Lenny the Gardener

Free Work

2005-03-30T17:31:00.000-08:00

I am drunk. I know, I know. As an employee of the Untied States of Amercia, only the greatest planet that God ever bestowed his fist upojn, I should set a better example. I really should. I tried to. In fact, I drank the wine out of a paper sack in case anyone may have reconized me and wondered what a Godfearing man is doing in a park without his shoes, but theres times when I feel so down about not having insurance to pay for my eardrum and loosing my job while I was incarnicated in jail, and bills just piling up, and if you think I'm going to steal from my mother's social security check, you've got another think coming!! I am poor, my crotch is soggy, and I have been escorted from two parks. Thank GOd for libaries! Free internet. I LOVE libraries. And I love Mr. George. Love, love, love him. Sometimes, I love him so much. I love him so much that I imagine being him. Someone who can just stand in front a people, blink his eyes a few times, and then saying things. I feel warm and

March Madness

2005-03-18T05:49:00.000-08:00

My interest in politics has subsided somewhat of late. With my broken eardrum, I feel as though my entire brain has been pushed to one side of my head, and I find myself taking circuitous routes along even a straight path, as if I were caught in a spirograph. I no longer think in a fair and balanced way.

When the brain fails, there is always sports to turn to. I filled out a bracket on one of the sports sites, and I have Utah State winning it all. I like college basketball because most of the kids seem to care about whether they win or lose, and many of the prominent players are white kids. When I watch an NBA game, I see a bunch of disinterested, self-absorbed black players and a few pimped-out Europeans, but where are the heros who represent me? I would like to see a white player dominate a game, a white player who maybe drinks too much but promises hospitalized kids that he'll drop 50 points against the Knicks, and then he does it, by God! Go Utah State!

Spam and Water Boards

2005-03-16T18:00:00.000-08:00

Mistakes happen. I'm trying to take a Zen approach to this whole sordid ordeal. There I was, minding my own business in the White House garden, mentally preparing myself for the second debate between Mr. George and that housedog-of-a man John Kerry, when all of a sudden my world turned black with tiny white spots. When I came to, I found myself cold and wet and naked, strapped to a water board somewhere in Cuba. As I felt myself being lowered up-side-down into the icy water, I shouted "I'm an American! I know Karl Ro-" before the water stifled my cries. What seemed like two minutes later, I was raised from out of the water. A man speaking Arabic with a thick Spanish accent punched me just below the rib cage and spoke in crazy jibberish. I can wrote no more of this. For the last few months I have been locked in a tiny prison cell, beaten and assaulted on a regular basis by my fellow countrymen. And countrywomen.

If there is a silver lining to this black cloud, it's this -- the U.S. government knows how to torture and extract information. I told them everything. Everything! I told them about petty cash at the A&P, I told them about the pumpkins and Mrs. Butterfield, who was married and lonely and soft to the touch, I even told them about the government-owned gardening equipment in my apartment. While I knew that I was being tortured for no good reason, I took comfort in knowing that many of the people in prison were being tortured for a good reason. I am but a tree in a large forest. A tree with a soggy lungs and a broken eardrum, but more importantly, part of a forest. A forest that has some miserable trees being beaten and raped, but a large and thriving forest nonetheless. I have moved on mentally, and I am ready to resume my gardening roles.

Please, dear reader, forgive my absence. I promise that it will never, ever happen again.

Big Loss in First Debate

2004-10-01T06:44:00.000-07:00

Well, that didn't go well.

The mood is somber here at the White House. I've been sitting numbly in the garden north of the East Wing, playing mumbly peg with a spade. Mr. George did some of the things we practiced. He emphasized that Saddam was a bad man, that we must spread liberty and democracy by force, and that John Kerry keeps changing his position. But here's where Mr. George strayed from the plan:

* When John Kerry was criticizing the president, Mr. George kept sighing and wincing and rolling his eyes. The president looked like he was being scolded by his mother for drunk driving.

* The debate format was clear, but Mr. George didn't seem to understand how it worked. When Mr. Kerry finished and it was Mr. George's turn to speak, the president interrupted the moderator and asked to speak. Did he think Jim Lehrer was going to say, "No, Mr. President, I've decided not to let you have your turn"?

* Mr. George kept pausing for long periods. At one point, after he had paused for a long period, he said, "Please, just let me finish." But no one had interrupted him.

* Mr. George followed along with John Kerry's assertion that the greatest threat to American security is the proliferation of nuclear weapons, but he did so less enthusiastically and less eloquently. He should have stated that the greatest threat to American security is wishy-washy liberals who want to smoke pot and have abortions with terrorists. No that would have fired up the base!

Here comes Mr. George now. I need to go rub his temples. More later.

Practicing for the Debates

2004-09-27T04:50:00.000-07:00

There will be three Presidential debates: one debate will deal with international issues, another debate will deal with domestic issues, and I'm not sure what the third debate will deal with &8212; maybe Barry Bonds. I'm kidding. During times like these, when a ne'er-do-well wastrel like John F. Kerry wants to assume leadership of the most powerful country in the history of the world, it's important to add levity to the dire situation. In any case, Mr. George wants me to talk and act like John Kerry so that he can practice debating. At first, I was just going to change my mind about every issue &8212; I have heard rumors that Kerry flip-flops &8212; but I want to do more research. I am going to find out what Kerry stands for and represent him to the best of my abilities while participating in tomorrow's practice debates. I'm excited.

Mr. George

2004-09-20T05:37:00.001-07:00

Mr. George hasn't spent very much time at the White House recently due to a number of concerns, including security, an over-inquisitive media, and the old campaign trail. But to my delight and eternal honor, he visited me yesterday near the East Wing garden, where I was pruning the young sugar maples after the awful cicada attack in May.

MR GEORGE: Hey buddy, I want to talk to you. You're like one of those everyman John Doe people out there who live for the weekend stock car races, right?

ME: I don't know about that, Mr. George, but welcome back, sir.

MR GEORGE: Good. I have some questions for you. Think of this as one of them galloping polls that they do out there, only with a 100% margin of victory.

ME: OK, fire away.

MR GEORGE: OK, Leon, first question: Do you think we're winning the war on terror?

ME: It's Lenny, sir. Yes, we're winning the war on terrorism. We haven't been attacked since 9/11, not on our soil anyway, and if we do get attacked between now and November, it's because the terrorists don't want you to be re-elected, because you like to hunt them down and they don't like that.

MR GEORGE: He he, that's right. I hunt them down like dogs. They're afraid of me!

ME: That's right. The terrorists have scattered. We have them right where we want them. Scattered, or fumbling around in Iraq.

MR GEORGE: Let's get back to our poll. Question number 2: Do you approve of how we've handled the reconstruction of Iraq?

ME: Absolutely. Iraq will be a democracy shortly, as evidenced by their soccer team's success in the recent Olympics.

MR GEORGE: That's right, I told Rummy to throw those ungrateful bastards in jail for badmouthing me, but he said no, we had enough bad publicity from that Abu Grabby situation.

ME: Torture is a tricky thing that should be kept out of the public's eye, if you ask me.

MR GEORGE: One final question. Are you better off now than you were four years ago?

ME: Well, that's difficult to say. On the one hand, I live in a more secure America, thanks to you and our brave troops. On the other hand, my company laid me off and rehired me as a contractor, so now I don't have health insurance.

MR GEORGE: Do your push-ups and stay off the sauce, and you'll be fine. I'll mark you down as a yes. OK, Leonard, I'm going to give my poll results to Karl so that he can rest easy about these debates. Thank you for your time.

ME: Sure thing, sir.

My Mother is Not a Patriot

2004-09-13T05:37:00.000-07:00

My mother has been giving me all sorts of grief about the war in Iraq. She says no one has paid attention to how badly it's going. Well, some people are paying attention, but no one wants to hear what they say. She keeps talking about Falluja this and Najaf that, and I told her that she should support the U. S. military forces because they're putting their lives on the line for their country, 'nuff said. But then my Mom spoke quite vocally about how the war in Iraq diverted troops and translators from Afghanistan, and now Afghanistan is a mess, something about the Taliban regaining control. She says that if Mr. George had just avoided the war in Iraq and continue to work with international allies on hunting down actual terrorists rather than going to war against someone who looks like the terrorists, he would have been considered a great president, even with all the domestic mess he's created. As it is, Mr. George will go down in history as a terrible president, once people realize that Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11 and once people realize that Iraq is in many ways worse than Vietnam.

It's clear that my mother is losing her grip on reality. Does anyone know about a drug that slows down senility?

Karl Rove Speaks

2004-09-02T07:20:00.000-07:00

Karl Rove doesn't usually talk to me unless there's a mechanical problem with vice-president Cheney, but the other day he came up to me while I was spraying pesticide on the roses and just stood there shaking his head. I got a little nervous, so I asked him how it was going.

MR KARL: It's amazing the kind of stuff we're able to pull off, Lenny. Amazing.

