Not My Bag, Man

I have never had my fingers pulled off one by one through my asshole. My wife Arvelyn used to tell me I should not knock things until I have tried them at least once, but I dare to say the experience is one I would not like even without trying it.

To avoid such an unwelcome new experience I have agreed to occasionally drop off packages for my new in-laws, i.e. the mob, to cohorts of theirs. Their reasoning was quite sound, even complimentary: "Rok, you are such a square as would not bat the eye of a policeman or G-man like Eliot the Ness, eh?" That's how my new cousin-in-law Yogi put it, and I agree. The police have no reason to suspect me for being a bagman for the vaguely-Russian mob. But it is exactly the case now.

The shame of it all! And imminent danger. Me, Rok Finger, champion of all things stodgy and establishment, delivering goofballs for no-goodniks! As I've made implicitly clear, the possible involvement in the Eurasian mafia by my wife Felchyana in no way diminished my love for her, but I cannot stomach doing wrong to the law. Unless I personally profit from it, for that's the American way, but being threatened into dishonesty, that's just plain… well, dishonest.

It's too bad to be forced to do favors for the mob in such a reprehensible way. Their might be some charm in robbing an armored truck or something fanciful like that. There might be a smidgen of honor in doing something like the old fashioned, pre-GoodFellas gangsters would have taken part in. Rolling in barrel after barrel of illegal Canadian booze and firing a tommy gun at thick packs of Irish cops. Who would object to that? If only those damned teetotalers hadn't lost all their power in Congress.

But there's nothing respectable about hard drugs, like marijuana. Pot kills brain cells and makes people act like complete assholes. It has none of the charm of hard liquor. Plus, it's frequently used by hippies—if you need a bigger case than that against it, I don't know where you're coming from. Hippie-lover. So, in addition to threatening to de-finger me and making my new marriage more complicated than it had originally been, these mob thugs have put me on a pro-hippie bandwagon. That I will not tolerate.

With all doors closed to me, some slammed violently on my feet, I have turned back to my reliable old friends Lee and Camembert. Well, I've turned to Camembert—Lee was busy with another tour date for his new book, written under the pen name of Daili Lama. All of Camembert's suggestions were lame, of course, such as contacting the FBI or telling the local police force, but it was good to have someone I could boss around again, even for a little while. I would probably ask him to move in with Felchyana and I, but Yogi might take a liking to him and make him capo or something. That's the last thing I need.

So right now, in this little mob war I'm going through, Camembert is my secret weapon. The secret being what he's capable of doing against the mob, and I wish I was in on that secret. But it's good to have an ace in the hole, and Camembert can be a huge ace-hole when called upon. My plan as for right now is to play along with Yogi and the gang, deliver the packages and betray no disloyalty, while figuratively hiding Camembert up my sleeve. We tried it literally and even without the wheelchair there's no way he'll fit.

The Honeymoon is Over
Let there be no mistake: I love my new wife, Felchyana, but she's starting to get on my nerves. Being a veteran of two marriages and three wars you'd think I might be familiar with this growing feeling of spite I'm experiencing, but it's not the... (8/18/03)

Kids, Meet Your New Mom
Austin; Cheryl; Penny… it's time to meet your new mom. I know you kids don't take to change very well. And I wish like hell there was a more comforting way to introduce her to you than through my column, which I sincerely doubt most of you... (8/4/03)

Wedding Bell Booze
I had game Saturday, good people. An old fashioned wedding, right out of the books. If the book was The Nightmare Before Christmas, or something by Roald Dahl maybe. It was quite a shock to find Felchyana drunk on the worst imitation... (7/21/03)

The Last Nights of a Free Man
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... (7/7/03)