War, famine, pestilence, death...and now Tanya. With the Harding-Jones match the heretofore unsuspected fifth horseman emerges, the Trump sounds, and now is The End of Days.
 
The W Team was evenly split as to viewing the event. Half expressed a preference for being boiled in canola oil, while the remainder swore they would first have their eyes plucked out.
 
We successfully avoided news of the original fight by hurrying past articles containing words beginning with "H" or "J"; and sticking our fingers in our ears and shouting "LAH-LAH-LAH-LAH-LAH! YOU'RE-TALKING, BUT I CAN'T HEEEAAARRR YOU!" during newscasts.
 
But then came the unusual repeat broadcast, which seemed to be some kind of divine directive, so we gave in. And then, whereas the original plan to match Ms. Harding with Amy Fisher did not sing to us, Ms. Jones' involvement gave the event a vaguely political aura we found difficult to resist.
 
Journalism is sacrifice, and our duty was clear, even if the method of carrying it out was not. Eventually we hit upon the Odyssean strategy of lashing ourselves to the furniture, holding our eyelids open with surgical tape, and surrendering to the intellectual feast that is the Fox Network.
 
Curiously, Ms. Jones showed none of the fine scrappy form evidenced in her Clinton-battling days, and instead elected throughout the match to exhibit what seemed to us an intense desire to be wherever Ms. Harding was not.
 
There was, of course, the usual badinage. At one point, we thought we heard Ms. Harding taunt "You're goin' down, lady!". "No I'm not," responded Ms. Jones.
 
After a few rather lackluster rounds, the match was decided in Ms. Harding's favor, and Ms. Jones scuttled from the stadium with only a refrigerator carton full of cash to heal her broken spirit.
 
It was very surprising, we were certain Jones would use a right hook.
 
Speaking of things pugnacious, the President may be courting a big "insufficient funds" warning following his latest draw on his political capital. He now absolutely refuses to turn over the Enron papers to the GAO or anyone else. Asserting an unusually broad claim of presidential privilege, the Winged Warrior declares "When the GAO demands documents from us, we're not going to give them to them. These were privileged conversations...I have an obligation to make sure that the presidency remains robust and that the legislative branch doesn't end up running the executive branch." Bravo, Mr. President, we can only add a hearty "Roger that!"
 
Nebraska's Senator Ben Nelson, one of many Democratic legislators made fidgety by the President's poll numbers, spoke recently of the ongoing senatorial Enron investigations, and cautioned fellow party members to avoid the appearance of political bias. "I'm always cautious about it appearing to be a witch-hunt or politically motivated," said the moderate Great Plainsman, "I don't think we ought to have kid gloves on this. But I do worry about it getting the appearance of being partisan."

The Senator's comments came as he was being beaten senseless with aluminum baseball bats wielded by a gang of Republican Senators. Between screams and pleas for mercy, he urged onlookers not to take precipitous action against his assailants in view of the President's popularity.
 
This week we present part two of "Flackman," our tale of public relations in a world gone mad. In this episode, the Caped Commander becomes involved in a set-to between a quartet of bubble-gum divas.
 
That's a wrap for this week's production. In closing we'd like to thank the Academy and all those wonderful people out there in the dark.
 
Until next week, remember: the more things change, the less familiar they become.
 
Hank