Big Bombs Get Bigger

he Pentagon announced today that, in the wake of the success of the huge 21,000 pound MOAB (Mother Of All Bombs), it was beginning work today on an even bigger model, officially dubbed as the Motherfucking Cocksucking Sonofabitch King Hell Bastard Shit Oh Dear Of All Bombs, Like, Ever, or MCSKHBSODOABLE. The bomb will be approximately the size of one-fifth of the Earth's moon, will have a payload the equivalent of 946 Hiroshimas, and will, in the words of one unnamed Pentagon official, "Blow the fucking shit out of every living creature within about a five thousand mile radius -- even cockroaches. Ha! Even cockroaches! Maybe we should call it the Orkin Exterminator!"

To begin construction of the new super-sized weapon, the United States has annexed the entire nation of Canada and sent eviction notices to every Canadian citizen, asking that they please vacate the premises within one month. Official spokesman Colonel Jack "Rabbit" Tallysmall-Rand commented on that eviction notice, saying "Those Canucks better get going fast, because we need to start building this baby pronto. Any of them back-bacon lovers that's still there in a month's time will find the doors locked and their stuff all piled into a Hefty bag on the sidewalk, toot sweet."

Asked about the bomb itself, Col. Tallysmall-Rand agreed that "Super-sized is about right. We want it our way, get it? The MCSKHBSODOABLE will be the mightiest weapon the world has ever seen, the monster truck of all bombs, and that ought to show all them bastards that don't want to get with the program that we mean business."

The Colonel added that the bomb will be delivered by a pair of space shuttles flying in tandem, with the payload tethered to a huge glider-like platform between them. Once in range, the cables will be released and the bomb will then waft gently to the Earth, where it will unleash seven or eight different kinds of hell once it reaches treetop level.

"This baby gonna make the MOAB seem like a little old ladyfinger when it pops, whee doggies! It could bomb the stink off a shit pile!" Col. Tallysmall-Rand went on to say, while exchanging double high fives, down low, too slow with his aide, one Major Custis Sprinkle.

"He ain't lying!" interjected Major Sprinkle, drawing a grin and an elbow in the ribs from his superior officer.

Asked who came up with the name for the bomb, Col. Tallysmall-Rand just beamed and replied, "Who do you think?" while Major Sprinkle, exaggeratedly winking and nodding his head, gestured with a pointing finger held behind his palm towards the colonel. "Mr. Rumsfeld wanted us to call it the 'Democracy-Maker,' but we thought that was too pussy. We wanted a name that would put the fear of God into our enemies."

Asked by another reporter why they didn't just build a bomb the size of the entire Earth and cut an America-sized hole in it, Col. Tallysmall-Rand's eyes grew wide, and he remained silent for a long moment. He then declared the press conference over, and immediately huddled with Major Sprinkle and a number of other officers near the dais, while Military Police cleared the room by wildly swinging their batons in all directions.

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Editor's Note: Rok Finger isn't available this week to bring you a fresh serving of his homespun curmudgeon wit. But in the interest of filling space, since Gay Bagel says big gaping holes on the index page make advertisers cry, we bring you this special edition of Rok Finger's column, as originally presented in his high school newspaper, Spirit! The first few lines have been lost to history, or possibly a smart editor.

…and of course, I think they would be happier in their own neighborhood. The adults really have hit the nail on the head with this one.

But I digress. As I suggested earlier, I would like to address the number one problem facing this empire of ours, and it's none of those slimy things I mentioned before. No, I'm talking of course about the "magic box" that has entranced our nation, young and old alike: television.

Fellow teens, the dangers presented by this flashing light show are myriad and numbersome. You have noticed, I'm sure, how anyone caught in its line of fire is instantly stopped and held catatonic for an immeasurable amount of time? Well, let's forget all the potential dangers of this, like being frozen by a TV in the middle of a busy city street (some shopowners even maliciously display these things in their windows—turned on!) Let's think about the danger these contraptions pose to our everyday lives.

Have you ever turned on one, just to become lost in the timeless void and awake later with no memory of where, say, four hours went? Sure, we all have, except for me. I refuse to watch the danged thing, excuse my tongue. The effect could paralyze ours, the greatest nation on the earth, when more and more people simply stop showing up to work. Our city policeman will be called to their houses when the smell gets too much for the neighbors, only to find the dessicated remains of some Maverick fan who couldn't be bothered with eating, sleeping, shaving, or any other of our precious daily activities.

When the machines stop working, you know what happens to our country: Stagnation! It's the same thing that happened to the ancient Greeks. They didn't have television, sure, but some of those dramatists were pretty mesmerizing. The volcanoes start a-firin' and there you are, stuck in the front row to a lava show because you wanted to find out what was the deal with Oedipus.

