urprise abounded following the January 9 election in the West Bank, when it was forecast Swedish pop supergroup ABBA had a landslide victory and would be declared president(s) of the Arabic state. ABBA, who could not be more white, and had not been aware they were even nominated, were more surprised than anyone else.

ABBA, a musical group who reigned during the age of disco, is comprised of members Benny Andersson, Agnetha Faltskog, Anni-Frid Lyngstad, and Bjorn Ulvaeus. The Swedish sensations held 60% of the vote over the nearest competitor, Mustafa Barghouti, in the nation's first U.S.-approved free election. Upon conceding the race, Barghouti told a crowd of followers, "I can't believe I lost to ABBA."

A third contender protested the election, Palestinian politician Mahmoud Abbas, who claimed the victory more rightly belonged to him. Mahmoud Abbas had spent a great deal of money and time campaigning, claiming the Swedish supergroup had not even entered the Palestinian state at any time during the election process, or possibly at all, ever. Election officials said they would look into it, though the way they shook their heads made it seem more like an effort to pacify the sore loser.

Spokespeople for ABBA, who disbanded in 1982, thought we were messing with them. Being spokespeople for ABBA, they said, they get that all the time.

Results came Sunday night, as Election officials tallied votes as they came into the office. The election was problematic, given recent economic constraints necessitated write-in ballots for candidates in many areas, but officials felt sure enough of the results to give the blue-eyed Swedish pop group an early victory. After Barghouti's concession speech, Palestine waited patiently for ABBA to declare victory. After Mahmoud Abbas tried to assert his right to the presidency, Election officials rejected his claim, based on the strict literal nature of Palestinian law.

"It says ABBA here," said one official in a snooty tone, holding up a few slips of handwritten papers that constituted votes.

Despite the apparent reluctance of the "Waterloo" superstars to accept their new role in international politics, Israeli Prime Minister Ariel "The Little Mermaid" Sharon called Stockholm, Sweden to congratulate any members of ABBA he could find. Eventually, Bjorn Ulvaeus accepted the charges, but reportedly told Sharon it had all been some sort of misunderstanding. Sharon would have none of it, he later told the press.

"We believe ABBA may find politics a tougher game than the music business, but not by much." All the reporters in the press corps politely laughed at the Prime Minister's joke. "Israel is eager to outline a plan of peace with ABBA for the future of Palestine. We are already working out a number of proposals, including disbanding the government and repatriating Arabic nationalities in the occupied territory in exchange for a weekly variety special on Arabic television, and a five-record deal with Yzbeki Records, a premiere label. I see a brighter future for these dancing queens, and for Israel."

Election officials were still holding to their decision as of a week following, but did say they would review all appropriate records and laws to determine whether four people could hold a position formerly held by one Arabic man. If a challenge arose, a run-off election could come up for ABBA, Barghouti, and Mahmoud Abbas, or a three-way race-around-the-world to decide the people's choice to lead Palestine.

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It's been a long time since my work has seen the light of day. I managed to salvage the remains of this column from some of my old notes. Thank God I no longer carve my notes right into my skin, as skin deteriorates even faster than old celluloid porno films.

I finally got around to reading that book I bought last year. The experience was much more enjoyable than I'd been told it would be. I hate to ruin the book for anyone who hasn't read it, but it really was a shock to find out the tiger was a toy the whole time. That's right—the filthy little brat was lying to the reader the whole time. In the end, I liked it, but it does leave me dubious about reading that book I've been eyeing with the bald kid and his plane-flying dog.

If you could play any instrument in the world like a master, which instrument would you play? I would lay high odds you didn't say steel drum just now. But someone out there must be saying it. I don't see where all the steel drummers are coming from.

Where's that fourth Lord of the Rings movie we were promised? Let that be a lesson, Hollywood: Big-budget epics with funny characters and incredible special effects just aren't the American audience's cup of tea.

They say as many as 60% of the country's citizens are downloading movies illegally from the internet. Well, I'm not one of them, I assure you. Computers only want you to use them so they can fingerprint you and eventually replace you, and I'll have no part of that. No matter how tempting it is to see that Borat film without paying for it.

I just found out today that Cheez-Its are, in fact, cheese crackers, not tiny squares of real cheddar cheese put through some sort of ancient process to petrify them. Months of my life wasted on misapplied research! It's the Apple Jacks year all over again. Quit ending all your letters with that "Yours Truly" bullshit. You know you're not mine and if you keep pulling crap like that, you never will be.

