he part of the world not the United States was shaken by the gruesome events in Beslan, Russia, where a two-day hostage situation ended Friday after claiming the lives of more than 350 non-Americans.

The confusing terrorist incident, not in any way involving U.S.-protected interests, centered on a group of separatists rebels taking a school in the Russian province of North Ossetia hostage. During the two-day standoff between the terrorists and government forces, hundreds were wounded or killed—the majority of them children. American officials are calling the event a "horrific, far-away tragedy."

The foreign nightmare began when armed terrorists took parents, children, and teachers hostage on the first day of school. The rebels consequently demanded Russian forces leave Chechnya, falling on the time-honored method of murdering helpless women and children to gain sympathy for their cause. U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan condemned the attacks, saying, "What the fuck?"

American media covered the non-American catastrophe with a watchful eye, splicing in some video of the horrors between soundbytes from the Republican National Convention and previews of the upcoming Fall TV season. U.S. politicians were quick to provide commentary on the situation, in case something happened to make it a lead news story on any of the national networks or worked its way onto page six of the print news.

"This is yet another grim reminder of the lengths to which terrorists will go to threaten the civilized world," said President Bush, in another grim reminder of the lengths he would go to extort the agony of many to climb a couple of points in the polls.

Across this country, the reactions of average Americans were wide and diverse.

"What a shame," said Jerry Kimler, an office manager from Trenton, New Jersey. "We should all mourn for Russia. We, too, have suffered at the hands of Al-Qaeda. You are not alone, our communist neighbors."

"It's a disgusting crime, especially since it was committed against children," sobbed Agnes Walker-Rush, a cashier at a Winn-Dixie in Napalm, Georgia. "Once the Russians were our enemies, and now, not so much. I'm severely moved by their plight, and sickened by the images I might have seen on TV if I had known anything about this before you told me just now."

Ginger Oliver, a caterer from Concorde, New Hampshire: "I can't believe it. How could this sort of thing happen. Bill Clinton needs heart surgery? Why? How? He's not even that old. Things like this don't happen to presidents."

A different response came from professional wine-taster Gerald "Skeeter" McCloy: "Nope. Can't work up any real concern. You sure there weren't any Americans killed?"

New York University Sociology Professor Jean Winstead took a break from typing up her resume to frame the numb reaction some Americans express to the nightmarish human calamity.

"Geographically, we've always been an isolationist nation, and have retained much of that sensibility in the years since, even though we've become a world superpower with interests across every continent," said Winstead. "Our media reflects this nationalism, and keeps us focused on America as the center of the universe, so to speak. Plus, with all the useless information floating in our heads, from knowledge about the workings of the electoral college to nostalgia about 1980s new wave groups, it's amazing we have enough brain space left over to even remember other countries exist out there. By the way, do you know anyone who's hiring?"

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Unveiling of First Black Disney Character Raises Some Concerns

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess named Esmerelda and she lived in a beautiful castle high above the kingdom, Buhtkrack, where her father was a sovereign and noble man. How she longed to be married to the stable boy, Noal, for he was a handsome young man, despite his occasional habit of blowing his nose on the heads of old ladies. But her father would not think of his daughter marrying someone so common. She was to be married to the son of King Goanadd, a harsh man who was known about the countryside for beating his horse for no good reason and leaving the seat up, and never, ever, ever, ever washing his own clothes but instead piling them on the floor in apparent hopes they would be miraculously zapped clean by the laundry fairy, and forcing total strangers to for some reason call him "Earl, Conqueror of the Fish." Esmerelda desired Noal more than anyone else in the world, and King Buhtkrack knew of her love for this man, so, despite his gracious nature, he sent for the boy.

"I have a grave and perilous task for you," the king told him. "In the far reaches of the kingdom, there lives a dragon that has slain a great many of our sheep, stolen many of our most beautiful women, and run up Visa card charges in my name. You can choose to go and slay this dragon, bestowing upon you the gratitude of many gorgeous and attractive single women and bringing nobility to your family name and honor to you and your blood line. Or you can instead clean the disease-ridden, filth-encrusted mortar of the royal bathrooms. I leave you with these choices."

A week later, Noal returned to the king and said, "I have cleaned the bathrooms as you requested my Lord. Now how may I be of service to you?"

So King Buhtkrack once again offered for him to rid the land of the dragon adding that since the last time, the dragon had been making long-distance calls when the rates are really bad and talking for hours and the royal phone service may get cut off. He then offered Noal the options of slaying the dragon or cleaning the stables of every last speck of dung using only his own toothbrush.

A week later, Noal returned yet again, saying to the king, "Pardon my breath, your highness, but I have cleaned the stables using only my toothbrush. Now how may I be of service to you?"

The king became furious and said, "Just go slay the freaking dragon and get the heck out of my life you worthless coward!"

So Noal went forth, and traveled through the dark night on his noble steed, riding fast into the forest in which lived the dragon. He passed through a tiny village mere miles from the dragon's lair when he met a great carriage pulled by magnificent horses. It stopped for him and out stepped Prince Goanadd.

"Hail Prince Goanadd!" Noal said as he fell to his knees in reverence.

"You shall call me, Earl, Conqueror of Fish!" snapped the Prince, as was his way.

"Hail Earl, Conqueror of Fish!" Noal said, still on his knees.

"You have come to slay the dragon, have you not?" the Pri- er, I mean, Earl said.

"Yes, your majesty."

"Know that you will be devoured by its mighty jaws unless you plunge your sword deep into the soft flesh of its belly and kill its evil heart."

