Home Sweet Homo
by Rok Finger 

Greetings, good homos. Rok Finger here, reporting from the street. Which street isn’t important right now, and besides the sign is in a bold font that offends my sensible eyes. Go ask a little bird if you really need to know that detail of my story.

If I’ve learned one thing from my time on the street, and I have, it’s that homos are people too. And by that I mean that everybody’s a homo these days. So I hope that’s going well for all of you.

Rok Finger, however, is a man cut from a more old-fashioned cloth. Burlap. Most self-respecting men have no time for such a rough, abrasive material, preferring a fabric more pleasing to the touch like Dacron or sponge. Which is why Rok Finger has always sought the company of the female sex. And by that I mean females willing to have sex while I participate or take notes. And thanks to the twin pillars of emotional neediness and parental neglect, these women do exist. Against all odds, especially the steep ones determined by the good people of Las Vegas.

Those unfamiliar with the Finger legend might not know that I built my considerable early fortune on the windfall from a bet I won when my former wife, Arvelyn, slept with me on our wedding night. I had taken action from her parents, a local biologist, and Arvelyn herself, and I am not boasting when I say the odds were low and the payoff large. To this day Arvelyn curses herself for the lack of restraint she showed that night, falling asleep with the key to her chastity belt in plain view on her key ring atop the hotel nightstand. We were married fifteen years before she paid off that debt, after which time I had to learn to use my legs again and adjust to a life of not being carried around all the time.

If I’ve learned two things from my time on the street, and some would argue that I have, one would be the homo thing, no doubt. But the other thing is that we’ve really come a long way in bed-making technology since the days when everyone slept in cardboard boxes on the street. You don’t realize just how comfortable a real bed is until you’ve spent a night sleeping in a dumpster full of basketballs behind a sporting goods store. Regardless of slanderous comments I may have made in this very column in the past, those mattress-makers really know what they’re doing. My apologies go out to them for any uninformed remarks or calls for bloodshed I may have made previous to now.

If you’re waiting for a third thing, you’ll have to continue doing so as I haven’t learned it yet. To be pathetically, shiveringly honest, I’m tired of learning the lessons the street has to offer. Call me old-fashioned, but Rok Finger prefers his lessons in easily-digestible half hour sitcom form, watching shows like COPS from the comfort of my own home. Or even someone else’s home. A friend, neighbor or visually-challenged sexual predator would suffice. I don’t claim to be picky, as long as you don’t harbor political views or any opinions that differ from my own. Any interested parties need only leave their front door open tonight, with a trail of donuts or pulled-pork sandwiches leading to a warm bed near a cable-ready television.

I’ll do the rest.

Like a Rolling Rok
Things are more difficult than in the past, the other times I’ve been unceremoniously thrown out of wherever I was living. Acting-Asshole Ramrod Hurley has instituted a ridiculous new policy of locking the doors when everyone leaves at night, so now I can’t sleep in my desk anymore.

Lord of The Lord of the Rings
That’s right, books. Before seeing the movie I believed books were only delivery systems for cult manifestos or dangerous statistics. Turns out there are whole other worlds in some books, and some of those worlds are worth reading about.

Camembert is No Good
“I think you’re wrong, Rok,” Camembert said to me. Do you believe the brass balls on that handi-capable prick? At first I thought it might be some kind of outright ploy for leadership of the apartment, then I realized his ilk probably doesn’t believe in leadership. They just set up a council and everybody’s on it and nobody ever gets told what to do.

I Support the War, but Not the Troops
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.

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.