The other day I gave a posthumous Medal of Honor to a Navy SEAL who died when he leapt atop a grenade, saving his platoon. Press reports said that I was "tearful." Tearful, nothing! I was out-and-out crying! Those were legacy tears! I want to go down in history as a President who sent men to war but knew what war was, and consequently knew what men were.

If it had been Clinton, he would have embraced the parents gravely but still managed to charm the mother. If it had been Lyndon Johnson, he would have hopped on his space-scooter and jetted off to his penthouse. I may have my history slightly wrong. If it had been Harry Truman, he would have nuked them. I know that's right.

Oliver Stone is making a movie about me. Can you believe it? The same guy who made "Wall Street." I'm so proud! Remember that scene when Charlie Sheen (I forget his character's name) is out on the balcony, and he says "Who am I?" and his girlfriend, Daryl Hannah, says "Bud, come to bed."

Hillary Clinton called on me to boycott the Olympics in China. I agreed. I don't run so fast, so I wouldn't be of much help to our great nation in the Olympics. Then it was explained to me that she doesn't want ME me to boycott, she wants the United States to boycott the Olympics. In that case, well, no. Our brave men and women in leotard uniform need to be able to express themselves in athletic terms, whether swimmers or rowers or javelin throwers or whatnot.

Here is something you may not know about the Olympics: they come from ancient games that people played, though in the old days, they played them naked, and sometimes had relations with young boys. We've come a long way.

I was just informed that the Pope will be spending Passover in a synagogue. Is this some kind of joke? It reminds me of this one:  "So, a Pope walks into a synagogue. Then he runs out."

One of my regular readers responded to yesterday's post, about the difference between the Soviet Georgia and the Southern American Georgia, with a fascinating comment. "Of course you're interested in Georgias," the reader wrote. "It's very similar to your name. It's the same reason that you like bushes." I will assume he is joking about my liking bushes. I prefer trees.

The note went on. "You have always been a little selfish, or at least self-absorbed. In fact, most of your decisions proceed with very little consideration for others, unless they are an abstraction (like the Iraqi people, supposedly thirsting for democracy)." I'm not sure that I like how the tone of the note turned at the end. Dad can be rude sometimes.

I said I want Ukraine and Georgia to join NATO. You're durn tootin' right I did! And it wasn't one of those Three-Stooges-like mistakes where I get confused between Georgia the former Soviet republic and Georgia the Southern state. I know that the republic is roughly transliterated as "Sarkatvelo" and that the reason it's called Georgia in the West, most likely, is that it has, over its history, relied heavily on farming, and "georgicus" is Latin for agriculture.

I threw out the ceremonial first pitch for the Nationals last night. Or is it ceremonical? Yes, yes, of course. Ceremonical. The music of that word is indisputable. I threw out the ceremonical first pitch for the Nationals last night to celebrate the opening of Nationals Park. This is a long tradition, Presidents and balls. It stretches all the way back to William Howard Taft, who was so fat he had to throw his pitch from his seat in the stands. I am more athletic, so I sent the high heat. That thing was moving faster than a black Democrat away from Jeremiah Wright. The catcher shook his hand as if stung. "Man," he said. "You are one strong-armed President."

"It's better than being a strong-arm dictator," I said.

"That's a good zinger," he said.

"I know," I said. "You already said that."

"No," he said. "Not the pitch. The pitch was good, but I meant that your remark was a good zinger."

"What?"

"Zinger," he said. "It means a witty remark."

I'm so sick of hearing about the economy. The economy's in trouble. The economy's sad. The economy stubbed its freakin' toe. Well, look, people, Americans, my fellow countrymen -- the economy will be fine. I checked its crybaby pulse and it's strong. Things happen in cycles, and for reasons, and just because your puny brain might not be able to fathom those reasons, well, that doesn't mean that my brain has to fathom them either.

Stop worrying about the big things and concentrate on what I like to call the "grace notes." The other day, I bought a Swatch. I gave the shopkeeper money and he returned to me a bit of change. Voila! The economy works. And I am looking at that new Swatch right now, and it's telling me that it's time for all of you to shut the hell up.

A Chicago consulting firm has estimated that the NCAA basketball tournament will cost companies more than $1.7 billion in productivity, as workers take breaks to watch the games on their computers. I have so much to say about this that I'm not sure it can be contained in a single post. For starters, aren't computers amazing? My computer and your computer both know, at the exact same time, who is winning a basketball game, even one being played far away, by black Americans. (I agree that isn't really on point, but Karl told me to mention blackness whenever possible, because it hurts Barack Obama's chances.) 

That's my first point: computers are amazing. The second point is that basketball is unpredictable. Duke narrowly escaped losing to a team named Belmont, which I think makes a better name for a butler. A black butler! I bring up this point of unpredictability to prove that even an outmatched team with questionable strategy can show up, play brilliantly for 30-35 minutes (depending on how long a basketball game is), and pull off an upset.

In other words, there's stil hope in Iraq.