n a stunning election with worldwide implications, the unpredictable Palestinian people shocked the world this week by voting for the pita spread hummus as their new national favorite food. The US State Department had been hoping for a different result to the election, considering US hamburger interests in the region.

Polling results have come in amid claims that the US tried to rig the election, handing out free White Castle burgers at polling places and distributing propagandic pamphlets apparently left over from the Communist witch hunts of the 1950's, bearing slogans like "A Meal Without Meat is a Meal You Shouldn't Eat" and "Veggies for Fags."

The election results are hard to understand for American readers, most of whom do not consider chip dip to be a major food group. But in underdeveloped Palestine, the only groceries most Palestinians have access to are in gas station convenience stores like Pay 'n Gulp and the Circle K. As a result, Middle Eastern nutritional science revolves mainly around which snack foods provide the most pep for Arabs on the go.

According to commune answerbot Griswald Dreck, Hummus is made by grinding up live hummingbirds, a small, otherwise useless beast high in Vitamin E, and mixing the pasty remains with lemon juice. Hummingbird farmers were understandably thrilled by the news of the election, vowing to ramp up production by bulking up on their supplies of taser guns and pooper scoopers, the main tools of the trade used for catching hummingbirds.

Marketed in America under the name "Tasty Paste," hummus is ranked as our nation's 347th favorite snack food, just behind gum wrappers and candy cigarettes. A small subset of Americans are said to be enthralled by the exotic snack, daring the purchase it whenever the grocery store is entirely out of sour cream, guacamole and Frito dip.

The election's results have brought renewed attention to the controversial practice of nations electing their favorite foods, a ploy that hasn't seen the light of day since the United States' own disastrous 1984 election, when Americans shocked their corporate overlords by electing pizza over presumed-winner hamburgers in a landslide, shaking the towers of power down to their very foundations.

The Palestinians, known as "Pallies" to friendly neighboring nations, have always shown a tendency to go against the grain, particularly when western interests are involved. From their preference for turbans over the more-profitable baseball cap, to their refusal to buy into the worldwide tanning bed craze, Palestinians seem to exist solely to disappoint American businesses hoping to peddle their wares overseas.

Observers await news from the White House on whether this week's election is an invadable offense, or merely another reason to kick Arab people in the nuts behind the political scenes.

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Being a celebrity has its advantages. I've never been one of those wildly popular people who've complained about the spotlight. I revel in the attention and the fact people value what I have to say. I consider myself a very trusted member of the community, holding more sway than the Mayor and the guy who dances at baseball games combined. But now Rokwell T. Finger is taking the next logical step in the celebrity chain—I'm going to be in a movie!

Before you get all worked up into a frenzy, make sure that I'm not going to be some John Davidson-style action hero or champagne-sippin' conniver in a big-budget romp. No, while that may seem the preferred way to go, the film's producer, Piglet, made the point that appearing in a film like that would rob me of my credibility. Instead, I'm doing something of great artistic merit. The film is currently titled Dog Dick Sunday, but might change if a more interesting title comes up. From what I understand the film is about a fellow, named Dick of course, who experiences a very unpleasant Sabbath. No one has described the film for me or let me see a script, but I think it's pretty transparent from the title.

No, I won't be playing "Dick"—baby steps, good people, baby steps. My character is known as "Creepy Old Guy" in the script, though if I understand right nobody actually states my name. From the scenes I've rehearsed already, everyone generally screams when they see me. Not without good reason—most of the scenes I'm carrying a torch and shrieking in a high-pitched whine. That would certainly scare me, folks!

I can guarantee there won't be any nudity—Rok Finger isn't into putting this temple on display for anyone but the Mrs. and those just outside my bedroom window, including our neighbor Mrs. Hardlevilch. I will be appearing in my underwear in most scenes, but as Piglet said, "Underwear models, like, get paid to do that all the time, yeah? And they can, y'know, appear in your Sunday morning paper while you're, like, drinking your coffee and shit." Well-stated, Piglet. Well-stated.

