U.K. Earns Most-Hammered Nation Status

report published by Downing Street’s strategy unit found the whole of Britain utterly plastered last week, surprising government officials who thought the nation only mostly drunk. The study, originally intended to determine public opinion toward new traffic-reduction measures in downtown London, shocked researchers by revealing that the entire British populace, to a man, was too drunk to talk about traffic.

The study found British binge drinking had increased to 100 percent, and added that British children under 16 are drinking twice as much as they did 10 years ago. Some blame the government’s “Our kids: Tomorrow’s drunks, today!� poster campaign for this increase, while others lay the blame on all the kids getting shitfaced everywhere. The study is also thought to have amassed a world-record assemblage of unintelligible British quotes.

“Aye mum, ‘ow ‘bout a pint, ey?� asked six-year-old Roary Willis of Liverpool when confronted with the study’s findings.

The numbers also show that women are drinking more, and falling out of moving cars at a record rate. Asked to comment on increased alcohol consumption among British women, housewife Mary Willis mused “Well, frans maston ralf nay, eh hay!� while filling a spillproof cup with Newcastle.

The study also found increased rates of public singing of fight songs, “dunking,� as defined by throwing chickens into public fountains, and an increased enthusiasm for camping, as defined by sleeping outside.

Not all Britons were pleased with the study’s findings.

“We need to create a more civilized late-night culture! Dear God do we… It should be about cinema, and theater… uh, and bowling,� said British bowling director Rodden Blears, wincing remorsefully as he nursed a cup of black coffee.

“Aye bawlin!� slurred nearby reveler Drew Jaehnig, grabbing his package. “Fock ryte! Boost me liney shaynt chans, ha ha! I’ll go bawlin wit me dyke inna cont’s hat! Ha ha!�

The study found that Britain loses 17 million workdays every year to hangovers, fuck-offs and vomit-related drownings, the equivalent of 46,000 years spent sleeping under a table in the lobby of a strange hotel. The figure represents more than double the nation’s actual recorded workdays.

These findings put Britain out to a comfortable lead as the most-drunk nation, topping perennial drunken powerhouses Sweden, Denmark and Germany, which recently became less drunk thanks to a U.N. intervention.

“Hammel geinen fausteneininin…� giggled German bricklayer Hans Slomein, blowing at a feather stuck in his beard when asked about his nation’s alcohol consumption.

Government officials for the other most-drunk countries can only speculate what effect these findings will have on their now runner-up nations. German and Swedish officials could not be rousted from bed for comment, but officials from Denmark asked the commune to remember last year’s U.N. General Assembly, when Danish representative Lars Faaborg-Andersen pissed himself while holding a hot dog to his crotch, when considering Denmark’s drunken staying power.

MySpace Premieres in Communist China as OurSpace

Pain in the Ass Hawking Demands Handicapped- Accessible Space Shuttle

“Blond Highlights the Devil’s Work,” Says Iran, Straight Men

Dow Reaches 13,000, Tao Reaches ∞

Rok Finger is back in the dating pool, good people. So he better not feel any warm water around you teen-agers, because I get violent when standing in piss.

You read right—violent standing in piss. True, too, before the piss part: I'm playing the field again. The outfield, and it's lonely out here. Truthfully I've been available since being split from my wife last year by my own indignation, outrage, and paranoia, but I'm actively seeking female companionship for coupling now. And I mean now, as we speak. I might be getting around to your neighborhood soon, so you pretty single ladies meet me out by your mailboxes. And you pretty unavailable ladies, just make sure your husband's at work, or at least smaller than 4 foot tall and unable to kickbox.

I'm no homewrecker, despite what those repair people and Camembert say. But it's about time Rok Finger got "serviced," if you know what I mean. Yes, of course: intercourse. Or at least simple female companionship, as long as some genital contact is involved on some level. I'm a little "hot under the collar," that's how we used to phrase it in the neighborhood I grew up in. I could use a little "loosening up," especially as provided by "hours and hours of animal-like fucking." I read the last part in a book once, or it was something Lee said.

I'm a private man, as my national column often attests, and it's difficult to express your feelings sometimes, especially tingly below-the-waist feelings, but I've been waiting too long for companionship and when the mystery enigma charade doesn't draw in the ladies, I figure honesty can't do any worse. I can always say I was lying about that, too. But it's high time Rok Finger met a good woman to spend time with, horizontal time, and my definition of "good" opens a little more each day. Give me a few weeks and attractive drag queens may apply as well.

There's something about sharing an apartment with two men and a shit-filled catbox that makes you question the single life. Fun has been fun, except when it hasn't been, but after too long you begin to desire a sense of order, and breasts. My past wives have all been bitter harpies, even before I married them, but all have brought that much-needed discipline to my life. Let's face it, I'm a mess alone—I need someone to encourage my moral snobbery, to heal the wounds on my bruised ego, to convince me to quit shitting in the catbox.

