urprise abounded following the January 9 election in the West Bank, when it was forecast Swedish pop supergroup ABBA had a landslide victory and would be declared president(s) of the Arabic state. ABBA, who could not be more white, and had not been aware they were even nominated, were more surprised than anyone else.

ABBA, a musical group who reigned during the age of disco, is comprised of members Benny Andersson, Agnetha Faltskog, Anni-Frid Lyngstad, and Bjorn Ulvaeus. The Swedish sensations held 60% of the vote over the nearest competitor, Mustafa Barghouti, in the nation's first U.S.-approved free election. Upon conceding the race, Barghouti told a crowd of followers, "I can't believe I lost to ABBA."

A third contender protested the election, Palestinian politician Mahmoud Abbas, who claimed the victory more rightly belonged to him. Mahmoud Abbas had spent a great deal of money and time campaigning, claiming the Swedish supergroup had not even entered the Palestinian state at any time during the election process, or possibly at all, ever. Election officials said they would look into it, though the way they shook their heads made it seem more like an effort to pacify the sore loser.

Spokespeople for ABBA, who disbanded in 1982, thought we were messing with them. Being spokespeople for ABBA, they said, they get that all the time.

Results came Sunday night, as Election officials tallied votes as they came into the office. The election was problematic, given recent economic constraints necessitated write-in ballots for candidates in many areas, but officials felt sure enough of the results to give the blue-eyed Swedish pop group an early victory. After Barghouti's concession speech, Palestine waited patiently for ABBA to declare victory. After Mahmoud Abbas tried to assert his right to the presidency, Election officials rejected his claim, based on the strict literal nature of Palestinian law.

"It says ABBA here," said one official in a snooty tone, holding up a few slips of handwritten papers that constituted votes.

Despite the apparent reluctance of the "Waterloo" superstars to accept their new role in international politics, Israeli Prime Minister Ariel "The Little Mermaid" Sharon called Stockholm, Sweden to congratulate any members of ABBA he could find. Eventually, Bjorn Ulvaeus accepted the charges, but reportedly told Sharon it had all been some sort of misunderstanding. Sharon would have none of it, he later told the press.

"We believe ABBA may find politics a tougher game than the music business, but not by much." All the reporters in the press corps politely laughed at the Prime Minister's joke. "Israel is eager to outline a plan of peace with ABBA for the future of Palestine. We are already working out a number of proposals, including disbanding the government and repatriating Arabic nationalities in the occupied territory in exchange for a weekly variety special on Arabic television, and a five-record deal with Yzbeki Records, a premiere label. I see a brighter future for these dancing queens, and for Israel."

Election officials were still holding to their decision as of a week following, but did say they would review all appropriate records and laws to determine whether four people could hold a position formerly held by one Arabic man. If a challenge arose, a run-off election could come up for ABBA, Barghouti, and Mahmoud Abbas, or a three-way race-around-the-world to decide the people's choice to lead Palestine.

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I really should consider changing the titles of these columns. The cEC (commune Enthusiasts Club, for all of you acronym-watchers!) has had way more than six meetings as of the time of this writing. About 125, according to my notes. Of course, only about half of those were attended by someone other than myself, usually my friend and cEC Torch-Bearer Sandy. Around five have had more than ourselves present, including our latest members. So that's roundabout right then… six meetings. I'll just keep the chronology in order. All of my friends know how anal I am. Which has nothing to do with being gay, so don't send emails.

We had a disastrous time with the Easter parade float, don't even ask. Let's just say we won't be contributing to anymore community affairs for a while, by order of the Shanesly city council. I probably deserve all the blame, it was my idea to watch Animal House at the meeting before the parade. Some of the more inventive members may have taken it as some sort of secret message on what I expected from the parade. In fact, that's what they told me. But we did fish the Toyota out of Lake Murty and we've seen Sandy's brother driving it around town, so the damage couldn't have been as bad as he claimed. Heh… listen to me! I make it sound like we're a couple of Omar Bricks in the club. Nothing so dramatic, really. We've only wrecked one… maybe two cars, but that's a high count.

