Bush Slips the Court a Bigot

n an unapologetic display of mortal hubris, monkeyesque president George W. Bush took the road less respected by using a little-known process known as "recess appointment" to install accused racist and anti-abortion fanatic Judge Charles Pickering to the federal appeals court.

Choosing to bypass confirmation, a candidate named by recess appointment will not need to be confirmed for the position until January 2005, which is fine for Pickering if Bush blusters his way back into office, not so fine if he's ran out of town on an electoral rail. Pickering and five other nominees for court positions have been the focus of an ire-filled debate between Democrats and Republicans as one accuses the other of doing things most Americans wouldn't approve of if they cared.

Pickering's stellar record includes a history of supporting an amendment to ban abortion, several reversals on decisions made in his court, tendencies to reduce protection of an individual's right to vote, and verbally chiding those who seek protection for civil rights in cases of race discrimination. The judge also has a history as a young man of supporting segregationist politics, and was coincidentally appointed by Bush the weekend before the federal Martin Luther King Jr. holiday.

Fellow Mississippian, Sen. Trent Lott, forced to step down in 2002 after showing support for late Sen. Strom Thurmond's early segregationist presidential candidacy, supported Pickering's appointment.

"I don't see nothing wrong with it no-how," said Lott at his comfortable Washington D.C. retreat, throwing a few more crosses on the fire. "I believe the nation is a better place now that Charlie's on the court."

Finding liberal outrage at a disgustingly reserved level, Bush accused Democrats and those who opposed Pickering's nomination of discrimination against the widely-accused bigot.

"This is the worst kind of discrimination—against white people," said the president. "The Democrats are guilty of what they done accused Judge Pickering of. They are biased. Against religious people, against Southerners, and against white bigots everywhere. For shame, Democrats. Hate-mongers."

Democrats were dismayed at the accusation, and responded late Friday: "No, seriously, you got to be shitting us."

The president replied later in the day that he was indeed not shitting them.

"Sure, Democrats believe the nation should be equally represented, when it's equally represented by people all in favor of equality," slurred Bush, possibly drunk on rye whiskey. "Just you try to be a white man who wants all blacks segregated and stripped of their voting rights. Then you find out who the real minority in this country is. And if you're a good ol' boy from a state with a history of state-supported racism who also has serious issues with women and rolling back pro-choice politics, throw into that you want to abolish the separation of church and state, then all of a sudden you find out who really wants equality. Not you—and definitely not the Democrats."

Representatives of the Democratic party could not be reached for further comment, but insiders say they were anxious to find out if Bush was really shitting them or not.

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What a couple of weeks it has been! To jump right to the gory details, I'm no longer a nature documentary narrator, as I hoped to be last week. That was a little outlandish, I can now see. So I made the logical jump to pirate!

Logical though it may have been, I didn't see the wisdom of it and give up nature, no. I had to become the pariah of the countless Australian animal-taunters out there first, or actually I sat idly by and watched Camembert become their pariah. Camembert tried to convince them he was no threat to their livelihood, and in fact didn't even want to be a rugged outdoorsman, even after I tried so long to make him into one. But they wouldn't hear nothing of it. I think the Australians are naturally suspicious of the handicapped anyway, it probably didn't help his case. Camembert soon became the most hated man in Australia. And they even like Yahoo Serious down there.

One day Camembert and I had gone out monkey-hunting, even though he had actually asked to go to the Australian-equivalent of Wal-Mart, and they cornered us right out there in the open. Or perhaps they didn't corner us so much as challenge us, and I thought Camembert could put them in their place once and for all. He has pretty good upper body strength, that Camembert, and there were only four of them, with minimal weapons, so naturally I assumed the match was fairly even. But no luck.

They bagged Camembert, chair and all, and tossed him into the ocean, a lot of which surrounds Australia. I thought I might get off the hook easy, seeing as how they believed me some forgotten species of bald Koala bear, but they bagged me, too, me—Rokwell T. Finger—and threw me in after Camembert, shouting for him to "take this hideous thing with you." Apparently Australians have never heard how words hurt more than knives. Not that the knives didn't hurt, too.

We could have floated for days for all I know—I get sleepy washed adrift at sea. Camembert says it was about 40 minutes. Then the pirates found us.

