002 is proving a bleaker year for the united European economy as the new Euro Dollar lost ground to the Paramount’s Kings Island Scooby Buck at the close of the market Friday.

The Scooby Buck, a currency bearing the likeness of the Hanna-Barbera Great Dane and accepted only within Paramount’s Kings Island theme parks, has reportedly been rising steadily with the onset of a film version of Scooby Doo coming summer of this year. At the same time, arguments over the Euro Dollar and the recent failings of the stock market have only served to drive down the value of the new European standard coin.

“It’s not surprising,� said Columbia University Professor of Economy Merton Scheff. “The European market has been separated all of its history. It’s a bold move more political than economical to develop and accept a currency that crosses boundaries. Factor into that the contrasting safety of a theme park currency, where homelessness is non-existant and the issue of unemployment usually just means you don’t have to spend another hot day in that lousy Yogi Bear suit.�

Added Scheff: “Plus, have you ever turned on The Cartoon Network? That goddamn dog is always on there. Maybe he owns the network or something.�

In an effort to combat the weakening Euro, associates of the European Union Organization have suggested several ways to raise prominence of the new united Europe. One is the world’s largest coaster, the Crusade, which if constructed will be the world’s largest and most dangerous coaster. Unlike American coasters, Euro Union representatives promise children will be able to ride just like adults.

Another proposal winning acceptance among the heads of the united European countries is mascot designed to warm up the appeal of Europe to outsiders. The mascot, Queen Mum, will be adorned in the flags of all the European countries and look exactly like Britain’s Queen Elizabeth, except for the much larger head. Mascot designers have said that physics prevent duplicating such a head in a mascot uniform.

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Good people, the most wondrous of wonderful, funderful, magical things has happened to me! I was hit in the side by a dirty van while crossing the street and gravely injured. That's not the good part, but I'm getting to that—let's take the long way, shall we?

Of course, you may know that we at the commune traded our insurance benefits options for Red Bagel's home-built soap box derby cars, so the shattered bones in my pelvis, my broken arm, multiple lacerations, bruised face, and bent pinky toe couldn't seek professional care. It turns out the man who hit me with his filthy van had no insurance either, but he's making it up to me in another way—again, more later. I did the only thing I could do, seek out an Indian friend to nurse me back to health, ala the legend of the Lone Ranger. So I asked Batu, a guy who works in the commune building on a different floor, to help me, and he agreed, even though he said he's an East Indian not a Native American, which I could give two cents about. Batu loaned me his Canadian Prescriptions card for all the free Vicodin I could ever want and his home body cast kit. Needless to say, I'm doing much better now, still some internal bleeding, but that may have been there before. Let's get on to the van-smashing wonderful thing.

The man with the van is Dan Lopez, or "Space Dan" to his friends, a legion amongst which I now count myself. And they call him Space Dan for a very sound reason, not simply because he's frequently stoned out of his gourd, although that's why some of his lesser friends think they call him that. No, the fact is, my friends, Space Dan is building himself an actual rocketship. You didn't read me wrong—an actual rocketship. Space Dan has circumvented the bloated government beast and the bureaucratic red-tape nonsense and created his own private company for space exploration.

I profess I was a little skeptical myself when I heard, but when I drove to his home in Littleton, a neighboring community of freaks and weirdoes to Flatbush, New Jersey, I saw quite the impressive sign hanging over his garage. He dissuaded me from seeing his state-of-the-art rocketship within, not because he didn't trust me, but the main stockholders in Space Dan's Rocket Travel Ltd.—Mom and Dad Lopez—refused to let him show anyone due to the possibility of industrial espionage. I can understand that completely, ever since I got blitzed on Southern Comfort that one night last February and offered to sell Crotchet! Magazine all of the commune's trade secrets. Lucky for us they weren't interested in buying.

Oh, in my excitement, I haven't even told you the best part—I myself am going into space, and I'm going there for a price that's practically nothing! $350, a price which my wife describes as practically insane, but she's got a mouth on her that, that one. I have been given that special price because of my great injuries sustained when he hit me—and he wasn't drunk, he was just trying to grab some candy bars from the back of the van when I was struck, so he technically wasn't even at the wheel. Space Dan waived the greater fees of space gas, gantry-fixin', reupholstering the space vehicle, and the comeback fee. All that was left was the $350 local space license, which of course he couldn't do anything about. It's a price I'll gladly pay, as soon as my wife goes to sleep later this evening and leaves her purse unguarded.

Just think—as soon as I'm fully recovered from my crippling injuries, I, Rok Finger, will be blasted into the cosmos by a professional private sector space-faring company. It's a dream I've had since I was a small child, but hopefully everyone at Mission Control won't be talking chipmunks. Come to think of it, what was that dream about? Maybe I'll be hit by an analyst next week and can get that worked out for free, too.

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You know how you can really piss off a total stranger? Insist they don't know anything about tennis. Everyone from John McEnroe down to Tommy Chong will take offense at a statement like that. Doesn't matter if they've never picked up a racquet before in their lives. It's like a self-esteem thing or something. Everybody likes to think they know about tennis.

Or even better, lump them in with an entire group of people who don't know anything about tennis. You'll be lucky if you make it out of the room alive.

"I don't care what anybody says, the Russians don't know shit about tennis."

This works even better if they're not even Russian, because then they're twice pissed. Once because you think they know jack about tennis, then all over again because you thought they were Russian. You're begging for a belt-whipping at that point. Even if they themselves think Russia is kind of cool, they'll still assume you're trying to start some shit by the insinuation.

Don't even try bringing it up in a fancy restaurant, unless you know how to Jackie Chan your way out of there. People who eat at fancy restaurants are especially insecure about their grasp of tennis. It's like the saying goes; there are a few things you just can't bring up in pleasant conversation. The KKK, botched abortions, tennis, gay sex… there are a few more, I can't remember the whole quote right now.

After you've got a guy fired up about you thinking he knows dick about tennis, a good strategy to push him to the edge is to accuse him of making up words. This is classic. If he says something like "Actually, I'm quite familiar with tennis, I've been a member at the club since I was an adolescent." You counter like "Adolescent? Cripes man, are you autistic? Speak English." I once had a guy try to kill me with an ice statue of a duck after I used that one. Thank God ice sticks to your hands, or I might be walking around wearing a frozen mallard hat to this day.

Every once in a while you'll come across some hotshot who actually is a tennis pro of some sort, the dude looks like Ivan Lendl because he is Ivan Lendl. Don't worry, you're not as screwed as you might think in this situation. If he starts quoting off obscure rules or matches, just start mixing up sports. "Well, that makes sense, if you're bowling, but I'm talking about tennis." If the dude just won't give up, the coup de ville is to say "Oh, you're right. That IS tennis. I was thinking about rugby. You really play tennis? Pretty gay, dude." They you walk away like you can't believe you wasted your time talking to him. I did that once at Wimbleton after I wandered over from a stag party across the street where the toilet was busted and that guy was so pissed I thought his mustache was going to kill me all by itself.

All this just goes to show that everything in life has a purpose. It's like golf. I used to think golf was pointless until I realized what it really is. They give you weapons, stick you in a little car and say drink all you want. It's like being in South America, anything goes. The holes are just there so you have old people to slalom around.

Same thing with tennis. For years I thought it was there just to keep weekend TV from being too fun. You know, some kind of conspiracy run by bars and movie theaters and shit. Then I realized it's like a built-in argument starter. Dude doesn't even have to speak English, if you can pantomime "You don't know a goddamned thing about tennis" you've got yourself a bar fight, in any culture. It's like a gift from the shit-starting Gods.

Bricks out.

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