Remember back in the day when you played tag with friends? Everyone chased each other around the schoolyard screaming, “You’re it,” “No, you’re it.”

And there was always that kid who was pretty slick. He or she would run, darting this way and that, until finally they were caught.

“You’re it,” you’d say, panting out of breath.

“Uh-uh … I had my fingers crossed,” they’d reply, running away and laughing, hysterically.

At first you fell for it and chased the goofball.

You’d catch them again and say forcefully, “You’re it … OK.”

“Nope. Force field,” they’d insist, then sprint away again.

As you continued to follow the kid, others became bored. Some walked away and started a new game.

Eventually you got fed up and caught the kid in a headlock, hands spread, force field broken. Or at least you tried.

“Executive privilege” is much the same as a Ritalin-deficient schoolchild who uses this mysterious method to invoke elitist protection. It exists no matter how badly the snot-nosed kid needs a “noogie” or a “wedgy.”

President George W. Bush abuses this so-called right a lot these days. In defense, what better way to eliminate criticism than to eliminate proof of decision-making.

But, to prevent being locked up at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, I’m invoking “Columnist Privilege.” The government doesn’t need to know how I feel.

In a way, I feel sorry for our president. Who’s to blame the man when everything seems to have been handed down to him effortlessly?

You can’t tell me he made it into Yale and the notorious Skulls & Bones “fraternal organization,” on grades and wit.

You can’t tell me he had excusable reasons for his absences from the Texas Air National Guard, aside from having too many Miller Lites.

You can’t tell me he wasn’t bankrolled into Harvard Business School, where I’m assuming physical education classes can earn you an MBA.

And you can’t tell me it was his own doing — thanks Florida, thanks Ohio — to make his way into the White House, where he’s still baffled how they constructed an oval office.

“Hold on, Dick. This room’s not quite round, but it ain’t square neither. Oh, duh. It’s white … that’s why it’s the ‘white house,’ huh?”

Sadly, despite the “accomplishments,” nobody showed Junior how to run a country.

Fortunately, the regime is coming to an end. The proof lies in all the positive news our nation is hearing.

The following are some examples the Republican era is ending.

For one, Karl Rove left his position as Bush’s senior political advisor.

I think Republicans running in the 2008 presidential race hinted Rove didn’t help their image anymore than heiress Paris Hilton helped the hotel chain.

It could be bad publicity, or cartoonists needed him as a model for the new Ziggy.

Oh, and gas prices are down.

I suspect they’ll stay down until Hilary Clinton, Barak Obama or John Edwards takes office, then they’ll skyrocket the day before the inauguration.

And, Jenna Bush is getting married.

I really don’t know her marriage will clean up the Republican image, but it’s fun to compare that to the time the Bush twins were arrested in Austin, Texas, stumbling into the streets, underage and intoxicated.

Lastly, as Hurricane Dean barrels past the Cayman Islands towards the Gulf of Mexico, I can only imagine what Bush has planned to save Texas.

He’ll likely make the Republicans shine one last time as he’s on the scene seconds after the last wave retreats, a new double-wide trailer for each Texan who lost their home towed behind his own personal duelie truck. Cheney will sit by his side, shotgun in hand, to fight off looters — or shoot anyone for that matter.

Too bad Louisiana and Mississippi suffered, but those are just two states with a small amount of electoral votes. Who cares, right?

Someone I know who felt sorry for Bush once said, “He’s no Abraham Lincoln, that’s for sure.”

Abraham Lincoln? He’s no Herbert Hoover.

Bottom line, Monica Lewinsky didn’t hide her dress — what could be so bad Bush can’t reveal?

And pertaining to the column’s “censorship,” it can be read in its entirety at www.redrocknews.com.

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