The Real Iron Lady.

After dubbing him in an interview as "the worst president in all of American history," it was the first time she'd been called upon in three years. The ninety-year-old grand dame of Washington journalism had already been ostracized and marginalized, no longer representing a major news bureau and relegated to the back row of the cramped press room. Nodding in her direction, George W. Bush timidly waved his meaty hand, allowing Helen Thomas her first query of the Rhinestone Cowboy since 2003.

Had she learned her lesson? Had she finally been knocked to the canvas enough to understand who she was dealing with? The president had confiscated her voice, and by God she wouldn't be getting it back for long unless this question had something to do with his dog or Laura's newest passion of starting a First Lady Petticoat and Corset Museum next to the Lincoln Bedroom.

She needed to throw him a softball...or else.

"I'd like to ask you, Mr. President, [about] your decision to invade Iraq ... It has caused the deaths of thousands of Americans and Iraqis and every justification for the attack proved false. Why did you really want to go to war?"

Oh, man. Ouch. So much for heeding the old Bush family meat sword of intimidation.

Beginning in 1961, Helen Thomas sat front row center, staring down the slickest, most powerful men on the planet. From JFK to GWB and all nine in between, her five-decade career blazed a path for any female reporter whose boat isn't floated on a sea of sassy first lady hairdos or where LBJ and Ladybird plan on summering this June. Nope, in a world measured by gonad mass, Ms. Thomas cultivated herself one substantial pair.

"I don't believe there are any rude questions," she once said. "If you want to be loved, go into something else."

Let's step back for a second and take a gander at the concrete interstate this woman paved. A pioneer in gaining equal footing with men in covering hard news, Ms. Thomas became the first female officer at the National Press Club and the first woman to serve as White House Bureau Chief for a major wire service in 1974. In 1972, at the President's request, she accompanied Richard Nixon as the sole female reporter on his historic trip to the People's Republic of China.

Credentials aside, the woman was a pistol. And yeah, while among his peers, Bush was the mental equivalent of that really small, brownish grape that falls to the bottom of the plastic bag, the dude was still the president. And heavens to Betsy Ross, the guy usually stood about four feet away from her behind that podium with that eagle and all the arrows and shit. 

I used to fantasize about what I'd say to Bush if given the opportunity, but I'm sure I would have just stammered, drooled and drizzled a fine rivulet of urine down the leg of my new Costco gaberdine slacks.

She was a staunch foe of executive secrecy and intrigue. It's easy for me to pop off here while stretched out on my cyber foam mattress, but if I had to gaze into Bill Clinton's puffy red eyeballs and point out that he could have avoided a lot of embarrassment and handled things internally with a little invention called Spray-n-Wash, I may have balked.

If I had to stare down a young and foxy Jack Kennedy and ask him why he so easily grounded Cuba's missiles, yet couldn't keep his own minute man in its silo, I quite possibly would have dry-heaved and fainted.

And while I may have been highly tempted, I don't think I could have managed to advise Ronald Reagan what a complete wanker he looks like in this get-up. 

It's like he'd just discovered his uncle's old merchant marine foot locker up in the attic.

Okay, maybe I'm making a few of these up, but I have no doubt Helen Thomas could have executed each and every one of them with a smile on her face. To her colleagues, she was the unofficial but undisputed head of the press corps, her status legitimized by her signature line at the end of every White House news conference: “Thank you, Mr. President.”

No, thank you, Helen Thomas.

I'm in love with Michele Bachmann. There, I said it.

Please remind me, since it's been a while since I've fallen so hard for someone.

What are the telltale feelings?

A churning in the pit of your stomach, a desire to squeal like a feral boar, an overwhelming sensation of having been grossly and profoundly offended?

If all are true, and I think they are, I'm hopelessly and sloppily in love with Representative Michele Bachmann, Republican Congresswoman from Minnesota.

There, I said it. IloveherIloveherIloveher. I feel alive every time she opens her mouth and serenades us with such gems as, "The big thing we are working on now is the global warming hoax. It's all voodoo, nonsense, hoakum, a hoax." What a woman.

I'm in love with the way those tiny crop circles of rain bead up on her well-sprayed hair. I'm in love with how she so effortlessly portrays the part of Barbie's crazy aunt who prays every night for that homo Ken.

The manner in which she announced her candidacy for the Republican Presidential Nomination at a debate for Republican Presidential candidates was masterful, and yes, I was turned on.

Highly offensive, and way hot.

I'm not easily offended, which is why I'm sure it's a sign that I'm smitten with this woman who has pasted her personal bumper sticker on America's three-wheeled Radio Flyer of Crazy, the Tea Party.

Seriously, not much offends me. For instance:

When someone decides to sand her fingernails next to me on public transit, dusting my eyes with collagen-inspired particulates, I'm not offended. Heavily grossed out in a DNA terrorism victim kind of way, yes, but not offended.

