Vicious weasels.

At his first inauguration, Bill Clinton said his cabinet was going to reflect America. And it does, with one exception--they all have jobs. Yeah, yeah, I know, his Administration has created ten million jobs. And in order to raise a family, you better have five of them. It's no secret that America's industrial job base is disappearing faster than free beer at a fret party. Sure, the American Dream is still alive, just not for Americans. So you'd think the last thing this country's work force needs right now is for the government to offer cash incentives to companies to relocate in the Caribbean and Central America. But that's what's happening, and guess what, they're using our taxes to do it. That's right, we're paying them to export our jobs, which is like hens giving foxes research grants for midnight raid studies.

* In Madison, Wisconsin, Bob Dole called Bill Clinton's bridge to the twenty-first century `toll bridge.' Of course, if Ross Perot had proposed it, he could have called it a 'boll bridge.'

We former Wisconsinites tend to be pretty proud of our state. Yeah, for each of the last eight years, the Dairy State has been awarded the dubious honor of being voted "most obese state in the Union" by some busybody government study group. Beer is one of the four major food groups. Twenty-four hours in a day, twenty-four beers in a case. Coincidence? I think not.

The Badger State is a great place to grow up and an even better place to leave after you've grown up. Most of us traitorous transplants rekindle fond memories every time we see our native sod on the TV. Except for the cheeseheads. You've seen them. At every sporting event. Men, always men. Sobriety-impaired men, with bare chests and large bellies, wearing bright yellow triangular slabs of Styrofoam perched on their heads. It's more embarrassing than your mother driving you to the prom. And the cameras love them. You could have 400 Nobel Prize winners in a room with one drunk wearing a cheesehead, and guess who makes the wire-service photo? I beg of you, ignore the cheeseheads. Let's raise the bar and demand more of our intoxicated dairyland exhibitionists. Entire wheels of real cheese. Or cows. Now that's worth an isolated camera shot.

* "Just Don't Do It," Dole's new anti-drug slogan, has a real nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Imagine how thrilled the Nike people are. It had to have been just one of a large group of potential candidates, and if that's the winner, ooh, I'd hate to see the losers. So, just in case the unthinkable happens and a lawyer gets involved, I thought I'd help out with a group of the next best things:

NOT EVEN CLOSE TO THE REAL THING. GETTING DEAD IS JOB ONE. It'S NOT YOUR FATHER'S SHOT AND A BEER. WHERE YOUR BRAINPAN MEETS THE ROAD. WE LOVE TO FRY AND IT SHOWS. IF YOU DON'T LOOK GOOD, TOUGH. WHEN YOU ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY HAVE

TO BE SICK OVERNIGHT. WE DIE HARDER. IT'S THE NEW DEGENERATION.

* In Columbia, South Carolina, the University of South Carolina Gamecocks are holding their annual `Cockiest.' Probably a lot different event than it would be in San Francisco.

The bipartisan Commission on Presidential Debates told Ross Perot that he should take a flying leap off a short plank into a deep ravine of vicious weasels, and the billionaire is squeaking and hollering and stamping his little feet. Co-chair Paul Kirk said, "Participation is not extended to candidates because they might prove interesting or entertaining." Ouch! Why didn't they just say, "Sorry, no clowns. Get yourself a fright wig and a funny nose, Tiny."

Old Ross, whenever he gets upset, his ears get all red and stand out, so right now he looks like a crimson Volkswagen with the front doors open. I don't see what his problem is. He's the guy who refused to debate Dick Lamm for the Reform Party nomination, and now he's crying foul? The commission did say it would reopen the question of Perot's participation "if circumstances change at any time after the first debate." Which can be translated to mean, "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha."

* San Francisco, California, is enjoying the best weather of the year, and don't tell the tourists.

I'm a San Francisco Forty-Niner fan with a heavy residue of Green Bay Packer backer clinging to the auricles of my gridiron heart. Last year when the two faced each other in the playoffs, I was more confused than a tiny truffle pig wandering around Paul Prudhomme's intestines. Ended up rooting for whoever had the ball. "Throw it, Steve. All right, an interception. Wait, he fumbled. Niners recover, yes!" This is not bandwagon jumping. I suffered through a 2-and-14 season with the Niners, and ever since the Green and Gold won Super Bowls One and Two, way before they were Roman numeraled, I have heard the hollow echo of "the Pack is back."

But always, always, I have hated the Dallas Cowboys more than nylon stockings detest glass-top coffee tables with unbeveled corners. They're arrogant, greedy, and everyone in the world hopes they fall on their smug faces into a reeking heap of steaming cow feces. Truly, they are America's team.

But when they started the season this year with one win and three losses, it was sad. True fans need a bad guy. Imagine Damn Yankees without the Bronx Bombers. Hopefully with Michael Irvin back from his five-game suspension for possession of cocaine and consorting with prostitutes, we'll have something worth rooting against again. It's only fun to crush them when they're good.