"That is disgusting,your Highness!"

"I have told you to call me Earl, Conqueror of the Fish! How hard is it to remember that?! Sheesh! You common people suck!"

"Forgive me Earl," Noal said.

And so Earl rode away and Noal continued his quest. He rode through the night, stopping only once at South of the Border for some playing cards with nude women on them and a picture of himself riding a giant cactus. At long last, he found the opening of the dragon's lair. It was a dark cave, littered with bones of many a maiden.

Fear began to fill Noal, for he knew if the dragon could easily kill an unarmed maiden who had never fought a day in her life and was dainty and petite to a fault, it surely could kill a strong and limber man armed with a large sword and several years of training in hand-to-hand combat. He slowly crept down the dark passage and into the main cavern, where the beast's enormous girth filled the room. It lay, sleeping, its heavy breath shaking the ground. First, Noal went to the maidens, and freed each of them from the heavy ropes the dragon had somehow tied them up with which Noal thought was considerably strange considering this dragon had no real hands or fingers.

"Perhaps he has a maid who ties maidens up for him. I imagine she gets good money for doing that sort of thing. Probably a nice package with EOE certified training and a dental plan and decent bonuses and a 401k. Heck, I might even get into the maiden tying business if the money's right," he said to no one in particular. No one, that is, except the sleeping dragon who awoke to hear some strange man muttering about job benefits.

The dragon reared back its ugly head, and spat fire at Noal who leaped to the safety of a nearby cave that happened to be lined in asbestos. Then, the dragon stood on its hind legs, outstretched its impressive wings, and bellowed forth a frightening shriek unlike anything Noal had ever heard, give for the time he went backstage and heard Black Sabbath tuning their guitars. But then, Noal spied the soft part of the dragon's belly, and quickly he ran forward and jabbed his sword into it.

The dragon said, "Ouch!" and fell over dead.

Noal returned to the kingdom, triumphant and happy that he had finally brought pride to his family name, and a great many beautiful maidens desired to have carnal relations with him. But he choked to death on a poorly chewed piece of meat at the great banquet and the Princess married Prince Goanadd anyway and he turned out to be an all right guy so everyone lived happily ever after.

º Last Column: Peter and the Wagon
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Something has forever changed Rok Finger, good people. Whether it was my recent wedding to the most beautiful and loyal woman in the world or that recent colonic, I can't say for sure. But I feel, as I said, changed in brand new ways. Changed back to how I was before. No more galavanting off at the drop of a hat. I no longer need to insecurely plow through the far corners of the nation, seeking my next new thrill just for fodder for my column. I can find material from my regular joyful life—that is the change I've undergone. And I'm going to start by complaining about my goddamn desk.

I say this with all sincerity: It's a desk that deserves death. Whatever form of death you can deal out to a desk, I'm all for it. I'll debate all the right-to-lifers or liberal nutcases till kingdom come (next Wednesday, I believe), but that desk should die. It's the worst excuse for a flat surface to store pencils and everything else I've ever seen. It's a joke. Other desks laugh about it behind its back—we merely can't understand them because it's all in inaudible desk talk.

What's wrong with it? I'm glad you asked, using me as a proxy. Its drawers are too small, for one, and it only has one. So indeed the term "drawers" isn't even inaccurate. Small drawer. And a bumpy surface… why, my own penmanship makes me vomit. I can't stand to look at it. It's all because of the desk, believe me. I used to have the world's most beautiful handwriting (my "i's" and the way I dotted them once made Nelson Mandela cry), but this desk has turned it into Muhammad Ali's handwriting. With the boxing gloves on. And I'm not even bringing up the two legs shorter than the other two on this wobbly little shit. Okay, I mentioned it. I feel the need to be spiteful.

This may seem like another sudden shift in personality to some of you readers, especially those of you who have read my several columns praising my desk, and the handful of you who bought my book of poems dedicated to my desk. You might wonder, is this the same desk? Could it be the same desk? I can't tell you it is or isn't. All I know is this misbegotten wooden bastard was waiting for me when I returned from my honeymoon, and it's certainly not the character I remember from my old desk. However, when I left, my old desk was buried under a pile of clutter (not the snack cake Clutters; just various piles of paper, pens, pencils, paper clips, folders, and racist figurines). And of course my desk has been buried under that clutter since 1999, roughly. When I returned, it was clean. Whether it was due to the local janitorial staff, desk-cleaning vigilantes, or that birthday wish I made last year, I can't be sure. But I miss the desk that had been under that clutter. This one is the bane of God.

Come to think of it… why would anyone even clean a desk? What end does it serve? I think… and wild speculation isn't quite my area, but I'll play devil's Bagel on this one… I think it might all be part of a huge plot to swipe my desk. As if I wouldn't notice! As if I'm some rube who doesn't know his ass from another large object you can set drinks on. They've pushed me too far. I'll find out who the desk bandit is here and I'll give them what they deserve—this crappy desk they've already slipped me.

The thought of it alone steams my beans, and you all know how I hate wrinkly, moist beans. But they won't get away with it. I'll find them all and make them pay, the desk conspiracists who hide amongst us. I'll track each and every one of them down to the end of the earth if need be, and maybe even if they don't need it. It is fun, after all.

On a somewhat related note, this new desk they brought me this morning seems to be living up to expectations. Not stellar, but alright, in a fits-the-bill kind of way. Fast service, too, since I only requested a new one yesterday, when I got back from my honeymoon.

None of this, of course, lessens the crime committed against me with the crappy desk. Consider yourselves warned, conspiracists.

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