he White House, always on the search for rare species of human beings or close approximations, unearthed an impressive find last week: A female conservative. Defying usual stereotypes, the so-called "right-wing woman" is apparently not a career politician or from the deep rural South. In fact, she's completed higher education and appears to be not at all an idiot of any sort—though field-testing leaves the possibility open. And, perhaps most startling of all, the administration found the rare species in the most unlikeliest of places—within its own ranks.

The alleged female Republican is Harriet Miers, White House attorney and personal lawyer to the Bush clan for years. Born and raised in Dallas, a small state in the country of Texas, Miers earned several accolades for her legal work and previous appointments by Texas governor George W. Bush, no relation to the current president. Though she lacks any bench experience, discounting bus stops, Miers is a respected lawyer, despite being personal attorney to the president and the White House counsel.

The president, sorely in need of just such an animal, nominated the conservative woman for the Supreme Court immediately. It's a move that fits the Bush dynasty tradition, given President George Bush I nominating ultra-rare find conservative black man Clarence Thomas to the court in 1990. At the time, the senior Bush ignored several charges of sexual harassment and a bench history of seat-filling rather than leading, promoting the move as a huge victory for diversity.

"The Democrats want to cater to special interest groups and make nominations to curry votes," said Bush. "My administration is truly interested in minorities—real minorities. Right-wing blacks, archconservative women, gay members of the NRA, born-again Christian Jews. If you're one of a kind and can't find a friend in the world, maybe I'll put you on the Supreme Court!"

Little boy Bush was equally proud of his unique find.

"I'll tell you, soon as I found Ms. Miers here, I wanted to mount her," said the president, awkwardly laughing alone at his own joke during the press conference to announce the nomination. "You know… 'mount her' like… like a tiger I hunted and killed or something. Not like… you know. Kill her and stuff her kind of mount her. 'Cause she's rare and all. Special. Not that I wanted to kill 'er or anything. Not really. I just… maybe like a butterfly. Shove a huge pin through her. I'm not really gonna do it or anything, but you know what I mean…"

Despite our knowing the intention, the president carried on for a few more minutes to explain the poor joke. Reporters eventually interrupted to ask questions about Miers' qualifications, and the conservative response to the fact Miers has no history on the bench to judge her politics by.

"Gentlemen… and girl reporters, too: We can't get side-tracked on politics at a time like this. We were lucky to find a lady Limbaugh fan, and I'm darn well going to make sure she gets rewarded for being one of a kind. We have the space on the Supreme Court now, we needed a woman, and I'm pretty sure she fits the bill. We'll have doctors verify she's what she claims to be, but assuming that all works out, I think you're gazing at one heck of a Ultimate Justice. Whatever they're called."

Miers herself towed the official line, pledging her service to the Bush Round Table, but did let slip that years of settling the president's dirty out-of-court business finally paid off.

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Quit being so goddamned selfish, people. There are folks drowning or something down wherever they're having that problem, because of rain or malfunctioning plumbing of some sort, and we're in a position to help. Wherever these people are, and I want to say "Magnolia" but I have a sneaking suspicion that's not a real state name, but wherever they are, we're their only hope. That's why we need to donate to Omarelief, like right now.

And by "we" I mean you, because it doesn't make a whole lot of sense for me to donate to my own charity, since that's like a hooker paying to play with herself or something asinine like that. But for some reason "Let's us do this!" always seems to be a better motivator than "Hey asshole, you need to solve this problem!" So like I said, "we" need to donate to Omarelief immediately.

90% of all cash donations made to Omarelief will be spent on feeding and housing any refugees from the disaster who make their way up to Flatbush, New Jersey, find the Bricks Manor in spite of the bogus directions I gave them, cross the moat I've dug around my house, defeat the security system, and then refuse to leave when asked politely. This is the real deal, people.

We also need to quit donating to Red Bagel's scam charity "Red's Cross," because it's giving him a big head and he keeps blowing all the money on weird portraits of himself in famous religious poses that are creeping the rest of us all the hell out.

But how does it work? How can Omar Bricks afford to be so good to people? I'm glad you asked.

The brilliant part of the charity is that I don't have to spend a dime of the donations on anyone who's not smart enough to find the Bricks Manor, which includes pretty much everyone on earth because Mapquest made a cock out of its directions to my house. I'm serious; I tried using them once myself and I ended up in Newfoundland, no shit. These are the directions I give to bill collectors, girls wanting paternity tests, and the pissed-off boyfriends of girls wanting paternity tests. They're like paper gold for a million uses, unless you're actually trying to find my house.

