I Support the War,
but Not the Troops
by Rok Finger 

Good people, the moment of truth is here at last! After months of belly-achin’, belly-scratchin’, and countless failed attempts at belly-sanctions, we’re finally at war again. And Rok Finger couldn’t be gladder. As some people were made for dancin’, Rok Finger was made for times of war. And dancin’.

As the old saying goes, war brings out the best in a man. Guts, brains, plenty of blood and various organs—but you already know how landmines work. Likewise, war brings out the best in Rok Finger. Some are made for philosophizing and some are made for artistic and scientific contributions to mankind; I was made for paranoid ranting about national security and rhetoric.

That being said, I do have some protests to utter. I’m not some blind optimist with complete faith in my country. I can understand the need to protest and the need of cops and city officials to squash those protesters like bugs. Why should those in the war zone get all the fun? However, I can’t find a good crowd to protest with because of my political stances.

On one side, you have the whining hippies. God, how I hate hippies. If there were heaven and hell in the afterlife and heaven were filled with hippies, hell would look pretty compatible for Rok Finger. Always going on and on about stopping death and war and human tragedy—if hippies had their way we’d all be sitting around a group circle getting high and eating trail mix.

But then on the other side are the people who support the war—but they always have to drag the troops into it. What a hassle. “We support the troops!” Like the troops wanted to go to war and fight over five inches of ground and potentially lose their lives. You ask me, the troops have been dragging their heels on this one. I support the administration, I support the war fiends in the war room, but frankly, I don’t think the troops are as up for the fighting as I am. Every time I see one on TV they’re all like, “I just want to do my job for my country and get back home to my wife and kids.” Blah, blah, blah. You don’t have the eye of the tiger, kid.

I didn’t expect much, mind you, we haven’t had real blood-hungry troops since Korea. Lose a few skirmishes and all of a sudden everybody wants to go home. Now to have an entire army made up of Generation X, Y, and probably some Zs, well, what could you expect but a bunch of button-pushers and tactical strategists. These kids grew up on the Internet and grunge music, they’re too busy feeling emotional angst and apathy to throw themselves into machine gun fire with fervor, like the boys used to.

Everybody goes on and on about Vietnam, World War II, but all of us fans of pointless slaughter remember the big one, World War I. Man, there was some mutilation for very little purpose. Those guys had guns you cranked like a music box and they just spit bullets like a cartoon goat who’d eaten a tin can. More French guys were killed in World War I than syphilis could ever aspire for. Why do you think they were so quick to surrender in World War II? They were still picking shrapnel out of their derriers. There was even a country called Rubiskania back then where everybody was killed, so they just annexed it as part of Hungary. Man, that was a war to end all wars. Until the next one.

Nostalgic? Maybe. But I have high hopes for this new big one still. In the end, the troops are just there to be shoved into battle like a puck on the shuffleboard court. And I hear the sloganeering and propaganda from this White House and I know the war is in good hands.

Can’t Trust the Russians
I’m not afraid to step on politically correct toes, even mash them until the nails flake off and become bloody and swollen and bruised. I’ll come right out and say it: The Russians are weird.

I’ve Met the Alleged Woman of My Dreams
Yes, I’ve seen her face—and I’m a believer. I believe in love, like only a miniature, stodgy, past-his-prime man in love can believe! She’s not classically lovely, like the Sphinx, but her nose has been worn off by time in the same fashion.

Rok’s Gotta Have It
I’m no homewrecker, despite what those repair people and Camembert say. But it’s about time Rok Finger got “serviced,” if you know what I mean. Yes, of course: intercourse. Or at least simple female companionship, as long as some genital contact is involved on some level.

I Have Discovered the Identity of the Masked Dude
The challenge was issued, and last week the cage match was carried out, in an extremely small cage. The opponents were fierce—one, yours truly, the other, a hairless, burly fellow of muscular stock and carrying a one-foot advantage.