Someone gives Bush a hammer--hilarity ensues

I'm no expert in building--unless, of course, it involves LEGOs or popsicle sticks, of which I am the undisputed master--but doesn't the way he's holding that hammer seem like he's unsure what it's for? Or where he is? Or what the hell he's doing? These photo ops are really getting out of hand--a tool belt and hardhat, people? I mean, really--as if Bush has every built anything but an evil empire in his life. I've been put in prison for some of things I've accidentally done with power tools and I think even I'm more competent with a hammer than that guy. Apparently he just spent most of the time chatting, signing autographs, and posing for pictures in the style of, "I have an IQ of 35 and there's a rabid wildebeest running toward me from just off-camera"--or at least that's what I'm gathering from his expression in the above pic. He also made sure to tell everybody that even though it's really, really hard, being the President, he's holding up okay and damn it, he's a survivor. If he can get through Hurricane Katrina, then by the stars and stripes, everyone can. The best part is this picture is from FOX news, who posted it because apparently it's supposed to be inspiring and spirit-lifting, as opposed to irrefutable proof that Bush has the mental facilities of a mentally sub par prairie dog.

I also like the strategy for glossing over the whole horribly, horribly slow response to Katrina: *actual quote* "If I didn't respond well enough, I'm going to learn the lessons." See, we know your city's destroyed, we know thousands of people are dead, we know that some strengthening of the levees probably could have prevented a good deal of this, but the important thing is that Bush learned a lesson, and now he knows not to do it again. Don't you care about the president's education? Stop being selfish and let him hold the hammer, New Orleans. Jeez. You know, guys, just like he keeps telling us, Bush's job is really hard. I mean, he has to keep playing dress-up and getting his picture taken all day. It's just like my job--when I was five. Those were some trying times, my friends--I sympathize with the guy, I really do.

On to my day, which also, incidentally, involved a toolbelt and a hard hat, though in an entirely different context--unless Habitat for Humanity has added free construction worker-themed strippers to their services, in which case it's exactly the same context. I got up at 8:15 *ewwwww* to go eat breakfast at the Bridge and poster for the Sexy Spaghetti Soiree with Kel. She then walked me over to Eric Carle, where I worked until I had to go over to UMass for Noam Chomsky. Now, Noam Chomsky is awesome--like, linguistic superhero awesome--but he's not exactly what you would call a dynamic speaker. It was basically like being in one of those lecture classes where you're not entirely sure the professor actually knows anyone's there and might just be reading out loud to himself, which I haven't actually had to suffer through since high school. He also managed to ruin my childhood--a couple of years ago we found this tape of me telling this story of this boy who turns into a magic pebble and thought it was the best story ever and that I was some amazing child prodigy, but Noam Chomsky revealed that there was a story exactly like it, about Sylvester the donkey, already in print, and that my entire life has been a lie. Don't ask me why Noam Chomsky was talking about Sylvester the donkey--I have no idea--but it was a horrible moment. Though, I have to say, a story about a guy turning into a rock sounds way smarter coming from a five-year-old than an actual adult author. I kind of can't believe anyone wrote that book. I wanted to see Chomsky's other talk, the one actually at Hampshire, which was supposed to be more politically oriented, but I had comic book class and even Noam Chomsky can't keep me from the best class in the entire universe. I got dinner at Fatzo's and also bought a white chocolate mocha at Starbucks for the sole purpose of staying awake during comic book class, what with the having gotten up at 8:15 and not usually being conscious for more than about 8 hours at a time. I'm glad I planned ahead, because the class was awesome--we had a guest speaker named Michael Kasper who does artists books and revealed that apparently Amherst College, despite being Current Preppy, Elitist Headquarters of the Universe, is actually in possession of one of the biggest collections of alternative media ever because of this special fund they got from one of their dead hippie ex-students. So that was weird. He passed out and talked about a bunch of artists books, which he described as the "kissing cousins" of comic books. Really, though, couldn't he have just said that they were cousins? Why do they have to be kissing cousins? When did it become necessary for two things to start making out in order to be related? After comic book class, Sarah and I discussed the accessories necessary for being the coolest person in the world, which include: snowshoes; an umbrella/cane with a pocketknife/pen in it; gloves that exude fingerpaint; goggles that actually attach to your eyeballs and let you switch between infrared, x-ray, and night vision just by blinking; a helmet that beams TV to said goggles; and finally, a full-body camoflague suit. Admit it, if you had all that, there's no way you could not be the coolest person in the world. Wow, that sentence was awkward. For some reason, outlining those requirements seemed really important at the time, but now I have no idea why. Now, though, what will make me the coolest person in the world is to stop smelling vaguely like kitty litter, so I'm going to go take a shower.