Bush Vows Attack on Librarians

resident Bush shocked and awed the nation's library employees this week with tough talk about a possible U.S. intervention into the current librarian situation. Apparently confused by developments in the African nation of Liberia, where a rebel insurrection has left the war-torn country in chaos, Bush vowed to use any and all means necessary to bring America's 20,000 librarians to justice.

These latest statements brought even more scrutiny upon the beleaguered CIA, an organization that has obviously shared precious little of its intelligence with the president during his term, and possibly since birth. Bush thrilled sports fans everywhere last week by passing the buck like John Elway on crack, blaming the CIA for failing to slap the stupid out of his mouth before he could make misleading statements regarding the Iraqi threat during his State of the Union address.

In response to the latest shit shower to hit the presidential fan, the White House also claimed that the wet-nurse organization had failed to prevent the president from making over 1,722 embarrassing statements since coming into office; 1,723 if you count the recent librarian gaffe.

"Anyone who's listened to the president speak, either publicly or privately, knows that the CIA has been shirking its duties to a perverse degree for quite some time now," stated White House spokesman Scott McClellan.

"More than any other recent president, Mr. Bush counts on the Central Intelligence Agency to make him sound intelligent," explained U.S. National Security Adviser Condoleezza Rice. "You don't hear anything about a Bureau of Acting Tough or the National Registry of Down-Homeisms, do you? That's because the president has those bases covered. And how. Mr. Bush does not, however, come from an intelligent background, and that's where the CIA is supposed to come in. These people are paid well to keep the president from using terms like 'fucking towelheads' or speaking with his mouth full of salami, and today it's clear they have dropped their duties like a greased bowling ball."

"I think I've got pretty darn good intelligence!" defended the president, speaking up from across the room while wiping barbecue sauce on his bib.

"The CIA definitely cleared the use of the term 'misunderestimated' in that speech the president gave last year, and 'uncontranationary' as well," McClellan detailed, reading from a list. "Likewise with 'learnworthy,' 'economal' and 'immigrater.' Plus any references to the nations of Urethra, Pillsboro and Spam, which do not exist. That was the CIA too. And when he said his favorite Beatles song is 'Lucy Is This Guy That I Know.' Total CIA all the way."

Regarding the president's baffling recent statements about the nation's librarians, Rice was outspoken in Bush's defense.

"The president did not knowingly say anything that we knew to be false, as he didn't know what he was saying. It is not the president's practice to speechify any falsic statement. All these countries and people with funny names, who can keep it straight? Intelligent people sometimes even have trouble," Rice elaborated, apparently with full CIA clearance.

"The president also didn't knowingly know anything he didn't know, and knowing what he knew didn't knowingly know any non-known knowledge," Seussifed Rice further. "Oh, and the CIA also cleared President Bush's impromptu recital of the tongue twister 'Pickled Peter's pecker poked a pooter' during his visit to Africa this month," Rice added on the fly.

Early reports indicate the nation's librarians, knowing Bush to be serious, have taken conservative spit valve Rush Limbaugh hostage in a pre-emptive strike.

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Who knew such fantastic fun existed on the silver screen? I didn't, that's for sure. Yes, Rok Finger enjoys the occasional movie like any good working-class drone, but movies are usually just boring things that could happen to me at any time, with more attractive people and well-edited endings. This movie was completely different, more magic and swords, less face-on-face kissing. It comes from the most unlikely source of entertainment, too: A book.

That's right, books. Before seeing the movie I believed books were only delivery systems for cult manifestos or dangerous statistics. Turns out there are whole other worlds in some books, and some of those worlds are worth reading about. I can't say that is the case for this Lord of the Rings world, Ringworld, but it was certainly worth a good three hours of my life. I only wish there were another three hours of the film, and possibly another three after that. But for now I'm happy such a strange fantasy was put on the screen.

I've never been too big a fan of independent films, even having starred in one (Piglet: When is that getting released, by the way?) but this was top-notch. My understanding, courtesy of Griswald Dreck, is that they filmed the movie entirely in New Zimbabwe, where smallish African workers will act as props for mere pennies a day, which really kept the cost of the film down. Beautiful country, too, besides the ever-present mountain of death.

The story is the greatest ever told, besides anything with Jesus in it. It's about four brave height-challenged men who leave their normal egalitarian existence behind so that they can get rid of a gaudy piece of jewelry, a big fat ring-slash-bracelet with some kind of Esperanto on the side. At first their only comrade is a senile old wizard with a narcotics problem, but he is quickly outwitted by another dope-smoking old wizard, and the undertall men are on their way again all by their lonesome.

At this point it gets a little boring, with some hulking tall guy barging his way into the picture. Then he and the four mid-size heroes join up with a motley crew of Dungeons & Dragons fans: An extremely tall, probably gay elf; a stout and brave dwarf, hearty like the mountain rock he was forged from; and another hairy tall loaf of muscle. Besides becoming another height-oriented film at this point, there's still plenty of genuine moments of great action.

