ans of democracy were delighted to hear the form of government appeared to be working in Ukraine, a former member of the Soviet Union, though they were somewhat sheepish to admit it had been fairing poorly here in the United States, the oldest practitioner of democracy in the world.

On Friday, the Ukraine Supreme Court threw out the results of November's runoff election between Prime Minister Viktor Yanukovych, backed by the Kremlin, and opposition leader Viktor Yuschenko. Upon closer examination of the last names, Americans may realize these are not the same person. Meanwhile, in America, George Bush continued to smirk and make angry threats to the rest of the non-Western world as he eviled-up his cabinet with a few more additions. Challenges to the legitimacy of Ohio's electoral votes for Bush in November's election remain unheard as of press time.

Supporters of Yuschenko claimed the election was rigged in favor of Yunukovych, part of the current president Leonid Kuchma's administration. Yuschenko challenged election results in favor of Yunukovych in the Ukranian Supreme Court based on incidents of fraud in 8 of Ukraine's 25 election districts. The Ukranian Supreme Court agreed a possibility of fraud had occurred, and ordered another election to be held to decide the new Ukranian president.

During his first election in 2000, candidate George W. Bush claimed victory in the presidential election even as the popular vote demonstrated his loss and many districts were held up to questions of fraud or illegitimate results. The U.S. Supreme Court stopped the recount of districts in dispute, effectively handing the presidency to the former president's son and Washington insider.

Outgoing Ukranian president Leonid Kuchma described his country's predicament, claiming, "Ukraine that existed before the election no longer exists. It has been split up into two sides with absolutely opposite opinions." Once again, Kuchma was speaking about his own country, and not the United States.

American president George W. Bush, fresh from his own narrow and controversial victory in November, warned Russia not to involve itself in Ukranian affairs, stating, "Any election, if there is one, ought to be free from any foreign influence." Presumably all interference in a free election should come from groups of conservative vote challengers and election lawyers.

Ukraine's Viktor Yuschenko delighted in the country's Supreme Court ruling, as polls have him well ahead of his opponent in another election. Yuschenko said Friday, "Freedom and truth are returning to Ukraine following today's decision." Voters in America were at least pleased to finally find out where freedom and truth ended up after abandoning their own country.

When asked to compare the happenings in the free Ukraine and the recent elections in the United States, most people we asked were curious as to what the hell Ukraine was, while others asked us to leave them alone, as they desperately wanted to get home and watch a Tivo'd episode of The Apprentice they've been saving all week.

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Dudes, us rock 'n' roll die-hards can longer lie to ourselves: Rock 'N' Roll is dying.

Who among us is a music doctor, a hard rock Dr. House, who could diagnose when exactly rock 'n' roll contracted its fatal disease? It might have been the first time Richard Marx released his first album, or as late as when Russell Crowe thought he had the balls to rock. And no doubt we can put a lot of that blame on the cancerous influence of corporations. These modern corporations are leeches who suck the life right out of rock 'n' roll, nothing like the good corporations who gave the Who, the Rolling Stones, the Sex Pistols, and Pearl Jam before their big wide-release breaks.

The way I see it, we have two choices: We can sit back and wear black kerchief armbands and piss and moan about the death of rock 'n' roll—or we can save it. Guess which one Derek Zomny is all 'bout.

I speak the fothermuckin' truth when I say I have the one band that can save rock 'n' roll. I'm not so different than Jon Landau in Rolling Stone years ago, saying with certainty, "I have seen the future of rock 'n' roll and his name is Bruce Springsteen." My case is exactly the same, except for Rolling Stone had readers. Also, I am in the band that is the future of rock 'n' roll: Face Mask.

Despite being the lead singer/songwriter/lead guitarist/manager/van driver/owner for the band Face Mask, I have no bias when I say we are the best fucking band out there right now. When people ask me what is our sound, I say pure fucking beauty, man. We aren't like other bands and we refuse to sound like them. We aren't like these other bands that came to save rock 'n' roll but just kipe the original sound of some other band. Oasis? Puh-leeze. They're sub-Beatles. The Strokes? The Velvet Underground meets the Buzzcocks. We sound like the band Jesus would have had and nothing else.

