ovable loser and one-time fanatical terrorist hopeful Zacarias Moussaoui vowed to fight the death penalty and instant martyrdom for Islam in a Virginia courtroom Friday, as he entered a guilty plea on multiple terror charges.

Moussaoui's al Qaeda comrades were responsible for the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, and the attempted attack on the White House. The attacks resulted in the deaths of more than 3,000 people and spurred the War on Terror, as well as fueled the War in Iraq. In Friday's preliminary hearing, however, Moussaoui tried to distance himself from the national tragedies, and claimed he was part of another attempt to fly a plane into the White House that had nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks.

"I came to America to be part of attack on White House and use plane as weapon of mass destruction," said Moussaoui in funny broken English. "As you can tell, attack not go so well for me. Moussaoui get picked up at Minnesota flight school paying cash for lessons. Stupid Moussaoui!"

People in attendance laughed themselves silly, with comparisons to Tarzan and the Incredible Hulk going around the room. The terror suspect burst into rage, shaking his hands violently and yelling, "Quit it! Quit laughing at Moussaoui!" until he was tasered by bailiffs.

While medics attempted to revive the suspect, Moussaoui's defense team spoke to the press. They vowed, despite having pledged his life to al Qaeda's plan to martyr themselves destroying America, Moussaoui would fight the death penalty in the case after the prosecution announced they would seek capital punishment.

Moussaoui, a French fanatical Arab, was the first suspect arrested in the probe investigating the 9/11 attacks, arrested in 2001 a month before the attacks when he raised suspicion by paying $7,000 in cash for flight simulator training in Minnesota. Those who knew him in his private life described Moussaoui as a generally nice fellow, but said he did stand out from the other foreign visitors they knew.

"Well, I remember he referred to himself in the third person a lot," said neighbor Rachel Wincett. "He talked a lot about wanting to blow up George W. Bush. But it's Minnesota, you know, you can't swing a dead cat without finding someone who wants to kill the president."

Flight instructor Harold Farmer noticed peculiarities with Moussaoui as well.

"Mostly he asked a lot about parachutes," said Farmer. "He'd ask how the auto-pilot worked… if you could steer the plane for something like, say, the White House, put it on auto-pilot, and then parachute out to safety before the massive explosions ensued. I told him sure, we all dream about it, but auto-pilot technology hasn't come far enough to turn planes into self-guided missiles yet. Maybe one day."

Nathan Ledbetter, a sometime-friend of Moussaoui, recalled: "He did carry a boxcutter with him everywhere we went, and when people stepped too close to him he would whip it out in a pinch, jab it out at everyone, threaten to fly the whole plane into a government building. I'd tell him, 'Yo, Zack, we're not in a plane, man, we're at Brewski's, and it's dollar beer night.' Come to think of it, I guess you can call that 'odd' behavior. Not the oddest with my friends, but odd enough."

In a statement pledging to fight the death penalty, Moussaoui reminded the judge that technically, since he's still alive, it's proof he wasn't involved in the suicide attacks during 9/11. Moussaoui also said that thought he hopes to embrace eternal martyrdom and be blessed in the afterlife with a planeful of virgins and the kindness of Allah, he will be happy to wait a long time, like until he is 97 years old, before he martyrs himself.

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Heavens to mergatroid! Camembert is missing!

I wish this was in jest, good people. Instead it's injust. As in unfair, to clarify my brilliant play on phrasing. It's not fair that he should turn up missing and almost certainly dead so soon after everything started going so well.

Just a few weeks ago we began the exciting "Win A Dream Date with Camembert" contest, to which we've had a modest response you could say, "miserable" if you were Camembert himself, and shortly after that we received a new roommate in the form of my friend/guru Lee. Lee and Camembert got along famously, the way Madonna and Courtney Love do. At least they did, until Camembert turned up missing.

This is disaster, like that Pearl Harbor. The movie, not the bombing.Things were going so well for Camembert, or at least for me as his roommate, and I planned on bringing him along for the ride, too. Why did this, whatever has happened, have to happen now? Why not tomorrow? Though I guess that would have been pretty dismal, too.

Plainly stated, I came home from work at the commune days ago and could not find Camembert anywhere. He's pretty easy to find, he breathes loudly and sweats profusely when trying to hide. Plus, without being insulting the disabled as I've been accused of in the past, let's just say his wheelchair doesn't exactly fit into too many hiding spots. Camembert was gone, his wheelchair was gone, Lee was gone—

Lee! Piss on my lunch, I forgot entirely about Lee! Oh, well, Lee can take care of himself. Camembert cannot, and I have argued such at his disability hearings.

There is no telling what has happened. Camembert could be dead by now… or worse. It's a peculiar game. Why would someone kidnap Camembert, fence his wheelchair (as I'm assuming they would do; I would) and then not send a ransom note to me? Maybe they realize I have no money. What insulting pricks! I could raise the money for a ransom if I wanted to. They could have at least sent the note to me, inquiring if I could raise the money. Not that I'd gladly go into hock to save Camembert or anything, but for them just to assume I couldn't raise the money, that's just what I'd expect from an asshole who'd kidnap Camembert.

