Flaming Poop Bag Attacks Continue to Baffle Cops

flaming poop bag similar to 17 others found in four states was discovered on a rural doorstep outside Amarillo, Texas, the FBI said Tuesday.

FBI agent Harry Nuxombelt in Omaha, Neb., said a note was scribbled on the bag in grease pencil. Investigators had not yet inspected the note, Nuxombelt said, because it smelled strongly of burnt shit and was incredibly nasty.

"It's another poop bag. It looks similar to the others," he said. "Upon our initial inspection, it appears it would be from the same source."

It wasn't certain whether the bag, which was stomped on, hit with a broom and kicked off the porch, was filled with human or animal excrement.

"We haven't made any comparisons yet, but everything else, including the bag itself, looks similar in nature," he said.

Amarillo is about 400 miles southeast from Salida, Colo., where one of the flaming poop bags was found Monday.

The Colorado bag was set aflame on a residential porch and may have been left by the same person or people who left them on doorsteps in Illinois, Iowa and Nebraska, said FBI agent Mike Bautrom.

"The logical concern here, given that this shit candle is consistent with the others, is 'Is the tip of the shitberg?"'

A second flaming poop bag was found later, also in Colorado, but officials said it did not appear to fit the characteristics of the other scat satchels.

Investigators told the commune News' Ramon Nootles that they hoped the bagger was intentionally making the devices less shit-filled, having received the national attention that a note accompanying the earlier bags said was the bagger's goal.

Still, "we have a rather disturbing pattern where the subjects are moving west rather quickly," Bautrom said. "We're looking for someone who is mobile. This sick bastard is like some kind of poop bag Santa Claus and we've got to stop him before he gets to my house."

After hearing his doorbell ring, a resident found the bag on fire on his porch in the small mountain community of Salida, 100 miles southwest of Denver. A hasty stomping to put out the flames revealed the bag's shitty contents.

The area was blocked off while police short-straw units inspected the porch. The FBI confirmed in a statement that it was a real poop bag, not a hoax.

Authorities described the bag for commune affiliate Rocky Mountain Elementary Gazette in Denver as a brown paper lunch sack 10 inches high, filled with some of the nastiest, call-in-sick scat anyone had ever seen. It was accompanied by a charred piece of paper, but it was not revealed whether the paper was a note similar to the scorched, unreadable but presumably anti-government letters found with the other bags.

The poop bag scare began last Friday when six people had perfectly good shoes and slippers ruined by flaming poop-filled bags in Illinois and Iowa, creating new fears about domestic terrorism striking the heartland. The poop bags were accompanied by what could have been anti-government notes, had the text not been besmirched beyond readability.

The poop bag discovery in Colorado now has authorities looking for geographical patterns.

The bags in Iowa and Illinois were found in locations that form a large, uneven ring about 70 miles in diameter. The Nebraska bag sites form a large ring of about 90 miles across. Both rings together are seen by some to form a crude representation of large buttocks, with Omaha falling into its customary role of "the asshole of the country." Also, if you draw lines connecting each of the sites to every other site, it forms a bitchin Spirograph picture that looks like some kind of psychedelic owl.

Bautrom said the fact that the other devices were found in clusters makes authorities fear that more bags may be delivered in Colorado. Homeowners near Salida have been told not to stomp on any suspicious flaming bags unless they are certain of the source.

By the end of the weekend, eight bags were found in Illinois and Iowa, and seven were discovered in rural areas of Nebraska.

The 16th flaming bag was found Monday in rural Nebraska on the porch of someone who had been away for the weekend, authorities said. The bag had apparently burnt itself out, though none would come close enough to the charred, stomach-turning mess to investigate further. No one cared to comment on whether it was accompanied by the same "anti-government" note found with the other bags.

The letter left with the bags referred to the bagger as "I," not "we," FBI Special Agent Jimmy Bonger told the commune's Ramon Nootles in a nearby strip club. "We believe it's a person who has tried to communicate with the government in the past, gave up after about eight hours in the phone queue, has issues that are unresolved and we are continuing to work on that. Same thing happened with the UNAbomber," he said.

