Because the House Committee on Government Reform has the power to subpoena witnesses but not the power to enforce laws, dragging in a roster of bulked-up baseball players amounts to little more than a PR stunt. Chairman Tom Davis clambered up on his soapbox and declared that performance-enhancing drugs have become a “public-health crisis,” with “over half a million youth… using steroids.” Davis revealed, “We have the parents of kids who have used steroids and committed suicide.” “These major-leaguers are their idols,” he continued, but they “are not above the law.” Davis’ prosecutorial impotence, however, left him unable to coerce any admissions of wrongdoing. Mark McGwire stared vacantly at his accusers and remained mute on the question of usage. One Congressman complained that the spotlight would quickly fade without a big-name confession. “Shit,” he griped, “we might as well be talkin’ to Terry Shiavo.”

The Shiavo comment was repeated so often throughout the Capitol that Senate Republicans latched onto the idea of reinserting Terry’s feeding tube by calling her to testify. Confident her lack of baseball acumen would remain forever shrouded, Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist crowed: “criminal law protects witnesses… from anyone who may obstruct or impede a witness’ attendance or testimony.” Realizing that constantly emptying Terry’s drool bucket on national television would only reinforce Michael Shiavo’s assertion of irreversible brain damage, the GOP abruptly abandoned the ruse in favor of bastardizing our federal courts.

For the most part, the steroid hearings were drab and tedious, incessantly weighed down by the arcane verbiage of collective bargaining agreements and biochemical assays. Not to mention the usual political blather. As it turned out, the only real fireworks came from the Oriole’s first baseman Rafael Palmeiro, who is best known for his Viagra commercials. “Good morning, Mr. Chairman and Members of the Committee. My name is Rafael Palmeiro and I am a professional baseball player. I’ll be brief in my remarks today. Let me start by telling you this: I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky. I never told anyone to lie, not a single time. The reference to me in Mr. Canseco’s book is absolutely false.”

Pat O’Brien, former sportscaster and current host of “The Insider”, missed the D.C. proceedings because of a different kind of substance abuse, namely “a problem with alcohol” (C6H4O6). Apparently, the problem involved six-packs of lascivious voicemails: “I am so fucking into you, but Betsy’s so jealous…I want to [bleep] your [bleep] and get crazy.” Worse yet, Mrs. O’Brien is named Linda, not Betsy. There’s still more trouble in the form of a graphic photograph of Pat pleasuring himself. Though the rehab bound O’Brien maintains, “I don’t know why I’m like this,” it seems evident that he has gone Bill O’Reilly in an attempt to resurrect his moribund career.

Weekend anchor Julie Banderas has borrowed both from the O’Reilly and Geraldo Rivera playbook in an attempt to claw her way to the top. Looking for an edge of ethnicity, Banderas changed her name from Julie Bidwell just like the artist formerly known as Jerry Rivers. After posing for pictures depicting simulated sex with a married coworker in a news van, she was canned by affiliate WNYW-TV. The Daily News boastfully reported, “There’s one of Banderas (beer in one hand, cigarette in the other) straddling a man in the front seat, their crotches pressed together and her ankles wrapped around his head…” For Banderas, at least, the strategy paid off – she recently signed on as a network reporter with the Fox News Channel.

The Fed’s multiple attempts to reign in the housing bubble have proved nothing but feckless. Seven rate hikes in and mortgage rates have barely budged. But before you pronounce the death of American manufacturing and surrender to the onslaught of outsourcing, consider that General Motors succeeded where the government failed. GM’s muscle was fueled not by ingenuity or hard work, but rather by a nifty combination of its own incompetence and record ($56/bbl) oil prices. When the automaker projected a loss for next quarter, long-term yields jumped 15 basis points and, more importantly, credit spreads began, after a Rip-Van-Winkle-dormancy, to widen. GM’s paper, in particular, was brutally savaged and will likely get downgraded to junk status. Summer may prove the critical season; Imagine gas fetching $3/gal and millions of homeowners suffocated by their adjustable mortgages. Banks could repossess entire neighborhoods. Perhaps the only way Detroit can keep afloat is if we all start living in our cars.