But don't you imagine for a second that I'll be unprepared if any sad sack motherfuckers actually make it into my house. I've got those bases covered as well, and Omar Bricks isn't one to welch on his charity commitments. We've got plenty of room here in Bricks Manor, and several sets of rubber bedsheets. And there will be plenty of mustard sandwiches to go around. Anyone who's not too put off by the fact that Foghat wets the bed can bunk with him. Otherwise you're going to be sleeping on the toilet. Don't think that's as bad as it sounds—I do it all the time, it's fine. I'd offer to let you sleep in the bathtub, a more traditional bathroom-sleeping arrangement, but the fact of the matter is I can't have some homeless lug sleeping in the tub when I need to take a shower or bathe or make some beer. Some homesteader camping out on the crapper I can handle, but it's not like you can just stick your Johnson out the window and take a shower. That's just the reality of the world, folks.

Any charity-case overflow will be housed on my neighbor Hamms' lawn, and when he's not home, in his house. So don't worry that our donations are only going to help one guy sleeping on Omar Bricks' toilet. This charity is for everybody. Everybody who was effected by the thing and who made their way all the way up here and tracked me down like a goddamned bloodhound from hell. So let's us open our wallets and give, until we've made Red Bagel's bullshit charity look like the second-rate bullshit charity it really is. Because that's what giving is all about, people. Bricks out.

º Last Column: WEASELS-B-GON
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Many readers have an unshakeable image of me from reading my column. They see Rok Finger as a cool, collective individual with a good head on his shoulders, by way of a stodgy little neck. A tough-as-nails, yet sensitive and insightful observer of human nature, in the least effeminate way possible. A creature of perfection, who could not get any better. But you could not be further from the truth.

Like anybody else, I try for improvement. New Year's is a time for me, like everybody else, to look within using my mind's eye, which has X-ray vision, and ask myself, "What would Rok Finger do?" Meaning to make himself better. Me better. I speak of New Year's resolutions. Let's make them together, shall we?

Chief among my New Year's resolutions is to cut down on use of the third person when I speak. It just gets too damn confusing. Maybe in return I could increase my use of the second person. You can do it, Rok! There. That sounds more supportive already.

Camembert and Lee have suggested that maybe I'm a bit aggressive as a roommate. Well, Lee said it. Camembert couldn't look me in the eye when I was told this, so that's as good a sign as any that he agrees. Is it possible? Are you too strong a personality for weasly jelly-spined lifeforms like Camembert? Not everybody has your self-confidence and dynamic personality, some are overwhelmed. And people don't need to be overwhelmed, they need to be encouraged. So I say, way to go! I will see to it this year that Camembert is much more encouraged to speak his mind. We will begin rigorous training in that department at 0200 hours tonight, right after V.I.P. is over. I'll make it a surprise.

I was talking with my ex-wife Arvelyn the other day—I came down her chimney dressed as Santa Claus as a Christmas surprise, and we had a happy reunion after the pepper spray's effects faded. She confessed to me that, on some level, right below the fear and indescribable rage at my behavior, she still loves me. She even wishes we could reconcile, but she said I'm far too paranoid and snap at the least little thing. I denied it, of course, but after setting fire to the Christmas tree in retaliation I didn't have much of a leg to stand on. I conceded that maybe she had a point, and I would try to improve that in the future—at least until I can find out what her ulterior motive is in this game.

In fact, you could even say that my cat Makeshift is the only one who has no problem with me. Which is why I kidnapped him. Such a good friend and ally should live with me rather than my arch-enemy/ex-wife. "Kidnapping" might be a misrepresentation. Catnapping is probably more accurate, as well as more adorable.

I'm not even getting into what my office mates think of me. So many emotionally-troubled people in one place shouldn't be given consideration, which is the logic I've been using for the Israel-Palestine conflict for years. But each of them is angry with me about something—whether it's my on-target advice on how they handle their personal lives, my complaints about their distracting breathing noises, or my wearing a wire during personal conversations (again, Mr. Bricks, nothing personal, just doing my civic duty), they all have a bone to pick with me. A bunch of lousy bone pickers.

To study myself in this context, this barrage of complaints, you'd think I needed more than a tweak here or there in the Rok Finger personality matrix. I needed a dad-blamed reconstruction. Which makes my New Year's resolutions completely clear, at least.

I resolve, first and foremost, to not let the opinions of others bother me. I must be more sure of myself, I must defy criticism in every form, and I must be steadfast against the corruption of others.

And I'm going back to the third person. Rok Finger was much closer to perfect before this mess started.

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