Terrorists Probably Too Hungover for New Year's Attack

omeland Security experts are blaming probable excessive alcohol consumption among Al-Qaeda members for the lack of an earth-shattering, soul-crushing, make-you-wish-you-were-born-dead terrorist attack expected last week over the New Year's holiday. Despite the recent elevation of the nation's security level to code orange ("Citrus-Flavored Death"), the New Year was rung in without incident, excepting the usual rash of DUI fatalities and celebratory gunshot deaths that are customary for this time of year.

Despite the lack of festive atrocities, few can blame Western governments for a lack of preparation. Security was tighter than a duck's ass at New Year's celebrations all over the United States, with precautions taken to ensure that only revelers too drunk to carry out sophisticated terrorist plots would be allowed to attend.

Security was especially tight-assed in Las Vegas, where field reports indicated security was also especially high and obnoxious. Thanks to FBI warnings that Al-Qaeda thinks Las Vegas is "tacky," security considerations for Fox's annual "America's Party" televised concert and shmoozeapalooza at the Venetian Resort Hotel/Casino bordered on the Orwellian. In an especially innovative precaution, Fox held a fake New Year's Eve celebration on Dec 30th, complete with a diversion concert to draw out terrorists unfamiliar with American traditions and the "Thirty days hath September" rule. Unfortunately, this security measure failed due to a lack of starpower so blatant even foreign nationals unfamiliar with western culture noticed. The faux-bash, headlined by 80's holdovers Dexy's Midnight Runners, failed to elicit the terrorist onslaught hoped for by Homeland Security heads and music fans everywhere.

"It wouldn't have been that hard to fool these guys into thinking it was a real New Year's countdown party," bitched reveler Danny Postum. "Hootie and the Blowfish probably would have been good enough, or the Pretenders. I'm just pissed I bought tickets to the wrong fucking concert."

"What is with this bullshit?" asked Aman Halazi of Jordan. "We get better bands than this in Jordan. I could pull a better concert out of my dick-hole."

Due to the unconvincing ruse, many of the bands and celebrities scheduled to appear at the actual New Year's celebration sent celebrity impersonators and sound-alike bands in their stead, a move that might have proved controversial if anyone had noticed. Metallica, Ashanti and Paris Hilton could not be reached for comment, but all seemed pissed that their impersonators had all parlayed their appearances into lucrative recording and television deals.

Meanwhile, aviation officials for British Airways have cancelled all flights between London and Washington D.C. since New Year's Eve amidst credible threats of a plane-based attack on the American capitol. Frustrated travelers, however, have been calling for evidence of the threat and proof that the pilots aren't just too hungover to fly.

"The threat against Britith.. British Airwings is real and evident," announced FBI spokesman Walter Hammel, wincing from a post-New Year's hangover. "Several names on the passenger manifolds for recent flights have match… oh Jesus… uh, matched those of gnome terrorists." Hammel quickly excused himself as he sprinted in the direction of the men's room.

While the names in question turned out to belong to an elderly Chinese woman, a six-year-old boy and a chain of donut shops, British defense analyst Paul Bever insisted the threat was real.

"Oh yeah, totallyabigdealok…" slurred Bever, reeking vividly of rum.

"Oh Jesus," moaned a remorseful Hammel, passing through the room in a daze. "I just took a shit they're going to write folk songs about. Get out of my way."

Meanwhile in America, the FBI sent out a bizarre bulletin on Christmas Eve, warning police departments nationwide to be on the lookout for any potential terrorists carrying almanacs, fact-filled books that could conceivably be used in planning terrorist attacks.

"The FBI cautions you to be on the lookout for suspicious characters seen in possession of almanacs, maps, Cliff's Notes or volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica," the statement read. "We also advise you to detain anyone asking for directions."

"Look, let's not get carried away here. They're not saying you should shoot to kill the first time you see somebody with an almanac," explained terrorism expert and terrible dancer Ted Heyman, in response to America's collectively arched eyebrow. "A wing-shot should be plenty to put any fact-seeking terrorist out of commission until well after the holidays."

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No one is more surprised than Rok Finger at the results of his latest physical. I will spare you the details I usually render in graphic description, inviting several letters of complaint to my mailbox, and instead inform you of the doctor's shocking surprise.

"Rok, you're a dancing machine." Those are the words he said, I kid you not.

By this he meant my physique is perfectly constructed for dancing the night away. The twist in particular would be no problem for someone with my spinal make-up. It appears my vertebrae are especially springy and soft, which explains why after starting my early twenties at a good five foot two I've shrunk so badly over the years to now stand at three foot nine. Though I'm not complaining, it's a small price to pay for perfectly filling out a pair of boogie shoes.

True, my skill in dancing is hardly noteworthy. In fact, my previous efforts to dance have resulted in being strapped down by paramedics with a wallet placed under my tongue. But such a small obstacle shouldn't stand in the way of my destined greatness on the dance floor. You heard what the doctor said—a machine, he said. Dancing. Machine. You're. A. Rok.