In their pivotal presidential debate, Ronald Reagan scolded a gloomy Jimmy Carter with the famous barb, “There you go again.” A phrase that resonates each time I see George Bush reach into his handy barrel of terror alerts. Either Osama Bin Laden is inexplicably enlivened by low poll figures or Karl Rove is determined to scare the pants off us every time there’s trouble on Pennsylvania Avenue. Throughout the first administration Cheney and Ridge were dispatched like knickered schoolboys to knell the tocsin under the White House portico, as when W. tried to block formation of the 9/11 Commission, or when his ties to Enron came to light. One simply couldn’t escape the plangent toll when Powell petitioned the U.N. or when the reports of Halliburton fraud and Abu Ghraib abuse began to fulminate.

This week the administration is hyping Bin Laden’s relationship with Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and the duo’s supposed plans to strike at the Homeland. Maj. Gen. Eric Olson, however, is skeptical of Washington’s dread, and sees “no evidence that they’re trying to acquire a terrorist weapon,” adding that military pressure is making it “very difficult for them to operate.” The real threat, therefore, is to the President’s assault on Social Security. Only one-third of voters are in favor of privatized accounts, and support is quickly fizzling out among conservative lawmakers. Former party hack Eddie Mahe notes, “This does not have strong unanimity among Republicans in Congress or the rank and file.” Meanwhile, the notion of solvency is brusquely taking center stage. Sen. Rick Santorum (R-PA), fresh off his role as a stunt double in The Passion of the Christ, has sanctified payroll tax hikes, while Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-SC) wants to double the salary cap.

An equally famous (and effective) Reaganism asked, “Where’s the beef?” Apparently, it’s down on the farm in Greenwood, Wisconsin. Harold G. Hart, 63, made more than 50 barnyard visits whereby he roped and raped (presumably female) members of the local herd. According to the heifers’ attorney, the sex was far from consensual and farther still from gratifying. PETA is pressuring the Clark County District Attorney to press charges and to issue a bovine restraining order precluding contact with animals for at least five years. After watching Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie manually relieve impacted cows, one wonders why the animal-rights folks are all in a dither. I mean we do, in the regular course of events, grind up and eat the damn things. As for Hart, he did issue a statement swearing he never slaked his perversion while in the throes of a committed relationship with his wife or girlfriend. Memo to the gals: TAKE SYPHILLIS TEST.

While Harold G. was inclined to value his rump roast by the hour rather than the pound, the rest of us remained constrained as much by our pocketbooks as by our inhibitions. In other words, when does meat become prohibitively expensive? In Japan, Kobe beef fetches $300/lb. while the record price commanded by a tuna (tallied where else but Tokyo’s Tsukiji Central Fish Market) stands at $173,600. But pound for pound, neither of these delicacies can hang with Harry Stonecipher’s old-fashioned sausage. One lousy link cost Stoney his $1.5 million paycheck after being caught in flagrante with a fellow Boeing employee. Ironically, Stonecipher was brought out of retirement to repair the company after a devastating series of ethical scandals. Boeing lost several colossal contracts and was banned by the Pentagon after revelations of corporate espionage against rivals Raytheon (missile defense) and Lockheed (rockets). The aircraft manufacturer cum defense contractor was also docked for bribing an Air Force procurement officer with a lucrative job offer.

Truth be told, the Boeing CEO wasn’t exclusively porking company V.P. Debra Peabody – he also found time in his demanding schedule to screw himself. Implementing a stringent code of conduct (signed by all 160,000 employees) he induced a whistleblower to forward graphic emails to chairman Lewis Platt. As for financial wreckage, Stonecipher has also fumbled away a handsome shoe deal with Nike, and a cushy directorship at truck maker Paccar, Inc. But the biggest toll, without question, will be excised by the soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Stonecipher, who swiftly filed for divorce. Filing with the Cook County Circuit Court, Joan Stonecipher requested that this man of “substantial income and wealth” bend over in the middle of West Randolph Street, and afford her just enough reach to extract what would constitute, by her calculus, “a fair and reasonable sum.” Can you say: “Moo”?

