Israelis Capture Arafat to Win "March Madness"

srael, plagued by suicide bombers and endless terrorism on the home front came from behind Friday to invade Palestinian territory and take its leader prisoner, winning March Madness in a surprising upset.

It was a victory for Israel fans who hadn't seen an insanity play of that caliber from the country ever before. It has become almost an annual tradition for Islamic fundamentalists to take the cake in March Madness, but the unexpected break in this year's event was the shot of life many Israel fans needed.

"Who knew they had it in 'em?" said former Israeli Prime Minister and lifelong Israeli fan Shimon Peres. "I would have expected more diplomatic routes. Pleas for sanity, stepped-up security, calls for sanctions or U.N. action to ferret out terrorism in Palestine and Israel. This was truly a new level for Israel fans."

President Bush was woken early this morning to the news of Israel's shelling campaign on Yasser Arafat's headquarters. The president responded promptly, "No shit?"

Israel has claimed the larger body count for quite some time against Palestine, though terrorists from the area have held the Madness advantage. Their primary form of retaliation and attack on the state, suicide bombers, is as insane as it gets. Though Israel surprised everyone Friday with their bold move to "isolate" the Palestinian leader Arafat by shelling his headquarters and engaging Palestinian troops in armed combat.

"What a terrific show of Madness," said Britain's Queen Elizabeth, applauding in her queenly fashion.

With his troops unprepared, outnumbered, and ill-equipped, Arafat barricaded himself in his bunker as long as he could and tried to inform the world of his situation via cell phone calls to American news sources. A call to CNN's Christiane Amanpour was broadcast in the afternoon Friday. Arafat eventually reached the commune late in the evening, by which time it was obvious the esteemed Palestinian leader had been dipping into the stock of the wine cellar.

"It is time for the U.S. … if the U.S. is an opponent of terrorism they should speak out against the terrorism taking place here in Palestine. The occupation—" A loud hiccup interrupted Arafat. "Curse you! You try to poison me? You and your Israeli terrorism? I am an asshole? You are the asshole! I will fart on your children while your wife makes me breakfast. This I swear, for all of Pakistan. Wait… did I say Palestine or Pakistan? That's crazy!"

The phone was then hurled across the room as the firefight increased in Arafat's compound. Either that or he passed out.

"It is a glorious day for Israel," Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon told the press Saturday. "We have fought terrorism and won. If this does not stop the wave of lawless destruction, nothing will."

Sharon cut the press conference short when advised six Palestinian suicide bombers had detonated within the last fifteen minutes. The Prime Minister said he had previously mistaken them for celebratory fireworks.

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Surprise, I got my name back. Occasionally I jump the gun and make a situation look a lot bleaker than it is. But I did seriously think Felchyana would take away my very name. As for my new name, "Rokwell T. Stonewall" is already owned by a nationally-syndicated columnist. No shortage of legal hassle trying to write a commune column without being sued for damage to reputation.

Felchyana, on the other hand, was more agreeable than certain bastards named Rok Stonewall. She was only holding out for more money, so I agreed to give it to her—after all, money is temporary. A name like Rok Finger only comes along once in a lifetime. Rok Stonewall, a thousand times in a lifetime. Completely useless name. Besides, I negotiated with Felchyana so she could have my middle name, Teddasaurus, while I retain the right to use the initial. Which is all I ever wanted in the first place.

Now that my divorce is finalized with Ms. Teddasaurus, you'd better believe I'm lining up all my ducks for the wedding of the century! Well, I suppose that may be overstating things. It's an early century, after all. I would hate for the great-great-grandson of Prince to be forced to marry the Queen of Neptune, in order to keep us from going to interplanetary war. Then Rok Finger's proclamation of 2005 would look quite foolish to the future potential Neptunian slaves.

I have even bought the material to make a tuxedo—most rental places don't make them in my size, of course, and I'm sick of wearing doll clothes to my own weddings. Besides, three more weddings and the thing will have practically paid for itself. The pattern I'm using is based on a formal dress affair suit for a lawn jockey, made by an insane woman at the local asylum. But for all her mental instability, she's a hell of a pattern maker.

