urprise abounded following the January 9 election in the West Bank, when it was forecast Swedish pop supergroup ABBA had a landslide victory and would be declared president(s) of the Arabic state. ABBA, who could not be more white, and had not been aware they were even nominated, were more surprised than anyone else.

ABBA, a musical group who reigned during the age of disco, is comprised of members Benny Andersson, Agnetha Faltskog, Anni-Frid Lyngstad, and Bjorn Ulvaeus. The Swedish sensations held 60% of the vote over the nearest competitor, Mustafa Barghouti, in the nation's first U.S.-approved free election. Upon conceding the race, Barghouti told a crowd of followers, "I can't believe I lost to ABBA."

A third contender protested the election, Palestinian politician Mahmoud Abbas, who claimed the victory more rightly belonged to him. Mahmoud Abbas had spent a great deal of money and time campaigning, claiming the Swedish supergroup had not even entered the Palestinian state at any time during the election process, or possibly at all, ever. Election officials said they would look into it, though the way they shook their heads made it seem more like an effort to pacify the sore loser.

Spokespeople for ABBA, who disbanded in 1982, thought we were messing with them. Being spokespeople for ABBA, they said, they get that all the time.

Results came Sunday night, as Election officials tallied votes as they came into the office. The election was problematic, given recent economic constraints necessitated write-in ballots for candidates in many areas, but officials felt sure enough of the results to give the blue-eyed Swedish pop group an early victory. After Barghouti's concession speech, Palestine waited patiently for ABBA to declare victory. After Mahmoud Abbas tried to assert his right to the presidency, Election officials rejected his claim, based on the strict literal nature of Palestinian law.

"It says ABBA here," said one official in a snooty tone, holding up a few slips of handwritten papers that constituted votes.

Despite the apparent reluctance of the "Waterloo" superstars to accept their new role in international politics, Israeli Prime Minister Ariel "The Little Mermaid" Sharon called Stockholm, Sweden to congratulate any members of ABBA he could find. Eventually, Bjorn Ulvaeus accepted the charges, but reportedly told Sharon it had all been some sort of misunderstanding. Sharon would have none of it, he later told the press.

"We believe ABBA may find politics a tougher game than the music business, but not by much." All the reporters in the press corps politely laughed at the Prime Minister's joke. "Israel is eager to outline a plan of peace with ABBA for the future of Palestine. We are already working out a number of proposals, including disbanding the government and repatriating Arabic nationalities in the occupied territory in exchange for a weekly variety special on Arabic television, and a five-record deal with Yzbeki Records, a premiere label. I see a brighter future for these dancing queens, and for Israel."

Election officials were still holding to their decision as of a week following, but did say they would review all appropriate records and laws to determine whether four people could hold a position formerly held by one Arabic man. If a challenge arose, a run-off election could come up for ABBA, Barghouti, and Mahmoud Abbas, or a three-way race-around-the-world to decide the people's choice to lead Palestine.

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You may have read about my A.M. radio station and the hostile buyout Clear Channel is attempting. But of course I have other problems to worry about, so that's just the pus-filled boil on the sore foot. Which is a nasty version of the "icing on the cake" cliché. I'm getting married in just a couple of months, so you can imagine I'm pretty distracted with all those details and trying to get a divorce from my current wife. Then there's always planning the big event… Girl Elvis vs. roommate Lee in one of the biggest matches ever to be courted by the Fox network.

So it's not like I needed something else to draw on my time. But this X-M radio is a severe letdown.

I went through all this time and effort to get the thing installed, which mainly involved the Sears guy fiddling with the stereo area while I hovered over him, arms crossed, tapping my foot, and asking what the hell the hold up was for a hundred hours. Actually, that's an embellishment—at 3'9" I don't exactly hover over anybody, but I've made an art out of hovering under them.

This is neither here nor there, surprisingly off-topic for one of my columns. I take issue not with the slowness of the guy (another column, another tirade) but with the failure of X-M radio to live up to my unrealistic expectations. They promised commercial free, and technically, they give it to you, since there's no commercial support. Imagine my supreme disappointment to find out they still employ DJs!

DJs? What is this, the 1960s? Is one song fading out and another fading in such a frightful concept that we need the banter of vanity voices to break up the constant play? It's damn ridiculous, radio industry. As a nation, we've outgrown DJs. As for VJs, they were never a good idea. The writing in the corner can perfectly inform me of the name of today's one-hit wonderband. DJs we've allowed for a little longer, since the radio isn't a visual medium, and the last thing I need is another car wreck while I call the radio station to find out who performed the last song. But those days are gone.