ME: What do you mean?

MR KARL: Let's put it this way — if Al Gore had won in 2000, and if 9/11 had happened on his watch, and if the economy were in the gutter, and if Gore had gotten us into this war in Iraq based on bad intelligence, can you imagine any Democrat getting re-elected? Not a chance in hell!

ME: I don't appreciate that kind of language, sir.

MR KARL: Sorry, Lenny. Not a chance in heck. We'd claim that Gore should have foreseen the 9/11 war based on evidence like, oh I don't know, maybe a memo that says, "Bin Laden Determined to Attack in the United States." And then there's all warnings by the Hart-Rudman task force. That was a bipartisan commission doing everything it could to get the word out that thousands of U. S. citizens would die right here on American soil from terrorist attacks. And no one did anything about it! We would have bashed Gore so hard that he wouldn't get nominated by his own chickenshit party.

ME: Language, sir!

MR KARL: Sorry, Lenny. It's just that I'm feeling pretty good right now. I mean, I admire the heck out of myself. If I were running Kerry's campaign, gosh forbid, I'd be all over the oil crisis. We're running out of oil, and China's consuming more and more petroleum, so in a time when we need to be serious about alternative fuel sources, we have an oilman in office! That's hilarious. And we're winning in the polls!

ME: I don't know how you do it.

MR KARL: Two things. First, mini-scandals. There's the Plame affair, where someone in a high place outed a covert CIA agent. There's George using family ties to avoid combat and then going AWOL, there's Cheney's close ties with Halliburton, there's Bush's close ties with Kenneth Lay, there's Chalabi giving our secrets to Iranians while feeding us bad intel, there's — gee willickers, I can't keep it all straight in my head, and neither can anyone else. Nothing is too serious in and of itself, so it just seems like a lot of partisan bickering.

ME: What else?

MR KARL: We attack! And we do it the right way. We get other people to do our attacking so that George can stay above the fray. And here's something. We just make shit up. It's politics! Kerry is the most liberal senator. Kerry voted for 350 tax increases. Kerry was a coward during his brief combat stint in Vietnam, and then he came home and committed treason. Kerry flip-flops. And it doesn't matter that we make shit up because after Rush and Brit and Bill and Sean and the bloggers finish their diatribes, enough people start believing it. And then if the mainstream press doesn't run the stories, we call them liberal stooges and send out the attack dogs. We're working the system, Lenny. We're working it!

ME: It's for the good of the country.

MR KARL: That's right. It's for the good of the country. You know what I'd like to try to do next? I'd like to make Alan Keyes the next president.

How Mr. George Can Win

2004-08-27T16:47:00.003-07:00

John Kerry flip-flops and didn't really serve in Vietnam — I know, because I was there, knee-deep in the muck and the blood. Unfortunately, the liberal media has helped him take a small lead over Mr. George in the polls. When Mr. George returns from his vacation in Texas, I will present to him my Four Point Plan for Four More Years of Fortitude:

1. Continue the negative attacks on John Kerry. This Swift Boat Thing for Truth is working great. Keep that up. These guys may not have their stories straight, but the important thing is that voters used to think that John Kerry won a Silver Star, a Bronze Star, and three Purple Hearts, but now they know that one of his Purple Heart awards is questionable, that the amount of enemy fire during the Bronze Star "heroics" wasn't really that severe, that he only fought in combat for four quick months, and that John Kerry was in Cambodia during Tet but not during Christmas. When you compare Kerry's bizarre, almost cowardly, war actions against those of Mr. George, who do you think will win over voters?

2. Capture Osama Bin Laden. Saddam Hussein wasn't solely responsible for the attack of America.

3. Emphasize your connection to Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Jesus wouldn't raise taxes. Jesus wouldn't let homosexuals get married. Jesus wouldn't let human cells be used for research. But Jesus would take the fight to the enemy in the War on Terror.

4. Allow another terrorist attack to happen. That is, ignore any terrorist alerts you may receive. For example, if someone gives you a memo like the one that said, "Bin Laden Determined to Attack in the United States," ask for more specifics and take no action. After the attack, you can convince America that a vote for Kerry is a vote for terror.

Mr. George Takes a Vacation

2004-08-25T19:00:00.000-07:00

Mr. George is still in Crawford, Texas. I miss him. Sometimes I miss him so much that my heart aches. Other times I just miss him like someone misses the scent of a new car. I remember our very first conversation, shortly after he took office.

MR. GEORGE: Well hello there, buddy. I see that you're a gardener. Sometimes I like to do a bit of gardening with the little people. How ya doin'?

ME: I'm doing well, sir. And how are you?

MR. GEORGE: Pretty good, pretty good. I'm the President of the United States.

ME: That's what I hear.

MR. GEORGE: Yep, I'm the President of these here United States.

ME: That's great. You must be very proud.

MR. GEORGE: Every boy dreams of being President of the United States. And that boy turns out being that I'm him.

ME: Your parents must be very proud.

MR. GEORGE: That's right. I can do anything I want.

ME: Well, not anything.

MR. GEORGE: Name one thing I can't do.

ME: OK. You can't go to Mars.

Mr. George just laughed and walked away. It wouldn't surprise me one bit if I see Mr. George one day waving an American flag on Mars.

Draft Dodger

2004-08-23T05:08:00.000-07:00

Mr. George just can't get a break. First, the liberal media got all over him for not having reported for duty when he was in the reserves during the Vietnam War. Then they pressured Mr. George to release documents that could prove that he reported for duty during that time in Alabama. Mr. George doesn't like to be pressured, so he said no. The liberal media then did a cowardly workaround and managed to convince a court to release all of Mr. George's military records. It was a wonderful opportunity for Mr. George to prove once and for all that he fulfilled his duty. Unfortunately, a certain portion of the microfiche documents containing the records had been destroyed. It just so happens that the destroyed portion covered the four months during which the unpatriotic press claim that Mr. George was absent. Coincidence? I think not. If these liberals will stoop so low as to destroy military records, what will they do next?

Here's all you need to know: Mr. George W. Bush received an honorable discharge from the military. 'Nuff said.

Fortunate Escape

2004-08-19T12:16:00.000-07:00

One minute, I was standing at a magazine kiosk; the next minute, I was trapped inside a small box, wondering why my head was spinning and why I was wearing a black leather jumpsuit. I tried to shout, but the red ball in my mouth prevented me from doing so. I thought I was blind for a few hours, until a dim ray of light entered the tiny air hole. I don't need to go into the details of my experience for several reasons, but suffice it to say that I escaped and have now returned to my gardening chores.

One question: Why would any tailor omit the seat when sewing a pair of pants? This type of clothing makes no sense to me whatsoever.

Swift Boats

2004-08-09T04:48:00.000-07:00

As a veteran of the Vietnam War, I think it's important for us to have a President of the United States who is fit to be Commander in Chief. Of the 11 men who served in the same swift boat as John Kerry, 10 support him as President, while the other is too dead to offer an opinion. These men are obviously supporting John Kerry in the same way that cops refuse to rat out one of their own. They are bound by fraternal law, which forces them to swallow their contempt for a man whose first of three purple hearts was suspect and who testified before the Senate that the war was being waged in an unethical, sloppy manner. That's all fine and good, but why would I want to trust the opinion of the men who were in his boat? I care more about those veterans who served in the general vicinity of John Kerry.

I trust the group of men who have stepped forward to claim that John Kerry is a liar who betrayed and dishonored his country. None of these men actually served with John Kerry, but that is to their advantage — they maintain objectivity in their distance.

Fahrenheit 9/11

2004-08-04T04:41:00.000-07:00

I finally broke down and saw Michael Moore's movie the other night at my mother's request, and I have to admit that I was taken aback. Mr. George looks like a stupid idiot in that movie. Plus the movie subtly implies that the War in Iraq is not a just war. So this morning, while I was trimming the grass near the security fence, I saw a member of the GOP Rapid Response team eating a breakfast burrito on a bench. I asked him about the movie.

"Fahrenheit 9/11 is full of lies, Lenny."

"Thank God," I said. "What are the lies?"

"For one, the movie includes mistruths, distortions, errors, and falsehoods, for example."

"Can you give a more concrete example?" I asked.

"Yes. It's propaganda. The whole movie is progaganda."

"I was hoping for something a little more concrete."

"Michael Moore is a big, fat idiot. Don't believe anything he says."

This Rapid Response person wasn't much help, but then I used the World Wide Web of the Internet to find out more, and there are some half-truths and distortions. For example, the name of the book that Bush read for seven minutes after being told that the country was under attack was called The Pet Goat, not My Pet Goat. And there are other cheap shots and convenient juxtapositions in the movie. So it's true: Michael Moore is a big, fat idiot.

