"The Truth" Goes Unrecognized at White House

February 4, 2002

Washington, DC

Rico Pollico/the Commune

Many are disoriented when faced with "The Truth"

ormer heavyweight champion Carl "The Truth" Williams visited the Bush White House recently, at the invitation of Secretary of State Colin Powell, and no one there seemed to have a clue as to who he actually was. "The Truth" got the grand tour, meeting with the president, the vice president and many members of their respective staffs, yet all expressed puzzlement as to who he might really be or why he was there.

White House spokesman Ari Fleischer said "The Truth" looked very much a like "a guy I once hired to put up some sheet rock in my basement, and a couple times we would go off into the little closet down there to smoke crack and give each other handjobs, but other than that, I can't place him."

The president himself was similarly disinclined to speculate on the identity of his guest. "How the hell should I know?" he asked. "All them fellas look alike to me. He's not the guy who delivers the pretzels, is he? Because if he is, I got a few words of ornerification for him."

Vice president Dick Cheney, when asked if he recognized "The Truth," responded by saying that it was possible that he did, but that it would endanger national security and the ability of future vice presidents to effectively do their job if he admitted it. He went on to say that if "The Truth" were to accompany him to an undisclosed location, perhaps they could discuss the matter further by the side of a warm fireplace full of shredded documents.

Mary Matalin, Cheney's spokesperson, came closest to recognizing "The Truth" when she admitted that, "after studying him closely, he does look very much like that guy that fisted me and my serpentine husband up the ass without Vaseline one afternoon last November, but I can't be positive without James here."

Mr. Williams said that, despite the lack of recognition, he very much enjoyed his tour of the First Residence. "Muthafuckahs be livin' large here, y'all!" he was quoted as saying when the Secret Service escorted him out by way of the South Lawn. "Word, dawg, place be almost as happenin' as George Foreman's crib. Sheee-it."

the commune news is proud to say that it always recognizes The Truth when it is accompanied by a valid picture ID and a short bio. Bludney Plud, desperate for a little recognition himself, has been

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October 28, 2002

Ode to the Debunker

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Tonight the city is packed like a cheap suitcase, my friends. It is brimming over with miserable, sweaty recluses, who sit naked in their stench-ridden plaster of Paris hovels like the penthouses of the damned. They spend their unfortunate lives brewing up Byzantine conspiracy theories like pots of runny black coffee, in an ass-clenching attempt to pass those painful small hours of the night's midsection, hours that cling and drag like a moss-covered gallstone. And not just tonight, no. Last night, as well. Most likely last Tuesday. Maybe other nights, it's hard to say.

True enough, there are still some intrepid dreamers who sniff glue or make Popsicle stick models of Eartha Kitt's gigantic ass when the boredom horn comes calling, cutting a crimson swath through their sleepwalking nightmare lives. But countless others have no hobbies at all, and instead attempt to break boredom's dark stranglehold by dreaming up improbable conspiracies galore, spiraling out into infinity with their paranoid cake-baking.

But the twisting corridors of this sickly web don't end there, good friend. This lonely waltz demands several more dancers to move their hips in and out when the suggestion is made, like freak-dancing mulatto robots. This latter-day ecosystem of conspiracy is made complete only by the existence of the noble dubunker, the conspiracy theorist's natural predator! Without debunkers, the conspiracy theorist population would grow wildly out of control, regenerating exponentially and savaging the natural cultural landscape. It would choke out all other indigenous lifetypes, like bad drivers and hypochondriacs. The beautiful diversity of nature would quickly and unceremoniously be destroyed, like a bedwetting puppy that was a gift from your ex-wife.

You might argue that this could be a good thing, especially the next time some sex-crazed zealot of questionable lineage backs his 4-Runner over the top of your humble sparkbox of a car, pausing only to spew a smoking stream of white-hot vitriol out his driver-side window before he peels out, and his bumper sticker tells you to go hump a penguin. But diversity is sustainability my friend, and without every variety of unfortunate asshole out there in the world, the whole circus tent would come down like a giant scale model of the Notre Dame cathedral, one made of lubricated dominoes.