Sensing opportunity, Michael Jackson wore pajamas to court the day a teenage boy was scheduled to testify. The pubescent witness recalled that Jackson “had his left hand in my brother’s underwears,” and that on another occasion the pop star approached them while completely nude and in a state of full tumescence. The youngsters, demonstratively horrified at the sight of “Little Tito,” were less than reassured when Jackson sat down on their bed and told them it was “natural.” Taking Michael at his word, one can only conclude that the plastic surgeons are still busy with his face.

While the American press has conspired to not divulge the names of the alleged victim and his brother, the two have already appeared in an ABC documentary on MJ and his Santa Barbara vivarium. In fact, their monikers are splashed all across the British tabloids. Let’s be honest, kids even younger that the ones processed at Neverland can get the scoop off the Internet faster than you can say Pete Townshend. So don’t paint me as some kind of KY-wielding Bob Novak when I tell you their names are… “Blow-Hole” and “DooDoo Face.”

Not to be confused with the similarly labeled DooDoo Head who lives in the White House. Unfortunately, it’s taken ‘till now for the denizens of red states to figure out that voting for the gays-guns-God candidate meant the end of farm subsidies and social security. And the dismantling of veterans’ benefits and bankruptcy protection for families stricken with catastrophic medical bills and… well… you get the picture. There are, for the nonce, a lot of fat, pasty, erstwhile unaware Midwesterners lining up for slaughter. Yet some of them are actually beginning to bleat out a protest or two. But do they, after anointing this venal bumbler, possess the moral authority to complain? I think not. As they say in all those prison-flick rape scenes: “Shut up and take it like a man.”

So what is the administration doing with their unfettered power? For starters, they shot Italian journalist Guiliana Sgrena on her way to the Baghdad airport after a month in captivity. Upon learning that an Italian Secret Service agent died in the attack, the President issued a formal apology and tried to pawn off the blunder as an isolated incident. Which is quite brazen because on the same day, U.S. forces “mistakenly” killed Bulgarian Jr. Sgt. Gurdi Gurdev. Needless to say, Rome isn’t buying what Washington is shoveling. Sgrena’s partner, Pierre Scolari, suspects treachery: “I hope the Italian government does something because either this was an ambush, as I think, or we are dealing with imbeciles or terrorized kids who will shoot at anything.” Or both. Because how else can you explain a roster of friendly fire episodes as lengthy as it is notable. We have, to date, blown up one British tank, shot down two coalition aircraft, murdered a bevy of international cameramen and correspondents, taken out Arizona Cardinal defensive back Pat Tillman, and innumerable Iraqi civilians. All in the name of finding those pesky Weapons of Mass Destruction. Check that. All in the name of establishing justice and democracy in the mid-East.

Which our opponents (insurgents, Syrians, etc.) are determined to suppress. 136 Iraqi Army recruits were killed during a large-scale suicide attack, while two other bombs claimed another 13 soldiers. Since the election, dozens of police officers and trainees have been executed in an effort to thwart the rule of law. The evildoers also found time to gun down Judge Barwize Mohammed, who sat on the tribunal slated to try Saddam Hussein. Clearly, nothing we are doing in Iraq is having the intended effect. We are, at the moment, running neck and neck with Al Qaeda for designation as our own worst enemy. The American reaction to this phenomenon is stark, if unsettling. No, there aren’t any riots at Kent State or Berkeley. But there is, in contrast to deploying an American-style criminal justice system in Baghdad, a concerted effort to establish the Iraqi exemplar here at home.

Federal Judge Joan Lefkow was targeted by not one, but two disgruntled courtroom participants. White supremacist Matt Hale, already behind bars for soliciting a hit man to ice her honor, was at first suspected in the fatal shooting of Lefkow’s husband and mother. The real killer turned out to be a loner whose malpractice suit was tossed out “for failure to state a claim upon which relief may be granted.” I guess the plaintiff saw things differently and lay in wait for the judge, but assassinated her relatives instead. To be fair, Bart Ross did kill himself yesterday, but not before sending WMAQ-TV the following missive: “Judge Lefkow was No. 1 to kill because she finished me off and deprived me to live my life through outrageous abuse of judicial power.”