In Omaha, Neb., FBI Agent Harry Nuxombelt said the construction of the poop bags also supported the theory that a single party was behind the baggings. Though by that he didn't mean a party like where you have friends over to drink punch and play records, though that's an intriguing possibility. Get-togethers revolving around animal waste are not uncommon in Nebraska, but Nuxombelt was referring instead to a single person constructing the bags. Though by that he didn't mean to exclude the possibility that the bagger could be married. Anyhow, all were made with the same materials, except for slight variations in the corn content of the poop itself, he said, refusing to elaborate.

"There is no question that these were planted by the same person or persons, though there are clearly multiple shitters," Holmquist said.

The grease-pencil-scribbled letter, the text of which was posted on the FBI's Web site, indicated that the bagging campaign would continue. FBI officials said they considered the baggings to be "domestic terrorism," and that any snickers or jokes made about this would also be considered "domestic terrorism."

"If the {illegible, possibly either "government" or "grannypants"} controls what you want to do they control what you can {"donut"}," it reads in part. "... I'm {something} your {"action figure"} in the only way I can. More {"info" or "afro"} is on its way. More 'attention {"graham crackers"}' are on the way. Ding-dong."

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On the evening of Saturday, November 10th, 1951, Sir Hugh Beaver of Zackary Farms shot a pigeon in the ass. At the time, he was out pot-shotting on The North Slob by the river Stanley, in the easterly westness of Southern Ireland. The shot traveled through the pigeon, and carried on to hit a dove sitting on a nearby fig tree, two butterflies on the wing, and the neck of his hunting partner, Sir Edmond Wistledick III. Later that evening at the hunting lodge, Sir Hugh marveled at his highly unusual shot while Wistledick gurgled along in agreement, holding a mottled kerchief to his punctured esophagus.

This quickly started an argument at the lodge over who held the record for the most things shot at one time. Sir Hugh thought he might have set a new record, while other drinkers weighed in with fantastical stories of shotgun mishaps at the rookery or the time Walter Cranabble shot an entire tank of lobsters during a melee at a seafood restaurant.

Dissatisfied with his inability to prove the greatness of his shot (in addition to the tiresome and endless debates with his wife over whether or not she was the fattest person in the world), Sir Hugh went to his friends at the local fact-checking agency, Crampit & Crammit, with his idea for compiling a book of world records for doing stupid things. Though they never doubted Sir Hugh's expertise on the subject, Crampit and Crammit thought his idea of publishing the book on the backs of a collectable series of beer cans was a bit tacky… even if he did work for Guinness. They agreed to participate, as long as the book was published on paper. Sir Hugh reluctantly agreed, even though paper doesn't hold much beer at all.

The first edition of the Guinness Book of World Records was published in 1954, and most of its 198 pages were devoted to records held by Sir Hugh Beaver himself. The rest was dedicated to records Sir Hugh wasn't competing for, but still followed closely (Biggest Tits, Most Times Falling Down the Same Well, Most Likely to Have Sex with Sir Hugh Beaver if He Asked, Class Clown, etc…). Realizing they had a goldmine on their hands, but for the huge jackass blocking the shaft, William Crampit and Arthur Crammit locked Sir Hugh in a pantry and told everyone he'd gone on safari. Over the next few years they refined and expanded the Guinness Book, developing it into a perennial bestseller that would eventually rank behind only The Pop-Up Bible and The Lose Weight Doing Nothing Diet on the all-time bestsellers list.

Crampit and Crammit proceeded to travel around the world, noting records where they found them and taking pictures of anyone they could find wearing weird extendo neck-rings and fat people riding motorcycles. When they got back to their offices they were greeted by a man who was, for no discernable reason, pulling four loaded buses with his teeth. They weren't sure what the buses were loaded with, and were understandably afraid to ask. The man was so frightening, in fact, that they put him in the book immediately just to get him off the premises. Little did they know they were opening some kind of freak-filled floodgate, and within the week their offices were stuffed to the rafters with every no-hair-cutting, long-fingernailed, lightbulb-eating mental patient in twelve counties.

