enis knifing suspect Catherine Kieu Becker, a Southern California woman suspected of slicing off her husband’s penis with a knife and throwing it into the… oh God, I’m gonna be sick. Jesus Christ, she really threw it in the garbage disposal? That’s fucking horrible. Anyway, sorry, I’m better now. Catherine Kieu Becker was released from prison this week in hopes that the dismissal of her case will be the last time anyone in America has to hear the phrase "penis knifing" ever again, or the gory details of just how utterly knifed Becker’s husband’s penis truly was.

"We thought this would be best for everyone," Orange County Superior Court Judge Roy Hanson explained, wincing as he crossed his legs in an unconscious cringing reaction to the very concept of having his penis knifed.

The 48 year-old Becker had been charged with torture and aggravated mayhem after she allegedly drugged her 51-year-old husband’s tofu soup dinner, then tied his arms and legs to their bed frame, pulled down his pants and—I’m sorry, but this is what happened—slowly worked her way through his penis with a dull paring knife, pausing several times to saw through particularly tough cock sinews and to dig at uncooperative bits with a rusty spoon. After finally freeing the penis from its host, Becker allegedly carried it into the kitchen, where she tossed it into the garbage disposal and, wait for it, turned the disposal on. Guys, trust me, try not to imagine what that sounded like.

When officers reported to the scene, they found the victim "bleeding profusely" from the groin (sorry, non-ladies, I know it’s a painful image) and in-between spells of retching, managed to fish pieces of the victim’s penis out of the garbage disposal and transport them with the victim in a sandwich bag to the University of California at Irvine Medical Center, where an emergency cocktoplasty was performed. According to unaccredited medical texts, a coctoplasty involves fitting all of the remaining hunks of a penis into a penis-shaped mold, pouring in roofing caulk and honey, and baking for one hour at 375 degrees.

"At first we weren’t sure what was hunks of penis and what was hunks of pot pie that someone had thrown in the garbage disposal earlier that day," explained responding officer Lt. Randy Fletch. "There were some chunks and stringy bits I was sure were pork or tofu or something, but I showed ’em to Dan (fellow officer Daniel Strobridge) and he smelled ’em and was like Nah dude, that’s cock and I was like Yeah, I guess that does kind of look like cock. Anyway, I’m sorry these are horribly disgusting quotes."

Early reports indicated that the penis knifing was inspired by an argument over—God, does it even matter? Is there anything that can ever really justify a penis knifing? the commune news thinks not.

Judge Hanson is on record as having decided to dismiss the case after half of the jury pool passed out during meetings with the prosecution. According to reports, nine of the ten fainting jurors were men, and the other was a big, strapping lass with a deep voice like RuPaul.

"It’s time for America to move on from this penis knifing case," Judge Hanson explained. "And from all future penis knifing cases. I’m serious, we don’t want to hear about ’em. Work that shit out on your own, I don’t want it in my courtroom. If I ever hear the words ’penis knifing’ again, no matter when, it will be too soon for me to hear the words ’penis knifing’ again. Oh God, why can’t I stop saying ’penis knifing’?"

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Upon receiving this award, I have this prepared speech for you. Believe me, it's worth your time.

Ladies and gentleman who picked me, I have to say thank you. But I suppose I should really be thanking me. I'm the one who's put in the hard work and done everything possible just so I could be me. Do you think it's easy? For me it is. For anyone else, it could be really difficult, but for me, it comes naturally.

All I can really say upon receiving this terrific recognition is: it's about time. Other people get rewards for doing nothing, easy stuff like acting or hitting a baseball. That stuff isn't hard. I can hit a rock with a baseball bat, and I'm talking about small rocks. Baseballs are bigger than that. If I really wanted to, I suppose I could play baseball for a living and get rewards every day. It doesn't look all that hard. But I'm happy with the telemarketing job because I get Fridays off.

I'm not sure why it took you so long to get around to giving me something—I'm not doing your job, although I'm betting I could if I wanted to. I might shock you to say this, but I've never won anything in my life. Nothing. Not an award, not a medal, not a video game or game of bowling. Some people might think they lacked the ability to do something great, but I know it's just because I didn't really want it bad enough whenever I didn't win. Someone great once said, "There are no real losers; there's only people that fail to win." I said that! And it's true.

