Progress or Congress?

We've heard about all the new Czars: the Car Czar, the Energy Czar, the Green Czar, the Lime-Green Czar, the Cola Czar, the Diet Cola Czar, the Cola With Just A Hint Of Lime Czar, the Bee-Czar, the Czar In Charge Of Forest-Dwelling Quadrupeds Under Eighteen Inches In Height.

But we only just learned that over 200 "normal" administration positions are still unfilled. Minor jobs, to be sure, like head of the DEA, half the Treasury, and Midnight Intern Pizza Delivery Coordinator, but still.

More disturbing, these 3 or 4 dozen Czars are running around, Czaring all over the place, without any Senate approval - despite a clear admonition from our Founders who, in their wisdom, foresaw some future, out-of-control President attempting to appoint shady characters drawn from foreign novels.

According to my copy of "The American Constitution As Originally Bunged Together By Several Guys Wearing Wigs And Knickers," and I quote: If any jerk ever starts appointing Russian rulers, he shall be duly told to 'knock it off.' Then shall his Virginia-sized ego be forcibly removed and converted into a public park.

So I was glad when the President recently nominated somebody for a Cabinet position; glad that, for a change, the Senate would get to do something legal.

Hurrying home to watch the confirmation hearings, I spotted this oddly-shaped lime-green blob, throbbing along in the lane ahead of me. It looked like a car, almost, but smaller; maybe a car left in the dryer too long; maybe a car digitally morphed by movie software. It looked like a car cartoon.

The thing was dabbling forward at a blistering 30 miles per month, so I coasted alongside to get a closer look. Ah. It was the debut effort from Government Motors. The plastic-baked, eco-friendly, hilariously silly-looking car of the future.

It was the Obama Smote.

The Smote looked like a prank pulled off by some deranged lumberjack, who took a real car from Earth, lopped off everything except the front seat, and then glued on headlights and taillights. And the driver looked like somebody who had lost a frat-house bet. There was barely enough room in the car's cabin for the owner's manual, much less the owner.

The driver wore that taut expression often exhibited by out-patients when undergoing certain highly personal and invasive cleansing procedures. The pretzel-sized steering wheel was shoehorned against his chest. He had undoubtedly left his legs at home. No way they would've fit in

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