002 was a banner year for news. As long as the banner said, “BO-RING!�

Yes, as we reach the beginning of a brand new news year, we look back on 2002 with more than a slight Elvis sneer of derision, like a party guest finally leaving with a heavy hangover and leaving our sofa and rug stained with vomit. 2002 may go down in the history books as, “The Year of ‘…Anyway…’�

Like a half-assed sitcom following Friends and preceding ER, much of 2002 felt squashed in-between two major news periods. Following hot on the heels of the events of Sept. 11^th and the bombing of Afghanistan that heralded the War on Terror, things settled down into a dreary boredom in 2002 as Americans waited for big news events that still have yet to come—the bombing of Iraq, a resolution to the North Korea situation, and any evidence Osama bin Laden is alive or dead. All original and fascinating news is being greedily reserved by the newsmakers, as if they’re holding out for a news sweeps week.

Early 2002 was host to the Winter Olympics, the globally-conceded most boring of all Olympics, in the globally-conceded most boring state in the union, Utah. Thank whatever you call a God for the much-covered flap when ice-skating Canadians David Pelletier and Jamie Salé were robbed of their rightful gold medal by a sly-footed French judge, or your only memories of it would be a gaggle of fruitcakes slapping a puck with a stick in the atrocity called “curling.�

Much of the early news year was limited to the images of Enron’s senior staff shrugging before a Senate sub-committee with a less-than-convincing “I dunno,� followed by footage of a shrapnel-filled site in downtown Israel as the violence that made the Middle East famous escalated to ludicrous heights, until an all-out assault on Yassir Arafat’s bunker broke the boredom very briefly. There was also Ray Brent Marsh, the Georgia crematorium owner who tossed the bodies in the lake and passed the savings on to you. Thanks to Marsh, along with multiple kidslaughter defendant Andrea Yates and the hockey dad who loved local sports a bit too much, the first few months of 2002 news were occasionally livened up by local heroes.

An historical Oscar win for Best Actor and Best Actress by African-Americans Denzel Washington and Halle Berry helped draw attention away from the fact the Hollywood community now considers Opie the Best Director in its midst. Even the biggest celebrity murderer of the year was only former Little Rascal Robert Blake, leaving Court-TV to wait patiently for the shoplifting trial of Winona Ryder.

Summer gave everyone a little hope for a brighter news year when nine miners faced certain doom, trapped in a mine shaft, and no one was happier when they were retrieved alive and healthy. Then the week ended and everyone went back to bitching about terrorism and the tumbling stock market.

As the rate of insane presidential utterances concerning Iraq increased, Americans hit the peak of the news year when a series of sniper attacks across America finally put an end to superfluous Elvis coverage. However, it wasn’t enough to save a pisser as a news year, and after the sniper suspects were arrested America quieted once again. Republicans received a boost from a record low-voter turnout off-year election and Trent Lott’s ill-conceived pro-segregationist remarks embarrassed the Bush administration, something that is truly hard to do.

News pundits have a great case for 21^st century to be the most boring yet, but the commune news is quick to remind everyone 1901-1910 was a pretty crappy decade for news and the 20^th century didn’t heat up until the sinking of the Titanic and World War I. We can make this one even better, just keep working at it.

British Nearly Affected by London Terror Attacks

Jackson Prosecution Produces Bloody Glove

Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.”

R.C. Car Enthusiasts Angered by Latest Mars Mission Snub

Friends and readers, it's always difficult to confront someone with an opposing opinion, and this is no exception. Something I've read has outraged me and I must stand and take issue with it, even if the author is myself.

Loyal followers of this column or those who simply read the headlines will no doubt know the past column written by yours truly spoke very harshly of myself and, in fact, wished repeatedly for me to "be dead." I can't tell you how offended I was when I finally read it again last night.

I'm sure I was going through a difficult time when I sired such a column, but is that any excuse? I dare say it is not. My high journalistic standards apparently evaded me for some period while I churned out tripe the likes of which I have never seen. I expected that from other journalists, but not from Rok Finger.

