ope John Paul II staunchly refused to die this weekend, in spite of numerous reports to the contrary from an impatient media. Despite showing a complete lack of vital signs and near-total rigor mortis, “the tough old bastard is still hanging on for some reason,� according to Vatican doctors.

Thousands of people gathered in St. Peter’s Square at the Vatican Friday night to pray for the pope, though it was unclear whether the assembled were praying for the pope to live forever or praying that the tired old man would finally kick it. Attempts to investigate this question further led to this reporter being rudely hushed several times and hit once with a bagel.

Anxious news organizations from around the world literally hung on the pope’s every breath last week, itching to be the first to report that the revered religious figure and patron saint of child molesters had gone on to meet his employer. Several trigger-happy reporters claimed that the pope had finally died on Saturday, exhaling a visible plume of stale pope smoke before vanishing like a Jedi Knight cut in two by an evil stunt man. The Vatican even went along with the announcement, apparently tired of providing hors d’oeuvres for the thousands of assembled reporters and candle-waving, tie-died burnouts camped out in the Vatican lobby.

But the jig was finally upped when the pope requested that the “loud music be turned down� during his own funeral mass on Sunday, and the international death-watch continued for the very small band of reporters remaining from hardscrabble news outlets such as the commune, Carob Baking Monthly and the Montana Cuntsman who either had nothing better to do or had vowed to see this story through to its true, bitter end, be that now or at some time between now and when our return trip flight vouchers expire.

Some blame the media’s impatience on the unexpectedly long death wait for American hospital patient Terri Schiavo over the previous two weeks, combined with the first signs of nice spring weather, which has reporters itching to get out of the dusty old Vatican and into some loudly-colored shorts. Others point to a growing suspicion among reporters, called paranoid by some, that the pope can’t die.

While scientists not from Italy doubt the feasibility of such claims, Pope John Paul II has already achieved a sort of longevity not seen since the currently late Strom Thurmond (R-South Carolina) refused to stay dead through the second half of the 20th century. This evidence, combined with the pope’s reportedly strong knowledge of hoodoo, has some concerned that this story could drag on for years.

“Mark my words, this is going to go on like those Friday the 13th movies, man,� prophesied pope-watcher Dennis Marbury. “You can’t kill the pope with a knife, gun, or by locking him in a tool shed and dropping it out of an airplane into the Pacific Ocean. That dude’s not going anywhere until he gets his birthday cake.�

Others wonder just why the pope is hanging on so long, considering that he’s supposed to be in so good with God and everything and probably should be happy about kicking off and clicking his heels on up to the big buffet in the sky.

Meanwhile, nervous Catholics the world over await the pope’s final words with constantly renewed baited breath, fingers crossed that the religious leader’s last utterances won’t be anything along the lines of “Psych!� or “Gotcha, suckers!�

Bush’s MySpace Page Traffic Way Down

Plans for Tallest Ferris Wheel Scrapped; Yao-Ming Too Busy to Turn It

Entwistle Pleads Not Guilty of Murder, Last Several Who Albums

Condi Rice Hates the Way She Smiles in Pictures

Keep me in your prayers, good people, because Rok Finger is sick as a dog. Not a healthy dog, either, but a dog with mange, or some kind of dog disease. I don't have mange, at least to my knowledge, though my back hair has been falling out lately. No, I have the more human kind of sickness nobody has a name for, some bizarre kind of illness leaving me covered with spots as if some sort of chicken had made pock marks all over me. Also, they itch like a bastard. And not a comfortable bastard either. All I know is I need Elvis medicine.

Who knew Elvis even had medicine? As foolish as it might sound, I didn't know until recently. Sure, I had heard rumors and gossip the king had been involved in drugs, but I always believed they were talking about the kind of illegal prescription drugs. Naturally, this turns me around 180 degrees on Elvis. I now think the man is a genius, and if he is a genius, it stands to reason he made pretty good medicine in his spare time. Quite a noble gesture on his part, too, if you ask me. If I were making millions and doing comeback concerts in Hawaii and designing my own sequined jumpsuits, you can bet your boots I wouldn't be spending my available off-hours making better medications for the indigent.

