aw enforcement officials are bursting with pride this week over the results of the first annual Bring Your Drugs to Work Day, an unqualified success that nabbed over 3 million drug users at their places of employment nationwide. The controversial sting operation, brainchild of DEA wunderkind Dickie Milkweed, snared millions of Americans who thought the “holiday� was a long-overdue relaxing of uptight social mores and restrictions about showing up to work as high as a beautiful kite.

“Gotcha, stoners!� celebrated Milkweed, sipping a virgin club soda triumphantly, giving a mocking thumbs-up to the camera and performing an awkward little dance obviously not benefited by any groove-enhancing drug use.

“This is a great day for Tootie,� slurred commune editor Red Bagel in agreement, drunk as an ox, upon hearing the news.

Wishing to capitalize on the success of this week’s traditional Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, federal officials granted the DEA’s wish by quietly passing the new holiday into law, clamped onto the ass of the innocuous “Puppies are Beautiful� bill passed by congress in February.

However, several women’s groups have already protested BYDWD, concerned that the bummer drug-bust holiday will taint the public’s associations with Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, most notable among them the feminist groups NORML Chicks and Women for Reggae. The original, non-Fugazi holiday was instituted in 1993 as a way for parents to expose their daughters to the dangers of the workplace and to drain office productivity for the month of April.

Since then, several painfully politically-correct groups have lobbied to change the name of Bring Your Daughter to Work Day to the less-offensive Bring Your Daughter or Son or Whatever You’ve Got to Work or Some Place Else if You’re Unemployed Day, with little success due to counter-lobbying efforts from calendar manufacturers, who claim that printing a holiday name that long would force them to retool their entire operations at incredible expense.

Others have argued the highly controversial point that there’s nothing wrong with drug use in the workplace, unless it adversely affects job-related performance.

“Man, this is total bullshit waaaaaaaaaa…� trailed off temp worker Justin Penrose from a holding cell outside Chicago.

Still others, however, have pointed out that anyone who was dumb enough to fall for Bring Your Drugs to Work Day has obviously had their mental faculties dimmed heavily by drug residue of some sort, and is likely costing their employer billions in lost productivity and time spent having to explain things six or seven times.

“God I feel stupid,� lamented 79-year old Eloise Hartford, who misunderstood the nature of the holiday and brought her extensive collection of prescription medications to work on Monday instead. Most of Eloise’s co-workers were arrested for marijuana possession, leaving the lion’s share of the 14-person office’s tasks on the frail shoulders of Hartford, who tires easily.

“I should have claimed some of that reefer was mine,� complained Hartford. “I hear they have some pretty soft cots in prison these days. No beds of nails or anything anymore.�

In related news, commune editor’s-brother Gay Bagel has recently spearheaded an aggressive initiative to increase Internet access to inmates in America’s prisons, a move some have called a ratings ploy since a large proportion of the commune readership is now behind bars.

Conservative Woman Found

Fox Disappointed by Desperate Alien Prison Escape Ratings

Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.”

R.C. Car Enthusiasts Angered by Latest Mars Mission Snub

As my readers know, I believe strongly in charity—one look at my wife will tell you that. She holds the demeanor and loving look of a woman who's weathered many a charity event at her husband's side. So most Rokophiles are well aware of "Rok Finger's Kids," a charity that helps out comatose orphans or bed-bound sons and daughters of parents who just don't give a damn.

These are some of the sweetest kids you'll ever meet, the ones who are awake. Many act like nothing's wrong and are just glad to be alive, truly they wouldn't even know they were miserable recipients of God's wrath if Rok wasn't there to tell them.

And Rok isn't in this for the trendiness or ego-trip, though both are very nice; Rokwell T. Finger is here to help. In the past I've tried Labor Day and Memorial Day Telethons, but I really don't stay up past 6 p.m. that often, so those haven't been very successful. But every New Year's Eve I hold a telethon in their honor down at the Wild Pussy Cat Club and, though it's untelevised, all donations go to the kids, bless their bedsored little hearts.

But all that money is not enough, the kids still need new things. Like sheets, pillows, some need medicine or something, not sure of the details, I just know they're needy. So that's why Rok is introducing these high-grade cookies, the sale of which will benefit the kids immensely. Though Lord knows they could never eat any of them, they'd start choking or something, bless their little reclined souls.