Kerry's Speech

2004-07-30T14:45:00.000-07:00

John Kerry spoke too fast and must have lost ten pounds of sweat, yet still managed to bore me to sleep. I fear that if he is made president, when he comes out to talk to me, I would fall asleep on my feet, with a rake still in my hand. I guess we could talk about the Vietnam War. I was in the Mekong Delta myself, at least until I gave up on the bureaucratic army and decided that the only way to get anything done was to go out on my own. I hand-picked a crack group of soldiers, set up camp deep in the jungle, and gave the Viet Cong all kinds of hell. The army bureaucrats kept sending Colonels in to "eliminate" me as a threat, but let's just say that I survived the horror.

Sissy John

2004-07-29T07:53:00.000-07:00

John Kerry is a sissy, as evidenced by the fact that he couldn't throw a baseball 60 feet 6 inches. I don't care how many boats he bravely commanded in the Mekong Delta, any man who cannot throw a ball all the way to the catcher has no right being President of the United States. I have made up my mind about this.

This got me thinking about how well our past and present leaders would fare in throwing out the first pitch. George H. W. Bush is the best baseball player to ever make it to the White House. The liberal media must have somehow discredited his baseball skills, so he should have been reelected. Gerald Ford was a solid football player, but I don't know how well he could throw a baseball -- obviously not well enough to get reelected. Bill Clinton could throw a strike, plus he played the sax, so he was bound to be president for two full terms, no matter how often he waged war against terrorist regimes to draw attention away from illicit hummers. Roberto Clemente had a rocket for an arm, but he died tragically before he could venture into politics. Adolf Hitler could throw a baseball about twenty feet, so he would be an awful president, not to mention the fact that he would cater to Nazi extremists.

I may be oversimplifying the issue. After all, being President of the United States is a complex job that requires many skills. At the same time, the idea of a sissy like John Kerry throwing out the first pitch for the next four years would reflect poorly on America. Roger Clemens would be a fine president. He's from Texas, he doesn't fuss over intellectual matters, and he's not afraid to bean homosexuals with his rocket arm. I like a Roger Clemens/Nolan Ryan Republican ticket in 2012, after Mr. George finishes his three terms.

Flawed Intelligence

2004-07-27T05:34:00.000-07:00

Before I came to work this morning, I picked up copies of the Washington Times that had cluttered my doorstep for the three weeks that I was in France. You can only imagine my shock to read that the Central Intelligence Agency is at fault for providing information that would lead Mr. George to view Iraq as an imminent threat, thereby causing him to engage in a preemptive war for reasons that have proven to be untrue. This is terrible. Mr. George deserves better than that. We can only hope the voters realize that the true culprits are the various intelligence agencies and the liberal media, and that our beloved president was merely taking action on intelligence reports in good faith. Besides, Saddam was a bad man.

Who would have thought that intelligence failure would be the demise of Mr. George?

Spider-Man 2

2004-07-26T05:25:00.000-07:00

While I was riding in the Tour de France, I had no time to see movies. A typical day consisted of cooking oatmeal and pasta for breakfast, riding the day's stage, which sometimes took more than six hours, and then giving U.S. Postal riders a neck massage (after I was traded to Team Rabobank, I was no longer required to give massages — they had their own masseusse). By the time I had finished with interviews and laundry and syringe disposal, it was time to go to bed. So you can imagine my delight when I discovered that the plane ride from Paris to Washington D.C. included the movie Spider-Man 2.

Here's what I liked about the movie:

* The acting. Tobey Maguire did an excellent job as a reluctant superhero. He was torn by the fact that his demanding job as superhero left him little time for his personal life. He was able to show this reluctance using facial gestures. The woman who played his aunt also did a good job in conveying emotion through the medium of acting.

* The subtle Christian imagery. To stop a runaway train, Spiderman shot spidey webs toward buildings and held onto the cords with his arms spread wide. After sacrificing himself for the commuters, Spiderman was so exhausted that his limp and broken body had to be passed backwards over the heads of the passengers, each person being careful not to touch the gaping wound on Spiderman's side. A clumsy director would have placed a crown of thorns on Spiderman's head, but Sam Raimi chose the more subtle route, unlike the director of The Passion of the Christ, who used heavy-handed Christian imagery.

Here's what I disliked about the movie:

* Kirsten Dunst. She is too skinny. She should fatten up and wear makeup that makes her looks like she's not strung out on crystal meth, or whatever kids are self-medicating themselves with these days.

* Doc Ock's superpowers defied belief. If I'm not mistaken, Doc Ock's superpowers consist only of having six extra arms attached to him, but these powers do not extend to his head. When Spiderman, who is strong enough to hold up heavy steal girders, punches Doc Ock in the face, why doesn't Doc Ock's face cave in? It should. It's one thing to willingly suspend disbelief, but it's a whole other thing to willingly suspend common sense.

Still, I give it four stars on a scale from 1 to 6.

****

Eliminated from the Tour

2004-07-22T07:23:00.000-07:00

There is a rule that to continue racing in the Tour de France, riders must finish within a certain time after the leaders cross the line. Race leaders set up this rule so that riders don't lollygag in the various shoppes and cafes around France. In yesterday's individual time trial up th Alpe d'Huez, any rider who finished with a time of more 33% over the winner's time had to abandon the race. The slowest rider in this year's tour went first, I went second, and Mr. Lance went after all the other riders. I was climbing at a good tempo up the switchbacks on my new 10-speed, enjoying the early moments of the race, when disaster struck.

Flat tire.

In most cases, a flat tire costs a rider only a few seconds. A mechanic from the team car hurries to the rider, removes the wheel, and replaces it with a new wheel. Unfortunately, the Rabobank team car was nowhere in sight. I had to remove the flat tube, locate the puncture, glue on a rubber patch, and re-inflate the tire. It took me 22 excruciating minutes. Adding insult to injury, Daag Haus rode over my feet while I was pumping up the tire. My finishing time was 1:03:10, while Mr. Lance finished in just under 40 minutes.

I'm coming home.

Shiny New Bicycle

2004-07-21T04:52:00.000-07:00

The good news: there are only five days left in the Tour de France and I have a new bicycle. The bad news: two of the stages are in the Alps, and I am very tired. I had ridden my bike to work daily from Alexandria to the White House, but that little commute hardly prepared me for these 110-mile mountain stages. They have put me in difficulty. Fortunately, Team Rabobank acquired a brand new 10-speed bicycle for me. It's red.

In yesterday's stage, I wanted to ride up to Mr. Lance to congratulate him for his stunning victory over Ivan Basso. Before I could get to him, several of my former teammates swerved into me and elbowed me, which is what I had seen them do to other cyclists who dared ride near the front of the pack without credentials. Has it been so long? Have they forgotten how I helped Mr. Lance climb Le Mongie? Have they forgotten the Col de Tourmalet? After dinging my bell twice, I yeilded to their will and blended in with the rest of the peleton. My new allegiance is to Team Rabobank and Levi Leipheimer, who is currently riding in tenth position. I shield him from wind and fetch water bottles. Oh, who am I trying to kid? I care nothing for Levi Leipheimer. Go Lance! Win for all of us!

Traded!

2004-07-17T16:47:00.000-07:00

So much has happened over the weekend. Because I am tired after riding in the Pyrenees, I have time only to describe only the most important incidents.

Incident 1

To begin stage 12, the riders and I burst from the starting line to get a position near the front of the pack. I heard a crinkling sound directly behind me. Thinking nothing of it, I continued my burst. All of a sudden, my bicycle stopped, while my body continued its forward momentum. My thighs struck the handlebars, causing me to do three or four flips in the air. I landed on top of my head and slid along the road for a few seconds before landing on my back with a thud. I looked behind me and saw a chain attached to a pole near the starting line. May God damn that Daag Haus. It's one thing to put super glue on the inside of my helmet. Or to insert grape jelly into my tires before a mountain stage. But to attach a chain to my bike just before the start of the race takes these practical jokes to an unbearable level.

I rode angry.

Incident 2

Daag Haus and I got off our bikes and traded blows. We threw long, loping punches that did little more than scrape our knuckles on each other's helmets. When the fight was over, we each stood bent over, gasping for air and insulting each other.

Incident 3

Mr. Johan notified me that I had been traded from Team U.S. Postal to Rabobank. He didn't bother to thank me or offer words of encouragement. As I got off the team bus, Mr. Lance and the other posties refused to look at me or respond to my well wishes. I had given my all to help Mr. Lance win his sixth consecutive tour, and now my effort is for naught. Tomorrow I must compete against Mr. Lance and my former teammates. It is a bitter end to a bitter day.

Harsh Words

2004-07-15T12:58:00.000-07:00

Before today's race, a 164-kilometer race in the mountains, from St. Fleur to Figeac, I was chatting amiably with a couple of Spaniards. Suddenly I heard a crash behind me. Someone knocked my bicycle off its kickstand. I have grown fond of my little bicycle. When I find out who knocked over my bicycle, there will be trouble.

