Poll: America Fucking with Pollsters

olls conducted by mortal agencies across America are beginning to unravel startling information about polls: They are not always correct, and information is not always given with the most honorable intentions.

This information comes as a shock to pollsters and politicians alike, as some questions have returned information demonstrating the lack of sincerity in responses. A recent Gallup poll on the presidential election found that over 70 percent of respondents described themselves as the head of a their household and reported an annual income of over ten gabillion. According to the latest census information and annual salary figures reported by corporations, determined to be more accurate, less than one percent of the nation actually earns over ten gabillion dollars annually, causing analysts to speculate incorrect information was reported. Backing up this hypothesis is the response to inquiries about the speaker's sex, to which over 97 percent responded "Yes."

Inaccurate polling information leaves some with the feeling that none of the conclusions drawn by polls can be trusted, a disturbing notion for politicians relying on polling information, and an even more troublesome proposition for companies making their money from polling. However, it would explain how polls conducted by different companies can draw different conclusions, such as recent presidential election polls that show the race led by President George W. Bush, candidate John Kerry, or show both tied neck and neck.

"Clearly, someone is fucking with us," said Gallup poll analyst Stephen Herschel. "I guess they think it's funny."

The quandary brings up questions about the similar circumstances of the 2000 election, when Al Gore won a much larger number of votes than predicted in some earlier polls, and less than accorded him by others. Exit polls in Florida also played a significant role in decisions by major news networks to predict Gore the winner of the state, key in the 2000 presidential election, even though the frail polls failed to predict the battle for the state ahead. Herschel, a longtime developer of polling questions for political campaigns, paints a bleak picture of an election with untrustworthy polls.

"A lot of Americans like to vote for the guy who is going to win," Herschel informs. "If they don't have polls to tell them who is going to win, then there is no way for them to make an informed decision about who to vote for. Then there's the nightmare of actually being a candidate running for office and having no polls to rely on. How do you know what to stand for then? How can you reach the voters if you don't have any idea what they want you to say? All you have to fall back on in such a case is personal experience, knowledge of the issues themselves, and leadership qualities. Without polls, you can't preach to the converted."

The concerns about polls beg the question, why in the world would someone not report accurate information to a faceless corporation? Winston-Salem University of North Dakota's Professor Big Jim Dean, of the Department of Psychology, postulates a theory:

"As strange as it seems, we theorize that some people don't realize the value of an accurate poll, or even stranger, could care less about the questions themselves. These people may give inaccurate information on a lark, or to make themselves feel more important than they might by reporting accurately. Others may have their own political agenda, and try to shape the outcome of the poll by giving information that they think will further their own cause, whatever it may be. Alas, these may be the dangers of asking random people their thoughts and feelings on issues. At least, this is the research I've accumulated by talking to my students. And I don't see any reason why they'd make up something like that."

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I'm officially announcing my retirement.

No joke, you didn't read wrong. I'm giving up on acting once and for all. I'm done with it. Kaput. Out. If you can't see me, I'm making the signal of "safe at home" like an umpire does, because it also looks like the "I'm done" signal I have in my head. Because I'm done with acting.

This is not anything out of the blue for me, really, although some of you fans may think it is. I've just been beat down too damn long to get up and do it again. You've taught me my lesson, cold hard world, and this time I'm taking it to heart. Me and the stage are done. Same with me and the TV and film camera.

I got fired from Ho's! for one. The comic book convention came up the same week as I was shooting some new footage for the summer replacement episodes, which will be replacing the episodes they decided we couldn't show because they're not at all suitable for public viewing. But anyway, I made a promise to all my faithful nerd fans at the convention that I would be there, and I already spent all the personal appearance money. That was a good sundae, though. Nuts and all the fucking trimmings. Yum. But to sum it up, I cut and run and left them to fill in all the A.D.R. or whatever themselves. So they just cut my character, I guess that saved them money or something, and shot around me. They also told me, in the phone message, that I was the least funny ho on the show, but I think that was just to kick while I'm down. I'm at least funnier than the old ho.

I don't need that kind of humiliation, you know. It finally occurred to me, while I was slipping into my counterfeit Metallichick outfit to go out and sign some old comic books at the convention: I'm bigger than that. I'll let you in on a little secret: Ho's! was a crappy show. Nothing against David Faustino—genius in a bottle, you ask me. But the show itself is garbage, and all of us could do better. Not much better, but still better. So I say it's luck disguised as broke-ass misfortune that I got canned from the show. And I'm giving up acting, once and for all, because I'm tired of taking degrading jobs just for the money and slightly improved Q-rating I get from it.

