ompanies are lining up around the block this year to take part in the coolest trend to hit corporate America since "creative accounting": competing to see who can co-opt the most inappropriate pop anthem for their advertising campaign.

Hip companies everywhere stood up and took notice in 2004, when Carnival Cruise Lines kicked off this latest run on large-scale irony by snatching up Iggy Pop's heroin anthem "Lust for Life" for use in ads for their overweight middle-aged vacation cruises. While Carnival claims not to discriminate against guests based on whether or not they can make it through a buffet dinner without a fix of smack, most physicians recommend against combining heroin and shuffleboard.

"Disregard for artists is back," explained corporate trend-watcher Trevor Hamilton. "In fact, it's red hot."

Hamilton followed his comment with an embarrassing "-pssssss- ow!" burnt-finger gesture that we only mention because we don't like him.

Cadillac scored a major coup when they landed the Led Zeppelin classic "Rock 'n Roll" to advertise their old fogey cars. Industry observers consider this to be an especially cool victory for GM, since aside from the disorienting clash of associating rock music with land yachts, the song's lyrics are also quite clearly about sex, something most Cadillac drivers have foregone for years in favor of golf.

Others point to the brilliance of the Gap landing AC/DC's classic "Back in Black" for their ads, a song by a metal band with incredibly awful fashion sense, even for Australians.

However, few can top the catastrophically cool usage of Bob Dylan's seminal "The Times They Are A Changin'" by the Bank of Montreal in 1996, recasting a song about the dissolution of old power into an anthem for money management.

"A bank? A freaking bank?" gushed Hamilton, wetly. "That's just brilliant! That's like getting a Rage Against the Machine song to advertise duck pate."

Particularly popular this year is the use of sexually inappropriate tunes for advertising products aimed at small children. Advertising executives express their admiration for a recent spot using Salt N Pepa's raunchy sex come-on "Push It" to sell orange creamsicle push-pops, and another that featured Power Station's stiff-dick anthem "Some Like it Hot" in an effort to sell Hot Pockets.

Other upcoming salvos in the war for the most jarringly inappropriate corporate anthem include the Clash's "Lost in the Supermarket" to be used in an upcoming ad for Albertsons, a soon-to-be-released recruiting ad for the U.S. Army featuring Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the U.S.A.", The Police's "Every Breath You Take" being used to hock the Apple iCam webcam, and Disney's continued misuse of the Guns n' Roses drug and prostitution saga "Welcome to the Jungle" for the DVD re-releases of Bambi, the Lion King, The Jungle Book and Tarzan.

As of press time, definitive word could not be reached as to whether or not President Bush plans to jump on the bandwagon, switching his presidential theme song from R.E.M.'s "World Leader Pretend," to something more inappropriate, like Bill Withers' 1972 hit, "Lean on Me."

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OH MY GOD SNOW

"There's nothing like riding the rails, although that in itself is not an endorsement."

You'd be surprised how far $50 and a sack full of wetnaps can get you. Or maybe you wouldn't, if you'd say not very far. It's true. Not very far.

That's the first thing I learned during my history of riding the rails. I spent my college years, 20 through 20 ½, living my life as a hobo. I shared my stories with fellow vagabonds, dined on whatever I could find, and went wherever my whim took me. I usually didn't get too far before my whim was busted by a cop and thrown in a holding cell on a charge of vagrancy. I suppose I was pretty easy to catch with my stomach always yodeling. I didn't find much for dining.

You meet interesting people when you live the lonesome life of a hobo. Some of them will do sex things to you for money, but I wasn't having none of that. Those people want money. One of the guys I met was Randy Railroad. But that was just his name when he was doing sex things to you. I forget what his normal name was. It wasn't as cool as Randy Railroad, I'll tell you that.

He once told me, "Scrotum,"—that was my railroad nickname—"my dad said if you aren't handsome, at least you should be handy." Then he stole my knapsack. But he was right, if I understand it correct. Some people can get by on their looks or dumb luck, other people have to get by on their skills. This is why I work at the commune.

It's funny how trains used to be the quickest way to get from one place to another. Then planes literarily swoop down and snatch that right out of the trains' mouths. It just goes to show you, everyone who's good at something: Someday we'll invent something else that goes faster. Or if I'm mixing my metaphors, whatever would be the best way out of that. And I'll make myself a rum and coke while I'm mixing.