I'm also very excited to be bringing back the lost art of blackface. My character spends much of the movie in black grease paint (or axle grease; I can't recall which the make-up person said it was) and I performed some of my very favorite Amos & Andy and Jolsen bits on the set; they won't be in the movie, of course, but perhaps on the outtake reel. Most of the kids on the set must've never seen any kind of comedy like it, they all seemed very perplexed and stunned. Hopefully my next role I'll get to exploit those talents more.

Don't worry, folks, Rok Finger will still be a familiar face on the commune for some time to come. I don't expect to get swept up in the limelight. As soon as it interferes with my columns, I can assure you I'll tell them to take a hike. But in the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy my stardom as much as I am. The film will be playing in Piglet's basement when it opens, though no set date as of yet, seeing as how the film is yet to be completed. A few key scenes need to be shot, and then the movie may take a while in post-production, since Piglet's dad won't get off his back about the money he owes him. But when it debuts… watch out independent film world! Rok Finger is about to make a big bomb!

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The first tornado, or "dizzy wind," was reported in ancient Sumer in 4914 B.C.. The Sumerian king returned home from an afternoon pillage one day to find his castle in total disarray, with royal garments strewn everywhere and the court musicians stuck up in a tree. He called upon the court scientists, who declared it the work of an ungodly natural phenomena caused by God's drunken uncle Blitzen. Later it was discovered that the king's ex-wife had been over that day and had caused the whole thing as usual, so the king had the court scientists tarred, feathered and cooked in a terrible big pot pie. And while he was at it he had the royal ex-wife beheaded again, since it apparently didn't take the first time.

When the Renaissance came along and slept on the world's couch longer than anyone would have liked, all sorts of half-assed thinkers came out of the woodwork to declare that they had the answers to all of nature's mysteries, like why sticks are pointy and why a dropped donut always falls in poop. For a while it was funny, but before too long people were longing for the Dark Ages again, when you could be ostracized, killed and buggered (in that order) for talking about anything other than how nice the weather was.

But unfortunately for fans of involuntary necrophilia, the Renaissance eventually led to the modern age, with its own host of superstitions and scientific old wives' tales. Modern scientists explained that twisters were actually caused when high-powered attorneys ran into the front of low-pressure salesmen, resulting in a fun party game with a spinner. People never really believed that, but the spinner was so much fun that few saw fit to question the philosophy behind it.

To this day, a goodly proportion of the superstitious masses still believe in the tornado, this mythical "wind beast" that can pick up an entire trailer park at once and deposit it in a better part of town with no warning, even if they're just about to say who gets to marry the millionaire. Wild-eyed true believers tell fantastic tales of tornadoes that can blow a piece of straw through an oak tree or even drag a needle through Tipper Gore's ass.

Hollywood has done much to play into the public's ignorant fears, creating computer-generated tornadoes so real you'd swear they really were the bane of hayseeds from Kansas to Oklahoma. The Helen Hunt drama Twister won many a convert to the cult of the tornado, even though the film's credits spell out exactly who was responsible for the digital sleight-of-hand in large font. Many remember seeing the foam-rubber tornado in 1939's The Wizard of Oz as a child and have simply always assumed they were real. Others should know better, but there is little hope in arguing with someone who has a deep-seated need to believe in tornadoes.

Sadder still are the so-called tornado victims, who grab for headlines with vivid tales of the twister that took their truck, their house and their hometown. A sparse few have any kind of hard evidence, beyond some twisted wreckage and a town-shaped hole in the ground. Tornado hoaxes such as these have proliferated in recent years, as a deep need for contact with the supernatural has pushed many desperate people to the edge. A hilarious few claim to have been "taken" by the twister, up into its spinning winds, presumably to a magical land of merry-go-rounds, spinning tops and ice skaters twirling around perpetually like Lazy Susans.

Eventually there will come an enlightened age when we are free from such inane superstitions, but unfortunately it's not likely to happen until our alien creators come back and anal probe us into being smart.

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