Pluck one sphincter-searing malcontent from the beautiful mosaic of life and when your back is turned, six other varieties of life would disappear in the bat of a bat's eye. The nursemaid, the wax statue enthusiast, or the twice-baked grandmother, perhaps? Or could it be the surgeon, the Harley mechanic or the last unmolested boyscout? That's just the thing, my friends, the choice is not ours to make, and when we start yanking fibrous polybendanium stalks willy-nilly from the high-tech camping tent of nature, no one can say just what will come falling down around our ears next.

And what is life without the ammonia-scented wonders of nature? The dizzying variety of crawling, backward-twitching creation, a rancid, festering cornucopia of tropical ooze clogging our eye sockets like a pudding-thick discharge? Not a whole flaming lot. It's a couple of stale Styrofoam coffee cups rolling around on the floorboards of a cobalt blue 1985 Chevy Nova, friend, and personally I'm one who has been down that road before. You can have it. It only goes to Wisconsin.

So before you go to bed tonight, say a humble prayer of thanks to the noble debunker, for all too often they go unrecognized and unthanked. Yet regardless, they bravely trod forward, never once complaining. And when life leaves a steaming batch of road apples on their path, they make delicious apple pie.

And I think we can all learn a valuable lesson from that.

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May 16, 2005

Marry All the Way

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Surprise, I got my name back. Occasionally I jump the gun and make a situation look a lot bleaker than it is. But I did seriously think Felchyana would take away my very name. As for my new name, "Rokwell T. Stonewall" is already owned by a nationally-syndicated columnist. No shortage of legal hassle trying to write a commune column without being sued for damage to reputation.

Felchyana, on the other hand, was more agreeable than certain bastards named Rok Stonewall. She was only holding out for more money, so I agreed to give it to herâ€”after all, money is temporary. A name like Rok Finger only comes along once in a lifetime. Rok Stonewall, a thousand times in a lifetime. Completely useless name. Besides, I negotiated with Felchyana so she could have my middle name, Teddasaurus, while I retain the right to use the initial. Which is all I ever wanted in the first place.

Now that my divorce is finalized with Ms. Teddasaurus, you'd better believe I'm lining up all my ducks for the wedding of the century! Well, I suppose that may be overstating things. It's an early century, after all. I would hate for the great-great-grandson of Prince to be forced to marry the Queen of Neptune, in order to keep us from going to interplanetary war. Then Rok Finger's proclamation of 2005 would look quite foolish to the future potential Neptunian slaves.

I have even bought the material to make a tuxedoâ€”most rental places don't make them in my size, of course, and I'm sick of wearing doll clothes to my own weddings. Besides, three more weddings and the thing will have practically paid for itself. The pattern I'm using is based on a formal dress affair suit for a lawn jockey, made by an insane woman at the local asylum. But for all her mental instability, she's a hell of a pattern maker.

We have had trouble deciding, Ginger and I, where exactly to hold the wedding. At first, I thought we might hold it at the commune officesâ€”these people are, after all, the closest thing I have to friends. Which is quite depressing. But Ginger convinced me there was no way in hell she would get married with the "freaks [I] work with staring at us." She made a good point. Now we're trying to decide on a church wedding or a city hall sort of affair. We haven't ruled out driving to Vegas either. What a decision! If only something combined the sanctity of a church wedding, the esteem of a judge-presided matrimony, and a topless chorus line. But then there would be lines around the block, no doubt.

Camembert suggested we get married right here, in the humble Finger abode's backyard. I didn't hear him because I've been ignoring him since he ate the last of my breakfast cereal, Sugar Shorties. But Ginger seemed to think it was a good idea. Now I only have to figure a way to hold the ceremony here and still not invite Camembert. That may seem extreme, considering the wedding is at least a month away, but I'm known for holding insensible grudges for long periods.

To tell the truth, I'm actually a bit nervous about the whole thing. I was never nervous in all my previous marriages, so maybe that means I feel Ginger Baker is truly the girl for me. Or maybe I've developed a sixth sense and I am feeling the presence of the dead all around me. But Ginger didn't think that notion was as romantic as the first, so I'm sticking with the "one true girl" thing. What a woman!

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Milestones

1983: Red Bagel is thrown out of a casino for counting cards. He is not cheating, merely trying to settle a bet with a friend on how many decks the casino uses.

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