Since I was ill this week, I didn't bother going to the commune. I called and told them I was feeling under the weather, and at my height, it's not hard to do. A little good-natured self-ribbing. But the commune was very understanding, and told me not to come back until I was feeling better, or not at all. A little good-natured ribbing of me on their part, which I didn't appreciate. But I had the week to myself, to get over this sickness. So I began watching that Lord of the Rings movie I like so much, where the short men outwit and humiliate the tall people. Quite a good film, they should consider doing a sequel to it at some point.

And good people, here was my solution all the time! When the valiant little fellow gets stabbed by the grim reapers, he's all in a state, far worse than myself. The gargantuan hippie attends to his wound, but cannot fix it, so he calls on the daughter of Aerosmith, the girl who rides the horse, and he tells her he needs Elvis medicine.

Of course, I was intrigued. The rock star offspring scooped up the proud little man and carried him off to Gracieland immediately. Suddenly the movie made sense. They kept referring to the giant hippie as the heir of the king, but I thought they meant a king of England or something, not the King. It certainly puts the movie in a new light.

Now, I'm no idiot. I know Elvis is dead. But that doesn't mean his heirs or someone else isn't living the high life at Gracieland right now, sitting on piles and piles of Elvis medicine they're hoarding all to themselves. Or maybe they hand it out to tourists, as a good-will gesture and Elvis' last request. I could picture the man, clear as day: "Now, uh, lookee here, baby… I gotta go on, it's my time now, but you gotta look after these people. Medicine for everybody. Do me proud."

What a man.

Well, Elvis, you can certainly do me some good. In fact, after I finish this column, I'm going to Gracieland, Gracieland, Rumney, New Hampshire. Or perhaps this time it's the one in Memphis. If so, then Memphis, New Hampshire, here I come! I've got the urge for a little Kingly medication.

º Last Column: Here Comes the Humdrum
º more columns

As the old saying goes, war brings out the best in a man. Guts, brains, plenty of blood and various organs—but you already know how landmines work. Likewise, war brings out the best in Rok Finger. Some are made for philosophizing and some are made for artistic and scientific contributions to mankind; I was made for paranoid ranting about national security and rhetoric.

That being said, I do have some protests to utter. I'm not some blind optimist with complete faith in my country. I can understand the need to protest and the need of cops and city officials to squash those protesters like bugs. Why should those in the war zone get all the fun? However, I can't find a good crowd to protest with because of my political stances.

On one side, you have the whining hippies. God, how I hate hippies. If there were heaven and hell in the afterlife and heaven were filled with hippies, hell would look pretty compatible for Rok Finger. Always going on and on about stopping death and war and human tragedy—if hippies had their way we'd all be sitting around a group circle getting high and eating trail mix.

But then on the other side are the people who support the war—but they always have to drag the troops into it. What a hassle. "We support the troops!" Like the troops wanted to go to war and fight over five inches of ground and potentially lose their lives. You ask me, the troops have been dragging their heels on this one. I support the administration, I support the war fiends in the war room, but frankly, I don't think the troops are as up for the fighting as I am. Every time I see one on TV they're all like, "I just want to do my job for my country and get back home to my wife and kids." Blah, blah, blah. You don't have the eye of the tiger, kid.

I didn't expect much, mind you, we haven't had real blood-hungry troops since Korea. Lose a few skirmishes and all of a sudden everybody wants to go home. Now to have an entire army made up of Generation X, Y, and probably some Zs, well, what could you expect but a bunch of button-pushers and tactical strategists. These kids grew up on the Internet and grunge music, they're too busy feeling emotional angst and apathy to throw themselves into machine gun fire with fervor, like the boys used to.

Everybody goes on and on about Vietnam, World War II, but all of us fans of pointless slaughter remember the big one, World War I. Man, there was some mutilation for very little purpose. Those guys had guns you cranked like a music box and they just spit bullets like a cartoon goat who'd eaten a tin can. More French guys were killed in World War I than syphilis could ever aspire for. Why do you think they were so quick to surrender in World War II? They were still picking shrapnel out of their derriers. There was even a country called Rubiskania back then where everybody was killed, so they just annexed it as part of Hungary. Man, that was a war to end all wars. Until the next one.

Nostalgic? Maybe. But I have high hopes for this new big one still. In the end, the troops are just there to be shoved into battle like a puck on the shuffleboard court. And I hear the sloganeering and propaganda from this White House and I know the war is in good hands.

º Last Column: Can't Trust the Russians
º more columns