As I said, it makes no sense. I'm not sure what to do at this point. The man who rang up my breakfast at the donut place suggested I go to the cops and report him missing. No… that's just what they expect me to do. I've seen movies like this before, the last thing you do is go to the police, they always believe you're a liar or you're joking with them about seeing the alien or something. I think that was the kidnapping movie. Anyway, it's clear what I have to do: disguise myself and infiltrate the kidnapping organization and rescue Camembert. And, if possible, the wheelchair.

Wait! Do you think the fact Lee is missing could be related? Mother of mercy, it gets wilder and wilder all the time. It's like a puzzle wrapped in a riddle tucked inside an enigma buried under a heaping pile of what the fuck. It's a question I may never find the answer to. Whoever created this monster has put a face on a devil, confounded me with a mystery I can't—is this Monday or Friday?

Oh. It occurs to me Lee mentioned something about going to Mexico on some top secret mission I couldn't be informed about, something to do with buying marijuana and smuggling it back into the states inside a cooler full of dead fish, though I'm not sure of the details. So I suppose it's possible that's where he's at. And what the hell, for the sake of easing my conscience, let's say he took Camembert's van with Camembert inside.

That makes me feel much better. Except for the fact those two shits are living the high life in Mexico while I'm stuck here on a suck-ass Monday morning.

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It takes a lot to shame Rok Finger, friends. Three counts of indecent exposure, a national trial for treason and a bastard child in Spanish Harlem have all failed in the past. But I have to begrudgingly admit that like a Nazi eating a ham 'n' Russian front sandwich, I've bitten off more than I can chew. I am a failure as a physical trainer.

In my brazen youth of two months ago, I volunteered to help my nephew Camembert, a scrawny wire-thin nerd for whom the very word "wormy" was invented, get back into top peak physical condition, like yours truly. It was an embarrassing incident to say the least, for both myself and poor Camembert, who to this day is still checked into a clinic for those with critically poor self esteem, listed in stable but serious condition.

Camembert, son of my wife's sister Gretastock, was recently in a severe car wreck and had been milked like an attractive cow by the insurance company during his stay in the hospital. On top of everything else, now they wanted him to hire some expensive physical trainer of vaguely Swedish descent to get back into shape. Ha! I'd rather him die than be taken advantage of like that! Camembert wasn't ready to go quite that far, but through arrangements with my wife, Arvelyn, I put myself in charge of his physical recovery.

Well, needless to say the first few weeks are better left unmentioned. It was nobody's fault, to look at it objectively, Camembert was way too eager to please and I rushed in a little uninformed. I still say he walked a good minute like a veritable stallion, even if the doctors with their all-powerful "medical science" say the spine is broken and he'll never walk again. I was disappointed, sure, but I could still do a lot for upper body strength even if he was paralyzed for life. Still, you should have seen him walk for that minute, it was quite a sight.

As most of you know, I don't like to work out with fancy gym equipment, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my jock. So I was damned if I'd let Camembert do the same. The first step was to lift my car, just like I used to keep in shape. And let's be fair, people--it's a Volkswagen, it's not a Cadillac or anything, I'd say it's fair game and definitely not "cruel and unusual punishment" like the Geneva Convention says in that quote the judge cited. But, admittedly, perhaps Camembert was a little out of practice to start so big. I say if you can do it there's hardly a greater confidence booster. I surmise with his legs all floppy thanks to Mr. Toothpick Spine that fiery little Camembert couldn't quite get the leverage he needed. I assure you when I set it to neutral I was only trying to help him in his effort and of course I wouldn't have done so if I had any inclination the car would roll on him, but I guess that's why they give you a driver's manual, to detail these sorts of things.

I was at my most desperate by this time, as you might guess, and I had basically given up on my proven methods of training. And knowing me, you'd probably say, "Rok, acupuncture?" Yes, acupuncture, you precocious, smarmy bastard. And when did we get on the first name basis all of a sudden?

The eastern art of applying needles to pressure point seemed like a sure shot to overcome Camembert's numb legs and now-broken arms. I thought I might at least stimulate the muscles and keep them in shape while he was incapable of moving them. Let me tell you now, good people, acupuncture is the biggest Chinese put-on since that papier maché wall they constructed. It's clearly just a scam to earn back from gullible round-eyes the money they lose in their restaurant buffets. Either that or a specific kind of needle is required that they keep secret, because I can tell you the crochet needle is not an effective replacement.

Camembert forgives my well-intentioned mistakes, at least while the demoral fills his bloodstream. Whether or not I'll ever forgive myself is another story.

Okay, I did. Phew. It was hard to live like that, but it's taught me a lesson. There are just some things Rok Finger isn't cut out to do in life. But I'll always know I should try it first just to make sure it is or isn't one of those things. Who knows? Maybe there's still a carpenter, beer distiller, opera singer, or astronaut in me still waiting to get out.

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