Beverly Hills Demands $47 Billion in Federal Aid

n an impassioned plea to Washington legislators today, spokespeople for the commonwealth of Beverly Hills announced the need for federal aid to help rejuvenate their blighted neighborhoods. Spokesperson Corkey Wells commented:

"It's really sad what's become of our once-prestigious community. Hardly a day goes by that I don't see scores of former child stars sitting on their lawns, drinking 40 oz wine spritzers while daydreaming about the time Solest Moon Frye came to their pool party in the eighth grade. And it's getting awfully hard to keep Scott Baio from stealing the emeralds out of my pool filter! Our neighborhoods are truly in decline. Why, just the other day I saw Tom Berringer driving an American car! Yes I did!"

Washington legislators could not be reached for a stag party. I mean, comment. Screw this.

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Living with Camembert is like renting a room with a large bucket full of sadsack. What a crybaby! All he ever does is sit and mope, or sit and cry, or sit and do anything else. I forgive the sitting, him being in the wheelchair, but the depression has got to go. You don't live with Rok "Big Buzzin' Smile" Finger and wear a frown all the time. My middle name is Fun, the part that isn't "Big Buzzin' Smile," that's more of a self-proclaimed nickname.

In order to get Camembert out on the town and living the high life like yours truly, I'm presenting the first-ever-of-its-kind Rok Finger contest. This is not like my previous event, "Help Find the Boston Strangler," that was more of a police hunt. This is a real-deal contest. The winner, and there can be only one, wins an actual dream date with Camembert.

"What do I get out of this?" you may ask. Well, if you're a man, nothing, forget it, you're disqualified by reason of chromosomes, Camembert doesn't swing that way. And if he does swing that way, I'm not going to help raise his batting average. This applies only to 100% true blue females and anyone convincing enough to fool me.

When I say "Win A Dream Date With Camembert!" I do mean "dream date." And I mean Camembert, this is not one of those novelty contests where some celebrity Mel Gibson steps in to take the young lady out. I've got to get Camembert out of the apartment a night or two of the week or I'm going to kill him.

And by that I mean, what a charming young man! You've never met a gentleman like Camembert because they simply do not exist. You're talking the kind of charming prince like in fairy tales. Ladies, for the first time date a man without worry that he could at any time physically assault you or force you to have sex with him. Camembert would be lucky to kiss you without fainting. He's interested in your mind, and wants to know if he can have it when you're done with it. Camembert is no sex fiend, the very thought of sex makes him giggle and vomit, usually concurrently.

I suggest you run to your desk and take out your best stationery (no, the other one) and fill out two or three pages detailing why you should go out with Camembert. Please include a photo or two, if you can't fit in one, and let Camembert know why you're the stand-out cow in the herd. Please refrain from using foul language, it makes him cry. Yes, this is your chance to enter Rok Finger history and get a free dinner at Captain D's.

Don't worry, ladies, there's no losers here, except Camembert. Anyone who enters the contest will receive some sort of gift from Rok Finger as a thanks for trying. Now, I have neither the time nor budget to take every runner-up out to dinner myself, but I'll see to it you at least get oral sex or some form of make-up prize. That's the Rok Finger personal guarantee, and I guarantee that.

Please send all entries to the commune offices immediately with "ATTENTION: Oral Sex by Rok Finger" on the envelopes. Be warned, I understand the mail is pretty turbulent this time of year, especially for the overweight or unattractive, I can't assure every entry will reach us.

However, let's not forget why we're doing this: Camembert. Out of the house. Before I kill him. Thanks for entering, you'll be glad you did.

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Hey, Shorty, get me a glass o' buttermilk, will ya? Ah, thanks… nothin' like a nice cold glass o' buttermilk, no sir. Hey, I ever tell you the one about the milkman's boy? No? Well, listen up a spell…

You remember that ol' boy Floyd that used to deliver the milk, don't you? Long time ago. Guy was always pissed off at everybody, couldn't nobody talk to him for very long or he'd go off on 'em? You remember. Anyway, it turns out that ol' Cecil , who brings the milk now, is his son. I know, he's Moira's boy, rest her soul, and no, it didn't happen the natural way. Ol' Floyd was too mean and lowdown to ever spend enough time with a woman for that. And crazy Moira… well, you know I don't like to speak unkind of the dead. But anyway, here's what happened…

See, Floyd, he was always pissed off about something, like I said. And for a long time he held a grudge against Moira and her sister Penelope. Somethin' about 'em not givin' him a Christmas tip or some damn thing, I don't know. The thing was, he was in a position to do somethin' about his grudges if he wanted, and I guess he did, too. What I heard was that he used to take a bottle o' milk and get in the back o' the truck and whack himself, then he'd stick it in the bottle and get his duck butter all in there with the milk. He called it a "protein shake," and if you was on his shit list, pardon my French, you had to watch out that he didn't deliver you a protein shake with your regular order.

Well, I guess he had been givin' them ol' girls Moira and Penelope some o' them protein shakes for quite a while. And the way Penelope tells it, Moira didn't always use the milk to pour on her corn flakes. She said that if Moira coulda afforded it, she woulda bought enough milk to take a milk bath every morning. Now you know, them ol' girls wasn't rich, so Moira never did get enough milk at one time for that. Instead, she used to take one bottle each morning and wash her lady parts with it. Dutchy, I think they call it. So anyhow, turns out that she uses one or two o' them protein shakes and dutchies herself with 'em, and bingo, whaddaya think? Couple months go by and she realizes she's fragrant.

I'm tellin' ya, Shorty, no one in town could believe it, and not just because Moira and Penelope were about as ugly as monkfish left out to dry for a week. Thing was, they never had no truck with the men in this town, none of 'em. And they didn't have no truck with no men from no other towns, neither, far as anyone knew. They was suspected of being lebanese, to be perfectly honest.

That ol' Moira, though, she didn't try to hide it or nothin'. She said it was a sign from God, a whaddaya call it, one o' them unmasculate deceptions. She walked around town like she was givin' a watermelon a ride, just as proud as could be. Then when ol' Cecil gets born and grows up, whaddaya know, he's the spittin' image o' Floyd. Damnedest thing I ever heard, but it's one hunnert percent true. Ask anybody.

'Course now, Cecil, he's a little easier to deal with than ol' Floyd was, but that don't mean he don't got a temper. You just gotta stay on his good side, that's all.

Hey Shorty, you ever notice how chunky buttermilk gets sometimes?

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