Have you noticed heating ducts are never as big in real buildings as they are in movie buildings? I can't help but think it's a terrorist's dream. Any self-respecting undercover cop goes to hide in one, can't fit, and blam! Osama wins. I hope you people at the Small Duct Ltd. company are real fucking happy now.

You absolutely cannot fit a fully stretched-out body in most freezers. I wonder if the freezer manufacturers even considered this demographic when they designed the darned things. We're not all murderers, you know. Some of us are respected members of the work force who simply don't have time to run a found dead body down to the morgue at the drop of a hat.

Hum any song to yourself right now. Go ahead. I'll bet you one thousand dollars it's the theme to "Mr. Belvedere." And if it's not, I dare you to go ahead and prove it. You'll never get money out of me, stranger.

I've never seen a professional baseball player catch a ball in his mouth. What exactly are we paying these guys for? I can see any Sam Dandy anywhere catch a ball with his hands.

I would say the sixth best thing about being in a wheelchair is you don't fall when you walk on ice. Sure, you might slide a little bit, but chances are you're not going to land on your back. And of course, the seventh best thing is you don't bump your head on low doorways. You can probably figure the rest out yourself.

The next time you see a large glass window, jump through. You only live once, and glass just thinks it's so great.

No more today. My wastebasket is empty and the skin has all flaked away so I can't read my old notes.

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Good people, you are now reading at a licensed gun owner. That's the truth—except for the license thing. I'm still studying for the exam.

And if you think having a gun doesn't change your life, you should shoot yourself right now. Oh, that's right—you don't own a gun! No, my friends, gun ownership changes everything. Colors are brighter, things taste better, people are truly scared of you wherever you go. Sometimes I don't even have to show them the gun, the bulge in the side of my jacket is enough to get me a front place in line.

Lest you think it's pure fear that gets us gun owners the good life, it's not. Respect. People respect gun owners, because they have taken the biggest step in self-defense that pansies and left-wingers don't have the stomach for. But if the local police department's riot force comes swooping on them down for the big martial law takeover, who do you think they're going to call? Not Ghostbusters, '80s nostalgia fans.

I went gun shopping originally just so I could protect my life, my car, my house, and my wife, in that exact order, from my insane fascist neighbors, the Dickenses. I soon discovered that danger lurks everywhere, and only gun owners can see it all around us. With a little help from the gun store guy. Did you realize you could be walking down the street, minding your own business or participating in a foot race around the world, and someone can simply walk up and stick a knife in your face and demand all your money? And get this—if you give them all your money, they could still kill you anyway. There's no law says they can't. Well, that was all I needed to hear to be put in a proper paranoid frame of mind. I asked for—nay, demanded I get my gun right then.

Most gun owners have to wait about a week for a background check and all to go through, but the shop owner said he was giving away guns for every purchase of his special $900 bullets. I worked out the math and it turns out it's about the same price as buying the guns and the bullets, and since it was a free gun, I didn't even have to wait for the background check! Score: Rok Finger.

The gun owner tried to convince me a derringer would fit my own personal "style," but did you know those things were the smallest in the store? What's the point? Why even have a gun at all? Why not just go full-blown pussy and buy a taser or something? Not yours truly, nor me. No, good people, Rok Finger needs the kind of false security only provided by a long barrel .357 Magnum. Now who's dangerous, invisible stalkers in the night? Me, that's who.

Not that owning the IROC-Z of guns has been easy. I bought a holster for it, only to realize it doesn't fit in the holster. So I stay up all night and, with Camembert's help, refit the damned holster, only to find out I can't walk properly with the gun in the holster—damn my otherwise perfect height! All that trouble of getting a long barrel gun and I had to saw it off in the end anyway. But I understand that makes it more illegal, which makes it more exciting.

I was also dismayed to find out you can't reuse the bullets. I must've wasted about 79 shots before I realized that. I had been picking up all my bullets so I could recycle them—well, I never could get back those 8 shots I fired into that bus. Only then did I find out you have to buy new bullets every time you want to shoot something. Yeah, it's kind of a rip-off.

And the best thing ever, now that I'm on the porch most of the night shooting at random animals, I don't see my neighbors so much anymore. None of them, on any side. I suppose the Dickenses are inside their house, shades drawn, reevaluating their takeover of our block.

So sleep tight, neighborhood. Rok Finger's on watch now.

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