When a car pulls out in front of my bike, nearly transforming my body into road pudding with a plastic helmet, I'm not offended. Am I extremely pissed, since I'd previously taken every measure to ensure that I'm lit up like Caesar's Palace with a spandex moose knuckle? Yes. Offended? No.

When certain people with whom I work, speak of "needing" those Stuart Weitzman pumps or that Kate Spade New York handbag, I feel pangs of amazement. Their shallowness rivals only the summer kiddie pool at Lincoln Park around four o'clock when it's two parts water, one part urine, yet I'm still not offended.

So when my Micky (my new pet name for her) announces that she will abolish the Environmental Protection Agency, instituted by none other than Richard Nixon, as one of her first executive actions, I feel so offended that I may have no choice but to leave my wife and take a chance on this vixen.

I realize I may discover her in bed with Exxon Mobil, spooning in the afterglow of another "drill, baby, drill" moment, but I'm ready.

And highly offended.

Trump: "I woulda brung him back alive."

After this past weekend, I think we know who the grownups are.

We also know whom should be sitting at the kids' table.

I'll give Donald Trump one thing: at least he had, in his vernacular, the "bwalls" to show his ruddy face at Saturday night's White House Correspondents' Association Dinner. After spending years causing a ruckus with his cacophonous pie hole, he concluded last week at the top of his game, declaring himself in a dead heat with Barack Obama in the race for the 2012 Presidency.

Sure you are, Donald, and if I could drop eighty pounds and do a little waxing, I'd be Eva Freaking Longoria.

I realize that the human ego, especially male, can be blinding. But the fact that this guy considers himself to be a short-lister for leader of the free world (countries with at least five Wal-Marts) cranks the needle up past "insane" and "megalomaniacal" to "umm...security?"

But if it wasn't difficult enough for Trump to be mercilessly skewered by our President and a few others at the dinner, he was permanently demoted to the minors Sunday night, when Mr. Obama announced the killing of Osama bin Laden.

Hey Don, next time you comb your hair, just go a little further forward and all the way down your face, mmmkay? Thanks.

During the past several days, President Obama has displayed the moxie and cool that I only hoped for upon casting my ballot. Throughout that red herring expedition sponsored by the birthers and championed by Don, the President calmly tucked the issue into bed while planning the take down of the most prolific mass murderer of our lifetimes.

Talk about a poker face.

How does he do it? How does perform the every day duties of Commander-In-Chief, let alone shoulder the heavy burdens of war, health care, the economy and racist snipe hunts by people like Trump?

I have no idea how that job doesn't completely break a person. If I try to boil pasta while unloading the dishwasher, the stress causes acid reflux and acne on my inner thighs. And that's after lying in a dark room thinking only of a Pop Tart forest.

In addition to Obama, what about his family? I'm sure they're forced to endure many unwelcome obligations. I can just hear Michelle Obama saying, "Seriously, Barack, take the Prime Minister of Luxembourg to Ruth's Chris tonight and tell his wife I've got a migraine. I know you like him, but I'd be stuck with her. Remember, she has that condition where her eyes don't blink and she smells like bacon."

And what about the Obama kids? I'm sure he's been faced with, "Come on, Dad. No way are we spending three hours with the Sarcozy kids. They say mean stuff about us in French and all they want to do is play Lite Brite."

Naturally, every President since number one, the original George W., has weathered severe emotional storms. Some handled the pressure gracefully, while others sought outlets of distraction. I've heard that our President occasionally sneaks a smoke out on the veranda. Hey, do what you must, Mr. President.

I wonder if the Presidential Seal is affixed to the rusty coffee can he uses for an ashtray.

All I know is, Barack Obama has my vote in 2012. And to all you contenders, you can go through the buffet line first.

The kids' table is back in the rec room.

Obama has no chance in 2012. You heard me.

Like a bunch of third graders jutting their arms in the air and shouting for the teacher's favor and attention, the Republicans are already lining up. Even though many have no idea what the answer is to  the teacher's question, that's really not important; they merely want the bright lights to be turned toward their freshly pancaked pores.

Right now, there are so many of them, from also-rans to never-rans, from Tea Party to debutante party. These people are jockeying for position in a race which may not decide its winner for another seventeen months.

The great state of Iowa typically kicks off the electoral runoff, starting with a straw poll which can render some candidates prematurely irrelevant, like a basketball player who fouls out before even leaving the locker room. Many have invested time and personal fortunes toward securing a foothold in Iowa, but that's merely a thread of silk toward peeling the entire cob.

Ahead of them are exploratory committees and endless fundraisers, followed by town hall meetings, debates, caucuses, primaries and conventions. More palms will be pumped than a barracks during boot camp, week twenty.

