot, the Senator continued: "We know tobacco is not good for kids, but a lot of things aren't good. Some would say milk's not good." Yes, Bob, but some would also say that very few women nurse their children through naturally implanted smoke nozzles. The tobacco industry plans on fighting government regulation with a consumer protest movement. The march on Washington flopped. After a block, everybody was out of breath.

* San Francisco, California, where going into the All Star break, our local boys of summer, the Giants, had lost fifteen of their seventeen games. Only a couple more losses before these guys are called the Doles.

This is hard to believe, but apparently Bill Clinton thinks just because the government kicked off its modern meat-inspection system a century ago, suddenly now it is in desperate need of an immediate overhaul. He's a radical hippie reformer bent on changing things, is what he is. Proposing to replace the perfectly good "sniff and poke" method now in place with some so-called "scientific testing," totally ignoring the ninety-year record of semi-success the current system has compiled, is dangerously disruptive, not to mention smacking of pandering to the rich and powerful consumer lobby. Detecting contaminated meat by giving it a quick smell as it whips by on a conveyor belt at what meat-packing companies consider a reasonable speed, like Mach 6, sounds like a topnotch method to me. Cheap, too. Besides, can you think of a more effective way to get people to eat healthier than by throwing a wild card like a stack of E. coli burgers into the fast-food mix once in a while?

* Reno, Nevada, where new casinos are springing up like mushroom spores on cow chips after a spring rain.

I had this love/hate relationship with the Olympics. I loved watching them because of what the intensity did to the athletes. These people were more pumped up than H. Ross Perot in a room full of yes men. They stared like they were trying to set fire to the finish line.

I hated watching the games because the guys who run the Olympics Committee are such spineless slop hogs. Suing the Gay Olympics because they were afraid of losing their copyright is such B.S. it makes me want to take those five rings and wrap them around the neck of Juan Antonio Samaranch himself. But what could have compared to the Dream Team thrillers squeaking past such formidable foes as Angola with the celebrated Erlander Coimber?

* Reno, Nevada. Nuff said.

OK, so a great number of us normal folk were screwed to the screen watching large men with muscles in places we don't even have places and miniature, elastic-boned aerodynamic women compete in the Olympics. Most of us could imagine ourselves contesting with the same grace, speed, and elan as a three-legged armadillo wind surfing. Sometimes you see a sport like baseball or basketball without the help of Industrial Light & Magic. I'd need a blue screen and animated assistance just to run 100 meters. But we do stuff I'm not sure athletes even understand. People who work for a living have mastered events that so far have not received medal status. So I've come up with the Blue-Collar Decathlon, games in which we all contend.

1. Pouring a Cup of Coffee While It's Still Brewing Freestyle.

2. Three-Bus Crosstown Transfer Dash.

3. Family of Five Theme Park Weekend for Under $200 Scramble.

4. Forty-Five-Second Breakfast Sprint.

5. Day Before Payday Grocery Run.

6. Three-Job Individual Medley.

7. Broken Basement Bulb Midnight Obstacle Crawl.

8. Tax Day Crunch.

9. Biting Your Tongue in Front of Your Boss Marathon.

10. Retrieving a Corn Cob Holder From the Garbage Disposal Clean and Jerk.