Recession Slowed by Gains in Absurd Collectables

he economic hit taken by the US in the wake of Sept 11th has largely been wiped away by huge growth in the absurd collectables market, according to Harvey Rosenblum, president of the National Association for Business Economics.

"While the market for more traditional items, like home computers or appliances, is still weak, new markets for products like misprinted dog food bags and celebrity nerf ball fuzz have been driving the economy for months. A nation shaken by terrorism has been economically buoyed by its passion for truly useless shit," commented Rosenblum on Monday.

Useless collectables have long been a factor in the national economy, with a strong demand for Thomas Kincade paintings, beanie babies and dot-com stocks helping to pull America through the recession in the early 90's. But the recent surge has been unlike anything this country has seen before.

"Americans have realized that any new computer they buy is just going to seem as slow at their old one in two months, and a new Chevy's going to break down just as often as their old one, but original mint-condition promotional materials from the short-lived Wintergreen Nerds candy line are going to be something they can pass on to their grandchildren," said Frank Nettle, editor of Trendy Obsession magazine.

In spite of numerous public statements from the Franklin Mint reminding the public that if it's not hand-numbered and cast in pewter, it's not a collectable, the current collecting trend has moved beyond the traditional "bullshit painted on plates" market, branching out beyond porcelain figurines and glass elephants into the unknown realm beyond. The latest frontier of collecting is as varied as the American people themselves, whose collections range from the intensely personal to the just plain bizarre.

Asked why he began collecting caps from different brands of ranch dressing over fifteen years ago, Arlo Turtle of Angel Falls, TX replied: "it seemed as good as the next thing." Angie DuBank of Peoria, IL collects pictures of places where Annette Benning has had her hair cut, while Ted Middlebaum owns over 35 ticket stubs from the original screening of Porky's in Las Vegas. Beatrice Fraumbalt, who collects address labels from old TV guides, explains: "It's not about what something means to you, or where it came from. Or even what it costs. Or if your grandchildren look forward to inheriting your collection when you die. It's about keeping the Space Invaders from finding out where you live and laying eggs in your preserves."

Modern collectors range from a budget-conscious gatherer of little green army figures like Tank Reynolds ("I've got a soldier in every position except the one where the guy's tip-toeing, presumably into a Hamburg cat show, which is thought to be a crawling figure who was miscast in the molding process during the factory fire in 1971") to a high-roller like Chelton McNesh, who owns an extensive collection of Visa cards with low account numbers. Though the collection is his pride and joy, McNesh still peppers every conversation with bitter references to "the Honus Wagner of all Visa collectables, card number 4500-0000-0000-0001" thought to be owned by a Saudi collector. Though just how many Saudis the man owns can only be guessed at this time.

"A person's collection reflects a bit of who they are and where their passions lie," said Lillith Barnes, owner of the world's largest collection of things that have been pulled out of Ted Kennedy's ass. "Obviously I'm a political junkie at heart," explained Barnes, gesturing toward a display case containing an electric toothbrush, one improbably large shoehorn, a Holly Hobby Doll, a bicycle inner tube and a set of three matching Happy Apples.

Oftentimes terrible miscues by major manufacturers are offset by the profits gleaned from marketing aborted runs of products as limited-edition collectables. "Sure, I know they make a lot of jokes about New Coke and how it flopped. But what nobody ever tells you is that we're still making the stuff and selling it on eBay," confided Bernard Manhouse, head of Research and Development for Coca-Cola. That same collector's mentality has allowed Chevrolet to turn a profit on the ill-fated Looney Tunes Corvette, and helped cut the losses related to the similarly misguided Muppets-endorsed Wok-a-Wok-a-Wok from Kitchenade.

The collecting trend which has gripped the nation has spread even to the commune offices, where repeated attempts have been made to steal Rok Finger's shoes, the same pair he has been wearing nonstop since 1953.

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Some guys are greedy, the way I see it. They want every single dollar they can get their hands on. They want the things they can't have, the things they don't even deserve. They could be blessed with good looks, good fortune, and all they want is more, more, more. Me? I'm not like that at all. I want one thing out of life before I die, and it's not all that much—I want to experience the perfect gangbang.

Of course, I've had my share of gangbang experiences. But were they perfect? Hardly. Not unless you call a blaring TV in the background, a bunch of strange jerks giggling, and that just-vomited breath smell overpowering what should have been a beautiful couple of hours. Still, I'm not giving up hope. I know the perfect gangbang exists out there, and I just want to be part of it before my days are over.