Start of the Mountain Stages

2004-07-14T08:34:00.000-07:00

Today was a rough day. I am very tired. It was the longest ride of the day with several category 1 and 2 climbs. In the latter part of the climbs, I keep pushing down the lever to downshift into a fourth gear, but my bicycle has only three gears. To make matters worse, I over-hydrated my body. I kept having pull off to the side of the road and relieve my bladder. Richard Virenque took advantage of one such nature call and attacked the pelaton. It was my responsibility to control breakaways today, but when I tried to get back on my bike to start the chase, I noticed that Daag had stabbed had punctured one of my tires. You might ask, How did I know it was Daag? Easy — the Swiss Army knife that was poking out of the rear tire had the name "Daag Haus" stenciled on it. The team mechanic was able to change the flat in a mere matter of minutes, but I had lost too much valuable time.

More later. I must rest.

My Cycling Nemesis

2004-07-12T15:29:00.000-07:00

I have a new arch-rival. His name is Daag Haus. I hate him.

Crashes and More Crashes

2004-07-09T06:39:00.000-07:00

These are difficult conditions. The combination of poor roads, rainy weather, and rider fatigue is causing many riders to go down hard. In yesterday's race alone, I fell on 37 separate occasions. To make matters worse, many of the riders who toppled over were shouting at me and using language that would make our Vice President indignant. One rider clopped me over the head with a water bottle and a rider from Cofidis poured Power Gel into my shorts. Because I value the nobility of high sportsmanship, such behavior put me in a foul mood.

The worst crash of the day didn't involve other riders. I had returned to the team car to retrieve water bottles for Mr. Lance and company. Mr. Johan, the team manager, stuffed bottles into my jersey and filled my handlebar basket with food packets. I was sprinting into the rain to catch up to the peleton, when a 90-degree turn caught me off guard. I didn't even try to make the turn. Instead, I rode straight into the hay bales and covered my face with my arms. The impact caused me to tumble through the air and into the window of a building labeled "Gendarme." More shouting ensued. I ignored the accusations and hurried to pick up the bottles, food packets, my copy of Mrs. Dalloway, and allen wrenches, which lay strewn on the ground like yard sale debris. Mr. Lance sent a couple riders back to help me rejoin the team. After such an emotional day, I slept well in my tent.

Thanks for reading.

Oversized Helmet

2004-07-08T04:15:00.000-07:00

The U.S. Postal Team takes great care in providing its riders with the finest equipment available. Helmets, jerseys, and bicycles are scientifically tested in wind tunnels and extreme conditions. Unfortunately, only nine sets of equipment were sent to Paris for the Tour de France. When race directors announced a new rule allowing an optional tenth rider for each team, I was rushed from Washington D.C. to Paris on a Boing 747, but I don't have adequate equipment. My bicycle, which was obtained from a local Belgian baker, has only 3 gears. We removed the bell and the tassles to reduce weight and cut down wind resistance, but the bike still feels slow.

The bigger problem is the helmet. It was one of the early prototypes that tested well in the wind tunnel. Unfortunately, the helmet weighs 12 kilos, which is about 30 pounds. If any of you saw the team time trial yesterday, you may have noticed that nine U.S. Postal riders, including Mr. Lance, were riding in a tight formation, with the lead rider dropping to the back after each "pull," and then working his way back up to the top of the line. Meanwhile, I was trailing the team by about 100 meters, trying desperately to catch up while my head lolled from side to side under the brick helmet, causing me to swerve wildly on the wet cobblestones. I wasn't able to help the team. Mr. Johan has promised to get me lighter equipment before the Pyrenee mountains. Just in case, I'm checking the bike stores here for light, blue equipment.

Thanks for reading.

Le Tour

2004-07-06T09:56:00.000-07:00

It is my pleasure to report that I am taking a break from my gardening duties to ride in the Tour de France. I am one of the riders on the U.S. Postal team trying to help Lance Armstrong win his record-breaking 6th title. We are tired after today's ride. I lost a couple of fillings on the cobblestone section, so I need to go to the dentist. More details to follow.

My Walking Stick Is Broken

2004-07-02T06:14:00.000-07:00

While spraying the begonias with pesticide, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Mr. Donald Rumsfeld was rummaging through my gardening supplies. When I turned to face him, he had placed a tall, narrow bucket on his head and picked up my walking stick. Mr. Donald raised his arms, spread them wide, my walking stick his scepter. Trouble.

"I'm a bird — slow, powerful, full of grace." He moved his head like something beaked. A great phoenix. The bucket remained firmly on his head.

"Good morning, Mr. Donald," I said. "How are you today?"

"In the school I attended as a child, I had a teacher who taught me magic," Mr. Donald said. "Lenny Gardner, give King Rumsfeld your walking stick. Give him one, he gives back two. Rumsfeld is the King of the Empire!"

"No, Mr. Donald," I say. I shuddered.

"The cane, the cane. There shall be two again," he sang.

"For the love of God, please!"

"Stubble, bubble, double the rubble!" He snapped my walking stick over his knee and gave back the pieces.

I am in the market for a new walking stick.

Software Glitch

2004-06-30T05:57:00.000-07:00

Karl Rove came up to me while I was pruning the shrubs outside the West Wing. He was in a state of panic. The Vice President has been malfunctioning to an alarming degree recently, including the well-publicized encounter with the Vermont Senator who had the gall to accuse Dick Cheney of war profiteering. Dick Cheney suggested to the Senator that he indulge in a solitary copulatory encounter. Karl Rove thought the outburst was caused by a hardware problem, so he aked me to help him rewire the Vice President's circuitry. I insisted that we were dealing with a software problem, not a hardware problem.

"I believe the Vice President is allowed to curse in public only during times of war. Technically, we're still at war with Iraq until June 30. After the handoff, I think Mr. Dick can go no further than menacing stares."

"I thought the war ended back when the President landed on the carrier in front of the 'Mission Accomplished' sign."

"Apparently not. At least, not according to the Vice President's software."

"Golly jeepers," said Mr. Karl. "We better make this little sovereignty handoff sooner than later. We've got a campaign to win." He wrote a note in a day planner and left.

Now that Iraq is a sovereign nation, the Vice President should reserve his cussing to private meetings. If my theory is wrong, the Democrats may stoop so low as to accuse the Vice President of going insane.

Interview Practice

2004-06-29T08:16:00.000-07:00

Ronald Reagan's remains were finally laid to rest yesterday after a whirlwind tour across the country. It's sad that we forget our great leaders so quickly. I hope the same fate does not befall Mr. George, who returned from his trip tan and vivacious. He found me in the garden outside the East Wing, and told me he needed my help. Karl Rove is already putting the finishing touches on the campaign victory. The economy will continue its gradual recovery, the price of oil will drop, failure in Iraq will be blamed on the liberal media, and Bin Laden will be captured in October. To be re-elected, Mr. George just needs to succeed in the debates and in interviews with the press.

Mr. George wanted me to help improve his interviewing skills. He asked me to write down three questions. I removed my gardening gloves, wrote out the questions, and went back to work. When Mr. George returned a few hours later, we practiced:

ME: Who is the greatest basketball player of all time?

MR. GEORGE: I think that depends on who has the most upside potential. Do you want to go with a center like Wilt or Kareem, or do you want to go with an upsided player like Michael Jordan?

ME: What does upside potential have to do with retired players?

MR. GEORGE: Let me finish. Let me finish. Will you please just let me finish?

ME: Yes.

MR. GEORGE: I'd say it's a four-way tie.

[Long pause.]

ME: Who is the greatest rock band of all time?

MR. GEORGE: I think you have to look at 50 Cent as being a great band. The kids just love them, and they use the guitar in a very unique fashion. They're like guitarial, um, entrepeneurs.

ME: What-

MR. GEORGE: Let me finish, let me finish! Please! You ask the question, and then I'll answer them, if you don't mind.

ME: OK.

MR. GEORGE: So I think 50 Cent and Radiohead are the greatest rock bands.

ME: Thank you for your time.

Terror Alert Levels

2004-06-28T06:09:00.000-07:00

I have taken it upon myself to drape a large colored ribbon at the top of the tallest sycamore in the rose garden. The color of the ribbon corresponds to the terror alert levels.

Red — Severe Condition. If you're home, put on your gas mask and seal your windows with duct tape. If you're in school, curl up under your desk. If you're on an airplane, God forbid, insist that the pilot land immediately. Use force, if necessary, but stay calm.

Orange — High Condition. If you're home, stay tuned to FoxNEWS on your television set. Check to make sure that a roll of duct tape is sitting on each window sill. Have your gas mask available. If you're out and about, keep your head on a swivel. Look for people who look Arabic or suspiciously European.

Yellow — Elevated Condition. Go about your business as usual, with only a mild sense of fear and foreboding.

Blue — Guarded Condition. This condition should occur only once this year. Remember to vote.

Green — Low Condition. All the terrorists have been captured or destroyed. Only under a green ribbon should you consider voting for a Democrat.

