Middle East Peace Treaty: Everybody Out

treaty was signed Friday declaring peace between Israel and its surrounding Arab nations, something few thought they would see in their lifetime. And this time there is high expectations the treaty will hold, meaning peace for the 349 people still residing in the Middle East following a massive exodus of hardline and extremists Arabs and Israelites.

“I am glad we have finally settled this long, brutal time of unrest,� Saudi Crown Prince Abdullah told five men in a barren stadium as echoes filled all around him. “I look forward to a long time of peace and prosperity, and hopefully repopulating our lands.�

“We have much to be thankful for,� said Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, to a small group of friends he had invited over for Pictionary. “Our perseverance and tolerance have paid off, and finally we are at peace with our neighbors. We may still have disagreements, but they will be settled with smiles and handshakes rather than bullets and fire.�

It was Prince Abdullah who first proposed the necessary solution for peace: Ousting of hardliners, extremists, radicals, and others who would not help the peace process, or even hinder it. During week-long discussions with Prime Minister Sharon and representatives of other Arab nations, the decision was reached that someone had to go if there was to be peace. So they did.

With the help of U.S. and U.N. troops, in busload after busload, one plane after another, extremists on both sides were rounded up and deported from each country. Some voluntarily admitted their stance against the process of peace or making concessions to opposing countries, others were rooted out by previous statements or funny looks given when told of the plan for peace. Whether taken by force or collusion, any oppositions of peace were removed so as to allow a smooth and uncontested transition to the Middle East’s new peace.

All critics or challengers of the peace process have a new home in Antarctica, where they will found a new country, christened by President Bush as Boomtown. The president liked the name as he coined it, but admitted, “If the new residents of Boomtown can stop fighting for five seconds to agree on a new name, by all means, call it something else.�

The huge population shift has already been a boon to the residents of the Middle East, who find themselves among the richest nations in the non-Western world now with their remaining wealth divided up among the remaining 349 residents.

“Allah be praised,� said passive Saudi Koran teacher Aburah Kahim. “I knew my wisdom and goodness would be rewarded. Should my new Jewish neighbors wish to make the journey to my house, we will have a full pork-free dinner at my table.�

Things are not looking so well for the new residents of Boomtown, who find themselves the poorest nation on earth overnight. And though the country has been in existence for only 72 hours, their murder rate far surpasses their predicted Gross National Product already. Their first planned meeting of Parliament was postponed Saturday after six suicide bombers of various ethnic origin destroyed the ice cave where the meeting was to be held.

“I miss the West Bank,� one Palestinian youth was heard to say before a steady stream of rocks pounded him from behind.

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Rok Finger is back in the dating pool, good people. So he better not feel any warm water around you teen-agers, because I get violent when standing in piss.

You read right—violent standing in piss. True, too, before the piss part: I'm playing the field again. The outfield, and it's lonely out here. Truthfully I've been available since being split from my wife last year by my own indignation, outrage, and paranoia, but I'm actively seeking female companionship for coupling now. And I mean now, as we speak. I might be getting around to your neighborhood soon, so you pretty single ladies meet me out by your mailboxes. And you pretty unavailable ladies, just make sure your husband's at work, or at least smaller than 4 foot tall and unable to kickbox.

I'm no homewrecker, despite what those repair people and Camembert say. But it's about time Rok Finger got "serviced," if you know what I mean. Yes, of course: intercourse. Or at least simple female companionship, as long as some genital contact is involved on some level. I'm a little "hot under the collar," that's how we used to phrase it in the neighborhood I grew up in. I could use a little "loosening up," especially as provided by "hours and hours of animal-like fucking." I read the last part in a book once, or it was something Lee said.

I'm a private man, as my national column often attests, and it's difficult to express your feelings sometimes, especially tingly below-the-waist feelings, but I've been waiting too long for companionship and when the mystery enigma charade doesn't draw in the ladies, I figure honesty can't do any worse. I can always say I was lying about that, too. But it's high time Rok Finger met a good woman to spend time with, horizontal time, and my definition of "good" opens a little more each day. Give me a few weeks and attractive drag queens may apply as well.