We have had trouble deciding, Ginger and I, where exactly to hold the wedding. At first, I thought we might hold it at the commune offices—these people are, after all, the closest thing I have to friends. Which is quite depressing. But Ginger convinced me there was no way in hell she would get married with the "freaks [I] work with staring at us." She made a good point. Now we're trying to decide on a church wedding or a city hall sort of affair. We haven't ruled out driving to Vegas either. What a decision! If only something combined the sanctity of a church wedding, the esteem of a judge-presided matrimony, and a topless chorus line. But then there would be lines around the block, no doubt.

Camembert suggested we get married right here, in the humble Finger abode's backyard. I didn't hear him because I've been ignoring him since he ate the last of my breakfast cereal, Sugar Shorties. But Ginger seemed to think it was a good idea. Now I only have to figure a way to hold the ceremony here and still not invite Camembert. That may seem extreme, considering the wedding is at least a month away, but I'm known for holding insensible grudges for long periods.

To tell the truth, I'm actually a bit nervous about the whole thing. I was never nervous in all my previous marriages, so maybe that means I feel Ginger Baker is truly the girl for me. Or maybe I've developed a sixth sense and I am feeling the presence of the dead all around me. But Ginger didn't think that notion was as romantic as the first, so I'm sticking with the "one true girl" thing. What a woman!

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You say I ruined your life, whatever.

Who gets machine-gunned to death these days, anyway? I mean, seriously. The chances have got to be astronomical. You practically have to be begging to be machine-gunned to death. My cousin was on the waiting list to get machine-gunned to death for three years when he was hit by a train. I'm serious! The way I see it, you should be writing me a thank-you note. I'd call you an inconsiderate prick if I wasn't certain you'd take it the wrong way.

Ruined your life, ha. That's rich. I'll have to remember that to tell my ex-wife, she'll get a real kick out of that one. She loves jokes like that, about me ruining her life or sucking out her will to live, all those old chestnuts. She has this great new one about me chewing up the best years of her life and spitting them out like tobacco juice, it goes over really well at parties.

Because really, how do you ruin somebody's life? Seriously. I can't even fathom it. A priceless Faberge egg, now that's something you can ruin. You can't play catch with one of those things without ruining it completely, trust me on that one. Friendships? Yeah, I suppose you can ruin a friendship. Especially if it's with a stuffy Faberge egg collector who doesn't keep his house locked securely at night. Those are both ruinable, I'll admit. But an entire life? Keep dreaming.

So what, so you have to get all your sustenance by licking pulp off the filter screen from a juicer now. Who doesn't? I'm serious, my grandpa lived off juicer pulp for years, and I didn't hear him complaining. Sure, after the kangaroo ripped out his voice box he had to talk by tapping out Morse code on a pair of spoons, but if he'd really wanted to complain I'm sure he'd have found the time. If he'd wanted to, grandpa could have sat around all day, bitching about how I took him to Australia and told him all the kangaroos were so tame you could get them to eat chewed-up peaches right out of your mouth. But did he? No way! Not after I took away his spoons. Who can sleep with that rat-a-tat-tat going on all night? Jesus. He acted like any of us actually bothered to learn Morse code.

You kind of remind me of my grandpa, actually. That fuckin' guy would believe anything. Well, I'm not sure he'd believe a tall tale like "Go on, stick your hand in there. It's not like they'd keep a loaded machine gun laying around!" but he wasn't an idiot. He was just old and feeble of mind. He didn't run around, sticking his fingers inside the gears of a loaded machine gun on a fool's dare, just because the fool had talked him into sneaking onto a military base in the middle of the night. But then again, grandpa always did hold his liquor better than some people who I won't mention by name.

(You.)

So come on, let's drop this tired old argument. Any reasonable person knows you can't really ruin a life unless it's two thirds of the way there already. Yeah, then maybe you can give it a nudge down the crapper, but hey, that's life. The important thing to acknowledge is that we're both a little to blame. Sure, I may have pulled the trigger, but whose idea was it to ignore me when I was yelling "Dodge! Dodge!" like a good friend? Sure wasn't mine. Granted, you might not have thought it was funny when I was shooting the machine gun down at your feet and yelling "Dance, motherfucker!" but I sure did, so that's really your word against mine when you think about it. And hell, if your fingers hadn't been caught in the gears I don't think most of those bullets would have even hit you, if you insist on calling a spade a spade.

I swear, when those doctors brought you back to life sometimes I think you left your sense of humor on the other side. Let me know if they ever sift it out of that sack of unidentified gristle that was left over after the operation. Otherwise, I don't even know why we're talking.

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