he whole wide world heaved a giant sigh of relief this week with the news that disaster had been averted: despite Mother Nature’s best attempts to rob us of one of our most beautiful people, pretty Czech supermodel Petra Nemcova has survived the Asian tsunami. Accidentally trapped in the midst of the ugly foreign tragedy while on a glamorous beach vacation, Nemcova soldiered through the big wet mess by clinging bravely to a tree while her photographer boyfriend was tsunamied to his apparent death. Nemcova sustained only moderate injuries in what international aid workers are calling “a miracle from God.�

That same miracle, however, killed over 155,000 foreign peoples, most of whom can charitably be described as “nobodies.� To date, the bodies of over 155,000 nobodies have been found in disaster recovery operations throughout southern Asia. The search for celebrities continues.

In the wake of the recent tsunamic free-for-all, American President George W. Bush has vowed vengeance against all nations suspected of harboring or supporting the deadly ocean waves. Early reports indicate that the Middle Eastern nations of Iran and Syria are already on the president’s tsunami “shit list.�

Other nations known to have studied tsunamis in the past, including Jordan and Turkey, are reportedly also under close watch. Lending credence to the theory that oil and evil go together like beef and cheese, Bush also suggested that Saudi Arabia is skating on thin ice regarding their own tsunami-harboring status.

“This terrible tragedy has earned the president precious political capital, and he intends to use it,� explained the Secretary of State Colin Powell, indicating that American troops were even now readying to kick the Iranians’ tsunami-loving butts back to Tehran.

Little is known about the elusive tsunami, whose name comes from the Japanese word for “big fucking milkshake.� First described in the 1964 pop hit “Love Tsunami� by Little Johnny Maxwell, scientists have been unable to determine where the giant killer waves come from, or where they hide out between attacks.

“A tsunami is apparently some kind of big wavy thing,� explained University of Minnesota geologist Hans Goering. “I know, woo—scary. But apparently a lot of those people didn’t know how to swim or something. In addition, we believe that this event may have featured an unprecedented number of surfing fatalities. Kids should take heart and remember to always wear a bicycle helmet while surfing. Also, don’t fall asleep in a hut on the beach.�

Nemcova’s miraculous survival has brought hope to millions in the region, who take heart in the fact that despite the widespread misery and destruction prevalent in so many countries bordering the Indian Ocean, no famous or really beautiful Americans were killed in the tsunami attack. Meanwhile, international aid groups continue to search the wreckage day and night for signs of anyone you may have heard of.

he U.S. may have a new Attorney General by this time next month, one who makes John Ashcroft seem like a reasonable candidate for the job. Alberto Gonzales, possibly the world's most Hilteresque Hispanic-American, is set for confirmation and expected to get all the votes needed for appointment, even though he has still been defending his record on human rights. On Friday, Gonzales attempted to clarify some of his previous statements, including one made in a memo from September of 2001, stating, "America will feast on terrorists' bones when the sun falls on this war."

Gonzales, nicknamed "Francisco Franco-American" by this reporter just now, has been accused of creating the Bush White House position on human rights—summed up by the statement, "Human rights? Huh?" In his former position as White House counsel, Gonzales, miraculously keeping the president out of jail for four years, challenged that prisoners taken without evidence and without due process in the War on Terror were not subject to the same protections as other soldiers imprisoned during wartime under the codes of the Geneva conventions.

In other feats of jaw-dropping "what the fuck," Gonzales challenged the very definitions of torture accepted around the world. Previous definitions, based on ideas of "cruel and unusual punishment," were replaced with the even more ambiguous definition of "excruciating and agonizing pain." At least with this definition, Ashton Kutcher movies are now officially designated torture.

"Unusual punishment? What's so bad about unusual punishment?" defended Gonzales in Friday's seven-hour testimony to the Senate Judiciary Committee Friday. "If I get a bare-bottom spanking from Mamie Van Doren, it might unusual, but I say that doesn't qualify as torture. And those guys in Camp X-Ray—they got it so good it ought to be illegal. I mean, it probably would be, if it were on American soil. But you know what I mean."

Asked if the attorney's arguments against the Geneva conventions opened the door for the abuses at Iraq's Abu Ghraib prison, Gonzales pretended not to hear the question. Asked again, he pretended not to know what Abu Ghraib was. After a lengthy recount of the many incidents of prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib, Gonzales gave a more definite response.