There's something about sharing an apartment with two men and a shit-filled catbox that makes you question the single life. Fun has been fun, except when it hasn't been, but after too long you begin to desire a sense of order, and breasts. My past wives have all been bitter harpies, even before I married them, but all have brought that much-needed discipline to my life. Let's face it, I'm a mess alone—I need someone to encourage my moral snobbery, to heal the wounds on my bruised ego, to convince me to quit shitting in the catbox.

As you can see, it's not just any woman I seek—though I will accept any woman on a short-term basis as earlier implied. No, it takes a woman of strong character, like Eleanor Roosevelt without the socialism, or Blondie. Are my standards too high? Prostitutes tell me that. And maybe it's true. But sometimes it's necessary to set high standards, for ourselves and especially for others, and make everyone meet them. Unless you're talking brief sexual contact, at which point my standards are still slipping. Another month and farm animals with convincing attire will be able to sweet-talk me.

Have no fear, good people. Rok Finger will continue to report on everything that matters in life, including his own private feelings that make others extremely uncomfortable. This little mental sidetrack has proved to me I've gotten a little off-course since leaving Arvelyn (did you read that, Arvelyn? I left you. Now it's in print). But it's only a matter of time before this high-flying hot air balloon has the baggage needed to ground it, and I return to my fine form. Of course, I'll never pass my 1970s columns. Man, those were sweet top-of-the-game editions. Except for the muttonchops; I'm ready to admit now they were a bad idea.

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A lot of people look at me and they're quite impressed to see a man my age, part of the '80s generation, who's so hip and into what's "now." But I have to admit, there's some things that bring out the old fart in me, and until recently, completely shaved pussy was one of 'em. It just gave me the chills, and while it never stopped me from fucking away, it always left me a little disappointed—but not any more. I've had a change of heart about shaved vaginas.

Not a week went by, in the past, where I didn't go so art gallery opening or book signing and a friend or random guy in line didn't try to convince me hairless twat is the way to go—I don't know what brings it out in these people. As soon as you make a gagging noise at a bare beaver in a nude photo displayed high on the museum wall, some joker thinks it's his personal mission to sway you from your preference for fuzzy trim. "It's more sanitary," they'd say. "It's nicer to the touch." Well, if that's true, we should all shave our heads, too. I mean, I do, but you see my meaning. Maybe I'm stuck in the past, but if you're not spitting hairs out onto your lover's thigh constantly, to me, it's just not real fucking.

I've always thought it gave the impression I was fucking pre-teens or something. Disgusting. I mean, I make it a point not to ask a lady's age because it's a rude question, but if she says she wants to fuck like a horny toad when I ask, I at least look for some sign I might be going to prison. Now that women are going bald on purpose down there, where's the line? It's like I've got to card my one-night stands, and that's no fun. But as I've said, I've kind of cleared that whole "bare pussy makes me want to vomit" phase.

You can ask if I just started to roll with the times or had a bad experience or something, but I'm not exactly sure what swayed me on this complex argument. Maybe it's all the upskirt shots of famous celebrities that we're seeing lately. It might be the girls I've been bagging like a teen-aged Piggly Wiggly employee, who knows. Or it's probably just that if you see shaved vagina after shaved vagina on your gym spy cam, eventually you just become familiar with it. All those things may be a factor. But seeing a girl of unknown age discreetly soap up her bald pussy when she thinks no one is watching no longer bothers me like it used to. You could even say I like it, although I'm ultimately hoping this whole thing is still a fad. Yes, in sixteen years' time, when the children of today are the hot young fuck sluts of tomorrow, I hope that we as a nation are swimming in bush again. A man can dream, can't he?

I guess it's true what parole officers say—you can take the man out of prison, but you can't quite take the prison out of the man. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I'm always going to be the boy who group up beating meat to thick jungles of pubic hair on skinny, busty nude models in issues of Playboy, Penthouse, or even Oui. Just because those publications have changed or ceased to exist, and the arena is now filled with drunken college girls flashing their goodies for T-shirts, doesn't mean that I've grown along with that trend. I'm stuck in the past, maybe, wrapped in tendril after tendril of short curly hairs. But I like it that way. It doesn't mean I'm going to give up fucking girls whose names I don't remember, but it doesn't mean I'm not going to fondly remember those simple days, before full-body waxes.

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