As you can see, it's not just any woman I seek—though I will accept any woman on a short-term basis as earlier implied. No, it takes a woman of strong character, like Eleanor Roosevelt without the socialism, or Blondie. Are my standards too high? Prostitutes tell me that. And maybe it's true. But sometimes it's necessary to set high standards, for ourselves and especially for others, and make everyone meet them. Unless you're talking brief sexual contact, at which point my standards are still slipping. Another month and farm animals with convincing attire will be able to sweet-talk me.

Have no fear, good people. Rok Finger will continue to report on everything that matters in life, including his own private feelings that make others extremely uncomfortable. This little mental sidetrack has proved to me I've gotten a little off-course since leaving Arvelyn (did you read that, Arvelyn? I left you. Now it's in print). But it's only a matter of time before this high-flying hot air balloon has the baggage needed to ground it, and I return to my fine form. Of course, I'll never pass my 1970s columns. Man, those were sweet top-of-the-game editions. Except for the muttonchops; I'm ready to admit now they were a bad idea.

º Last Column: I Have Discovered the Identity of the Masked Dude
º more columns

My neighbor Mitch is away on a trip, and while he's out I've been watching his dogs, Benedict and Arnold. To tell you the truth, I didn't really want to, but he took care of Foghat while I was detained in Mexico a few years back, so I can't rightly tell him to jump up an elephant's ass the one time he asks me to do him a favor while he's in having his colon removed.

These dogs are a flaming, hemorrhoidal pain in the ass.

Benedict is, according to Mitch, an Australian Cattle Prod. I'm not sure if that's completely accurate. Nobody knows what the hell Arnold is, but he looks like what you'd end up with if you stapled bat ears onto a gigantic caterpillar. He's like a walking sausage with radar. Appropriately enough, he makes high-pitched squeaking sounds like a rubber pork chop every time anything happens. And I mean anything: car doors slamming outside, bacon grease catching on fire in the kitchen, the refrigerator turning on, foreign war, it doesn't matter.

I don't know what kind of social life Mitch has got, but I get the impression he doesn't exactly spend his spare time wolfing down speedballs in the Viper room. These dogs demand more attention than a live hand grenade. They watch your every move as if you might, at any moment, explode like a piñata and rain doggie treats all over the room. It's especially unnerving when you're in the bathroom.

I think Mitch may shower with these dogs. I'm not kidding, I'm pretty sure he takes them everywhere he goes. I heard he got kicked out of Disneyland last year after Benedict threw up on the Matterhorn. And I don't mean the structure itself; that dog was buckled into a bobsled and screaming down the mountain at fifty miles an hour when it happened. Mitch came home with a black eye that I can only assume had something to do with the people riding in the sled behind him and Benedict. They certainly look pissed off in the picture on the refrigerator. Omar Bricks is not a violent man, but I have to admit I'd be strapping on my Jackie Chan shoes if I were ever hit with fifty mile-an-hour dog vomit.

Arnold will hump anything that's not moving: the couch, his bed, a box of crackers, Benedict. I've only looked directly at Arnold twice, and both times he was humping something. Now I just infer that he's in the room from the shallow panting noises. My biggest fear is that I'm going to look accidentally one time and see the lipstick in action. For a while I was worried about how I was going to explain the visible dick marks on the bathroom door to Mitch, but he's got to be used to this shit by now.

I decided to take the dogs for a walk the other day, since I was starting to feel bad about them being cooped up in their rooms all the time, with nothing but their record collections and board games to keep them entertained. Way to be the neighborhood hero, right? Wrong. Mr. Friendly Neighborhood Narc had a different idea. Did you know it's illegal to tie a dog's leash to your car and drive around the block? It's not like I was even going very fast. Somebody told me that's not "walking the dogs," but they looked like they were walking to me. Or running. Skiing, maybe. Whatever.

Since the neighborhood patrol had such a serious problem with the dogs getting any exercise, I had to resort to Plan B. I went to the pet store, bought a rabbit, and let it loose in the house. Shit if the dogs didn't love that! I don't know if I've ever seen a couple of dogs so happy. Arnold even humped the drapes. Granted, things got a little rowdy after I let the rabbit loose, but if Mitch isn't cool with a couple of broken lamps, a television on the floor or a cracked bathtub he shouldn't have got dogs in the first place. And if the guy can afford to have his colon taken out I'm sure he can afford to rent a steam cleaner, too.

Now I just need to come up with a way of explaining to Foghat why another dog wiped its nose on my pants. Bricks out.

º Last Column: Prohibition Here We Come
º more columns