"Nah. Probably not," said the attorney.

Gonzales then took a firmer stance, saying the pictures of abuse, which he owned plenty of in his personal collection, were "people who were morally bankrupt having fun." At least, continued Gonzales, it "looked like a lot of fun."

The attorney, who had by now pitted out his entire suit with sweat, was asked to clarify the infamous statement on eating the bones of terrorists.

"I was paraphrasing the Jolly Green Giant," answered Gonzales. "Or whoever that guy was. The one whose home was invaded by the tiny terrorist who stole his golden goose. We will use their bones, meaning the terrorists', to butter our bread. That's all I meant to say. I apologize if the meaning was taken that we will actually be eating the bones straight out of their bodies. I don't believe that would be very appetizing for most Americans. Not at all. Anyway, if we do it, nobody has to watch—is that the problem here?"

Senate Judiciary Committee Chairman Arlen Specter comically threw all his papers up in the air at that point, mugged for the grandstand, and told the people, "Well, I frankly don't see a problem here…"

Don't ask me why or how, but I keep dating guys named Evan. Without exception. It's actually kind of eerie and disconcerting the more I think about it, which is probably a good sign to quit. Thinking about it, that is. I'm not sure I can quit dating Evans, since I never actually set out to date guys named Evan in the first place.

I thought I had broken my streak once, back in 1997, when I started to date a guy named Charles. Then two months into the relationship I met his parents and discovered that his real name was Evan. His friends just called him Charles. For short? For long? I don't have any frickin' idea. His middle name wasn't even Charles, it was T-Fal. Don't get me started on that one.

Things went predictably downhill from there.

Things went sour between the previous Evan (Evan 7) and I after he wrote a column about Columbine called "Revenge of the Nerds," which I thought was unforgivably tacky. And he wasn't even writing for the commune! I'd thought that dating a fellow columnist would solve a lot of those normal career-relationship problems, like living with someone who doesn't understand your need to move in with a tribe of Kalahari Bushmen for a month to research a piece you're writing on teen pregnancy.

Turns out I was as wrong on that as I had been about my hot stock pick for that year: "Fat Camps" for bulking up underweight kids. Turns out you can't legally force-feed a child peanut butter through a tube, plus the chunks tend to clog up the tube. But that didn't much matter in the end, since my second-choice stock had been for a company developing man-sized Furby dolls as companions for the elderly, and that whole enterprise went south like a snowbird after some old bag in Kansas tried to feed hers soup and it blew the power grid for half of North America.

The first Evan I dated was probably the best, and in retrospect I should have quit while I was ahead. Sure, it was high school, but if I had known what was to come I would have gladly called it a romantic career at 16. Truthfully, I don't remember that much about Evan 1, but he smelled nice and that went a long way in high school. I think he was on the soccer team; either that or he just took shin safety very seriously.

It was a quick luge-run downhill from there, since Evan 2 pretty much spent all his time drinking Zima and crushing the empty Zima boxes against his forehead as a joke, which meshed surprisingly well with his job as an toll booth operator. People love a little levity when they're fishing through their seat cracks and underwear for 35 cents. And he did pull down a decent wage, mostly through selling Zimas to thirsty motorists. That eventually led to his downfall, of course, since one day he ran out of Zimas and had to leave his post to run to the Liquor Barn, which resulted in that story you heard on the news about those 200 people who got into the state of Illinois for free. Evan's boss was pretty pissed and wanted him to pay those lost tolls out of his own pocket, but never the math scholar, Evan jumped out the window instead and never looked back, not realizing he'd just left a lucrative Zima-distribution job over $70.

Evans 3 through 6 weren't worth remembering, or at least I don't remember them anyway, and numbers 9 and 10 left me for each other, so I won't be glorifying them with a more detailed mention. But on the bright side, I just started dating a new guy named Elvin, which I consider to at least be a step in the right direction. Unless he's really just another Evan with really sloppy handwriting, in which case I'm doubly screwed since I'm not sure if I'm supposed to meet him tonight at the boathouse or a bathhouse. I'm hoping it's the boathouse, since I'm tired of gay boyfriends always using up all my expensive makeup. Wish me luck.

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