But what if it didn't have to be that way? What if no more "I approved this" messages were allowed? What if America wasn't given the choice of electing her President based upon thirty-second television propaganda McNuggets?

What if each candidate, after having passed high-school-sophomore-level, multiple choice quizzes in math, science, current events and geography, were allowed a one-paragraph statement from an empty studio...and then America voted.

I'm not confident that one or any of the Republican front runners could pass the screening test, but for the sake of continuing this exercise, let's assume they do, and we'll begin with a statement by Candidate Gingrich.

Newt Gingrich: Look, America, I realize I simultaneously led the effort to impeach a President based on an affair while dipping the wicker myself, but come on, trust me. I'm a man of principles as of three weeks ago, when I personally petitioned the Lord for forgiveness. Plus, my wife works really close to me now.

I also realize that I criticized President Obama for not taking action against Libya and then flipped a one-eighty and criticized him for attacking Libya. So I won't do stuff like that anymore. I stopped yesterday.

Donald Trump: America, do you understand that I've got more loose change in this raccoon's nest on my head than you do in your entire 401K? Come on, what's it gonna cost me to secure your vote? How about I comp your room at one of my casinos and include a nice bottle of Asti Spumante, eh?

And a shrimp platter, with cocktail sauce. Cocktail sauce, America!

Mitt Romney: Hello, my fellow Americans. It's me again, Mitt. Hey, guess what? I'm Lutheran now!

Michele Bachmann: Ladies and gentlemen, look closely at my face. See? I can droop my eyelids a little bit and not look as much like the bat shit crazy, desperate housewife of Minneapolis whom so many of you seem to believe I am.

Plus, I'm rather attractive, which should make up for that wrong answer on the sophomore test. I'm now fully aware that milk comes from cows, and then the store.

Mike Huckabee: My fellow Americans, I've got such a great sense of humor, you won't even notice that I'm not joking about putting a huge plexiglass bubble around our country and teaching creationism to every student except the brown ones who are squeegeeing the huge plexiglass bubble.

Sarah Palin: Hi, guys and gals, it's me again! Log on to Facebook to check out the new word I just made up about our little dust-up with Libya: "squirmish." Isn't it cute? Todd and I have squirmishes all the time and then I tie him up and we reconcile.

Anyway, you all know me already, so remember, by golly...a vote for Sarah is a vote for patrioticness!

I hope you agree, this is an effective, efficient solution to picking the G.O.P. presidential candidate and a technique to make us realize what a daunting roster it truly is.

Ronald Reagan: Evil doing while napping.

Ronald Reagan would've turned one hundred years old today.

It's strange to celebrate an event like this.

It's one thing to observe the day John Lennon would have been seventy, or to commemorate the anniversary of an historic event, like the first Big Mac.

We celebrate Lincoln's birthday, but we don't assign a number to it. We don't lament, "Damn, he'd be 202 years old today; if only he'd ducked."

I made the mistake of pointing out my grandma's hundredth birthday to my wife, even though she had died in an assisted care facility at age eighty-eight. Always the sensitive spouse, my wife replied, "Yeah, it's too bad she couldn't hold on in the nursing home those last twelve years."

Hey, mean wife, I realize my statement was ridiculous, but stop referring to life and death in logical terms.

So here we are, singing the praises of a guy whose antics really held up over time. Some believe that Ronald Reagan personally ended the cold war, demanding that Mikhail Gorbachev "tear down that wall." What many don't realize is that the Soviet Union was already on the verge of economic collapse, and Reagan was actually referring to a wall in the Gorbachevs' guest quarters.

Apparently, Nancy believed there was a camera in it, and she didn't want to be taped "just saying yes" to that virile hunk of president.

The man claimed to have been unaware of the shady dealings during his tenure, such as the arms for hostages scandal, the dirty deeds in Central America and a presidential travel schedule based upon astrological data. So what's worse? A guy who signed off on criminal activity or one who was profoundly oblivious?

Pick your poison, I suppose.

Ronald Reagan busted up unions, he deregulated the financial industry and he threw our nation into a crevasse of debt so deep that we're still feeling its effects twenty years after he left office.

He ramped up the "war on drugs," pouring billions into killing the supplier, rather than treating the user. It hasn't worked.

He slashed mental health funding, which can be witnessed in any urban setting in the rantings of people who desperately need institutionalization, but are depended upon to regulate their own meds while living on the streets.

It's ironic that the President was simultaneously encountering his own bout with mental illness.

He was an actor. The man had great hair, a winning smile and a folksy demeanor. Sometimes I think that we Americans merely desire a President who can re-assure us that we are God's chosen people, grin, hop on a horse and go and clear some brush.

So, before we deify this guy, before we re-write history and place his face on the three-dollar bill, let's look just a bit more closely at Ronald Reagan's legacy. He looked great standing in front of Old Glory, didn't he?