Let's face it, nobody even knows how these blasted things work. They were discovered on an archaeological expedition, I hear, or it has something to do with Nazi testing on human beings. And we brought it back with us to the civilized world, not realizing it was syphilis in a cube. Where are these strange "TV networks" located… have you ever seen one?

Maybe we're not in real danger just yet. But fellow teens, mark my words, one of us has to go—television or humanity. Can you imagine where the path we're on might eventually end? Grim atrocities like murder might become public entertainment in years to come. Any idiot with a television could decide important matters, like who the world's best singer is, or who's hot or not.

I shudder to think of it. Fellow teens, throw your TVs in the river now, while you still can!

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Finger fans, I'm delighted to be writing you again sooner than anticipated. As I last said, I did not believe there was enough of interest to me to warrant continued commune writing, but we both lucked out, for since those premature words, I have discovered my dentist is a secret agent.

It must seem like I've gone mad, and I have—mad with international intrigue. I'm not at liberty to say too much, and of course I can't use his last name, but I am permitted to use his first, so we'll call him "Doctor." No one was more surprised than me at my last visit for a regular teeth cleaning, although the hygienist did seem shocked and dismayed when I elected to change into a hospital gown. I am not going home with a drool-drenched shirt again, I'm adamant on that point, and she's a dental assistant, she should be accustomed to a little nudity by now.

I would not have even found out this sizzling bit of news if it were not for a slip of the tongue. We were discussing film and I asked Doctor if he had seen that new James Bond film from three years ago. He said yes, and he enjoyed it very much, being a spy himself.
The secret was out! I asked him what kind of spy he was, he told me he would have to kill me if he told me, or if I laid a finger on his girlfriend. I of course promised I would tell no one, and would not touch the girlfriend, having not yet seen her or found out she was a model. Reluctantly, Doctor confided his history in his majesty's secret service. Bet you didn't know we were a monarchy-democracy, did you? Neither did I, until Doctor straightened me out. My grill as well.

Good people, I'm a simple ventriloquil stage performer, I'm not used to the fast-paced life of spydom, or even dentistry. I lived a quiet life, immune to all the intrigue just hanging in the air around me like humidity. Now my eyes are opened, the little crusty booger things cleared out by the truth. We are surrounded on all sides by spies.
I asked Doctor how he got into the spy game, he said it's all who you know, and he's good friends with the secret king. I'm not supposed to use his full name outside the Circle of Mystery, which I'm not allowed to be a part of unless they don't have enough people to make a circle present. But I guess I can give you something to call him, differentiate from everyone else in this story, so call him King Steve.

The secret monarchy ruling our country and the plethora of spies disguised as every day members of the service industry has provided me with some distraction from the humdrum routine of entertaining people by pretending to speak. If you're wondering who are the enemies of the Circle of Mystery, you're not alone, but Doctor won't tell me anything more unless King Steve grants me full access. That will cost $40, and I don't get that kind of money in my line of work, not until my crimson tuxedo is paid for. Yes, I am on the waiting list to be inducted into this hidden world, so wish me luck. Rok Finger may be protecting you from the most evil and insidious threat to this nation neither of us has ever heard of. So sleep well, once I get forty bucks.

I learned all this from a night of fascinating conversation with Doctor. After my cleaning and semi-annual uvula scraping, I invited Doctor out for a night on the town, but when we realized the cost of drinks would add up, we instead decided to share a mask of nitrous for a few hours. What amazing secrets were revealed, probably a lot more than I can remember since I think I forgot to switch off the tank just before I passed out. Did you know our spies go on vacation twice a year to stunning locations like Fort Lauderdale to monitor the international diamond trade? Of course you didn't. You don't have $40 and you're not in the Circle of Mystery. As soon as they get a few dozen more membership fees added to the Circle, a sweepstakes will decide who is the best spy, and that candidate will travel to romantic Monte Carlo to enter a high-stakes poker competition and thwart the evil Professor Glove. He's not the most terrible criminal mastermind of our age, but he's the equivalent of a comptroller for said most terrible criminal mind. I can't wait to get my $40 and find out who it is! My money is on Red Bagel, who ironically owes me $40 in unpaid commune checks.

Doctor was quick to remind me this is all fantasy, insisted that I remember that when I left and promised to dig up the money for the entry fee into the Circle. Of course it's fantasy. It's been my boyhood dream to defend the country and the western world from the unimaginable despotism of a villain whose name I don't know. And I didn't even have a boyhood.

I do hope they give me bullets with my membership kit. I already have a gun and an ankle holster.

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