ovember's presidential election officially became a four-man race when Sen. John Edwards, of North Carolina, announced Wednesday he had picked Sen. John Kerry to be his presidential running mate, throwing in his own hat for the vice-presidency. Edwards, the dynamic Kennedyesque Congressman who gave Kerry a real challenge in the race for the Democratic nomination, could provide enough boost to take the party into the White House this fall.

"No longer will America be divided under the current administration," Edwards declared, towering over a small podium as his bellows carried across a crowd of supporters. "We will stand united, and the people will have their way when we win back the White House!"

Edwards, the ten-foot tall former trial lawyer, had Kerry announce his decision in an email Tuesday, followed by a longer press conference on Wednesday. Rumors the two had disagreed on many key issues were dispelled when the behemoth senator hoisted Kerry up in his palm and carried him through the crowd on his shoulders.

"Edwards-Kerry in 2004!" they both shouted to the crowd.

Party insiders have speculated Kerry might decline Edwards ticket invitation, opting for a less stunning candidate, like Florida Sen. Bob Graham, Missouri Sen. What's-His-Name, or Joe Piscopo. Rumors had put Kerry at seeking Republican senator John McCain of Arizona for bipartisan ticket, but insiders say Kerry feared an assassination at the hands of Fox News and Clear Channel radio executives.

In the end, the Massachusetts senator accepted the offer to join the Edwards vice presidential ticket, putting to rest fears the junior North Carolina political superstar would overshadow… uhm… oh, shit, I just said it… you know, rhymes with Larry. Kerry! In his acceptance speech Wednesday, Edwards defied Kerry critics who accused the senator of leading an uninspired race and being an undead zombie.

"I've known this man for at least a few weeks. I think we've met before that, but I'm not that sure," said Edwards, gesturing to a man sitting two seats down from Kerry, before being corrected by an assistant. "This one, this one's John Kerry, and he's going to be our next president. He's got years of experience in Congress, and an outstanding record of service for our country. And I'm sure he's done other stuff. And I'll be happy to make him my partner as I pursue the vice-presidency!"

Concluded the Herculean young senator: "Change is coming, Washington, and that change will be called… aw, shit. I just said it! I just said it…"

The Bush campaign shook off any worries about the threat of an Edwards-Kerry ticket.

"People respond to the vice-president," said campaign spokesperson Wanda Waywitten. "Some people say he's a mean son of a bitch, a cruel, cruel little man, but I don't believe it. People only call him Dick because it's his name, despite what all those rumors suggest. He's not scared of death, his tiny heart has stopped so many times, so he's certainly not scared of a ten-foot Democrat. Is it really true he carved Mount Rushmore?"

Edwards has inspired many hopes Democrats in search of fiery, presidential leaders. Though his political career has lasted only a short duration, Edwards previously spent years as a trial lawyer, and his life inspired the John Grisham novel The Rainmaker. Before passing the bar, some say Edwards stomped through North America and created the Great Lakes, once brewed the world's best beer, and invented the first radio. Legend also has it he designed all the album covers for Yes and lassoed the moon, all before his 25th birthday.

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You meet some interesting people riding the bus. It's a lot easier to make friends on the bus than it is in a car, since in your car, most of your interactions with other drivers involve shouted sexual boasting or frenzied calls for bloodshed. On the bus, it's way more laid back. Everybody knows they're not getting anywhere any time soon, so they relax and take the time to read the paper, huff paint or strike up a conversation with their fellow riders. It's easy to make friends swapping stories about how your car blew up and the fire department is suing you for money you don't have.

One of my bus friends, let's call him Manny, works as a security guard down at the laundr-o-mat. Raise your hand if you didn't know laundr-o-mats had private security professionals in their employ. Me neither. The national rate of tube sock theft must have gone through the roof since the last time my dryer caught on fire. Anyway, funny thing about Manny is that he used to be on TV. Well, a TV anyway, his brother's TV. His brother Miguel would hook up his new video camera to the TV and direct little Columbo mysteries for Manny to star in, written by their little sister and some guy they found living in their storage unit.

You should have seen the shows, they were pretty fun. Though truthfully that's more of a tease on my part than anything, since it would be impossible for any of you to ever see them. Miguel didn't know he could tape the shows while they were shooting, since he hadn't got that deep into the video recorder's manual at that point. So it were strictly a live event. Usually we just watched Miguel and Manny in the room, since what ended up on the TV was so jerky and poorly lit that you'd rather eat raw oysters on a roller coaster than look at that for more than about four seconds.

But still, it was cool that Manny was on TV, at least until he got a big head about it. After a couple of shows, Manny started demanding his own bedroom and a cheese tray and everybody else kind of lost interest in doing the show. Finally Manny got tired of waiting for the writers to barf up another mystery for him to solve every week, so he went out into the real world to find some real mysteries to solve, which got him his ass kicked at the speed of light.