That's right—pirates! Real true-to-life pirates. They didn't wear puffy shirts, fancy jackets, or eye patches, but one guy had real bad pink eye. As for dressing-style, they were much more of the shorts and polo shirt variety of pirates. For a pirate ship, it was surprisingly devoid of parrots, but they did have a dog named Fucker, with quite the uneasy stomach.

Neither were they very jolly Jolly Rogers. According to the head pirate, Kevin, they hadn't boat-jacked anybody in a number of months. He was even considering giving up the business and going back into telemarketing. In general they were all pretty gloomy and dispirited. What they really needed was a leader, a brand new captain with spit and vinegar, someone with the vision to make them successful. If you've read my column for any length of time I think you know where this is going.

Yes, it's the pirate's life for me. And Camembert, of course; I suppose I could let him off the hook for this one, given he doesn't quite have sea legs yet, but at this point it would shock him into a heart attack if I were to throw myself into severe danger and not bring him along. Besides, the married life was getting a little boring and Felchyana had locked me out of the house a month ago. I was getting tired having never consummated the marriage anyway.

To sum up, this may be the last Rok Finger column you receive for quite a while. We were fortunate enough to stop here in Singapore and find a fax machine, but Neil's got the caning tomorrow at two so we'll be out of here by four at the latest. Writing isn't the pirate's life, and that's what I do this week. Or now, I mean. Wish me luck, good people, for tomorrow this salty dog returns to the sea. Now I'm off to find a charitable local to blow the man down.

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The list of sins I committed in a previous lifetime must still be rolling out somewhere, without end in sight. I can find no other explanation as to why I'm back here at the commune. I'm not sure if I feel more like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now or Al Pacino in The Godfather III, but either way it's probably some Coppola movie that doesn't quite work.

You read that right: Back at the commune. My second dramatic exit, and my second crawling-on-all-fours return. There's no good explanation, other than fate driving by in a bus and waving its dick out the window. My fatal error was assuming I could leave this den in iniquity and make a clean break. I improperly assumed just because they hated me they wouldn't ever want to work with me again and get no satisfaction out of sabotaging my career. Guess who's the jackass, guys?

I should have done something sooner. I could see it coming like a freight train, how I was being set up for permanent commune employment. You see, the rest of these misfits, they're perfectly fit for working at the commune. They lack ambition, sensibility, any degree of talent—and while I'm being just plain insulting, they never pick up a check either. But I had a future, a rosy future I could practically smell. Well, I can smell it now, too, and it's more fertilizer than flowers. Over the years, Bagel and his co-conspirators torpedoed my reputation in the non-commune world with ridiculous insinuations I created the "reporting style" here at the commune, a style which is just shy of pure fiction, to tell the truth. I know a lot of commune enthusiasts are going to be outraged to hear that, but if you're a commune enthusiast, let's face it, you have bigger problems to confront.

My "involvement" with the commune reporting style is strictly like that of the involvement of a witness at the site of the Hindenberg disaster. "The humanity" indeed. What started as a joke memo about a funny Clinton story I had heard became the first published commune story I did, and apparently that loose corroboration of the facts and incessant needling of Republicans was just what El Capitan Bagel wanted. Yes, I have to admit, there's a "moron bias" here at the commune. Made by morons, edited by morons, all under the watchful eye of moron number one. Facts? You'll find more Vitamin D in a commune story than facts. Sad to say, but if we're being honest with ourselves, you'll admit you had some suspicions since day one. I say "you" because I'm well aware, despite our preposterous ratings numbers, there's only one commune reader, and we love you here, Emil.

If you're wondering how I can write such inflammatory things about the organization I've just come back to work for, I remind you, being fired from this nightmarish existence would be a blessing in disguise. I have always tried, despite my rocky relationship with the commune overlords and staff, to maintain a polite "work face" to get me through the day. My reward? A slew of titles that have insulted everything from my income to my penis size, crude insinuations about my mother and even my cat on the men's room walls, and being sent on numerous stories where my death was an expected outcome. These motherfuckers play hardball, in short. But I've had it. No more Mr. Nice Dunkin.

Red Bagel's hat is absurd. There, I said it. Consider it the first in many brutal doses of truth I will be handing out, in between the reporting assignments that put me in jeopardy. I'm back, commune, and this time, it's personal.

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