How to Deal with the Liberal Media

2004-06-25T06:27:00.000-07:00

I get to talk to lots of people here at the White House, and not just famous people. I get to talk to maintenance personnel, caterers, lobbyists, reporters — you know, the type of people that Mr. Bill Clinton calls the "little people." The sad thing is that most of these little people don't want to talk about anything but the war in Iraq. When the liberals want to get into a debate, I feel like I'm shooting fish in a barrel. Here's a conversation I had with a woman from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, another representative of the liberal media:

PI: We shouldn't have gone to war with Iraq. Not without the support of the United Nations.

ME: The United Nations is a corrupt organization that is no longer useful. Are you aware of the scandals? The U.N. should be disbanded.

PI: Then what gave us the authority to go to war with Iraq?

ME: Iraq was clearly in violation of United Nations Resolution 1441. Have you read the original transcript?

PI: I thought you just said the United Nations is corrupt and useless.

ME: Have you read the original transcript of U.N. Resolution 1441?

PI: No.

ME: That's what I thought. Come talk to me when you have a deeper understanding.

Fish in a barrel.

Monkey Dreams

2004-06-24T05:37:00.000-07:00

I had a strange and disturbing dream last night. After a violent sexual encounter with Debbie Reynolds, I found myself standing half-naked before a tribunal in a large atrium that had been carved out of stone. Chimpanzees and spider monkeys filled the seats behind me, and gorillas guarded the entryways. Six orangutans sat in front of me, asking difficult questions about my political views. The fat orangutan with a nasal voice — who somehow reminded me of Michael Moore — asked particularly difficult questions about national deficits, fear-mongering, pre-emptive invasions based on manufactured intelligence reports, and condoned torture, among other things. I tried to defend myself, but a throat injury kept me from speaking. When I said nothing, the panel of judges went ape on me.

"Guilty! Misprision of justice!"

Two gorillas bound my hands with twine and led me out of the auditorium. I karate chopped one gorilla with both hands, kneed the other gorilla in the stomach, and fled. Dashing through the stone city, I searched for another human being. I saw no one but shouting apes and menacing gorillas. I was scared and alone. I wanted a gun, but there were no guns in this hell-town. As I ran through the cobbled streets and ducked into a bright alleyway, I saw another human being at last — President George W. Bush.

"Mr. George!" I shouted. He wore haggard clothes and a beard covered his face, but it was Mr. George all right. He stared straight ahead and didn't answer my call. "Mr. George!" I shouted again, and turned his face towards me. I nearly reeled when I saw the lobotomy scar high on his shaved forehead. "Oh, Mr. George!" Just then, a net was thrown over me from above, whips started cracking, and two gorillas grabbed my arms. To my surprise, I was no longer mute:

"Take your paws off of me, you damned, dirty ape! We need strong leadership during times of change."

That woke me up.

Rumsfeld Jokes Around

2004-06-23T07:01:00.000-07:00

So I was leaning on the walking stick that Mr. George gave back to me, looking out over the new flowers that I had spent the better part of two days planting, when Donald Rumsfeld approached me. With nowhere to run and no place to hide, I resigned myself to another confrontation.

"Hey Lenny," said Mr. Donald. "I have a joke for you."

"I'm not in the mood for jokes today, Mr. Donald," I said.

"Inch Me and Pinch Me went down to the lake with some guard dogs and a water board. Inch Me fell in the lake. Who was left?"

"Pinch Me."

He did. Hard. If the stock market hadn't collapsed at the end of Mr. Bill's presidency, I would seriously consider retiring right about now.

More Ashcroft Prurience

2004-06-22T05:26:00.000-07:00

Today's message will be short. A dark mood overwhelms me, and I have little time. I must remove the red and pink roses from the garden and replace them with azaleas and gardenias. There is one reason for this nonsense: Ashcroft. He came out here late last night, just as I was about to leave, and he insisted that the pink rose buds looked, in his words, "too much like the female's nethermost region." I approved of making the scantily clad statue decent for all Americans, but this is really too much. A rose is a rose. Is it not?

A Visit from the FOXNews Team

2004-06-21T05:09:00.000-07:00

Mr. George is still out touring the country with the remains of Ronald Reagan, who is still considered to be the Greatest President of the United States, even though he has been dead for nearly three weeks. None of the members of the White House staff came out to see me this weekend, but I did get an interesting visit from two fellows in a black limousine. Alan Colmes got out of the driver's seat. He was wearing a black chauffeur's suit and matching black cap. He opened the rear door for Sean Hannity, who was wearing yellow slacks, a green blazer, and a purple ascot. Hannity handed Colmes his briefcase, and the two of them passed through security and came straight over to me.

HANNITY: Excuse me, are you Lenny the gardener?

ME: Yes I am. What can I do you for?

HANNITY: I have questions about gardening. First, given the fact the John Kerry has voted for over 350 tax increases, and given the fact that John Kerry is a wishy-washy liberal who votes on both sides of every issue and somehow manages to consistently vote to the left of Ted Kennedy, it would be a travesty to let that Massachusetts liberal anywhere near the White House. This leads to the question: How do you get rid of aphids in a vegetable garden?

ME: If you catch the aphids early enough, you can just remove the parts of the leaves that have black residue. Otherwise, you can go with rhubarb spray, an insecticidal soap, or fatty acid salts.

HANNITY: This is a very politically divided country right now. When I hear about Howard Dean saying the president knew about 9/11 ahead of time, when I'm being called a liar by Ted Kennedy every day, or when Al Gore insanely screeches at the top of his lungs that George Bush betrayed America, we've got politically divided times. And in these politically divided times, should I stake my tomato plants or use cages?

ME: Stakes are less expensive, but cages require less maintenance. It's more important to use good soil with compost manure, and to pinch off the suckers that grow between the branches and the stalk.

COLMES: Thank you for your time.

Mr. George Sulks

2004-06-18T05:26:00.000-07:00

When I came in to work today, late again, I hurried to the garden on the west side of the White House, only to find Mr. George sitting in a lawn chair with bottles of Robitussin strewn around the flower bed. He had my walking stick. I have been looking for my cane for weeks.

"Rough night, Mr. George?"

"Do you think I'm a better man than my father?"

"I think you're both great men."

"He was a better athlete."

"You both participated in sports in college."

"My Dad was captain of the baseball team. I was on the cheerleading squad."

"You both went to Harvard and Yale."

"My Dad was Phi Beta Kappa. I got a C average taking easy classes."

"You both excelled at business."

"My Dad made the family fortune in the oil industry. I lost a bunch of his money."

"You were both fighter pilots during a war."

"My Dad flew 58 missions, got shot down, and won the Distinguished Flying Cross. I was too drunk to remember flying them little trainer planes around in Texas."

"You're both running campaigns that claim you're like Ronald Reagan."

"My Dad's a numb nuts."

"Listen here, Mr. George. You took out Saddam. Your Dad couldn't. People like you more. Plus your father never owned a baseball team, and he never printed out baseball cards with his picture on them. You did. And your father never got reelected as President. You're going to win, Mr. George. You're going to win!"

Mr. George rose slowly from the lawn chair. He handed me my walking stick, and without saying a word, walked into the White House, slow and dignified.

Ashcroft Fires Me Again

2004-06-17T04:34:00.000-07:00

This morning I had a long breakfast with my mother, who, at 114 years of age, fell asleep often during the conversation. She is a liberal democrat beginning to show signs of old age, so I was forced to bring all conversation threads back to the core values of strength, freedom, and pride in America. When I arrived late at the White House, Ashcroft awaited me inside the security gate. He checked his watch nervously. Bad news. Here we go again.

"Good morning, Gardner," said Ashcroft. "Or should I say 'good afternoon'?"

"Good morning, Ashcroft." My tone acknowledged the bitter enmity between us.

"I need your help again. Same rules. I hear a peep out of you and you're history. Got it?"

"What do you need this time?"

"I've been watching myself on television, and I look, well, uncomfortable. The congressional hearings were my chance to shine in front of the whole world, but the press say I came across as smug and edgy."

"Do you want me to loosen the barbed wire around your chest?"

"I need you to change the whole arrangement. If I double up the hair-shirt undergarment, and then wrap the barbed wire more loosely around that, I think I can avoid looking pale and lascivious."

On the way to the shed, there was an uncomfortable silence. I wanted to talk about the weather or the Detroit Pistons, or maybe ask him why he doesn't just wear cotton garments, but Ashcroft is no one with whom to trifle. He broke the silence.

"I touched myself — there — again."

Same old thing. I refitted him in the shed, he cried and hugged me, and then told me to pack up my belongings because I was fired.

