ROK FINGER'S DESK IS NOT PUBLIC PROPERTY the commune's Rok Finger is recooperating in an area hospital
Monday, Oct. 1, 2001
If there were only one message I could have emblazoned onto a tee-shirt that I would be
required to wear from that day forward, like an albatross around the proverbial sailor’s
neck, it would be this: "ROK FINGER’S DESK IS NOT PUBLIC PROPERTY". I’m not exactly sure
how this scenario might one day come to be, but for this and a thousand other contingencies
Rok Finger is prepared.
This choice of messages would be a timely one, as the world is obviously in the dark on
this subject. Countless times I have come into the office in the morning to find multiple
staples gone missing from my stapler, alarmingly thinned rolls of Scotch tape, and once
even a hoagie stain on my desk in the shape of South Dakota governor William J. Janklow.
But the most gruesome violation was saved for today, when my defenses were lowered by a
freak elevator mishap at the commune’s West 194th Street offices.
I began this day, as many others, with a quick bath of mineral salts and baking soda.
After a breakfast of frozen pot pies and coffee, and taking a few minutes to enter a
submission in Swanson’s “Ultimate Pot Pie Ingredients” mail-in contest, I drove to the
commune’s offices. Leaving my car with the gang of slouchers on the street who pass for
parking valets these days, I steeled myself for another rigorous day of columnisting. I
entered the elevator and reached up to depress the button for my floor, proud that thanks
to the new lifts in my Floorsheims, I no longer needed assistance in selecting the higher
floors. But right as I was about to press the button I experienced a sudden blinding
flash of light, and the next thing I knew I was laying on the floor of the elevator,
groggy and disoriented. I’d had an experience that can most easily be explained in two
words: alien abduction.
Where the aliens took me and what they did to Rok Finger’s anus are anyone’s guess, but no
other scenario explains the blinding light, lost time, and the clearly disoriented
witnesses who shared the elevator with me this morning. As they stood and gaped, gasping
non-sequitors like “Rok Finger’s had a stroke!” and “Somebody get the paramedics, we’ve
got a dying midget in here!”, the signs of alien skullduggery were unmistakable.
I took leave of my fellow abductees when the elevator reached my floor, and quickly made
my way to my office, eager to take refuge in the soothing hues of it’s simulated wood
paneling. But believe me people, refuge was not to be mine this morning: some nogoodnik
has befouled my office! Gone are the framed pictures of Arvelyn, my wife of thirty years,
and Checkers, the horse I once rode at the State Fair. What kind of soulless being would make off with
my Successories desk calendar, leaving this half-empty can of bull semen in it’s place?
And what of these countless BMX posters that mar the walls, are they the work of a
God-fearing man? Are these Jennifer Connelly pin-ups supposed to be a reference to my
alleged marital infidelities with the Mount View girls’ soccer team? And what to make of
the cheesecake photos with Hugh Downs’ face taped over them? A possible affront to my
sexuality and the Finger bloodline?
Whoever committed this outrage, they were highly fond of basset hounds, that much is clear.
There are enough porcelain basset hounds in this office to open a gift shop at the mall,
should a basset hound-themed mall ever be erected.
The more I sift through the detritus left in my office, the more puzzled I become. Why
leave months of dirty laundry on my office floor? Who would etch “SLAYER” into the armrest
of my chair? And what could the six-foot cardboard cutout of Sonny Bono possibly
mean?
Looking out my office window, it seems that even the view has changed. The pleasant
panorama of the aggregate dredging facility has been swapped with this pedestrian vista of
a girl’s dormitory shower and sunbathing roof. It seems that scofflaws spare no expense
when pulling a jape on Rokwe- hold the phone! Someone suffering from this obvious level
of mental disorganization couldn’t possibly have had the building rotated in one night’s
time! I’m on the wrong floor! Good God people, in all of the pot-pie-themed excitement this
morning, I must have forgotten to put the new lifts in my shoes!
Happy day, faithful reader! Happy day! To the ninth floor!
Milestones
the commune's scratch 'n sniff look at last year's office potluck
Opportunities
Pants a Capitalist
Free Virus Baggies
Take a Kitten, Please
the commune book selections
the commune's Bear in Rearview
the commune's Big Book of Duke
Faces of the commune
the commune 100: Leaders and Revolutionaries
the commune 100: Traitors and Noodledicks
FAQ Shwartz |
Site Map's Somewhere in the Glovebox |
Search In Vain |
Contract Ick
Privacy Police |
Terms of Gary Busey |
Reprints & Persimmons |
Press Eject Now
CUIDADO: PISO MOJADO
That’s right, Spanish. And as every bi American knows, that’s Spanish for "Look Out: I Pissed on the Floor".
Why "My Friend Polio?"
You get asked a lot of stupid questions when you write for the commune. Like, "What is the commune?" and "Who the hell are you?" and "Sir, can you empty your pockets please? Don’t cause a scene, sir."
Your Kung Fu is Weak
No dice, no rice, don’t think thrice--the conclusion is made, amigo. Your kung fu is weak.
10-10-SELLOUT
What does Kenny Rogers know about chicken? I want to eat at Domingo Pavoratti's Roasters. That tub looks like he knows his chicken.
Porno Broke My VCR
Just today on the way home I passed the friendly neighborhood porno theater and what did I see on the marquee (I mean, under "A Fistfull of Tits" and "Jug-Jambouree") but the simple words "VCR REPAIR UPSTAIRS". I should have suspected as much.
Nostradamus My Ass
Historical fact proves that Nostradamus was a punk-assed bitch. It's true, look it up yourself.
Burning Down the Bauhaus
That's the last time I trust a pink dolphin reading the New York Times. Huh, like the Times knows shit about shit.