News - Let the good times roll

How I spent my summer tax-cut rebate

Soon your rebate check will arrive in the mail, thanks to tax-cut legislation so gargantuan it will drain government coffers and choke off funding for any non-missile defense shield program for years to come.

Your job as a consumer is to piss away the rebate like a drunken poet. Why? Because it's right for America. Lubing up the retail sector is the only way to jump-start the economy, and that ain't gonna happen if you park your 300 clams in some chump-ass certificate of deposit. What are you, a stinking commie? It's because of people like you, Boris, that deploying a missile defense shield ASAP is Priority One.

Anyway, here are some options to get

the cash circulating and corporate America breathing easy again:

Buy two complete sets of Miss Congeniality action figures. One to keep

as a collectible in the original packaging,

one to display.

Next time you're at McDonald's, everybody's meal gets supersized. Your treat. You'll be the freakin' king of Mickey D's!

Bail a stranger out of the drunk tank. Explain that you don't expect anything in return but a tender loving hug sure would be nice.

Purchase tickets for the "Vagina Monologues ... on Ice." Starring Dorothy Hamill and Scott Hamilton, with special appearances by Disney's Little Mermaid and Peanuts' Peppermint Patty.

Looking for a birthday gift for someone special? How about a handgun? Everybody loves a handgun. And maybe a carton of cigarettes if you have any money left over. Plus a card.

Spring for nipple piercings for your entire Tae Bo class. Or, if their nipples are already pierced, a Tony Danza tattoo.

Pick out several rolls of festive new contact paper for your kitchen drawers. Something with flowers this time, instead of celebrity suicides.

Instead of your usual threatening letters to the members of city council who steadfastly refuse to let you paint your backyard shed so that it resembles a giant purple coffin being consumed by flames, the meddling bastards, send them threatening bouquets of Mylar balloons instead.

Buy a corncob pipe for every day of

the year.

Walk into a casino. Go to a roulette wheel and bet it all on one number. If the number doesn't come up, fall to the ground sobbing and screaming that you'll never listen to a lousy talking marble again no matter how persuasive it seems.

Buy new air fresheners for the yacht, stables and servants quarters. (Multi-millionaires only.)

Three words: hookers without sores.

Make a down payment on a little robot boy. One with soulful eyes who yearns to fit in. His love is real but, since he is not, child labor laws don't apply. Put him to work mowing the yard, washing cars and painting the house by day and cleaning the garage, hanging drywall and killing snakes by night. Sharper Image probably carries the best selection of robot boys. Keep the receipt in case his mournful pleadings become unbearable.

Hire a clown to entertain at a kid's birthday party. Clown shows up, nobody's there but you. Just you and the clown ... in an empty house, with a pitcher of margaritas chilling in the fridge and the phones unplugged. You and Professor Longsack, all alone for a whole afternoon. 'Nuff said.

Buy music lessons so your monkey can learn to play "Smells Like Teen Spirit" on the whistle. Assuming, of course, you have a monkey that has displayed a proclivity for the whistle and expressed an interest in grunge rock anthems.

Donate it to the Republican Party so the next time a fund-raiser is held at the vice president's official residence, you'll be invited. Better throw in an extra $249,700 just to be safe.

Gather a group of your closest friends on a bright sunny day. Swing by the store for a case of beer and several boxes of urinal cakes. Standing approximately 20 feet away from a brick wall, whip the urinal cakes with all your might. They'll explode in a satisfying puff of minty freshness. It's really cool. Be sure to take a minute to step back and soak it all in. Your friends swilling beers, swapping tales and whipping urinal cakes. Good times.

Buy a bunch of "I'm With Stupid" T-shirts. Send them to George W. Bush's Secret Service detail.

Roger Naylor lives in profligate splendor in Contention, Ariz.??

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