American Afghans Apprehended, Interred In Camps

n a controversial move, Congress has barely passed a bill allowing the arrest and internment of thousands of American-born Afghans in "government pounds."

The Afghan, a popular breed of mid-size long-haired dog, was reportedly introduced to America several years ago by Chinese guys who brought them here originally to eat them, reported commune Research Editor Griswald Dreck. Also, horses were originally introduced to our country as indentured servants.

Dog Fancy magazine estimates the number of interred Afghans could reach 5,000 before the end of the week. Already several Afghans face additional charges of disobeying the new law by not reporting their whereabouts.

"We said, 'Sit. Stay.' And these dogs have disobeyed," said Attorney General John Ashcroft. "Bad dogs. Bad, bad dogs."

Across the United States, pet owners and sympathizers are outraged by what they call an unfounded, prejudicial law.

"These dogs are good Americans," said Nancy Martin, owner of three Afghans interred because of the new law. "Mumu, Gaia, and Kiwi were born right here in this country. They eat American food, they wear American-made sweaters and make bad on American rugs. Not Persian. Certainly not Afghanese. Bad dogs? I say, 'Bad lawmakers. Bad, bad lawmakers.'"

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Ramrod Hurley at the helm. The big news this week… well, everyone knows. It's the big fat picture we so conspicuously placed atop the index page. But buried in the major national headlines was one of the most important stories we could have asked for: Tom Cruise's long battle with a male porn star is over! The victor: Tom Cruise.

It's a shame that sometimes the media gets caught up in ridiculous international headlines like whether North Korea is aggressively seeking to build up nuclear arms or the state of weapons inspectors in Iraq, and they lose touch with the simple stories that really matter. Here a man, a filthy male porn star even, accuses Tom Cruise of being gay and doing nasty things with him, and that story makes all the major tabloid headlines. Everyone read it, if in the supermarket headlines at least, and yet who will read about Tom Cruise's exoneration? It's a damn shame. Shame on you, media.

And what does Tom Cruise get for all his humiliation? Well, $10 million. But the guy will probably never pay on the bill, he's a gay porn actor, for Christ's sake. How much money is in gay porn? Don't answer that as I never, ever want to know. So basically what we're left here with is Tom Cruise, flooded with accusations and holding a big, stiff bill in his hands. A bill never to be paid. No compensation for all this.

It's nothing new for Tom Cruise. He's been hounded with claims he's gay his entire career. Research Editor Griswald Dreck says much of it stems from Tom Cruise's first claim to fame, a sitcom where he played a gay rock star married to a "beard," with two adopted kids, a show called, Queer as Fuck; that, and the fact he's gay. Which leads me to a very important note, which is to never trust anything Griswald Dreck says. But you didn't hear it here.

So why is Tom Cruise followed by gay rumors? Nothing more than wishful gay-thinking, I would guess. A beautiful, charming Hollywood star with a light touch to his nature, like a modern-day big-teethed Cary Grant. Tom Cruise has more passion than growl, maybe, more sophistication than ruggedness, but does that mean he's gay? Rock Hudson had those same qualities, as did The Brady Bunch's Robert Reed. Now what do you say?

There are plenty of people who would want Tom Cruise to be gay, I'm sure. It's hard to blame them—who hasn't considered nuzzling naked in a large bearskin blanket next to a fire with Tom Cruise? Well, I haven't. I was just trying to trap you. But no matter what gay people want, it doesn't necessarily make it so.

But that alone can't be the answer, otherwise all those rumors about George Clooney I've been starting would have caught on. No, there's something else to Tom Cruise's mystique. And I think I have it.

You see, the gay porn star wasn't lying—he did sleep with Tom Cruise; or believes he did. The answer has been so obvious I'm surprised I'm the first to reveal it. There is a Tom Cruise doppelganger out there, living la vida loca on Tom Cruise's good name. And don't get me started on Ricky Martin.

Who is the Tom Cruise impersonator? Without further evidence, it would be potential libel to say. But if I were the finger-pointing type, I'd point squarely at Peter Facinelli from the show Fastlane. Just take a good long look at him: He looks just like Tom Cruise, he's too pretty to be straight, and I could definitely drop him into a naked bearskin blanket fireplace fantasy and not notice the difference. Someone's been nailing porn stars with Tom Cruise's face, and if I were in a Fox series with Bill Bellamy and Tiffani Amber-Thiessen I'd be so full of anger and resentment there'd be no limits to what I'd do.

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Good people, you are now reading at a licensed gun owner. That's the truth—except for the license thing. I'm still studying for the exam.

And if you think having a gun doesn't change your life, you should shoot yourself right now. Oh, that's right—you don't own a gun! No, my friends, gun ownership changes everything. Colors are brighter, things taste better, people are truly scared of you wherever you go. Sometimes I don't even have to show them the gun, the bulge in the side of my jacket is enough to get me a front place in line.

Lest you think it's pure fear that gets us gun owners the good life, it's not. Respect. People respect gun owners, because they have taken the biggest step in self-defense that pansies and left-wingers don't have the stomach for. But if the local police department's riot force comes swooping on them down for the big martial law takeover, who do you think they're going to call? Not Ghostbusters, '80s nostalgia fans.

I went gun shopping originally just so I could protect my life, my car, my house, and my wife, in that exact order, from my insane fascist neighbors, the Dickenses. I soon discovered that danger lurks everywhere, and only gun owners can see it all around us. With a little help from the gun store guy. Did you realize you could be walking down the street, minding your own business or participating in a foot race around the world, and someone can simply walk up and stick a knife in your face and demand all your money? And get this—if you give them all your money, they could still kill you anyway. There's no law says they can't. Well, that was all I needed to hear to be put in a proper paranoid frame of mind. I asked for—nay, demanded I get my gun right then.

Most gun owners have to wait about a week for a background check and all to go through, but the shop owner said he was giving away guns for every purchase of his special $900 bullets. I worked out the math and it turns out it's about the same price as buying the guns and the bullets, and since it was a free gun, I didn't even have to wait for the background check! Score: Rok Finger.

The gun owner tried to convince me a derringer would fit my own personal "style," but did you know those things were the smallest in the store? What's the point? Why even have a gun at all? Why not just go full-blown pussy and buy a taser or something? Not yours truly, nor me. No, good people, Rok Finger needs the kind of false security only provided by a long barrel .357 Magnum. Now who's dangerous, invisible stalkers in the night? Me, that's who.

Not that owning the IROC-Z of guns has been easy. I bought a holster for it, only to realize it doesn't fit in the holster. So I stay up all night and, with Camembert's help, refit the damned holster, only to find out I can't walk properly with the gun in the holster—damn my otherwise perfect height! All that trouble of getting a long barrel gun and I had to saw it off in the end anyway. But I understand that makes it more illegal, which makes it more exciting.

I was also dismayed to find out you can't reuse the bullets. I must've wasted about 79 shots before I realized that. I had been picking up all my bullets so I could recycle them—well, I never could get back those 8 shots I fired into that bus. Only then did I find out you have to buy new bullets every time you want to shoot something. Yeah, it's kind of a rip-off.

And the best thing ever, now that I'm on the porch most of the night shooting at random animals, I don't see my neighbors so much anymore. None of them, on any side. I suppose the Dickenses are inside their house, shades drawn, reevaluating their takeover of our block.

So sleep tight, neighborhood. Rok Finger's on watch now.

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