The Last Nights of a Free Man
by Rok Finger 

Scream out loud in joyous revelry, good people. I get married this weekend and the last gasp of the single man is coming out now. We call it the bachelor party.

You may interrupt me with more of your trademark, “But Rok…” shit, but I don’t have time to stop and listen. When is the bachelor party, you ask? Was it last night, last weekend? Or is it tonight? Bitch, Rok Finger don’t throw no pissant four-hour bachelor party. It’s going on presently. All week, from the official first night Red Bagel invited us over for the ceremonial cracking of the first keg right up until I say my drunken wedding vows. I’m going to party like it’s the last week of my life! It effectively is, I believe.

It started out as a typical bachelor party plan, when fortunately good friend and a little too-hippie-for-my-tastes associate Omar Bricks got involved, with the sage advice that one-night parties were earmark signs of a pussy. Am I pussy, he asked me? Well, obviously I disagreed with that notion, so once we got the liquor flowing at Bagel’s house, we decided the bachelor party would set a Guinness record. Though how much Guinness one man can drink before he drops dead is anyone’s guess. Assuming Boner Cunningham is actually still breathing, he may be the title holder. We would check and see but most of us are too drunk to bend over that far without going down for good.

All the dudes and Lil Duncan are invited to the happenin’ bachelor party. We tried to keep Lil out, but when you mix alcohol and men together she estimates she has a moral obligation to attend. All of my private friends and office mates of the XY-gender are enjoying the festivities, except for Ramrod Hurley. That man will enjoy the slow rot on a spit in hell, and I won’t have him muck up my social events. But even former office camel toe Raoul Dunkin is having fun. At least he was before Bagel & company t.p.’d him and sent him rolling down the stairs to see how far he could roll through the offices of Crochet! magazine.

Yes, even my old drinkin’/apartment livin’ buddies Lee and traitorous Camembert are invited. I made amends with both when we stopped by their apartment building to burn it down. Turns out it may have all been a misunderstanding, I couldn’t understand Camembert too well with that wheelchair of his yelling obscenities all the time. But he and Lee joined us at the daily office party here, and it’s been fun on a stick ever since. Actually, I haven’t seen Camembert, and now that I think about it I don’t believe the offices are handicapped accessible. Still, he had enough to drink last night where he can’t even tell he’s carrying on with the street people out front.

Red Bagel has been a tremendous father figure to me in my comparably short time at the commune. In all my work situations, I’ve never felt such a kinship with my boss, and such a dire need to keep both eyes open at all times. Maybe putting dillhole Hurley in charge for a while made me realize what a vital part Red Bagel is in all our lives, and to show him that, I’ve asked him to give me away at my wedding. He hasn’t responded yet, he’s been comatose since late Friday, but I believe he’s just trying to win a bet now.

Don’t feel too bad about our female co-workers, by the way. Lil Duncan may not be involved, but Ivana Folger-Balzac and Clarissa Coleman have been having their own wild bachelorette party with my wife-to-be Felchyana, showing her what it means to be an American woman. We also invited some of the other staff of commune wives and girlfriends, such as Omar Bricks’ new love Osaka, Ramon Nootles’ blow-up doll, and a picture Boner Cunningham cut out from a magazine. It’s not quite the show ours is, considering Clarissa Coleman couldn’t make it due to out-of-town engagements, and Ivana is a hyper-bitch, but neither Felchyana nor Osaka speak English, so they have that in common.

But what do I care about her needs? I’m about to be her husband! Party on, jack!

A Moll Married to the Mob
The details are hard to glean, since Felchyana’s English is a little shabby and I have a poor ear for details, but as near as I can figure it he was involved with a non-Italian mafia in some fashion and it did not lead to the expected 40-years-then-retirement. They found him in the shape of an ottoman in a warehouse down by the waterfront.

The True Meaning of Glasnost
Not all the Russians, mind you, but one Russian. You know me, good people, knowing one is like knowing all of them. Sure, I was instantly distrustful of her when I heard that thick Russkie accent, but when I saw her face, I was a daydream believer, just like the Brass Monkeys say.

Home Sweet Homo
Greetings, good homos. Rok Finger here, reporting from the street. Which street isn’t important right now. 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.

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.