In Atlanta, defendant Brian Nichols simply couldn’t wait for a verdict to be rendered, so he stole a deputy’s handgun and slew Superior Court Judge Rowland Barnes along with two others. Nichols was facing charges of rape, sodomy, burglary and false imprisonment, and had been caught earlier smuggling metal shanks into court. Both cases engendered an outcry for tighter security. Fellow Judge Craig Schwall decried, “This is a profound shock. It’s so unthinkable; it’s like a 9/11 at the courthouse.” Damn fuckin’ straight.

Freshly ensconced Attorney General Alberto Gonzles was quick to outline his priorities when he publicly declared: “Obscene materials are not protected by the First Amendment, and I am committed to prosecuting these crimes aggressively.” His speech was regrettably murky on the idea of filing charges against Abu Ghraib detainees who screamed “Mother Fucker” during scrotal electrification. But there’s no need to fret, as myriad opportunities to decimate the Bill of Rights still abound. Take for example the highly offensive language emanating from our institutions of higher learning.

Harvard President Lawrence Summers posited that women are too stupid to teach chemistry while University of Colorado professor Ward Churchill said the New York bond traders killed on September 11 got what they deserved. While these statements seem at first to carry equal affront, they are engendering polar responses. Churchill is being widely defended under the aegis of academic free speech while Summers faces a vote of no-confidence. But why? In the prevailing PC universe, argue some journalists, maligning women is tantamount to professional suicide, while Wall Street’s greed-merchants rank somewhere between kidnappers and rigid sigmoidoscopists. Others believe the conservative Summers was anyways unwelcome on campus. Harvard professor Ruth Wisse describes the (predominantly) far-left faculty: “These are people frustrated that they can’t unseat President Bush, and [Summers] is the closest thing that they can depose. Since he appears to be somewhat to the right of them, he will suffice as a surrogate.”

Or perhaps it’s simply a matter of locale. Folks seem to get away with all manner of malfeasance in Colorado. Just ask Kobe Bryant or the Ramseys. And over at CU, laxity has been elevated to a graduate program. Football coach Gary Barnett has been reinstated despite presiding over a program replete with sexual misconduct and financial impropriety. Six women, including a student trainer and place-kicker Katie Hnida, claimed to have been raped by players or recruits. Upon hearing Hnida’s allegation, Barnet dismissed her as an “awful” player who “couldn’t kick the ball through the uprights.” Another victim barely remembers the two football players who sodomized her because she “may have been drugged.” As for consensual intercourse, the program spent $2,000 on prostitutes during one particularly competitive recruiting season. And recently leaked grand jury testimony reveals thousands of dollars in slush funds paying for, among other things, an official’s car registration. While Pete Coors may not be a senator, he can rape with impunity. So he’s got that going for him.

Which is more than can be said of NHL commissioner Gary Bettman. Mr. B formally scrapped the hockey season after talks broke off (again) with the players’ union. The commish dejectedly told reporters, “This is a sad, regrettable day that all of us wish could have been avoided.” Not that anyone was really surprised – nearly half the league was already collecting paychecks in Europe. But with the draft looming, both sides continue working towards an agreement. The prospect of another lost season, nonetheless, remains a distinct possibility. Wayne Gretzky, now a managing partner with the Phoenix franchise, told ESPN, “Ultimately, these players want to play. I just can’t imagine these players not playing in the National Hockey League for two years. To me, I hope that doesn’t happen because I don’t know how we would recover.”

The dagger appears to be the issue of a salary cap, which the union thinks is simply a ruse to expand profits. Legendary player and new owner Mario Lemieux however sees the financial necessity: “A few years ago, I thought the owners were making a lot of money and were hiding some under the table, but then I got on this side and saw the losses this league was accumulating.” The bottom line is that hockey fans are now relegated to the college game… basketball, that is. Temple coach Mario Lemieux was suspended after inserting a “goon” into the Saint Joseph’s game in order to “send a message” regarding rough play. The large but rather untalented Nemiah Ingram fouled out in four short minutes but not before breaking the arm of an opposing player. Now what could be better than that?