There's lots I can do. My time at the commune has proved that. I can writer a column, sometimes more than one a month. I can write a screenplay, no matter what my screenwriting teacher says to her mom on the phone when she thinks I'm not listening. And I can model—it doesn't even take any acting talent to do that. All you have to do is stand real still, holding a broadsword. And you don't even have to stand all that still with these modern cameras. The point is, I need acting like I need a hole in the head. And not the breathing holes. I mean bad holes.

This isn't like when I retired at 16, either, or retired again at 17. And I'll be the first to admit that retirement at 19 was completely misconceived—I still had shitloads to say. But retirement at 26 is the right decision. I've done it all, been everywhere and everything, and I've exhausted every original thought I ever had. And that was a short list to begin with.

Don't worry, though. I may be broken-down and defeated as an actress, but that doesn't mean I haven't got loads of people who still need bitching out. The actress may be dead, but the columnist strives on and on. Against injustice, and for a reasonable weekly check.

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This is becoming the Rok Finger motif as of late: Taking a rocky path, somehow surviving most of the way, coming to a bump in the road, inhale a huge breath and successfully jump over the bump in the road, just to land in dogshit.

Am I exaggerating? I've known for quite some time God Himself has it in for me—once again, look at the face. But this seems a little sadistic even for the Almighty. To use me as a tool to scare children with this scrapheap of a punum, to break up my 30-year marriage through my paranoia and impulsive temper, to do the same to my second marriage, to make Camembert paralyzed just so my future apartment would be inconveniently filled with ramps and railings, all of it is just so cruel as to make me doubt the existence of God, if I thought someone evil enough like Kathi Lee Gifford had enough power to affect my life. No, there's a God, and He most certainly gets his kicks drowning puppies and kicking Rok Finger's backside like a black and white Spalding.

Now my one little past discretion has come back to haunt me. No, not my out-of-wedlock children—they are neither singular enough in number nor small enough in individual quantity to count as one little indiscretion. I speak of the three month span in the 1980s where I was a professional wrestler.

It's nothing I'm proud of. Even my ex-wife Arvelyn and all my previous column publishers know nothing about it. It's hard to explain why in today's culture, where wrestling clearly is considered a mental disorder rather than a lifestyle choice. Let's just say I needed the money and was going through an unpleasant phase where holding half-naked men down to mats was what was important to me.

My wrestling league, the Dandies of America (D.O.A.), was small and cheap, but so am I; we were a match in heaven, where, I might remind you, the God who hates me so much lives. Our matches were quick and exciting, the way wrestling should have been, and boy, were our costumes fancy! I liked it, but I was always wise enough to wear a mask, to protect my journalistic career and save my cat from abuse on the streets. None of it helped.

I came home from, let's say a massage parlor, the other day just to find Camembert and Lee sitting on the couch and watching some home video wrestling tape. They rented it from a video store under the auspicious title, "Douches of the Ring." You can imagine my surprise when I saw a familiar costume appear in the midst of these badly-edited clips of smaller wrestling events. It was me, under my ring name of The 4-Foot Nightmare, wrestling with an old foe called "Amazing Sack" Ryan. I shuddered in fear, but the next words were what stopped me dead in my tracks:

"Damn, Rok, he's as short as you," Lee said, deadpan face on the TV. "Well, a little bit taller."

That was Saturday night. I haven't been home since. Curse that Lee! He has it all: A handsome face, long, luxurious hair, except for the top of his head, a beautiful apartment with fantastic roommates like me and Camembert, abundant bass playing ability, a never-ending supply of funny weed, and his mother likes him. Now he wants everything I have, to boot—my commune stipend of $36 a week, my fancy desk, my lousy craphole of an apartment with my turd roommates, and worse yet, my pride. I imagine, I didn't really give him time to make any demands after he made me in the video.

Well, I'll be damned to be victim of blackmail! I'm coming out, right here in my commune column, so at least Red Bagel will be reading it. Probably. Yes, America, I used to be a pro-wrestler. It's nothing I'm proud of, though the "Stamp of Approval" move that was my signature was pretty sharp. It was a long time ago. I ask for your forgiveness, and to let me move on. And be quick about it, they won't let me live in the office another day so I've got to get home again.

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