Blake Prosecution Adds Co-Defendant to Raise Media Ratings

urprised by the waning media interest in the Bonny Lee Bakley murder case, the Blake prosecution team named young actor Christian Slater as a co-defendant in the case. As the prosecution's murder theory now stands, Blake murdered his wife in front of the Vitello's restaurant and Slater co-conspired in the plot and drove the getaway car.

The move has been seen by some to attract attention to a case that sounds pretty ho-hum in the modern media age. The Blake case, while garnering some media spotlight, has failed to attract the attention of the infamous O.J. Simpson case, lacking in comparison in brutality and sheer star power.

Slater, whose own career has slipped from attention in recent years, welcomed the prosecution, with a firm promise he and Blake will beat the charges.

"C'mon, we're famous!" he shouted at a press conference. "We'll be out in time to guest star on the Ally McBeal finale. Or, failing that, Fox Celebrity Boxing."

The prosecution announced at the same time it was dropping conspiracy charges against Robert Blake's bodyguard Earle Caldwell, saying he "just didn't appeal as strongly to the 18-35 age group as Slater."

"We thought of many possibilities," said prosecution team member Rad Harmscull. "Our first thought was Peter Falk, but we figured people might have trouble figuring out which is which. Todd Bridges was another possibility, but he had his day in criminal court for murder and we all yawned and let him go. This time I think we've got a can't-lose case for international media buzz."

However, Blake counsel Harland Braun was less pleased about the move.

"It's ridiculous media manipulation by the prosecution," said Braun. "Mr. Blake is not afraid to have his day in court over this matter, but we're not going to share it with some kid from Young Guns 2. Not to mention it makes no sense. They don't even know each other. Why not longtime Blake friend talk show host Tom Snyder or something? This is plainly a media-oriented move by the prosecution."

If the co-defendant prosecution ignites sparks in media interest, there are already rumors abounding about bringing in former Wiseguy star Ken Wahl on a conspiracy to destroy evidence charge. And if that move is successful, Wahl could receive his own spin-off murder trial, depending on the focus group's look at the evidence.

"I think we're doing very well now," Harmscull said. "We took a so-so case and have possibly made it into the trial of the century. This century, and even bigger than the trial of last century. Sure, we may not win as all the facts don't line up meticulously. But while we could've had a victory and execution before, killed some little rascal for some humdrum crime no one cared about… now we've created a lasting piece of criminal justice. This is the trial to which all others will be compared. And if it takes off, we promise there will be others."

Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead

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Again we find ourselves in this same spot, George. You, babbling on about your hurt feelings; myself, thankful I do not have a gun, because all it takes to kill a man is a gun and the will to riddle them with bullets, and believe me, all I lack is the gun. What’s that? You would kill yourself if you had a gun? Then we’re at last in agreement on something, George, and it’s long overdue. Actually, no. Suicide is too good for you, George.

Yes, suicide, that haven for cowards and those who lack the will to fight. You are a coward, George, and you lack the will to do anything. But I still would not have the actions of all those courageous self-killers blemished by you adding your lumpy, wrinkle-ridden corpse to their numbers.

Oh, I’m sure you’d do it. Not because you have the shred of self-respect that suicide requires, but because you’re just that thoughtless, to blow your brains out and leave me to find a disreputable cemetery where I could bury you in an unmarked grave. Perhaps I would put a big "X" on the ground to mark your place, only so an unwitting family doesn’t build a house over your bones and find itself haunted by the world’s most sadsack ghost. Better yet, I’ll put a small wooden tombstone at the head of your grave site, with a picture of you tacked to it—the international symbol for pathetic windbag buried here.

I take that back, George, there’s no way you could kill yourself, if you dared to, if you had the fraction of self-esteem it would take. No bullet could pass through your head. It would simply bore half-an-inch deep, yawn, and then lose itself in the humdrum of your inane conversation. Yes, George, I’m convinced even inanimate objects find you offensive, and more offensive than offensive, agonizingly dull. Poison in your food would leap off the fork just to get away from your ever-running mouth, just as the dead chicken it coats would, if it hadn’t been mercifully slaughtered already. The blade of a knife? George, no self-respecting piece of steel would be caught dead penetrating you, terrified of what the other blades would think, all the names it would be called or the inevitable accusations of preposterously low standards. Hell, the blade would shrivel like your most reprehensible bits themselves if it came within a millimeter of your ashen bare flesh.

So, George, it appears you’re resigned to live the rest of your hideous natural life, and I’ll be forced to live it with you, unless Death is much kinder than tales have told, and it comes to take me in my sleep tonight. I will count the hours. You, however, George, you may be luckier than anyone else. How do you fancy immortality, George? Kind or not, Death would have nothing to do with you, that’s my prediction. You will trod down the street, searching everywhere, see Death in a bar, either at work or taking a break at the end of its long day, and Death will put its skeletal hand over its face and try to hide from you. Oh, Christ, there’s George, he wants me to at last end his life, but that would require touching him. Fuck that, Death will say, in the vernacular of our times. Heaven will not take you if it did, because it’s Heaven up there and those good occupants should be spared your constant whining, and Hell—well, even those damned to Hell do not deserve some tortures. You geriatric loose sphincter.

Enough, George, I say enough of your tears! Enough of your prattle, enough of your pleas for compassion. I have enough compassion to tell you things the way they are. Stop your sobbing and put on your best numb façade, as the rest of us do while you speak.

And grab your good sport jacket. I won’t have you looking like the world’s most vile hobo when you collect your Lifetime Achievement Award this evening. The good shoes, George, not the Crocs. My word, George. Get dressed by yourself once, that would be a lifetime achievement.

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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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