Playing 'Gestapo' with Rumsfeld

2004-06-16T05:16:00.000-07:00

I was already in a grumpy mood to start the day. My walking stick was nowhere to be found. I was hobbling around on my arthritic knee, looking around for my special cane. I decided to check the supply shed, which put me in an even fouler mood. The supply shed is supposed to be filled with gardening supplies — hoses, flower seeds, bags of compost and manure, spades, shovels, twine, gloves. Gradually, over the last three years, the gardening supplies have been replaced by spare robot parts. Some of the Vice President's spare legs are propped up where the shovels used to be, circuitry is spread all over the benches, and a bunch of ball bearings are lying around in jars. I was moving robot parts around to find my walking stick when a large shadow filled the room. I spun to see who was blocking the doorway.

It was Donald Rumsfeld. He was holding a set of matches.

"Did you ever see a match burn twice?" he asked.

"Matches only burn once," I said, trying to be bold.

Mr. Donald lit the match and said, "One." He blew it out and quickly jabbed the burnt end into my forearm.

"Two."

"That's very funny, Mr. Donald." He was blocking my exit from the shed.

"Say, Lenny, do you want to play 'Gestapo'?"

"How do you play?" I should have just said No, but for some reason, I thought that would make it worse.

"What's your name?" Mr. Donald asked.

"It's Lenny."

He slapped me. "You're lying."

Mr. Donald finally left the shed, and I couldn't find my walking stick. I am in a black mood.

The Thinking Man's President

2004-06-15T09:59:00.000-07:00

I just don't understand all these criticisms of Mr. George. It hurts my feelings. Especially when my mother accuses Mr. George of not being curious enough to think through important issues. She was upset by Mr. George's own admission that when his advisors are briefing him, he isn't so much interested in what they're saying as how they're saying it. Mr. George says he tries to get a read on the advisor, as if they're in a poker game. My mother, bless her heart, pointed out that it does no good to get a read on whether your advisor is bluffing if he genuinely believes his pair of deuces will win the hand against five other players. She's right. But what my mother doesn't know is that Mr. George does think about issues.

Take this discussion I had with Mr. George while he was practicing his golf swing near the begonias:

"Listen here, Lenny," said Mr. George. "I wanna try something out on you. Marriage is defined as being a natural act of commitment between a man and woman. It just is."

"I agree, Mr. George."

"No, no! Come on, Lenny!" said Mr. George, waving his 5-iron. "I need you to argue against me. I need you to play the devil's adversity to help me practice up for these debates. So let's try again— marriage is a sacred act to be imposed upon a man and a woman, for better or poorer, richer and in health. It's always been that way, and it should always be that way."

"Hm, oh, okay. I guess I could say that homosexuals don't choose to be that way — they can't help themselves — and letting homosexuals get married will help them feel like they're part of our society. There, how's that?"

"You're wrong, Lenny!" Mr. George started swinging his club into the tulips, sending petals into the wind. "Homosexuals are evil, and homosexual lovers are evil, and maybe you're a homosexual, Lenny. Did you stop to think about that?"

"Come on, Mr. George, I'm just playing devil's advocate like you asked. I agree with you."

"No, Lenny, stay in characterization. Keep arguing."

"Oh right. Let's see. Some homosexuals can't get tax breaks because of their sexual orientation."

"I'll see to it that everyone gets a tax break. And here's something else—" Mr. George stood up straight and fixed his stare. "There's two kinds of homosexuals. The first kind are born that way — weak, like the pasty wimps we used to snap towels at in gym class. The second kind of homosexual got that way through preversion and cowardice. When heterosexual waters get a little too choppy, these fellows jump ship and swim to Fairy Island. They just do. So when they don't have luck with girls, so they get into all kinds of perversions. As legislators, our job is to make that swim to Fairy Island as tough as possible, so as to keep the number of sodomists as low as possible. That way, America can be America again, loving freedom and righteousness and democracy."

I tried to come up with an argument, but I literally couldn't. I'm looking forward to these debates.

Readers Respond

2004-06-14T05:00:00.000-07:00

I would like to start today's message by thanking those readers who poured out their heart-felt sympathies to me regarding the ferocious attack of the killer cicadas. In a way, it was good to hear about other people's troubles with these evil insects. Yes, I am sad now, but I will get over this crisis in time. Some trees die, others grow strong, and the cycle of life shall continue, even if John Kerry wins the election. However, I do not appreciate those readers who find humor in stately trees being killed by vile pests. Here's the email of the day:

ha ha you're trees are dying!!! your stupid and your face is stupid and i hope the cicadas eat all the trees and flowers at your stupid wite house I think your dumn and i think mr. george is a dumnass. why dont you trying shoving the dead insecks up yore butt maybe that will help ha ha ha!!! ;-{

How on earth would inserting the cicada remains into one's anal cavity help the situation? I am an old man! And please use appropriate punctuation and capitalization in your messages. It is obvious from this message and others that some children are indeed being left behind. What gives me hope is that Mr. George's groundbreaking educational reforms will require states to finally spend the millions of dollars required to adequately test students and to keep parents informed of their children's progress. It is too late for such reforms to help you, foul reader, but perhaps the next generation will learn to respect the English language.

Mr. George Learns Karate

2004-06-11T07:40:00.000-07:00

While trimming the shrubs on the west side of the White House, I was hoping that Mr. George would come visit me after his trip to France. I enjoy our daily chats. He likes to talk to me about his plans, and I appreciate being able to say things like, "Yes, I think you better rule out gay marriage in a constitutional amendment, because kids these days don't seem to care what homosexuals are doing in rest stops." In some small way, I feel like I'm helping to shape the President's views. I was concerned that he was going to be traveling around the country with Mr. Ronald's corpse, but to my surprise and delight, Mr. George approached me on the garden path.

"Good morning, Lenny!" said Mr. George. He was smiling and kicking his right leg out to the side.

"Good morning, Mr. George. Why are you in such a good mood?"

"First off, I've been learning karate," said Mr. George. He pronounced it kar-ah-TAY, with emphasis on the last syllable. He threw several forward twist punches, exhaling with each thrust, and then he kicked his foot dangerously close to my nose.

"My favorite motto is 'You can never— it's good to be prepared.' What would happen if some of Saddam's hijackers snuck onto Air Force One? Without karate, I'd be defenseless."

"Do you really think karate would do any good against trained assassins with box cutters and pepper spray?" I asked.

"Watch this. This is Osama's head—" Mr. George side-kicked the wooden watering can into the back of the bench, breaking it into splinters. Pat Nixon had given me that watering can as an Easter present.

"Most impressive," I said.

"My favorite motto is 'Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice— you won't, you're not gonna fool me a second time.' I'm not going to let evil overcome good. Not on my watch!"

On his way out of the garden, Mr. George continued to karate chop leaves and side-kick trunks of small trees. He is a determined young man.

The Attack of the Cicadas

2004-06-10T05:54:00.000-07:00

I am tired of fighting. Our small trees are killed. The birch is dead. The elm tree is dead. The old trees are all dead. And now it is the young trees that may not survive. That which led the young trees is dead. The cicadas are swarming, and we have no cheesecloth. We have no pesticides. The little saplings are being swarmed to death. My tree branches, some of them, droop under the weight of cicada eggs, and have no wraps, no protection. No one knows what to do — perhaps running away. I want to have time to look for my red maples, and see how many of them I can find. Maybe I shall find them among the dead. Hear me, my arbolists! I am tired. My heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever.

Rush Limbaugh Lies

2004-06-09T05:32:00.000-07:00

At times, working in the White House garden feels like a slice of Heaven here on Earth. In the afternoons, all five of my senses are awakened to life's Higher Powers: my eyes take in the deep azure Virginia sky; my bootless feet sink in to the fecund soil; my mouth enjoys Apple Jack, the world's finest chewing tobacco; my nose fills with the aroma of delicate lilacs and hydrangeas; my ears listen to the voice of Rush Limbaugh. Mr. Rush's deep, soothing voice pours out of my head phones like baptism water — I fear nothing when he speaks. I don't mean to blaspheme. Rush Limbaugh is not God, but he speaks with the power and authority of the Divine.

I met him yesterday.

I remember as a young boy trying to get an autograph from the great Tris Speaker, but instead of signing my Washington Senators score sheet, he spat on it and pushed my face backwards with his palm. My mother spent three days trying to get me to stop crying. I had a similar experience with Mr. Rush. He had just gotten instructions from members of the Grand Old Party and decided to peruse them in the gardens. I introduced myself:

"Excuse me, Mr. Rush. I'm Lenny Gardner. I love your show."

"Well thank you, old-timer. I'm glad to have you listening."

"Thank you so much for putting the Abu Ghraib scandal in perspective," I said. "I was concerned about America's moral direction until you compared the torture of detainees to the initiation rituals of frat boys. My sense of patriotism returned."

"That maybe wasn't the smartest thing to say," said Mr. Rush. He popped three pills in his mouth and swallowed without water.

"And I'm glad you set those liberals straight about the Iraqi war rationale," I said, feeling star-struck and bashful. "They keep saying the war is about oil, but we know better, don't we, Mr. Rush?"