Like any band, we had to start by playing covers of our influences. Josh (rhythm guitar, though sometimes the lying prick will tell girls he's lead guitar, as if) was really into the Edge a long time ago, but now he listens to mostly Clapton. So we worked "Sunday Bloody Sunday" into our repertoire. Nash, our bassist, has always been a big Rush man, so we had to play "Tom Sawyer," and since him and me both like the Zep, and I could do the shit out of a scream, we covered "Immigrant Song," too. We used to have a big fat drummer named Sticky Pete, too, and he made us do some Primus shit we weren't into, but we kicked his ass to the curb for a more photogenic dude on skins, Clint Warhawk. He's not an Indian, but fuck if you can tell that. And he's really into Guns 'N' Roses, so we added "Sweet Child O' Mine" to our latest set list.

I don't have to tell you guys, however, that the real test for a band is their original material, and nobody has the fucking original material we do. I write songs like John Lennon and Paul McCartney were locked in a fucking room with Kurt Cobain and Bob Dylan. You go into that room and maybe you find nothing but blood and entrails and a pile of pure genius songs, that's what it's like in my composition book where I compose.

Songs like "You Don't Bring Me Malt Liquor," "Tongue Death," "Fancy Fucking Girl," and "Trip on This Shit, You Cock" (an instrumental, but not because I couldn't think of lyrics) will go down into the rock history books next to "Eleanor Rigby," I guaran-fucking-tee you.

This may all seem like cocky boasting to those of you who haven't heard us yet, but I swear, Face Mask more than lives up to the expectations I give you. And anyone who doesn't believe me, and will be in the Richmond, Virginia area May 25 is welcome to come to Thomas Jefferson High School on prom night and see the future of rock 'n' roll, alive and kicking. We also do stage-diving.

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Now I know you been lookin' at me strange lately, Shorty, an I think the time has showed up for me to do a little explainin'. Thing is, I've been changed, Shorty, and sad as it may be they ain't never no goin' back. A new world been opened up for Jeeter an it's time I got to follow my callin'.

It all started a couple o' weeks ago. I was out at Snuffy's with Carl, you know the fella what has the big compost pile offa Dirt Bank road. Carl had him one of them laser doo-dads the big shots use when they want to point out somethin' they think everybody should notice. An you know Carl, Shorty, weren't long before he was foolin' around with the doo-dad, tryin' to shine it on airplanes that was flyin' by and tryin' to flash it up ladies' skirts and whatnot, an he got himself a little carried away an ended up flashing that doo-dad right in my nekkid eye.

Now I know what you're thinkin', Shorty, but don't get scared now, since I'm here tellin' you this story so you got to know it didn't go an burn out my brain like some science friction nightmare. You still got a partner for the tic-tac-toe tourney next month, an he ain't no hole-in-the-brain mormon, neither. But when Carl done shot that flasher into my eye-ball, I did see a beam o' redness an got dizzy in my head, an when I woke up I was layin' out on the street, ass-deep in a pot hole with no memory about what had gone on beforst.

'Course, Shorty, you know that weren't much different than your average Saturday night, so I didn't think much nothing of it. But not long after that I started to notice some strange thoughts a-brewin' in the ol' Jeeter brain-trap. Not normal strange thoughts, neither, like thinkin' great big fat womens is sexy. No siree. These was some powerful brain-rumblins about science and maths an' whatnot. An the next thing I know I was in my garage, buildin' on some new-fangled inventions what gonna change the world. Laugh if you might, Shorty, but you won't be who's laughin' when Jeeter's drivin' around in his car what runs offa toilet paper, will ya? An I imagine you'll want to be warmin' up your hands around my new skunk furnace come wintertime, I have to imagine. We're gonna be rich, Shorty, as soon as I get me one of them pattons for my Smellarm Clock an my flypaper wallpaper, I tell you no lie.

But it ain't just that, Shorty. It ain't all just new doo-dads and whatnots I got spinnin' around up in the attic. I got me them deep thoughts as well. Like what for we gotta bury folks in a coffin for, anyhow? It's not like they gonna crawl on up outta the ground we don't nail 'em in a box first. An when you're makin' breakfast chow, what comes first: the chitlins or the eggos? Lots of them head-scratchers scratchin' round up in my head, Shorty.

But don't you worry, old friend. I ain't gonna get no big head just 'cause my head got bigger. I'm still the same ol' Jeeter. Just cause I learnt French last night in one sittin', while you was pickin' your toes and watchin' a fly try to get out the closed window, don't mean we ain't still tight. When we go out to the France restaurant, you an' me, you just let me do the talkin'. When I say "Parkay food, Frenchie?" to the fella in the duck suit, you just keep your trap snapped and we'll be knee-deep in corned beef before you know what.

Stick with me, Shorty. We're headed somewheres.

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