And the continuous use of filthy language? Insulting. Sure, I engage in a tasty dash of profanity once in a while, but I try to restrict how much of that sees print. I can't believe Rok Finger would sink to the levels of say, commune columnists, to write such unimaginative drivel. Are "fuck" and "shit" any better than saying "procreate" and "pinch one out"? No. If Rok Finger thinks it is, maybe Rok Finger shouldn't be given free reign to write whatever he pleases.

As for all these repeated references to death and the desire to die… well, Mr. Finger, I hope I'm prepared to put my money where my mouth is. If I want to die so badly, why don't I just go out and do it? Actually, in my defense, I made a few half-hearted efforts to do so, but was thwarted by my unwillingness to carry it out. Just as I thought. I've proved my own point.

Death and suicide are not to be joked about lightly, at least not my someone who lacks a sense of humor so obviously as myself. For making my loyal readers endure all this self-pitying, depressing talk, I should apologize.

Altogether, if there's one thing about my previous column that really makes me angry, it's the negative references to my wife Arvelyn. It's true, Arvelyn and I have separated, but we're not giving up on reconciliation or working things out. If all else fails, we're still friends, and I will not stand by and see myself defame her in such a fashion in print. Say what I want about me, but I won't allow me to make a mockery of her in public. Next time, Rok, let's just keep things on a civil level, eh? If you can manage that.

The same goes with the disparaging comments made about my commune co-workers. They are all skilled and competent reporters, given their limitations, and I refuse to dignify my rants with a response.

Maybe if I spent a little less time listening to my "dope show" songs and reading The Catcher in the Rye I could engage in more valid commentary on the nature of life and such fun things and why Band-Aids no longer use those little red threads to open.

Get your act together, Rok Finger. Columns like that are a major disappointment. I can't say with certainty I'll ever read my work again.

º Last Column: I Wish I Was Dead or Otherwise Incapacitated
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In your travels, should you find
some oddball children, pay no mind.
But if you do, and you have learned
that they love candy recently turned,
it behooves you to flee at once.
And don't come back
that way for months.
For you have wandered
to a land forgotten,
where the children like
their candy rotten.
And this might not sound so terribly bad,
perhaps only slightly, or only a tad.
But I assure you, once I've filled you in,
you too will avoid these rotten children!

Avoid like the plague or like measles or beets.
Avoid them like odd-colored stains on your sheets.
Avoid them like murder and dandruff and stink.
Avoid them like things moving under the sink.
For this is the behavior I would strongly advise
unless you'd like a sandwich of mustard and lies.
You think I'm kidding? You think this is a joke?
Brother, I'm as serious as a mouthful of New Coke!

Their loyalty's shifty, their morals are loose.
They'd eat the heart out of a chocolate moose.
Their bedtime is no time their naptime is "GO!" time,
And they have never once heard of "The Answer Is No!" time.
They wipe their hands everywhere and belch like fat chickens
and after they're done, the buffet is slim pickins.
They'll throw a wild tantrum just to pass an afternoon
and then hide your car keys on the back of the moon.
They're nasty, dastardly, pompous and rude.
Oh, did I mention they're sick of Thai food?

Their rotten teeth are made to slide
out moldy, curdled, rotten lies.
They insist its gospel, but otherwise
is seen deep within their rotten black eyes.
They cheat at hopscotch, they cheat at darts,
they have no love for culture or arts.
They're dirty, nasty, selfish and mean.
They'd sell their own mothers for a black jelly bean.
They don't do lemonade stands and they don't mow lawns.
They'll ransack your rec room for something to pawn.
They'll name a dog kitty and they'll name a cat Rover
and they'll watch Disney videos over and over
until you scream "That's it! Enough! I am quitting!
This is the last time I agree to babysitting!"

º Last Column: The Land of Rotten Children
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