Occasionally the movie gets bogged down in special effects, Ringworld lingo, and prosthetic snouts, but the overall message comes through loud and clear: Virtuous men of any size will triumph over ambiguous dark entities that seek to take over the world. It just requires being able to dispose of tacky pimp jewelry before pig-men and ghosts can destroy you.

The director, whatever his name is, has laid out the heart and mind of the next century before us. The movie has found resonance in the post-September 11^th era, where vague black clouds of villains known as terrorism can send fear through the hearts of even the shortest of men. But like the heroes of the movie, the what do you call, Hobnots, we shall find the strength to endure.

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The original television probably wouldn't impress your average 21st-century American, who is used to all manner of razzle-dazz and flippety-flupp in the delivery of passive, couch-slumping entertainment. No, the first TV was a humble device, nothing more than a telephone attached to a small easel that held a pad of paper. The caller would call to tell an acquaintance about something that had happened, and while he verbally described the scene the answering party drew it up on the pad of paper. It was a rather stupid invention, but it was all they had back then and was wildly popular because it was new. Everyone marveled at the "Fourteenth Wonder of the World" (everything was a "Wonder of the World" back then, even Tommy Smothers) but social critics warned that the television would be the end of us all, with youths aimlessly doodling away the days and sending dirty pictures back and forth by way of description.

But after a few years, America's love affair with television began to wane, and by the mid-1930's Americans began to feel the seven-year itch for new technology. Many thought it would come in the form of a talking train, and a series of popular books were written on the subject. But the powers-that-be knew they had to get the ball rolling on a new, improved television, unless they wanted to continue running all over to hell and back every election year, shaking hands with every sweaty yokel that crawled out from under a rock somewhere. No chance! The talking train would have to wait. The time had come for television.

No one knew this better than President Roosevelt, and he wasted no time shining the big, lightbulb-shaped searchlight into the sky, signaling for all of the inventors to come out of their basements and backyard sheds and insane asylums and come to their country's aid.

Roosevelt gathered all of the nation's inventors together in a large hall that smelled strongly of cabbage, which everyone blamed on the room but all knew was the stink of the inventors themselves. They were given their mission, to re-invent television, and the inventors took to it with relish in their hair. Right off the bat they formed inventing teams, which they gave tough-sounding names like "The Genius Gang" and "The Eureka Dukes" and they invented chants that they used to taunt the other inventing teams. Before long there was a tug-of-war and a sack race to determine exactly which inventing team was the best, and within a week the President had to send in the National Guard to break it up because the inventors weren't getting any inventing done. But by that time the inventors were entrenched in a bitter clan war, and operatives from the fledgling Central Intelligence Agency had to be sent in to infiltrate the gangs and break them up by starting rumors about who exactly was stinking the place up like cabbage.

The government then wisely sent the inventors on their separate ways, and hunkered in to hope for the best.

The early returns were not promising, as most of the inventions that were submitted revolved around grafting telephones to sundry household devices, such as a hat rack and an ironing board, with the notable exception of one inventor who somehow managed to build a working telephone inside of a live pig.

Several other inventions of lasting importance were created during this quest for television, however, by inventors who either didn't understand the assignment or who thought the easel-pad television worked fine. And though the patent office was at first disappointed to receive them, inventions such as the burp-counting clock and disease flypaper would eventually have profound effects on American life.

The first invention that the office received which came anywhere close to improving on the original television was Monasto Farbie's Dream Beam Television. Farbie was an RCA employee of sub-normal IQ, who nonetheless did quite well in life by smiling constantly and only opening his mouth to agree with what more important people were saying. Farbie's invention involved a complex series of mirrors and magnifying glasses designed to shoot images over a distance of up to nine feet. It didn't even do that well, but being that it was the only new patent submitted with the word "Television" actually in the name, it was seen as a step in the right direction.

Out of this mess appeared Solace Mertz, an inventor from Idaho who hadn't been present at the President's meeting because he'd spent that weekend trapped in a box. Mertz arrived, seemingly out of nowhere, with a fully functioning television camera and screen in tow. When asked where he came up with the idea, Mertz told a long, detailed story about a dream he'd had one night where hyper-intelligent panda bears had come down out of a flying cocoanut and taught him how to make a television.

No one present knew what to say after he finished his story, except the CIA, who acted quickly by kicking Mertz in the teeth and telling him that if he didn't go along they'd tell everyone that he had married his cousin. Which was true, though Mertz had cleverly avoided detection for years by marrying all three of his cousins, so that nobody could say for certain which one he was married to and curious parties eventually got confused and gave up.

Roosevelt then quickly announced that Farbie had invented the television, and the nation was spared the embarrassment of awarding medals and honorary degrees to some Moonie who talked to panda bears. Everyone was happy: Farbie was famous, the nation had a new reason not to clean out their rain gutters, and politicians never had to go to West Virginia again. Mertz returned to his humble Idahoan life and lived quietly for years, until the night the panda bears returned to his dream and told him how build a ray gun that could remotely induce a cerebral hemorrhage in a head of state, which is a story for another column.

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