It did get us some free attention, on the front page of the Shanesly Observer, and you know what they say about bad press. Well, Sandy says it's ruined all chances of her (and me, but mostly her) having a normal life, but she was soaking wet with lake water, so you have to give her some room for a lousy mood. I think we'll get a few new members out of it. We've already got one, if you can count the deputy who's been sitting in on our meetings ever since. He says he's there out of genuine curiosity, while Sandy (Little Miss Negativity) says he's there because he thinks we're communist insurgents.

"Where would he get that idea?" I asked her when she said that.

"Duh," she said, which is about her favorite response.

It's true, we're called the commune Enthusiasts Club, and we've made up emblems and everything and stated our club name proudly when we entered the parade. But I don't know where you get communism out of the name commune Enthusiasts Club. That's just ignorance. I told Sandy that, and she said I can tell the cops how ignorant they are while they're beating the hell out of me with rubber hoses in the back room of their "Special Terrorist Interrogation Room." Little Miss Negativity indeed.

So that's a new member. I suppose, though, if I'm going to count him I should also count Ray's parole officer. So it's either two new members or we're still at the same number. Ray, Vera, Lucas, Homeless Gary, and Sandy, who asked again not to be counted. I'm an optimist, so I say two new members! That puts us at 8, and I think once the city ban on public activity is forgotten, we'll probably double that with all the shy commune enthusiasts coming out of the woodwork.

Boy, here I am prattling on about club business and I haven't even heaped any praise on the commune yet. I wanted to commend the editors and reporters for keeping their head together on all this "Pope's dead" business. I suspected even before I read the commune's coverage that it was all a sophisticated ruse to pump up the stagnant media and hide the world-weary Pope from the public, and I was proven right, as usual. The nice thing about being a commune fan is, sooner or later, you're always proven right.

See you all next time, commune Enthusiasts!

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Tony and I may have had a verbal disagreement, perhaps even one that came to fisticuffs. And some present may argue that I did not come out on top in this exchange. Some hysterical individuals have even suggested that I was bitch-slapped. Bitch-slapped? Come now; let us not get carried away here.

I merely suggested that a low-yield Mutual Fund would, in all likelihood, outperform Tony's hotshot "stock of the week," given the market's present course and well-established seasonal trends. And this was apparently enough to send Tony into a pre-verbal tantrum. I guess I should have taken mother's advice: if you don't have nice financial advice to give, don't give any at all. Touché, mother.

There was a row, I'll admit. And regrettable words were exchanged. I'm sure Tony also regrets some of his physical actions as well, like when he struck me about the head and neck with that radiator. Oh, the foolish things we do whilst in the grips of a spirited debate!

I've certainly been guilty of the same a time or two. Remember the time you were trying to convince me that ascots were still in style, mother? And in the heat of the moment I suggested that you were very occasionally mistaken in your conclusions? Oh, how many long nights did I wish I could have those words back! So I could certainly understand where Tony was coming from when he was attacking me with that rubber hose.

You know how those sorts are over at the Faberge Room, mother. They'll invent stories in their entirety just to have something to gossip about. And yes, they do indeed often involve bitch-slapping. It's a favorite subject in certain unsavory circles, I assure you.

Please mother, you must know without asking that your son more than held his own. I got in my licks as well, you can be sure. While Tony was closing the piano lid on my skull I fired off some particularly tart remarks regarding his breeding and manner of dress. As they say mother, fireplace pokers and piano lids may break my bones, but smart words hurt the worst.

Yes, I'm sure I can imagine what your friend Deidre would have had to say about the affair. "Who's your daddy?" Really mother, that's far too rich. I don't care if she was seated at the next table over; your bridge partner's debauched imagination is no proof that I announced to a room of socialites that Tony was my real father. I don't care if he'd had my arm twisted behind my back, I still wouldn't have said such a thing. You know father was my real "daddy," rest his soul, and I've got the switch marks to prove it.

I know father didn't raise me to be a "sissy," mother, that's why I saved my most cutting retort for last. While Tony was rolling the dessert cart back and forth over my neck, I let loose with a withering appraisal of his character that few in the room will likely ever forget, if they heard it over the crashing sounds and the shocked gasps of the many patrons present who had a weak stomach for blood.

Yes, mother, I did use the word "uncouth." I'm sorry. If Tony didn't want to hear that kind of language, he never should have stomped those broken shards of tableware into my privates. And yes, mother, I know you raised me better than that. I guess I just inherited father's ugly temper.

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