ortal fools announced their plans to disturb the earthly remains of reggae legend Bob Marley Wednesday, as part of a plan to celebrate what would have been the singer's 60th birthday. The proposal to exhume Marley has angered some Jamaicans, the few who are not exceptionally easygoing about everything, since Marley was one of the most famous sons of the country.

The exhumation would culminate in the body being cremated, inhaled deeply by close family and friends, held for as long as possible, and then released into the air. The ashes would then be scattered over the soil of Ethiopia, which Marley's widow Rita called his "spiritual resting place."

"Bob was the dearest soul I ever knew," said lifetime friend Cosell Hamlet. "An inspiration to everyone he ever met. I know his soul is in a better place. And I bet his body will be great shit."

Marley popularized reggae internationally in the 1970s, with a string of hits such as "No Woman, No Cry" and "Get Up, Stand Up." Reggae is the spiritual music of his home country of Jamaica, and the Rastafarian brought it to everyone in the world with his peaceful lyrics and mellow sound. Thanks to him reggae can now be heard at any party attended on a college campus or from any window from which pours copious amounts of smoke.

In Jamaica, however, all is not perfectly mellow for everybody, as some say to take Marley's body is to rob Jamaica of its history, and risk bumming everyone out.

"Nah, man, don't bogart Bob. He was a part of Jamaica, and now his body is part of the land itself," said Jamaican history expert Dr. Addi Townstone, who has started an organization to protest Marley's exhumation. "We ask the family to let him stay—stay in Jamaica."

Rita Marley refused further comment on plans to exhume and smoke her husband, who died in 1981 from cancer. The Bob Marley Foundation, not to be confused with the Peter Tosh Committee to Legalize It, was quick to quell the uproar.

"It's okay! It's nothing to get out of joint about, brother," said Bebe Shadley, press agent for the Foundation. "It's all irie, my friend."

Odidi Hubistato, who oversees the Ethiopian Orthodox Church and will be presiding over a ceremony honoring Marley on his birthday February 6, looked forward to the ceremony.

"Ashes to ashes, smoke to smoke, like we say," said Hubistato. "I for one plan to be up in the front row when we light those spleefly remains. Jah love the man."

All have apparently forgotten the price to be paid for unearthing the dead, regardless of good intentions. To stir the remains of the deceased is to invite an eternity of damnation and curses, the howls and haunts of the wretched specter himself. Prepare, all who trespass, for the nightly visitations of the angry ghost of the dead reggae superstar!

Bob Marley himself, an ethereal presence in a world unknown to mankind, declined to be interviewed. We were, however, able to talk to long-dead Jacob Marley, no relation.

"I wear the chain I forged in life," said Marley's ghost, indicating a very obvious large chain. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it." He concluded, "I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate."

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I don't have a lot of time, as I recently found out I am dying. I don't know when, how long I've got left, or the circumstances under which I go, but as you can understand, it's still quite a shock. Let's jump on this pony and ride to victory.

I've recently heard the greatest invention of all time is the wheel. Did I ever get a thanks? No. It just goes to show you, never talk loudly about your ideas in bars.

The other day, for the first time, I had popcorn shrimp. Have you seen this stuff? It's not popcorn. And it's not shrimp. Only, it is shrimp, I suppose. But it's not popcorn. That's all I'm saying.

Hollywood has promised us another Daddy Day Care. Save your lies, charlatans. I'm still waiting for the Buckaroo Banzai sequel I never got.

You know what I hate? Rastafarians.

Whatever happened to Regis Philbin? You hear nothing about him anymore. It's like they erased all memory of him from existence, like someone went back in time and farted on a rare flower or something, and poof! But I remember. And I'll never forget.

Everyone knows the Second Law of Thermodynamics. But they all snicker when I ask them to explain it to me. I don't think that's right.

If you watch The Bachelor does that make you gay? A friend wants to know.

It's when I first wake up in the morning and I feel the cold sweat on my face, the shudder in my chest, and I feel like I can't move my neck and can only stare at the ceiling—like I'm waiting, merely waiting for the end. It's those moments I feel closest to knowing insanity. But then, I have a cup of instant coffee, and everything gets better.