"Well actually, old-timer, I like you, so I want to let you in on a little secret — the war in Iraq is about oil," said Rush, looking around, as if to make sure no one else was listening. "Oil and money. Don't let anyone tell you different."

"No, it's called Operation Iraqi Freedom," I said. I felt confused and hurt. "This is a fight for freedom. We need to free the Iraqi people from a madman."

"That's a good one. The kind people at Halliburton just want these Arabs to be free. Yep, that's it. We can't allow the beautiful Persians to live under tyranny. That would just be too awful."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," I said.

"Let me tell you something else," Mr. Rush whispered. "Our leaders knew about the 9/11 attacks beforehand. They needed a Pearl Harbor, and they got one."

"You're telling me things that are not true!" I shouted.

"I'll say anything if the price is right. Listen, take care, old-timer. The flowers look great."

Even though the skies were clear, I spent the rest of the afternoon under a dark cloud. Mr. Rush lied to my face. I hope he was just making fun of me.

Chatting with Al Gore

2004-06-08T05:41:00.000-07:00

The back of the White House has beautiful gardens — if I don't say so myself — with benches where tourists used to be able sit and look at the mansion that the damned British tried to burn down. This was before security was tightened. Nowadays, only those of us with security permits can go back there. I was wiping the dead cicadas off one of the benches when I noticed Al Gore lying underneath it. It was early in the morning, and his jump suit was covered with dirt and morning dew. I nudged him in the shoulder with my boot.

"Good morning, Al."

"Good morning, Lenny." Al looked uncomfortable again, embarrassed. A whiskey bottle and three empty cans of spray paint were scattered around the bench.

"Looks like you had another rough night."

"I don't like to complain," said Al. "The past is the past, and it's time to forgive and forget. Just move on. Just keeping moving forward."

"There are tarps in the maintenance shed. You can use them. They'll keep the dew off."

"It's just that I spent eight years watching Bill turn the sacred White House into a frat house. I think some of his college buddies saw more of the inside rooms than I did. And I was Vice-President! For eight years!"

"Like I told you before, you can roll up the burlap bags to use as pillows when you get like this."

"And then, when it was my turn to replace Bill and restore dignity to the American Presidency, I blew it in the debates. I treated George like he was some kind of idiot, so anything he said that wasn't stupid made people say, 'Hey, he's not an idiot. He's like me. And he says he'll bring America back together.' I blew it!"

"You can also give me a call when you get in one of these moods," I said. "I'll bring you some blankets and tea and a real pillow. You can set up camp out here, and no one needs to know."

"And even with all my mistakes during the 2000 campaign, I still had it won. I won more votes than George. It was Florida… Florida."

Al lay back down under the bench and kept mumbling to himself about being locked out of his own home. You have to feel bad for the guy.

A Tribute to Ronald Reagan

2004-06-07T04:44:00.000-07:00

Some readers have sent me strongly worded messages complaining that I left Ronald Reagan off my list of the Top Ten Presidents of the United States. Some Reagan critics point to his daffy "I don't recall" responses in the wake of the Iran/Contra affair, in which he sold weapons to Iran and used the proceeds to help the Nicaraguan rebels. However, he was suffering from Alzheimer's by then, so I don't hold his testimony against him. Nor do I judge him for facilitating the Savings & Loan scandal through deregulation, because I respect his faith in the integrity of the American businessman. I had omitted Mr. Ronald for three reasons: (1) Because he followed a big tax cut with an even bigger tax increase — taxes are bad, (2) he dramatically increased the size of the federal government, and (3) whenever I asked him a question about a current affair during any of few visits to the White House garden, he responded by smiling and talking about children, or hope, or golden sunsets. Or sometimes the new Taco Bell fajitas.

That was all before his life ended so tragically, well before his time.

I have now placed Ronald Reagan at the top of my list of the Top Ten Greatest Presidents of the United States. Now, as we ponder a wonderful actor and good president, I realize this is no time for petty grievances. Now is a time for hysterical hyperbole. Together with Phil Donohue, he slammed the door on the Communist Threat! Together with the Olympic hockey team, he inspired a healthy sense of xenophobia and patriotism! And together with Oliver Stone, he pushed past the complex rhetoric of capitalism: greed is good. Greed is good!

10 Greatest Presidents of the United States

2004-06-04T05:33:00.000-07:00

While Mr. George is off in Normandy celebrating the 60th anniversary of D-Day, I thought it would be appropriate to suggest a list of the Ten Greatest Presidents in United States History:

1a. RONALD REAGAN — Think walks along the beach under a golden sunset.

1b. Richard Nixon — I may be somewhat biased in that Richard Nixon was the first President to hire me as a gardener at the White House. He improved relations with China, he got us out of the Vietnam War, and he handled alleged corruption with dignity.

2. George W. Bush — He has the courage and moral fortitude to stay the course, wherever that course may lead.

3. Warren G. Harding — First and foremost, he kept us out of the nefarious League of Nations. Trust no one, I say. Plus he reminds me of Mr. George in how he responded to allegations that some of his friends were using their official positions for their own enrichment. Harding circled the wagons, suppressed evidence, and rose above the scandal. Tragically, he died of a heart attack before he could finish the job.

4. Herbert Hoover — Another president who had the courage to stay the course in changing times.

5. James Buchanan — Like me, a confirmed bachelor. He held his ground firmly as the nation split into two warring factions.

6. Calvin Coolidge — Wonderfully aloof. His favorite motto: "Four out of five problems solve themselves."

7. William McKinley — He wasn't afraid to start a war based on unconfirmed allegations. A man of action, and a fine imperialist.

8. George H. W. Bush — Like his son, he excelled in business, achieved honors at Yale, fought bravely for his country, and created an international coalition to go to war against Iraq. Sadly, unlike his son, he raised taxes to pay for increased government spending. Why?

9. Ulysses S. Grant — Like Mr. George, he served his country with honor in the military. One visitor to the White House noted in Grant "a puzzled pathos, as of a man with a problem before him of which he does not understand the terms." Despite his confusion, Grant finished out his term with a show of strength.

10. William Henry Harrison — His was a case of missed potential. Not wanting to look foolish, he refused to wear a hat or coat during his inauguration, despite the cold rain. He died 30 days later of pneumonia. Nevertheless, his 2-hour inauguration speech was superb enough to get him on this list.

Accountibility for Abu Ghraib

2004-06-03T07:29:00.000-07:00

Many of my readers have accused me of being a Democrat. I am not a Democrat. I am a Barry Goldwater Republican. I support George W. Bush. I think he is a great man with a highly inquisitive mind, and he has surrounded himself with leaders who are interested only in the good of the free people of the world, and in making the world ready for the apocalypse.

Like everyone else, I was shocked by the manner in which the United States prison guards treated detainees in Abu Ghraib. A few weeks ago, before his vacation, I asked Mr. George if this was the act of a few sadistic prison guards, or if it was the natural consequence of flawed policies. Mr. George was quick to respond.

"These guards were at fault, yes, but it was mainly the result of bad policy," said Mr. George.

"But everyone else is saying that it's just a few bad apples," I said. I'm a gardener, so I sometimes like to use gardening metaphors.

"Nope. It was caused by the carelessness of the leaders. It goes way up the chain of command. Every general, and every admiral, and every corporal — all the big guys — should have known about these fancy new digitized cameras, and they should have done something about it."

"But the problem wasn't the digital cameras, it was the systematic abuse of detainees that violates national and international rules of conduct."

"No, it was the digified cameras. Look, those Iraqis weren't innocent. They had it coming. They attacked our soil. Right over there in New York City and right here in Washington. Here's the thing. Our military never should have let those pictures out. And I hold our leaders responsible."

See? You just have to have faith in our leaders.

Chatting with Karl Rove

2004-06-02T04:29:00.000-07:00

I like talking to all the White House folks, especially when Mr. George is on vacation, even if all they want to do is complain or ask quetions. Karl Rove is a busy man, so he doesn't spend as much time out here in the garden as he did a couple years ago. Today was an exception. He came right up to me and started talking.

"We've got a technical problem, Lenny," Mr. Karl was wincing and rubbing his hands. "I was hoping you could help us out."

"To record Fox News," I said for the hundredth time, "put the TV on channel 3, and then change the VCR channel to 18."

"No, it's not about that this time. It's about the Vice-President."

"Mr. Dick?"

"Right, Mr. Cheney. He's not responding well to visual stimuli."

"Have you removed his face plate and checked his positronic network?"

"Yes, and we ran a diagnostic on the neural membrane. Nothing turned up. Then we cleared the cache buffer, replaced the lithium battery, and tested the spark plug. Same problem."

"The Vice-President has a spark plug?" I asked.

