Wasted Away in Mormonville

Never again will Rok Finger get drunk off his sorry short-stack ass and wake up smack-dab in the middle of Utah, I can tell you that much.

For those who need the long story, I'm sending this column via the Infanet or whatever that commune clerk called it because I have yet to make it back from the big weekend Lee and I started last Wednesday. I had been a little down lately, as you can imagine—what with the recent divorce, being kicked out of that all-black neighborhood, finding out I was being stalked by a pro-wrestler, Camembert failing to walk despite my attempts at faith healing, and the world not coming to an end and all as I predicted. But Lee, ever the trooper, suggested we go out and have a boys' night out, no Camembert, no women, no underpants, and just let the whim and station wagon take us wherever it dared.

I would say Utah is where it dared, wherever the hell Utah is. I'm not sure of the name of the town so I have been referring to it as Mormonville, laughing my ass off and making the guilt-ridden townspeople blush a very peculiar shade of red.

Most of the weekend is forever lost in the cobwebs of my already-hobbled memory. Lee made mention of a girl in a wheelchair showing him a good time, but I suggested we more than likely went home, dressed Camembert up and made inappropriate advances toward him. Which sounds like a lot of fun, I hope one of us or a nosey neighbor taped it for us to enjoy when we get back. Until then, we're stuck in Mormonville and trying to fix the station wagon, nicknamed by Lee the Shagwagon, for our triumphant return home.

I suppose Mormonville is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live here. Truthfully I was just being kind to say it was a nice place to visit, it stinks like Satan's crotch to visit. There is nothing to do here—nothing! I've got three suggestions for you, Mormonville: Gambling; prostitution; radical unlicensed cosmetic surgery. Any one of these might liven up this place a little more, but until then I suggest you change the name to Dullsville.

Oh. It appears the town is actually named Dullsville. One of the local residents informed me of that fact as I was dictating this column to the telegraph lady. I somehow managed to stay awake long enough to hear him out. Goody.

Suffice to say, if you get the chance to come out to Dullsville, kindly turn it down and then sting with a salty barb the nimrod who suggested it—I find, "No, thank you, you limp ballsack," to be particularly biting, at least when it's been directed at me.

Dullsville is even more boring than it's name. The town is in such a sub-catatonic state that crashing through the wall of the church at 8:35 a.m. on a Sunday morning doesn't even bring the police out. One old lady even passed the collection plate to Lee, who was asleep on the airbag. I did contribute a dollar though, and after that we all enjoyed some handsome potato salad and baked beans at the church outing.

The people are the friendliest people in the world, and when you've spent six hours driving west with a carful of drag queens, that's saying something. Even so, I don't plan on staying a minute longer than necessary in this above-ground tomb. Maybe the old Rok Finger would have found it nice here, but I'm the newly-liberated bachelor Rok Finger, and I like living high and fast, in the high and fast lane. I think me and Lee might make it a five-day weekend every weekend from now on.

Of course, I'll have to wait for Lee to wake up first. I would try to wake him, but he looks so comfortable, despite the imbedded windshield glass in his forehead.

No One Will Believe We're All Doomed
I hope all of you are content to die in the middle of the night, having accomplished all in life you set out to do. Because it is certain to happen shortly. The world is about to be destroyed by ominous forces from another world or plane of... (9/2/02)

My Memoirs Are Not Coming Along Well
Good people, you've caught me on a bad day. I'm going out of my well-confined mind trying to write my memoirs. As I may have mentioned before, but certainly didn't, I have been approached by publishers in the past on the occasions I have stormed... (8/19/02)

Rok Shall Overcome
You know me, good people—I am not one to bitch and moan. No, wait, I'm confusing myself with my wife Arvelyn, which explains the odd choice of high heels this morning. I am one to bitch and moan. So let's get cracking, shall we? I have had one... (8/5/02)

Stalked by Another Former Pro-Wrestler
The situation has darkened, good people. Frequent readers of my column, and despite what everyone says I'm convinced they exist, will remember my recent revelation that I was a pro-wrestler briefly in the '80s. To my surprise, everyone has been... (7/22/02)