The Supreme Court has agreed to take on the nation’s only assisted suicide law and not a moment too soon for thirty-seven-year-old Stephen Dale Barbee. Barbee’s pregnant girlfriend was critically despondent and ready to give up on life after a career wasted in a Fort Worth bagel shop. So he consented to hold a pillow over her face. Legally speaking, there’s no doubt that trying to scratch out a living in a Texas deli qualifies as a terminal illness. Moreover, the notion that Lisa Underwood might have had better luck selling horse trailers in Manhattan, or dating Robert Blake, is moot now that she has beaten Terry Schiavo to the other side.

As for Barbee, he can only sit by until the high court decides whether former Attorney General John Ashcroft’s plan to prosecute doctors who prescribe lethal medications is supported by federal drug-control laws. If the Justices concur with the 9th Circuit that “the attorney general’s unilateral attempt to regulate general medical practices historically entrusted to state lawmakers interferes with the democratic debate about physician-assisted suicide and far exceeds the scope of his authority,” then Barbee’s actions will be construed to be less pernicious than palliative.

Hunter S. Thompson’s last undertaking, on the other hand, is much less susceptible to the whims of interpretation. No doubt his death came not on “little cat feet” but rather on bolts of hot steel screaming through the wind. Splattering his great Gonzo mind across the planks of his Woody Creek cabin, Thompson selfishly foreclosed on my ability to joyride in his drug-fueled jalopy. And because reminiscence is merely the weak cousin of experience, I guess I’ll be forced to start with the narcotics myself. Forget that tired business with the black ribbon; there’s nothing left but to dye my arm blue like Ackerman in a futile attempt to retrieve the invaluable as it unfailingly slithers down the drain.

Despite the right wing media’s high-profile pillory of Clint Eastwood’s Million Dollar Baby (if I spoiled the ending, too bad; Fred MacMurray dies in the hallway) the Shiavo case stubbornly remains the central lightning rod in the right-to-die debate. While command of the limited ability to drool and crap in your pants may qualify you to serve as President of the United States, questions about a meaningful existence will no doubt linger on. My friend Guttman frames the discussion philosophically: “Death is not really a promotion; it’s more of a lateral move.” Shiavo is scheduled to begin that sideways journey at 1p.m. on March 18, when her husband will FINALLY be allowed to remove her artificial feeding tube. Seven years in, Florida Judge George Greer simply grew tired of dicking around and granted Michael Schiavo the right to pull the plug. Because “there will always be ‘new’ issues,” wrote Greer, “the court is no longer comfortable granting stays simply upon the filings of new motions.” In reaction to the court order, Cardinal Renato Martino told Vatican Radio, “If Mr. Schiavo legally succeeded in provoking the death of his wife, this would not only be tragic in itself, but it would be a serious step toward legally approving euthanasia in the United States.”

It seems that Martino should be occupied with other matters at the moment, like the Pope’s rapidly declining capacity to lead the Church. Back in hospital, the Pontiff underwent a tracheotomy and was advised by doctors not to speak. Martino sheepishly conceded, “This is a big problem.” Rev. Thomas Reese observes: “Modern medicine can keep someone alive long after they can really function in this world. At the same time, the papacy has grown in importance.” Imagine Jesus, for example, nailed up on that cross with an I.V. in his arm and cans of Ensure snaking through his nose towards his stomach. Add medical life support techniques to those spectral powers and Christ might still be up there, preaching to his followers.

All this talk of death is downright depressing, and what better way to lighten the mood than to focus on the giving of newborn life. Which brings us to the subject of breast milk. For those who can’t or choose not to nurse, manufactured formula is available. Recently, producers have tossed fatty acids DHA and ARA into the mix in an attempt to more closely mimic nature’s own. But now the guys in the lab coats at Mead Johnson, Ross and Nestlé are behind the eight ball once again. A recent Texas Tech study found that levels of a toxic rocket fuel were five times higher in mothers’ milk than in store bought dairy products. Former EPA scientist Ed Urbansky remains nonplussed: “We shouldn’t be running through the streets screaming and not drinking milk because of this.” While it’s true that Percholate has contaminated much of the nation’s water supply and can even be detected in vegetables, the baby food and pharmaceutical companies are in a mad dash to add the chemical to their latest formulations. As Senator Dianne Feinstein warned, “We’ve got to come to grips with the Percholate situation quickly.”