Your friend Rok Finger is no stranger to scaling large obstacles, people. And this Everest of an obstacle will be conquered. I've already begun.

The first step, I've calculated, is to increase my rhythm, or as a the hip will define it, acceptance of the beat. After several further explanations and fruitless examination of Webster's Dictionary and P-Funk's Dancetionary, I decided the best course of action was to start nodding my head to a whack beat. It was difficult, I had to practice at home before I could take it out into a club or anything, but I think I've become an expert at beat technology.

It is a small step (dance step, that is) but it will suffice to start me in my career of dancing excellence. I have begun to assemble a dancing wardrobe. Wardrobe? More appropriately called my "gear," the dancing soldier's camouflage. I built it like a house from the bottom up, starting with a stylish pair of blue suede shoes. Yes, just like the Elvis anthem of a few years back. The dresser at the store, Fancy, said my color was emerald, like money, another word she used to describe me, and therefore outfitted me in a suave glittery emerald jumpsuit with a purple streak of vinyl up the side. She said when I "move" (street code for dancing) I look like a green and purple tornado. That was all the salesmanship I needed!

Then I hit the clubs. And I rock hard, let me tell you. Just the little bit of expertise I picked up from bobbing my head, no doubt buoyed by the new confidence found in my dancing wardrobe, I've become a very intimidating figure on the dance floor. Most of the time other dancers are too self-conscious to join the floor while I'm on it. But when a brave few manage to two-step up to me, we have a gay old time. Sometimes extremely gay. The ladies love me, we dance like tornadoes and carry on loudly laughing away. Well, they're laughing, I'm usually too busy concentrating on my steps.

What more can I say? This machine is in high gear. Not the gear you wear, but the gear like a car. Hence the machine metaphor. I'll bring you more news as I make dancing news on the club scene here and there. In the meantime, I must go get the rubber soles of my blue suede shoes patched.

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Let there be no mistake: I love my new wife, Felchyana, but she's starting to get on my nerves. Being a veteran of two marriages and three wars you'd think I might be familiar with this growing feeling of spite I'm experiencing, but it's not the case. She must be one of these "modern women" I keep seeing represented on sitcoms and the like. I can't say I approve, good people.

I finally got the chance to take us away on a honeymoon. You may recall the expense of the wedding and bail for bachelor party attendees left me a little strapped for cash. Tied down screaming to a medieval wooden rack, actually. But fate intervened, and after correctly guessing the number of jellybeans in the jar at Red Bagel's annual commune picnic I achieved a great windfall. It was apparently the loudest windfall ever since I won some sort of contest three states away, and the prize money was enough to take my blushing new bride off on an extravagant honeymoon.

You would think that enough for any woman, right? Wrong! Not for Felchyana. We had a quarrel over where to go on our honeymoon, the first argument we've ever had. If you discount all her attempts to get out of the wedding. I wanted us to see beautiful Niagra Falls, even though I don't approve of the racial epithet in their name. Felchyana wanted us to visit Leavenworth Penitentiary, judging by her frantic pointing to the picture in the paper. Well, you can see this is an almost insurmountable difference of opinion, but we decided to compromise. I locked her up inside the apartment and went to Alabama.

It was quite a wonderful tour through primitive culture, good people. After hearing our beloved Editor describe it with such vivid detail I was anxious to see what it was like and see all the great tourist spots—the world's smallest library, the place Red Bagel slept, so on.

Imagine my surprise to return home and see it had been taken over by the Russian mob! Well, okay, it wasn't that big a surprise. But it was quite a shock to see Felchyana apparently involved in some manner. There were four or five large men surrounding her, the shortest of which said his name was Yogi and persistently called me "dude." He instructed me that he was Felchyana's cousin and would be taking care of her while she was in the states. He said he was happy I had married into the family seeing as I was such a man of means—I would say the throw pillows worked in making the apartment look a lot more upscale. He also warned me that if I hurt her in any way he would break my legs into splinters, if he could find them. He found that addition particularly funny.

So, like the hired hand who agreed to clean up the rhinoceros cage, I'm in much deeper than I ever imagined. Felchyana has been strutting around the apartment like she owns the place lately, ever since those mob fellows gave me their friendly warning. She even cries less than she did after we were just married. Chalk it up to falling into routine, maybe she's even happier with things this way, but it feels like the spark is gone.

Not that I'm giving up. You know me, good people, I'm in it for the long haul—thirty years or death, whatever comes first. And there's a certain amount of truth in that old wives' tale about people being different from each other. Felchyana is no Arvelyn, that's for sure, but obviously I wasn't happy with Arvelyn's attempts to kill me and backstabbing bed-jumping. So maybe everything will work out for the best. It will require a little bit of change on my part, like not locking my wife in our home when I leave at any time, but if other people can learn to do it, so can I.

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