I just read some of this bathroom wall art—does anyone edit that stuff? The spelling is terrible. Nice gig, if you can get it.

Judge Judy has gotten way too sassy for her britches. It's high time someone in the administration step in. There's got to be some kind of constitutional clause to cover this kind of thing.

On The Jeffersons, everybody loved Bentley most. Everybody. You think the network would have played that up, but no. Pure gold, slipped right through their fingers.

I have heard before if you put peanut butter on your private parts, your dog will lick it off. Well, I can't speak for all breeds, but pit bulls didn't make for the kind of experience I envisioned.

Isn't it like 1939 all over again these days? Sure, it's different, but you know what I mean.

I lost a matchbook to a hip club back in 1965, and sometimes, when I lie in bed at night, I wonder whatever happened to that matchbook. I hope it's doing someone some good, and some day I can sneak behind their house and set their bushes on fire. Just as a distraction. To get it back.

I love British television, and I hope to buy one some day. But I hear they don't work with our power outlets. Which is just plain wrong.

I believe we're done here. I'll see you again.

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My fat little cheeks are full of smiles lately, readers. And do you want to know why? Your feelings are irrelevant. The reason why is because the commune has finally achieved the high numbers we've always wanted.

Since we contracted our commune Statistician, Perry "Bigger" Dunston, we've been able to document that more than one reader visits the commune website. Of course, that's not to diminish Emil, our biggest supporter, but a website cannot become profitable if nobody reads it. At least that's what my brother, ratings whore Gay Bagel says, and it sounds like it could be true.

You probably know full and well I'm not really in the "readership" business, sir—I do the commune just to get the truth out to as many people as possible, even if nobody reads it. But Gay has been chomping at the bit (the dentist says he has to wear it) to define our readership, and Perry has brought us the numbers we need to stay in business and keep Gay happy. I even hear tell that we will be getting new advertisers, if we keep these numbers up. Personally, all the free ribs I can eat at the U Ignorant cafeteria has been a sweet deal for me, but I can understand if Gay wants actual cash from sponsors. You can't pay for your penthouse with juicy ribs, falling off the bone. Wouldn't it be fantastic if we could, though? Let's think about that for a while.

Unsurprisingly, early numbers confirm what we've always thought about demographics, that our biggest audience is your average white male prisoner, age 18-34. But it turns out we've also got a fair number of non-imprisoned folks. The suicidal are a regular commune readership, it turns out, and they buy a lot of rope and firearms. Anybody in college who decided not to go to class, they make up a lot of our audience. Former Oprah fans who have been asked to stop writing letters, more commune readers. We also shouldn't forget our loyal fanbase of conspiracy junkies, meaning people who believe both in secret government plots and the unhampered use of heroin and crack. In addition, farm animals and woodland creatures with internet access, some sort of unexpected readership there, which I suspect owes mostly to contributions by Mazie the Chicken, or perhaps Ned Nedmiller.

This hasn't all been a barrelful of money. It might end up costing us. Our most popular column, we've learned, is "Boris is Gay," by our own Boris Utzov. I suppose I could speculate on why, but that would take a lot more work than I'm willing to spend on all this. My brother wanted numbers, he got numbers. Let him figure out the reasoning. As I was saying, Boris is playing everything close to the vest right now, but I have a sneaking suspicion he's plotting out a big contract negotiation. I'm telling you all right now, I will not, absolutely will not, be railroaded into paying him money to write his columns. When he signed that contract, he realized he was contributing to the commune because it builds character, and that was more than sufficient at the time.

Of course, heads may roll as well. If I had any idea readers didn't want to hear a gruff, aggressive old man whine about the most infinitesimal things, I never would have brought Rok Finger aboard in the first place. He'll have to do something to improve those numbers, appeal to a younger readership. I suggested he start drinking Jolt cola, but apparently they took it off the market. But low ratings will no longer be tolerated.

Except for mine. One person reading a column isn't so bad. I will have to ask Perry, though, if I count as that one person when I read it aloud to the office, or if somebody else is checking in. Since I do read it to the staff, I think that should count as a high numbers—at least fifteen people charging through here at any time of day. Fifteen is not such a bad count.

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