Does this sound familiar? You get a phone call from an old friend, or some guy you drank too much with in some bar some night, and get invited to what promises to be a real sharp gangbang with a beautiful honey. You get there, the room is packed full of dudes who have no business at a gangbang, either too skuzzy or they clearly don't know what they're doing. Smoke and liquor permeate the room like you never left the bar. The "beautiful honey" you were promised is some freshly passed-out stripper way past her prime and smells like she pissed herself before going unconscious to the mercy of the crowd. Am I too proud to walk away? Maybe not, but it doesn't mean I'm a happy participant. Sloppy seconds I can deal with, but fifths? Sixths? Thirteenths? Ugh. Sometimes you just want to pack up your ol' kit bag and leave that gangbang before it gets disgusting.

Even those rare gangbangs when the gal is still awake can be disappointing. You hoped for a small and intimate affair, but she was shitty drunk and called up some ex-boyfriends, and all of a sudden they're crashing you and your small gang of five to muscle in on your action. And just because she's drunk tonight doesn't mean she won't press charges tomorrow. I let loose an audible sigh. Then I join in, of course, but I still keep my fingers crossed for that one remarkable gangbang I've always been looking for.

Picture this: Just you and the anonymous woman, and four friends who just came with you from the last party. And she's a doll, too, like a slutty Katie Couric, but not too slutty. Dressed in some alluring and only slightly skanky lingerie, bathed like the room in the red lights of nearby lamps. Rose petals cover the bed and its satin sheets, the scent of lilacs and maybe a little MGD fill the room. Instead of the inane chatter of that one asshole who says this is so fucking hot, the only sound in the air is the gentle breathing of five people, and maybe a Lionel Richie record. "Easy like Sunday morning" croons the singer, and everybody gets naked. Let the banging commence!

Now that's pretty fucking romantic, you got to admit. It's not at all like a nasty rendezvous with your dorm roommates in a Taco Bell bathroom. And it's not all that impossible either. Hell, I already have the guys in mind. I just need to find the willing girl and arrange the date. You see? I don't want all that much. I don't see why things have to be so difficult.

I wouldn't mind looking online, trying one of those "adult friend finders" or something… but you gotta be careful with those. A lot of nuts answer those kind of ads.

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I have never had my fingers pulled off one by one through my asshole. My wife Arvelyn used to tell me I should not knock things until I have tried them at least once, but I dare to say the experience is one I would not like even without trying it.

To avoid such an unwelcome new experience I have agreed to occasionally drop off packages for my new in-laws, i.e. the mob, to cohorts of theirs. Their reasoning was quite sound, even complimentary: "Rok, you are such a square as would not bat the eye of a policeman or G-man like Eliot the Ness, eh?" That's how my new cousin-in-law Yogi put it, and I agree. The police have no reason to suspect me for being a bagman for the vaguely-Russian mob. But it is exactly the case now.

The shame of it all! And imminent danger. Me, Rok Finger, champion of all things stodgy and establishment, delivering goofballs for no-goodniks! As I've made implicitly clear, the possible involvement in the Eurasian mafia by my wife Felchyana in no way diminished my love for her, but I cannot stomach doing wrong to the law. Unless I personally profit from it, for that's the American way, but being threatened into dishonesty, that's just plain… well, dishonest.

It's too bad to be forced to do favors for the mob in such a reprehensible way. Their might be some charm in robbing an armored truck or something fanciful like that. There might be a smidgen of honor in doing something like the old fashioned, pre-GoodFellas gangsters would have taken part in. Rolling in barrel after barrel of illegal Canadian booze and firing a tommy gun at thick packs of Irish cops. Who would object to that? If only those damned teetotalers hadn't lost all their power in Congress.

But there's nothing respectable about hard drugs, like marijuana. Pot kills brain cells and makes people act like complete assholes. It has none of the charm of hard liquor. Plus, it's frequently used by hippies—if you need a bigger case than that against it, I don't know where you're coming from. Hippie-lover. So, in addition to threatening to de-finger me and making my new marriage more complicated than it had originally been, these mob thugs have put me on a pro-hippie bandwagon. That I will not tolerate.

With all doors closed to me, some slammed violently on my feet, I have turned back to my reliable old friends Lee and Camembert. Well, I've turned to Camembert—Lee was busy with another tour date for his new book, written under the pen name of Daili Lama. All of Camembert's suggestions were lame, of course, such as contacting the FBI or telling the local police force, but it was good to have someone I could boss around again, even for a little while. I would probably ask him to move in with Felchyana and I, but Yogi might take a liking to him and make him capo or something. That's the last thing I need.

So right now, in this little mob war I'm going through, Camembert is my secret weapon. The secret being what he's capable of doing against the mob, and I wish I was in on that secret. But it's good to have an ace in the hole, and Camembert can be a huge ace-hole when called upon. My plan as for right now is to play along with Yogi and the gang, deliver the packages and betray no disloyalty, while figuratively hiding Camembert up my sleeve. We tried it literally and even without the wheelchair there's no way he'll fit.

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