Witness the Healing Power of Protection

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, otherwise known as a bad news bear, but this will be the last Giving You the Finger column for quite a while.

Yep, you read right. Why? you may ask, with my permission. I'll tell you: Because starting with my next edition, in this regular space, you'll be reading Giving You the Bellmont.

I do not jest, not even for fun, but especially when it comes to my column. Giving You the Finger is no longer possible, as Felchyana and I are now in the Witness Protection Program, following our late-December feeling to the FBI. For all intents and purposes, Rok Finger is dead. I'm not sure how he went, my money was always on being fatally shot on the subway in a dispute over a wheat penny, but I'll let the FBI handle those fine details, that's their show. This column is now coming to you courtesy of Godfrey Bellmont.

Before you start hem-hawing about losing such first-rate name material as Rok Finger, I promise you it was the only resort left. The mob was quite angry at me, even before I turned state's evidence, county by county. It was only a matter of time before they tried to kill us yet again, only more successfully. I talked to Felchyana about it, long and in-depth, and she called me a perpetrator and said my rhymes were wack. As you can see, her fondness for gangsta rap hasn't quite passed yet. But I took her insult of my lyrical science as agreement we needed to get away, and the FBI was our best shot.

To cut to the post-chase, I spilled every bean I had on the mob, even made up some plausible sounding stories about something they did at Ruby Ridge. In exchange for my exciting information and guaranteed box-office quality testimony, they moved us to an undisclosed location which I haven't yet disclosed. I think it's Wisconsin, but it's awful warm for Wisconsin. I'll have to get back to you on that. All I know is people are not shooting at me anymore, that's a change in the weather I can appreciate.

They also gave me a new name! Godfrey Bellmont, as I mentioned. Either they were all out of Jack Johnsons or the guy in charge of the names thought I called for a little extra flair. My wife, Contessa, would probably agree. I suppose I'm glad they come up with the names for you, my first choice would have been Edith Head, which really doesn't work for a new column title. I believe I'm just very uncreative when it comes to names, or creativity in general.

Believe it or not, the FBI wanted me to cut off all contact with everyone I knew—including the commune and you, the loyal commune reader. I was aghast, as you can imagine. Just leave my faithful followers hanging, like the equipment within a pair of boxer shorts? No can do, my federal friends. Of course, I haven't told them I've returned to the column yet, even if I'm writing it from the safety of Undisclosed Location, Wisconsin (possibly). But they should be happy with it once they find out I'm going to use my new name.

Things will not change, good people, just because my name and living situation has. I will still rail against the railable, stand up against the unstand-uppable, and continue to fill out the same amount of column space for weeks to come. Camembert and I are going to a costume party this weekend, and I'm sure that will make for the fantastic style of Rok Finger complaints you've come to expect. Just delivered by Godfrey Bellmont.

Oh, yes, Camembert is just as safe as us. I managed to talk the FBI into including him in our Witness Protection deal. But as far as everyone is concerned now, he's my 13-year-old daughter Penelope Bellmont, and can even walk now, although his legs are slow to cooperate. Actually, the FBI assigned him the new name of Gerald, Godfrey Bellmont's brother, but I haven't told him. Dressing him like a girl was my idea.

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