Each box is $20, but for that price, kids will get new socks and reading lights or something. The comatose kids will get something, not sure what, but I'm willing to bet those nurses who wipe them and role them over and empty their piss jugs, they don't work for free, you know? Twenty dollars will go a long way to help with that. If I ever find a place to buy everything cheaper than Target, maybe some corporations join in with the charity (wink, wink) we'll be helping more and more kids faster than you can say "huge tax write-off and free publicity" (wink, wink).

But it won't feel like charity, no sir. These are high-grade cookies, I assure you. With names like "Super Chunkolate Chip," "Strips O' Chocolate Heaven," "Chocolotta Paradise," "Pecandides," "Raisin Canes," "Stupendos," "Mintos," "Peanut Butter Jesuses," and "ButtCookiers," how can you think of NOT enjoying the hell out of them? They're so scrumptious and good these bastards melt in your mouth before you open the box. I'm not kidding you, I've tried them, they're good. One Pecandide nearly put me in a sugar coma, they're rich and packed with deliciousosity.

I guarantee you one taste of any of those cookies, the next Girl Scout who comes to your door, you'll dry heave in her face. They're that damn good. You'll get so addicted you'd kill your mother for a box. And it all goes to help the kids, so how can you refuse? You can't! Don't try it! Just give into temptation and buy a bunch!

I must stress these cookies are sold in BOXES, I cannot sell cookies individually. I suggest all you moochers out there who are too cheap to spring for a whole box all go into together and pool your money or something.

Also, if you'd like to help sell these cookies on behalf of "Rok Finger's Kids," I'd love your help. I'm pretty much left to sell them alone, the kids aren't out chasing down leads or anything, I can guarantee you that. So please, come out and overindulge for charity.

º Last Column: Rok Finger: Independent Film Star
º more columns

Dear commune:

Ed Phillips here again. I've recently returned a little wiser from the Middle East. Like most Americans, I assumed the problem was simply based in religious differences and the insurmountable tumultuous history between Islamic and Jewish religions. I was more surprised than anybody to find out it was all over a hotel bill for a room shared by Ziggy Morgenstern and Al-Adid Shabozz back in 1967. I offered to pay the bill myself, it was only $34, but leaders on both sides were quick to stress it wouldn't make a difference. It was all the principle.

Needless to say, that started me thinking: How come you're not allowed to cook in motel or hotel rooms? It seems an incredible infringement on my rights as an American to not let me fry up some eggs and bacon on a hot plate in my own hotel room, making me survive on their continental breakfast alone. I'm not talking open-flame bonfires, believe me, I've learned my lesson after that fire three years ago. But even simple electric outlet appliance cooking is outlawed. Doesn't seem right.

I have recently collapsed the ass-section of my pants, though I hope they are repairable. I'll keep you informed on this situation as more progresses.

Ed Phillips
Hackensack, New Jersey


Dear Ed:

Thanks for the letter, and please keep us informed on the whole ass/pants story as it develops.

According to our Research Editor Griswald Dreck: "The war between hotels/motels and in-room cooking dates back to 1647, when the first motel room fire was recorded starting in Ye Olde Two-Pence Inn, by a peasant guest who burned down six rooms in the inn with a small pocketfire for cooking grouse.

"Since then it has been illegal for guests of any hotel in any country, so decided by the International Terror Conspiracy of Hotel Owners and Operators, to cook in any form or fashion in any room. Part of it is fear of another hotel/motel fire, but a lot of it is because this gigantic conspiracy is just a bunch of dicks who are slow to forget grudges. In fact, it's proven that 92% of Americans are all descended from the dillhole who started the fire at the Ye Olde Two-Pence, Augustus Winterturd. So thanks to this grade-A medieval jackass we're all denied the pleasure of a hotplate-cooked hot dog, even in our enlightened age. Tough luck. Maybe if we all promise to not steal an abundance of towels, soaps, and shampoos, maybe order a few more in-room movies, they'll start giving us a little more leeway in this situation."

the commune

---

Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the repeated publishing of letters by Ed Phillips. He sends us about 75 a month, so really, you're getting a fair statistical representative of our reality.

º Last Column: Volume 20
º more columns