I don't know how I feel about the war in Iraq. Most people I've listened to (even when I was trying really hard not to) seem to have very strong feelings about it one way or the other. They think either Bush is a genius and support the war effort wholeheartedly, or they consider him a nitwit and think we should get out of the Middle East yesterday, if not sooner.

I know I would dearly love to see our men and women back home where they belong, but at the same time, maybe there really IS a reason for us to be there. I don't think it's the same reason George "Show Me the Weapons of Mass Destruction" Bush says it is, but then I've thought from day one that he was a Big Fibber.

If you're a Bush supporter, I apologize for that Big Fibber remark. He's probably a great guy if you get to know him personally (and if you own an oil company).

Oops, there I go again, making snippy comments about our Commander in Chief.  And you don't need that from me; not so long as the rest of my liberal, bleeding heart, half-wit, anti-American, wooly-headed columnist brethren continue to crank out Bush-bashing opinion pieces.

Anyway, back to the war: There were no WMD's, of course. And we didn't find Osama (remember him?) hiding out in any of Saddam's spider holes.  And there are A LOT of countries in the world with oppressive, non-democratic governments. So why are we in Iraq? Hah! I'll bet many of you answered, "That's easy! It's all about the OIL, stupid."

To that I say, "Oh, yeah?!"

Whew! This heady, intellectual repartee just wears me out.

Anyway, the REAL reason we're in "the sandbox" is: Americans like to fight. Not all Americans, certainly; just the sort who tend to run for President. I'm not picking on Bush here, at least not exclusively. Kennedy, Lincoln, Nixon, Johnson, and many more ... they all presided over a country at war, or at least a Cold War.

Why so presidents want to fight? Because wartime Presidents get a "legacy" that looks good in history books. Consider Clinton; he wasn't a bad guy, didn't cause too much trouble. But ... no war. And so he will always be remembered primarily as a mediocre sax player who got down and dirty with Monica.

Kennedy - a wartime President - was (allegedly) doing the Funky Chicken with Marilyn Monroe in the Oval Office every chance he got, but that's not the first thing people think of when his name's mentioned.

So it's hard to blame Dubya for doing his darndest to find a battle to tether his legacy to.

Still, if he had thought things through a little more ... or better yet, consulted with ME first, I think the country would be in a better place right now.

I have - in the best Presidential tradition - A Plan. It's a little complicated, so stay with me here. I've broken the plan down into five distinct phases, which I will now make up as I go along:

PHASE ONE: It's a given that Presidents are gonna fight. Whether they do this because it's in their blood, or because they're chowder-heads, or because they really think they have a legitimate reason for sending American men and women into harm's way on foreign soil doesn't matter. What matters is: they're going to do it.  The sooner we accept that fact, the happier we'll all be.  OK, let's move on to...

PHASE TWO: Since Presidents just can't resist a good war, let's at least pick one that's A) easy to win, B) inexpensive, and C) convenient for most parties concerned.

Iraq - let's be real - is a crappy place to fight a war. I have a couple friends who recently returned from tours of duty there and they say it's dusty, inhospitable, hot, and frankly, just too damn far from home.  In addition, it costs a lot of money to move soldiers and equipment to and from Iraq.

To make matters worse, the locals there just LOVE to fight. They've been fighting for centuries. If they didn't have us to fight with, they'd be fighting with each other. It's like a WHOLE COUNTRY full of presidents! To them, we're nothing but the enemy du jour.

PHASE THREE: So then, we can agree Iraq is a lousy place to visit, it costs too much to get there, and the locals love to fight. That being the case, the best course of action is to: Pick Another Country!

That's right. It's unreasonable to ask a President to NOT fight a war, so we need to ask him to fight one someplace most Americans actually WANT to visit.

France is an obvious choice. The country itself is beautiful, the residents have a long tradition of surrendering at the first sign of trouble, and the French - I think we can all agree - really need a good booty-whuppin' from time to time.

We could march in the troops, drink all the good wine, take a few prisoners just to show we mean business, then force all the Frenchmen under age 60 to visit Euro Disney and eat at McDonald's.

That'll teach ‘em.

Problem is, France, like Iraq, is too far away. There's this whole ocean in the way. Also, it's surrounded by other countries like England, Italy and Germany, and we don't want to make them nervous. Especially not Germany. Remember what happened last time.

Anyway, distance and other geographical considerations force us to move on to...

PHASE FOUR: Canada! That's right; our neighbors to the north. They'd be the perfect enemy.
Okay, okay, I know ... I like Canadians too. I like their beautiful, well-maintained cities, I like their beer, I like hockey; I even like the way they talk, eh.

But, c'mon! They're just SITTING there between us and Alaska (which is also us, by the way, so we've already got them surrounded). Let's drive a few tanks over the border and show them who's boss.

It'll keep George Bush busy, and nobody will have to get hurt, not even Canadians. We could use rubber bullets, the soft, squishy kind. Maybe the Defense Department could get together with the Nerf people to develop some new weapon for use on the Canadian battlefield. Like a paintball gun, maybe, only not so messy; those Canadians are serious about preventing litter.