We have all-digital equipment now, not to mention cellphones you can operate with one hand. Modern radios with scrolling text can tell us who played the previous song, and if we wanted the other accoutrements of a live DJ, I'm sure they could tell us it's warm outside and insult our musical tastes as well. I refuse to pay a monthly service fee for space-age commercial-free radio and then listen to the prattling of a DJ like I'm a goddamn caveman trying to start a fire in his rumbling beast-like horseless carriage on the way to the commune each morning. Or whenever I choose to skip work and go elsewhere, but that's my business.

So naturally I ripped the guts out of my car and sent them the whole contraption back in a box, along with some parts that I think were motor-oriented, since the car no longer runs. But I made my point, and I'll expect a full refund on the whole thing. I would try Sirius, but I doubt they'd be much of an improvement—and frankly, I soured on their venture ever since they turned down the slogan I proposed: "Radio? Get Sirius!" That's just poor foresight, my satellite friends.

So I'm back to square one, with nothing to listen to on my drive to work, should I ever get the car working again. I mean, there's always KROK, the all-Rok Finger favorites radio station that I own, but hearing all that music only I like all the time gets a little monotonous. And it would leave me with little to complain about, regarding this whole X-M radio deal.

Did I mention how slow the guy installed it? You'd think he was getting paid by the hour. Which he was.

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Something has forever changed Rok Finger, good people. Whether it was my recent wedding to the most beautiful and loyal woman in the world or that recent colonic, I can't say for sure. But I feel, as I said, changed in brand new ways. Changed back to how I was before. No more galavanting off at the drop of a hat. I no longer need to insecurely plow through the far corners of the nation, seeking my next new thrill just for fodder for my column. I can find material from my regular joyful life—that is the change I've undergone. And I'm going to start by complaining about my goddamn desk.

I say this with all sincerity: It's a desk that deserves death. Whatever form of death you can deal out to a desk, I'm all for it. I'll debate all the right-to-lifers or liberal nutcases till kingdom come (next Wednesday, I believe), but that desk should die. It's the worst excuse for a flat surface to store pencils and everything else I've ever seen. It's a joke. Other desks laugh about it behind its back—we merely can't understand them because it's all in inaudible desk talk.

What's wrong with it? I'm glad you asked, using me as a proxy. Its drawers are too small, for one, and it only has one. So indeed the term "drawers" isn't even inaccurate. Small drawer. And a bumpy surface… why, my own penmanship makes me vomit. I can't stand to look at it. It's all because of the desk, believe me. I used to have the world's most beautiful handwriting (my "i's" and the way I dotted them once made Nelson Mandela cry), but this desk has turned it into Muhammad Ali's handwriting. With the boxing gloves on. And I'm not even bringing up the two legs shorter than the other two on this wobbly little shit. Okay, I mentioned it. I feel the need to be spiteful.

This may seem like another sudden shift in personality to some of you readers, especially those of you who have read my several columns praising my desk, and the handful of you who bought my book of poems dedicated to my desk. You might wonder, is this the same desk? Could it be the same desk? I can't tell you it is or isn't. All I know is this misbegotten wooden bastard was waiting for me when I returned from my honeymoon, and it's certainly not the character I remember from my old desk. However, when I left, my old desk was buried under a pile of clutter (not the snack cake Clutters; just various piles of paper, pens, pencils, paper clips, folders, and racist figurines). And of course my desk has been buried under that clutter since 1999, roughly. When I returned, it was clean. Whether it was due to the local janitorial staff, desk-cleaning vigilantes, or that birthday wish I made last year, I can't be sure. But I miss the desk that had been under that clutter. This one is the bane of God.

Come to think of it… why would anyone even clean a desk? What end does it serve? I think… and wild speculation isn't quite my area, but I'll play devil's Bagel on this one… I think it might all be part of a huge plot to swipe my desk. As if I wouldn't notice! As if I'm some rube who doesn't know his ass from another large object you can set drinks on. They've pushed me too far. I'll find out who the desk bandit is here and I'll give them what they deserve—this crappy desk they've already slipped me.

The thought of it alone steams my beans, and you all know how I hate wrinkly, moist beans. But they won't get away with it. I'll find them all and make them pay, the desk conspiracists who hide amongst us. I'll track each and every one of them down to the end of the earth if need be, and maybe even if they don't need it. It is fun, after all.

On a somewhat related note, this new desk they brought me this morning seems to be living up to expectations. Not stellar, but alright, in a fits-the-bill kind of way. Fast service, too, since I only requested a new one yesterday, when I got back from my honeymoon.

None of this, of course, lessens the crime committed against me with the crappy desk. Consider yourselves warned, conspiracists.

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