Crampit and Crammit, no fans of having their spleens eaten or their eyeballs pulled like taffy, folded like a laminated map. Before they knew it, all of their precious "Fastest Bird" and "Tallest Post Office" records were pushed to the back of the book, buried under an avalanche of morbidly obese twins, turban-wearing weirdos who have sat in the same spot their entire lives, and insomniacs who stay up all night writing thousands of words on a grain of rice.

Every year since then the famed Guinness Book has grown like a weird tumor that started out interesting but is now placing its own orders for take-out. Determined and unbalanced individuals the world over have spawned new categories yearly in an effort to be remembered for anything at all, even if it's eating a shopping cart while wearing a beard of bees. As an interesting side note, Sir Hugh Beaver re-appeared around this time, claiming the record for most years spent living inside a pantry.

Eventually Guinness sold its rights for the book to the Robert Ripley Corporation of Believe it or Not! fame, a natural fit since they had more experience and expertise in freak-wrangling. Fans rejoiced as the long-standing bans on ant eating and penis size records were finally lifted, and Crampit and Crammit regained use of their hot tub at long last.

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This is becoming the Rok Finger motif as of late: Taking a rocky path, somehow surviving most of the way, coming to a bump in the road, inhale a huge breath and successfully jump over the bump in the road, just to land in dogshit.

Am I exaggerating? I've known for quite some time God Himself has it in for me—once again, look at the face. But this seems a little sadistic even for the Almighty. To use me as a tool to scare children with this scrapheap of a punum, to break up my 30-year marriage through my paranoia and impulsive temper, to do the same to my second marriage, to make Camembert paralyzed just so my future apartment would be inconveniently filled with ramps and railings, all of it is just so cruel as to make me doubt the existence of God, if I thought someone evil enough like Kathi Lee Gifford had enough power to affect my life. No, there's a God, and He most certainly gets his kicks drowning puppies and kicking Rok Finger's backside like a black and white Spalding.

Now my one little past discretion has come back to haunt me. No, not my out-of-wedlock children—they are neither singular enough in number nor small enough in individual quantity to count as one little indiscretion. I speak of the three month span in the 1980s where I was a professional wrestler.

It's nothing I'm proud of. Even my ex-wife Arvelyn and all my previous column publishers know nothing about it. It's hard to explain why in today's culture, where wrestling clearly is considered a mental disorder rather than a lifestyle choice. Let's just say I needed the money and was going through an unpleasant phase where holding half-naked men down to mats was what was important to me.

My wrestling league, the Dandies of America (D.O.A.), was small and cheap, but so am I; we were a match in heaven, where, I might remind you, the God who hates me so much lives. Our matches were quick and exciting, the way wrestling should have been, and boy, were our costumes fancy! I liked it, but I was always wise enough to wear a mask, to protect my journalistic career and save my cat from abuse on the streets. None of it helped.

I came home from, let's say a massage parlor, the other day just to find Camembert and Lee sitting on the couch and watching some home video wrestling tape. They rented it from a video store under the auspicious title, "Douches of the Ring." You can imagine my surprise when I saw a familiar costume appear in the midst of these badly-edited clips of smaller wrestling events. It was me, under my ring name of The 4-Foot Nightmare, wrestling with an old foe called "Amazing Sack" Ryan. I shuddered in fear, but the next words were what stopped me dead in my tracks:

"Damn, Rok, he's as short as you," Lee said, deadpan face on the TV. "Well, a little bit taller."

That was Saturday night. I haven't been home since. Curse that Lee! He has it all: A handsome face, long, luxurious hair, except for the top of his head, a beautiful apartment with fantastic roommates like me and Camembert, abundant bass playing ability, a never-ending supply of funny weed, and his mother likes him. Now he wants everything I have, to boot—my commune stipend of $36 a week, my fancy desk, my lousy craphole of an apartment with my turd roommates, and worse yet, my pride. I imagine, I didn't really give him time to make any demands after he made me in the video.

Well, I'll be damned to be victim of blackmail! I'm coming out, right here in my commune column, so at least Red Bagel will be reading it. Probably. Yes, America, I used to be a pro-wrestler. It's nothing I'm proud of, though the "Stamp of Approval" move that was my signature was pretty sharp. It was a long time ago. I ask for your forgiveness, and to let me move on. And be quick about it, they won't let me live in the office another day so I've got to get home again.

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