This week, we're looking at yet another 'Orange Alert' in Bush Country. It's beginning to feel like the fable about the little farm boy who cried, "Wolf!" one time too many.

Remember the story? This little kid is playing in the backyard and calls to his parents to save him from a wolf. There is no wolf, and he does this a number of times until his parents stop believing him. At last a real wolf comes along. The kid calls for help, the parents ignore him and the wolf has a tasty, tender, little kid for lunch.

The moral of the story is; if you lie too often, people will stop believing you. What wasn't explored in the tale was his motivation for repeated acts of equivocation.

I can sympathize with Wolf Boy. I too was the kind of kid who reveled in mendacity. I grew into an adult whose livelihood depends on his skill at creative prevarication. Years of therapy have helped me understand my need to massage the truth. It's the class clown syndrome.

Every class clown needs attention and some will do anything to get it. Which brings us back to the recent Orange Alert which so neatly turns the media spotlight back onto the valiant efforts of The Commander and Chief and his pals, at defending life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness in the glorious US of A.

Is it a coincidence that media attention has been on the Democratic Convention the last few weeks, and not on the Bush crew? Am I being cynical by suggesting that an Orange Alert based on three year old intelligence is just a blatant attempt by the Republicans to get themselves back on the front page, as the Presidential contest heats up? Could it all be so deviously contrived?

Now don't get me wrong. I've always liked the color orange; maple trees in the fall, sunset through the city's smog cover, the orange glow over Nagasaki as Big Bertha vaporized the city and Agent Orange the terra-forming herbicide used on trees and children in Vietnam. Oh and let's not forget 'A Clock Work Orange', that tribute to torture as a therapy tool for rehabilitating pervs and malefactors.

So it seems the black-art boys have stumbled on evidence that someone, somewhere is planning to do something, against someone. So the orange flag goes up. To keep the populace suitably vigilant they crank up the fear machine. And of course, they let everyone know that they are the only ones who can protect the populace from this heinous peril.

But as an avid fear monger, I make it a point to celebrate all media sponsored cultural events-like 'National Take Your Gun To Work Day', the Bay Watch Reunion and of course Jeffrey Dalmer's birthday.

This is my first 'Orange Alert Event' and I am a bit uncertain-not quite sure how to act. I try to work up some panic. I am nervously checking the emergency stash of dried tofu and canned beets, when I step on the cat's tail. She claws the dog's nose with her carefully sharpened talons and he knocks over an end table, breaking my favorite Dalton figurine. The day has just begun and it's already 1-0 for al-Qaida.

I try to remember the signs of the coming Apocalypse. Will giant carnivorous locus suddenly descend on my front lawn? Will I stand by helpless, as the schoolteacher from next door is suddenly yanked from her SUV and turned into a goat? Will all the self-righteous disappear over coffee break-never to be seen again? My greatest fear is that I'll break out in that 'sign of the beast' thing. It has to be painful and unattractive and sure to clash with the new suit I just bought for my cousin's wedding.

Paranoia breeds paranoia. The dog has taken to growling at every unshaven male he encounters, ever vigilant should Bin the Beard target our neighborhood for terrorist malfeasance.

The neighbour kids think the whole exercise is a lark until their parents slip a roll of duct tape into each of their book bags and send them to school with their home phone number pinned to their jackets.

When the mail arrives these days, I open it wearing the latex gloves I keep under the bathroom sink, reserved for those nasty plumbing emergencies. I've yet to find mysterious powder in an envelope, but the electric bill threatens me with dire consequence, if immediate payment of my outstanding account isn't received by 5 PM the next business day. (Cheque or money order only they say. We don't trust the help with cash.)

Even more chilling is the appointment reminder from my dentist, offering veiled threats to me and my loved ones, of serious periodontal distress, should we fail to appear for our next scheduled appointment.

I'm hoping that by the time this story comes to print a White House spokesman has announced that the crisis has been averted. They've saved us once again. And of course, by now, those running the show have turned their attention back to their favorite color. The only color that really means anything to the big avarice boys with the big deadly toys. I spy with my little eye piles and piles of crisp, green cash.