When Manny got out of physical therapy, he decided that being a security guard would be the best way to get paid to solve mysteries, or at least watch soap operas all day. Plus, they let you carry a walkie-talkie. Regular folk are harshly ridiculed for walking around with walkie-talkies on their belts (unless they're also carrying ray guns), but not security guards. Therein lies their power.

Manny and I have this game we play called "Stealth," where we sneak up and scare the crap out of each other at the most unexpected times. Manny's not very good at it, usually it's just me stealthing Manny most of the time, but he did get me good one time when I came home one afternoon and found him having sex with a prostitute in my bed. That's Manny though, just when you're about to count him out it turns out he's got an ace card ferreted up his ass.

On Manny's first day on the job at the laundr-o-mat I wanted to bring down the granddaddy of all stealths on him, so I went there the day before and snuck into one of those big dryers before they closed the place. I hung out there all night (thank God for flip-books), and when Manny came to work the next morning, I waited quietly until he walked close to the dryer. Then, "Booya!" I stealthed his ass something fierce! It must have been some kind of world-record stealthing because Manny banged his knee brace on a change machine and he went down like a giant sack of shit. I've never laughed so hard in my life. I think I also set an Omar Bricks land speed record getting out of there when Manny came back after me with that screwdriver. Sweet flaming Jesus that was funny.

Turns out Manny's got a lousy sense of humor, so guess who can't ride the bus to work any more. It's definitely for the best though; did you know you can take a taxi to work? Talk about moving up in the world, your own seat and everything. As far as I'm concerned, the unwashed masses can have their precious bus, they don't know what they're missing.

So it's time to break out the jealous mugs, boys. Omar Bricks has got a private driver! Yeehaw.

Bricks out.

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I hate to be the bearer of bad news, otherwise known as a bad news bear, but this will be the last Giving You the Finger column for quite a while.

Yep, you read right. Why? you may ask, with my permission. I'll tell you: Because starting with my next edition, in this regular space, you'll be reading Giving You the Bellmont.

I do not jest, not even for fun, but especially when it comes to my column. Giving You the Finger is no longer possible, as Felchyana and I are now in the Witness Protection Program, following our late-December feeling to the FBI. For all intents and purposes, Rok Finger is dead. I'm not sure how he went, my money was always on being fatally shot on the subway in a dispute over a wheat penny, but I'll let the FBI handle those fine details, that's their show. This column is now coming to you courtesy of Godfrey Bellmont.

Before you start hem-hawing about losing such first-rate name material as Rok Finger, I promise you it was the only resort left. The mob was quite angry at me, even before I turned state's evidence, county by county. It was only a matter of time before they tried to kill us yet again, only more successfully. I talked to Felchyana about it, long and in-depth, and she called me a perpetrator and said my rhymes were wack. As you can see, her fondness for gangsta rap hasn't quite passed yet. But I took her insult of my lyrical science as agreement we needed to get away, and the FBI was our best shot.

To cut to the post-chase, I spilled every bean I had on the mob, even made up some plausible sounding stories about something they did at Ruby Ridge. In exchange for my exciting information and guaranteed box-office quality testimony, they moved us to an undisclosed location which I haven't yet disclosed. I think it's Wisconsin, but it's awful warm for Wisconsin. I'll have to get back to you on that. All I know is people are not shooting at me anymore, that's a change in the weather I can appreciate.

They also gave me a new name! Godfrey Bellmont, as I mentioned. Either they were all out of Jack Johnsons or the guy in charge of the names thought I called for a little extra flair. My wife, Contessa, would probably agree. I suppose I'm glad they come up with the names for you, my first choice would have been Edith Head, which really doesn't work for a new column title. I believe I'm just very uncreative when it comes to names, or creativity in general.

Believe it or not, the FBI wanted me to cut off all contact with everyone I knew—including the commune and you, the loyal commune reader. I was aghast, as you can imagine. Just leave my faithful followers hanging, like the equipment within a pair of boxer shorts? No can do, my federal friends. Of course, I haven't told them I've returned to the column yet, even if I'm writing it from the safety of Undisclosed Location, Wisconsin (possibly). But they should be happy with it once they find out I'm going to use my new name.

Things will not change, good people, just because my name and living situation has. I will still rail against the railable, stand up against the unstand-uppable, and continue to fill out the same amount of column space for weeks to come. Camembert and I are going to a costume party this weekend, and I'm sure that will make for the fantastic style of Rok Finger complaints you've come to expect. Just delivered by Godfrey Bellmont.

Oh, yes, Camembert is just as safe as us. I managed to talk the FBI into including him in our Witness Protection deal. But as far as everyone is concerned now, he's my 13-year-old daughter Penelope Bellmont, and can even walk now, although his legs are slow to cooperate. Actually, the FBI assigned him the new name of Gerald, Godfrey Bellmont's brother, but I haven't told him. Dressing him like a girl was my idea.

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