But what was on the inside?

The results are in: you're all insane.

President Obama, according to CNN.com, is considering delaying a Hawaiian family vacation in an attempt to work out a deal with congressional Republicans on the Bush tax cuts that expire December 31.

This must be a tough pill for the other three Obamas to swallow, but hopefully they're used to this by now. He's the President and he's got to make some tough calls at the expense of his family. He desperately wants to fulfill as many of his campaign goals as he possibly can before Congress squeals to the right faster than Starsky and Hutch in their '75 Gran Torino.

The bigger question, in my opinion, is: Why? Why has he and so many thousands of other elected officials volunteered for this lifestyle? These people are subjected to unrelenting abuse, especially from biased media pundits. Whether liberal or conservative, entire networks exist to undermine their adversaries' platforms, as well as their friendships, associations, family ties, neck ties and haircuts.

I understand the idealistic reasons for which one considers a run at elected office. Many began with a quest to unite and lead, as I did when I had children. Many of us haven't made it too far on that quest.

Some entered the political arena to tirelessly serve others, which, apparently, I've decided to do by having children.

And many who hold public office had fully armored themselves for the unrelenting second-guessing, the personality attacks and the scathing criticism. That's where we differ, since I hadn't really thought about that when I decided to have children.

After reflecting on my first exposure to elected office, I've decided that no one should be surprised about this fiery atmosphere by the time they achieve adulthood, since all the factors are already at play. A kid running for fifth grade student body president campaigns the same way a seasoned politician does. One may promise universal health care, while the other pledges chicken chimichangas every other Thursday, but supporters jump on the bandwagon with equal gusto.

Each criticizes the prior administration. In one case, for igniting an unnecessary war based on false pretenses, and in the other, for not keeping the tether balls fully inflated as promised, leading to unnecessary shoulder blade welts among the constituency.

Once elected, the honeymoon ends quickly. Each is soundly rebuked for pandering to special interests; in one case, the insurance companies or energy industry. In the other, the chess club, which is allowed to stay in a comfortable classroom while the rest of the school crams into the play shed for rainy day recess.

Before long, each is constantly on the defensive, so there's no choice but to tout unnoticed accomplishments, whether it's affordable health care for thirty million Americans or the elimination of tuna fish pizza forever.

So let's not judge our President too harshly for entering the nation's highest office with virtually no executive experience, until we find out one crucial fact:

Was Barack Obama student body president at his elementary school?

Republican think tank: Oxymoron?

This painting by Andy Thomas is entitled, "Grand Ol' Gang."

I can't remember how I stumbled upon it, and I'm not sure what to make of a collection of Republican presidents yukking it up in a poker game, but I couldn't pry my eyes away.

If this group of great and not-so-great leaders actually were to assemble in one room, what might they say to each other? Well, it's your lucky day, because a certain fly on the wall just happened to be eavesdropping on their dialogue.

Abraham Lincoln: Well, well, well. I'm seeing more dead presidents in these chairs than I brought in my wallet. I'll tell you guys, it's good to finally have a little fun. Preserving the union can become mighty tedious.

Ronald Reagan: Preserve the union? Why would you want to do that? I busted up as many unions as I could!

George W. Bush: Heh, heh! Good one, Ronnie! Hey fellas, I brought some seegars.

Dwight Eisenhower: Go ahead and set them down right here. You seem kind of old for a cigar boy. Oh, well, here's a nice gratuity for you.

George W. Bush: Come on there, Ike. I was a president just like y'all...number 43. Although, a lot of folks called me "number two." Not sure why.

Richard Nixon: Since all of us have shared our nation's highest office, I've got a question which has been bugging me. Get it? Bugging me? Anyway, am I the only person in this room who's run roughshod over the constitution?

George W. Bush: Hell, nah, Dicky. We all done it, except maybe Abeous Corpus over there. The best way to get around it is to never read the constitutional.

Richard Nixon: Hey, George...yeah, you...the older one. Tell your @#$%ing monkey boy son not to @#$%ing call me Dicky or his @ss is gonna end up on my @#$%ing enemies list. Clear?

George H. W. Bush: Gotcha, Dick. Wouldn't be prudent.

Theodore Roosevelt: Before we start playing, does anyone want to wrassle?

Gerald Ford: I would, Teddy, but I can't stay long. Matter of fact, I'm not used to hanging around anywhere too long.

Ronald Reagan: Fellas, I didn't bring much money with me. (smacks himself in the forehead) What was I thinking? I can just spend my children's money!

Dwight Eisenhower: Well, gentlemen, what do you say we hike our slacks up, and I mean way up, and get started.

George H.W. Bush: Sounds good, Ike. Hey, Georgey. Vamoose to the other room and play crazy eights with Quayle, will ya!

George W. Bush: Sure thing, Poppy!