Believe me, I could have won a hundred things like these by now, if I needed that kind of validation enough to break a sweat 24 hours a day. But I don't—I'm too confident to work for somebody else's approval. Whether it's some faceless committee that picks names out of hats or some tight-ass boss who yells at you on Monday morning because you're not supposed to have Fridays off on your job, I don't need anyone else's approval. There's only one person I need to thank for bringing me into this world—me. I worked at it, dug and claw my way out of mom's womb, until I was out on my own, and I haven't needed anybody else since. Because I have confidence.

Still, I suppose thanks are in order for this great thing I've finally won. Thank you, me, for getting me to this point. I'm glad someone somewhere finally said, "That Awol Jackson, he's a right guy. He's the kind of guy who needs a fucking award." I imagine that's how it went. With less swearing, maybe. Or more. Who knows. But that guy or lady was right.

Don't think I'm going to go all soft or anything now that I have won something. I'm still going to keep trying—trying as much as I want to try, and no more. I don't need to impress anybody else to make Awol Jackson happy. I don't need to impress anybody. And I don't. I do what I know I should, and I just get by being me. I'm not going to turn all phony overnight and start working just to win awards. I'm not going to put on a suit and work day and night and smile for all the assholes in the world just so I can get more awards to put on my shelf. I don't even have a shelf, and I'm not about to build one. Maybe if I won one I'd take it, but I'm not going to change for no one.

If that's what you expect, you can take back your 1000 free hours of Internet service. I don't need awards that badly. I don't even have a computer anyway, so I'm sure not going to miss it.

If I won it on my own merit, I'll keep it. If you did it to buy my soul, take it back, you faceless committee.

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I am an old-fashioned guy, and by that, this time, I do not mean that is my drink of choice. I have traditional values, as anyone who knows me can tell. You know this, good people. And just as ice must melt back to its natural state, not-ice, I must find a woman to complete half of the Rok Finger/unknown woman couple. It is my natural state to be with someone else. As someone once said, "a man needs a maid," and boy, did it piss off feminists.

Unable to deal with the bar scene, or anything that would have "scene" added to its description, I sought the old reliable method of Internet dating. Of course, not at first. At first I attempted to write a classified ad. I consider myself something of a master of the classified ad. I unloaded over 65 free kittens, two old lawnmowers, and a refrigerator that no longer kept things cool through mastery of the classified ad. And I composed my most charming classified ad when searching for the most valuable property of all—a wife.

"Wanted: Woman, female only. BGOCMWCMWAH [Backyard Grill-Owning Currently-Married Whitish-Colored Man Who Adores Hyphenating] seeks SHITHEAD
[Single Highly-Interested Total Hottie Eager for Action and Dancing] to marry without meeting. Must be able to tolerate the handicapped and enjoy being bossed around. Owning a motorcycle a plus. Send pictures (of you on motorcycle)."
Since I received no responses, except for a few teens only eager for hi-jinks, I can only assume women have stopped reading the newspaper altogether. Thank you very much, Lifetime.

However, I will not be discouraged. After all, I met my last wife over the Internet, didn't I? And we're still married. What a strange and charming thing it is. The Internet, I mean—the wife is a foul-mouthed harpy. So I immediately hooked up with a matchmaking site, called WebTouch. With a name like that, how could it not deliver everything I want?

It's all very warm and personal, as you sit at home in a dark room lit by a glowing computer screen and fill out the blank spaces on a form to find the woman of your dreams. Actually, the woman in my dreams is 9-foot tall and chases me while swinging a cat by its tail, trying to strike me down, so I'm seeking someone better than the woman of my dreams. There's quite a lot of choices, too, so don't go overboard. I found when I put made "doesn't go to the bathroom" one of my requirements, I got very few responses. I suppose we all have to be a little open-minded. So I changed it to "seldom goes to bathroom."

I also told them I didn't want any foreigners, no one of a different religion, must be very pretty, must be very trim and shapely, without opinions, or at least keeps all opinions to self, will worship me with every step I take and keep her head bowed as I walk ahead of her, and if possible, will let me name her.

I'm too demanding, you say? To hell with you, good people. I say there's no point in listing all your desires in a perfect woman if you're going to wimp out and "accept" flaws. I also say "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" Because I think that's quite funny, and my father once owned a cow.

And to those of you who say I'll never get any responses when asking for so much, I say shows what you know. I've already received a wonderful opening email from the elegant Lady Buttsfree, who lives in Somewhereland, England, or as I know her, the good lady writing from 2funnypricks@hotmail.com. She's a princess, and though it's early in our email exchange, she's already suggesting I move into her castle. I'm waiting for her to send a picture, of course, and she will, once they come in from the beauty contest she just won.

True love, you've found Rok Finger again!

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