"Oh, golly gee, never mind," Mr. Karl said. He starting looking at the ground and mumbling a plan. "We'll just bump up the terror alert level and send the Veep to Offutt Air Force Base. Maybe the folks in Nebraska can fix him." Then he looked up at me, as if he just realized he was talking out loud. "Thanks, Lenny. The flowers look great."

Mr. Karl sure is a nice man.

Cold Cocked!

2004-06-01T04:02:00.000-07:00

I was trimming the rhododendrons yesterday near the east side of the White House when Donald Rumsfeld came up to me and said, "Hey Lenny! You wanna play a game?"

"Sure, Mr. Donald."

"It's called "Cold Cock the Gardener.'"

When I woke up a couple hours later, I was lying flat on top of the smallest rhododendron. A 2x4 piece of wood was lying next to me, and it had blood and some of the hair from the top of my head on it. I don't like that game. Maybe one of these days I'll teach Mr. Donald how to play a game called "Cold Cock the Secretary of Defense." Maybe I just will.

Legislating Math

2004-05-31T09:35:00.000-07:00

Mr. George often comes up to me and asks questions while I'm working in the White House garden. Usually, he asks me about what kind of fertilizer I use, and why I don't use more chemicals to really kill the insects. But sometimes he asks me questions about astronomy, geology, or math. Just the other day he wanted to know what it means to square a number. Why square?

"Well, it works like this, Mr. George," I said, making four dots in the ground with my walking stick. "You see these four dots? Let's say you want to square the number 4. So what you do is you create a bigger square by repeating the number 4." I then drew three more sets of four dots to create a larger square.

"So 4 squared is 16. See the 16 dots in the bigger square?"

"So what does "square root" mean?

"Simple. If you want to take the square root of the number 16, you go back to the number that you had to make the bigger square from." I then drew a circle around the first set of four dots that I drew.

"Oh, I see. So the square root of 16 is 4." Mr. George then grabbed my stick. I was nervous that he was going to ask about cubing numbers, so I thought about stacking dirt clods to convey a 3D model, but Mr. George veered off in a different direction. He poked the ground to make a single dot. "Just to get this straight, the number 1 squared is 4, and the square root of 4 is 1."

"No, Mr. George. This model doesn't really work for the numbers 0, 1, and 2. Or negative numbers."

"Why not? It should."

"But it doesn't."

"Is that some of that fancy nuance the liberal media is talking about?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I'm going to fix this. I'm going to make a law that says the number 1 squared is 4, and that the square root of 4 is 1. It works better that way. It just does." He pointed my stick at the ground.

"You can't make a law about that," I said.

"Yes I can," he said. He was talking loudly and waving around the little stick. "I can add an amendment to the Constitution. We'll call it the Nineteenth Amendment. That's my job. It's what I do."

"But then all the math books would be wrong. It'll cost too much money for schools to update their books."

"Not if I make a federal law that requires every state to come up with the money to pay for new books. Just trust me."

I asked Mr. George if I could have my stick back, but he was too deep in thought.

No Blogging on Sundays

2004-05-30T05:20:00.000-07:00

It's my day off. I'm going to visit the World War II memorial.

Chatting with the Lord of the Dance

2004-05-29T13:46:00.000-07:00

One of the great things about working as a gardener at the White House is that I get to meet famous people. Like Lord Michael Flatley. He came up to me, danced a little jig, and introduced himself.

"Good day, sirrah! I'm the Lord of the Dance."

"That's not what I heard."

"Oh, you heard about my little contest with that American, did you? I admit it: he defeated me once in a Seattle dance-off."

"Twice."

"Be that as it may, I regained my Feet of Flames title recently in Nepal. The American will probably blame his loss on the mild case of pulmonary edema that he contracted while rescuing those sherpas from the summit of Mt. Annapurna. But two days was plenty of time to recover from such an affair."

"How did you finally defeat him?" I asked.

"Simple. I began the reel with jump threes, slid into hop threes, and then moved into a unique tuck-back trade step that was part of the sevens. The American kept up through the hop threes, but then he grew confused by my hornpipe reel, and became so positively intimidated by my treble jig that he burst into a fit of spastic coughing. The title was mine — again."

"Can I see the dance?"

"Sure, if you pay me thirty-seven dollars."

"That's seven hours of pay. I don't have that kind of money!"

Mr. Flatley walked away, but as he did so, he winked, pirouetted, and did what I can only imagine to be the tuck-back trade step that he used to defeat his nemesis. I sure did like Mr. Flatley. And Mr. George told me that I get to meet Mr. Rush Limbaugh next week.

17-Year Bugs

2004-05-28T10:47:00.000-07:00

This morning I wrapped the lilacs on the north side of the White House with cheesecloth to prevent the cicadas from destroying them. The garden variety cicadas don't do much damage to trees and plants, but this species of cicada that comes out every 17 years is particularly nasty.

I thought the young red maple I planted a couple of years ago was big enough to withstand the cicadas, but I was wrong. Many of the limbs near the top of the tree were broken and saggy and turning brown. As I was standing there looking at the tree trying to decide whether to spray it or wrap it, Mr. George nudged my shoulder.

"Your little tree is dying."

"The cicadas are destroying it."

"Yes," said Mr. George. "They like to eat trees."

"Actually, the female uses her ovipositor to dig a channel in a branch, where she leaves her eggs -- that's what's causing the branches to break off."

"Yep," said Mr. George. "They sure do like to eat trees."

Good vs. Evil

2004-05-28T05:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I like to ask Mr. George about what's going on in the world, and he likes to tell me the answer. He says it's good practice for him to bounce ideas off of me, because I represent his core constitutionality. But today I didn't even ask a question. Mr. George just came up to me while I was edging the lawn and started talking.

"Listen here, Lenny. There's two kinds of people in the world. There's good people over here-" and he held up his right hand. "And there's bad people over here-" and he held up his left hand. "The good people love freedom and democracy. The bad people, and the evil people, you know the bad people and the evil people can pretty much be lumped in the same thing, and they don't love freedom. Saddam is evil. He just is. William Hung over there in North Korea with all them nucular bombs is evil. And so is John Kerry and all the Democrats."

"My mother is a Democrat," I said.

"Sit down, Lenny. You might take this kinda hard. What I'm doing is making the world safe for freedom and democracy. I'm a part of history, see? And anyone who doesn't support me, and anyone who doesn't love freedom, and freedom is a very important principle, so therefore anyone who refuses to live under democratic reign is evil."

"But what if a Democrat catches you telling a lie? Are they evil for reporting you?"

Mr. George paused for about ten seconds. He made his decision: "Yes, they're evil. You see, I'm a leader, and I need to lead. And sometimes I need to do bad things to help good prevail. If someone says I'm lying, that hurts me as a leader, and that's not good. It's bad. And bad and evil are two pods in a pea."

"But what if they're telling the truth?"

"They're not coming from a position of strength. They're coming from a position of weakness. Instead of being patriotic, they're being sedultory. They want to weaken America. Weakness is bad. And bad is one of the pods."

I kept edging the lawn. This was a lot to think about. Mr. George is like deep water that runs still.

Bombing Iraqi Homosexuals

2004-05-27T17:32:00.000-07:00

Mr. George came up to me outside the White House while I was trimming the rose bushes, so I asked him what all the fuss was about. He told me that the reporters wanted to know why we bombed the bejeesus out of a wedding party in Iraq. So I said, well, why did we bomb the bejeesus out of the wedding party? And he said it's top secret. I said I wouldn't tell anyone and come on, Mr. George, I have a right to know. So that's when he whispered the reason to me: "A top general told me it was two homosexuals getting married. We're building a nation over there, and we need to nip that whole sodomy thing in the butt."

But then I asked about the wedding singer that got killed. Was he a homosexual too? And Mr. George said that collaborative damage was part of war, and that these Iraqis are not innocent. That wedding singer was a Baathist, and he liked to sing love songs by The Magnetic Fields.

Mountain Biking with the President

2004-05-27T17:28:00.000-07:00

People keep asking me why the President of the United States has scabs on his face. I went to Texas with him to help out with his daffodils, and he insisted that I go on the mountain bike ride. It rained hard a week before the accident, so there were some gullies. At the beginning of the ride, Joshua the secret service agent told us all to watch out for the prairie dogs and gullies. It just so happened that a prairie dog bolted out in front of us, and Mr. George veered straight off into the gully, flipped over the front of his bike, and landed on his face and shoulder.

The secret service guy helped Mr. George up while I straightened out his bike and wiped off his water bottle, which had fallen out of its cage. Mike asked Mr. George why he didn't lift his tire over the gully and Mr. George said, "If someone had told me that there would be a prairie dog in that spot, and if someone had told me not to ride in that gully, I would have done something about it." Then Mr. George got back on his bike and kept riding as if nothing happened. When we got back to the ranch house, Mr. George was upset. He ordered me and some other guys to kill all the prairie dogs on his ranch. After we killed about a third of the prairie dogs, he told us to nevermind the prairie dogs, start going after the armadillos.