Also, Canada's close to home; our soldiers could visit their families on weekends, weather permitting. Once we'd "conquered" Canada, we could do what we always do after a major war - move on to...

PHASE FIVE: Post-war "rebuilding." This is the part where we try to make it up to the Canadians for having left tank tracks all over their highways and nature preserves.

It would be a great photo-op (VERY presidential) for Uncle George; he could hand Stephen Harper (the Canadian Prime Minister - I looked it up) one of those oversized checks while flashing a "thumbs up" to the cameras.

I figure we could make the check out for about $430,193,485,000. Now, I know that - at first glance - that seems like a big chunk of change, and God only knows what the Canadians would do with all the money (probably something dumb, like bolstering their national health care program) but really (REALLY!) that's about what the war in Iraq has cost us to date.

So we'd be none the broker, George would have won his war and would therefore be able to feel good about himself when daddy visits the White House, and no American men or women would have to spend what should be the best years of their lives mucking about in some godforsaken desert thousands of miles from home.

I'll admit there are probably flaws to my plan, little details I - in my haste to get this column done so I can put my feet up and watch "Law & Order" reruns - haven't thought of.

But guess what, folks? There are also flaws in the plan the President is using NOW. And THAT plan was thought out carefully by the country's best minds; every aspect was considered in excruciating detail and nothing was left to chance, right?

Right? Hello?

Uh-oh.

The world is changing, and I'm being forced to change with it.  I first noticed this yesterday, when I stopped at the gas station for a fill-up.*

The posted gas price was "only" $3.49 - every place else in the area was closer to $3.60 and rumors of $4-per-gallon prices by sundown were flying.

I wanted to fill up, but so did about 30 other people. These potential customers had circled the station with their SUVs and mini-vans. They'd even elected a spokesperson, a huge, muscular fellow wearing a hockey mask who - as I pulled up - was speaking into a microphone.

"Just walk away," he said to the gas station employees, all of whom huddled together behind the cash register. At least two of them appeared to be armed with homemade flame-throwers. "Just walk away. No one has to die. We just want the gas. Just walk away."

Suddenly one of the employees jumped up from behind the counter with a rusty Kalashnikov and lay down a barrage of suppressing fire while the others jumped in a tanker truck a tore off down the street. The customers started their engines and began driving in wild circles around the station, whooping and hollering.

I decided I'd try my luck at another station in a nearby town. But when I got there I discovered the town was now surrounded by armed guards and a barbed-wire barrier. Fortunately, I had two cans of lima beans in the truck with me. I removed the labels, told the guards the cans were filled with peaches, and traded them for entrance into the city.

Inside, I drove around looking for an open gas station. Unfortunately, the town's only source of fuel was an underground methane factory populated by a big, scary guy, a little guy who rode around in the big guy's backpack, and about 500 pigs (who were directly responsible for producing the - ahem - methane). The town did not smell good.

I mentioned this to one of the guards, who took it as an insult. Next thing I knew, I was tossed unceremoniously into a cage where I was forced to fight the big, scary pig farmer using nothing but my wits and a chain saw. About a hundred spectators gathered ‘round the cage to bet on the fight and eat corn dogs and elephant ears. Things were going badly for me until, for no particular reason, I started whistling the theme song to the television show "Three's Company."

The giant covered his ears and fell to the floor whimpering. I seized the opportunity to clout him behind the ear with the handle of the chain saw; this seemed to quiet him down some.
While everyone was watching the big guy to see if he'd get up and moidalize me, I snuck out the back way, hopped in my truck and beat cheeks out of there. I didn't even ask for a refund for the two cans of "peaches."

My gas gauge was slipping steadily toward "E." I was running out of time. I was running out of gas.

I decided to try to make it home on the few paltry gallons remaining to me. But hordes of motorcycle-riding, Mohawk-wearing, Australian-sounding hippies kept trying to cut me off and force my truck off the road.

I rolled down my window and shouted: "Give it a rest! I've only got a quarter tank!"

"Aww," they all moaned. Then they were off in a cloud of dust and exhaust smoke, searching for more fertile hunting grounds.

Back home, I learned that The Lovely Mrs. Taylor had experienced similar troubles on her way home from the office. "Tina Turner wanted me to fight some pig farmer to the death," she said. "Can you believe it?"

I could.
She continued: "Then, there were these guys who looked like refugees from a Men at Work video who chased me on motorcycles."

"I know, I know," I said. "They were after me, too."

Nobody can say Mrs. T and I can't tell which direction the wind's blowing. We brought the lawn mower (with its full tank of unleaded) into the living room, locked the doors, and turned out the lights.

We're hoping to make it through this gas-gouging emergency without losing our innate civility. But just in case, I've downloaded plans for building my own flame-thrower. G'day mate.

* I should point out up front that, unless you've seen the "Road Warrior/Mad Max" movies, starring Mel Gibson in the days before he was directing Aramaic snuff films, this column probably won't make much sense. The same could be said even if you HAVE seen those flicks, but that's my fault.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or observations about how much he looks like a young Mel Gibson, e-mail mtaylor@midmich.net or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.