You don't see too many hobos these days. Or maybe you do, but I'm missing out on those secret inner circle hobo meetings. As near as I can see it, there are two possible reasons why there are so few hobos anymore: One thing, maybe the economy has gotten good enough to make hoboing a bad choice, with the added possibility that industrial areas or opportunities have sprung up so close together all over America there's no need for real travel to find ways to support yourself. Or two, of course, intergalactic bounty hunters are hunting them for their scalps.

I suppose it's possible all the hobos are hopping planes instead of trains, just like paying travelers. But you've got to be a goddamn fast hobo to do that. I say if you can run fast enough to hop a plane maybe you don't need the ride at all. What could Seattle offer you that would be worth going there? You need to go to a big college like the kind you see in movies and become a ringer for the track team. Like Shaq in Blue Chips, but for track.

Now I'm worried. I'm going to have to find a friend to go out with me and time the max speed a hobo can achieve. With shoes and without.

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Editor's Note: In lieu of Rok Finger's absence, he asked us to print a friendly filler message from his roommate Camembert.

Hello. I'm Camembert Morgen and I suppose I should introduce myself as Rok Finger's roommate. Since Rok couldn't fit a column into his schedule this week, he asked me to fill in for him. Well, he ordered me, but it's not like I listen to him. I'm not scared of him. My girlfriend can beat him up. He's small. Honestly, I'm not scared.

As I said, Rok couldn't do this column this week. Don't worry, it's not a bad thing—not for Rok, anyway. He married an unlucky woman named Ginger Baker over the weekend. Good for him, I say. Terrible for her. I guess she thinks he's rich or something. Maybe she's fooled by the velour suit he wears whenever they go on dates. I don't know. Maybe he has some inner qualities that make him attractive. Though I've never seen any.

I guess I should tell you a little about myself. I can't imagine Rok would waste time in a professional website column talking about his roommate. I'm Camembert, as I said, and I have a hot girlfriend, Loretta. Rok and I are distantly related. Very distantly. I'm his ex-wife's sister's son. But our relationship is a lot closer than that, really, since he paralyzed me, moved into my apartment uninvited, made me a mob target, got me kidnapped by pirates, and generally made my life hell on a daily basis. But he did introduce me to my girlfriend, so I suppose things are about even. Now that he's married, I'm hoping to get out on my own with my girlfriend and make a new life for myself. God willing.

I can't believe anyone really wants to hear about the wedding, but I'm sure if you're fans of Rok Finger, I can't believe you exist anyway. I'll describe the wedding so as not to embarrass myself further with revealing details about me.

The bride wore a lovely black dress, and the groom wore a tuxedo that he may have gotten from a ventriloquist dummy. But you can't tell—one of the better fitting suits in his little collection. They wrote their own vows, but I don't think I heard too many of his because the crowd was laughing very loudly. Rok never makes me laugh, personally, but if you had to live with him you probably wouldn't laugh either. I think the vows were very adamant about who washes the dishes, and he might have swore a little, but that's hardly shocking for Rok.

There was one slightly amusing part for me, I admit. The flower girl, Ginger's daughter Becky, was actually taller than Rok. You don't see that very often. Flower girls taller than the groom, I mean. Everybody's taller than Rok. Heck, even in my chair I'm a little taller than he is. But don't tell him—he gets outraged about it.

After the ceremony, which was mercifully short outside of the vows, we threw rice at the newlyweds. Rok threw beans back. I'm not sure why he had beans with him. He might have just anticipated the rice and wanted something to fight back with. Again, I'm not surprised. But they piled into his car with the special high-pedals and drove off on their honeymoon. He told me where they were going but I didn't bother to commit it to memory. I'm better off not knowing where he is. If the Feds ask me.

So what do they do here at the commune? I'm writing this from home, and although I've got internet access, I've never bothered to read the site myself. I get enough Rok Finger at home, thank you. For another thing, I can't swallow any of that news they put out each week. Does anybody actually believe that stuff? Ah, but I'm no critic. I'm just a regular guy trying to help out a maniacal roommate while he enjoys the silence in the house with his girlfriend, Loretta.

Did I mention I have a girlfriend? She is H-O-T hot, too. And she's real.

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