Oakland Beats Tampa Bay

n the battle of post-game celebrations, the fans in Tampa Bay have nothing on the spirited Oakland fans. Sunday night, following the Raiders' loss to the Bucs, East Oakland sizzled and burned with young rowdies demonstrating their loyalty to the hometown team by trashing and looting stores, burning cars and spinning doughnuts in intersections all up and down International Blvd. More than 80 people were arrested in the melee, most for vandalism, destroying public property, or public drunkenness.

Meanwhile, in Tampa Bay, Florida's "Bay Area," exactly one person was arrested: a dyed-blonde Miss Thang who was baring her implants to the crowd gathered to celebrate the Buccaneers' first-ever Super Bowl championship.

Asked to comment, Oakland riot-participant Hector Barbazino said, "They only had one arrest down there? Day-um, bro! And it was for what? Some bitch flashin' her titties? Oh, that ain't right, yo."

"That ain't cool at all, man," added Barbazino's cousin, Ricky Ledora. "Shee-it, they ought to come to Oaktown and see how we get down here, yo. Look at Carlos over there in the chopped Toyota, yo, his bitch LaShanté be hangin' out the sunroof all damn night, and she butt-naked, man! Butt-naked!"

"Oh, yeah, bro. Bitches be throwin' they titties on my windshield for hours, yo. Pressed titties on glass, what I'm talkin' about." Barbazino commented, as he poured lighter fluid all over a parked Subaru station wagon and set a match to it. "Word, homes. If Ray-Ray didn't had to take my ride to go pick up his baby-mama before ten, we'd still be gettin' it, them titties on glass."

The word from Tampa Bay was that, other than the breast-baring incident, not a lot of carrying-on occurred. City residents marched a few times around the three blocks of the downtown area, some of them carrying American flags and singing "God Bless America," and a few people were observed drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade from bottles hidden in brown paper bags. After an hour of this, most of the crowd dispersed and went home to watch Alias.

In Oakland, however, it was a different story. The large crowd merrily jumped on moving cars, broke windows and set fires for hours. When the mob energy began to wane, police fired tear gas, rubber bullets and wooden dowels in an attempt to further incite the crowd and egg them on to new heights of destruction throughout the night.

"Come on, you miserable bastards!" shouted Sergeant Arnie Cocklip at the crowd, as he fired his service revolver in the air. "Let's show the world how we kick heiney in Oakland. We're number friggin' one, goddamnit! Break something! Burn something down!"

Reluctantly, the worn out crowd complied with police orders and thoroughly trashed a nearby McDonald's, a Kelly-Moore paint store and the Gomes Tire and Service Center. Said one young reveler, Jose Chingamadre, "After we burned the three Chevys over on 151st, and threw bricks through the window of the day-care center there, I was ready to go home and watch Alias. But then the cops made us stay out here and keep going. Man, those dudes are like hard-asses, you know?"

Damage in Oakland was estimated at over $100,000, with the police that were present throughout the night gathering the day after to vote on which of the rioters would receive a full share, and which only half shares. "Them little slacking sonsabitches that only broke a couple windows or just missed a pedestrian while they were spinning doughnuts think they're getting a full share, they better think again. Punk-ass bitches gotta show me something special to get that," Sergeant Cocklip explained.

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Keep me in your prayers, good people, because Rok Finger is sick as a dog. Not a healthy dog, either, but a dog with mange, or some kind of dog disease. I don't have mange, at least to my knowledge, though my back hair has been falling out lately. No, I have the more human kind of sickness nobody has a name for, some bizarre kind of illness leaving me covered with spots as if some sort of chicken had made pock marks all over me. Also, they itch like a bastard. And not a comfortable bastard either. All I know is I need Elvis medicine.

Who knew Elvis even had medicine? As foolish as it might sound, I didn't know until recently. Sure, I had heard rumors and gossip the king had been involved in drugs, but I always believed they were talking about the kind of illegal prescription drugs. Naturally, this turns me around 180 degrees on Elvis. I now think the man is a genius, and if he is a genius, it stands to reason he made pretty good medicine in his spare time. Quite a noble gesture on his part, too, if you ask me. If I were making millions and doing comeback concerts in Hawaii and designing my own sequined jumpsuits, you can bet your boots I wouldn't be spending my available off-hours making better medications for the indigent.

Since I was ill this week, I didn't bother going to the commune. I called and told them I was feeling under the weather, and at my height, it's not hard to do. A little good-natured self-ribbing. But the commune was very understanding, and told me not to come back until I was feeling better, or not at all. A little good-natured ribbing of me on their part, which I didn't appreciate. But I had the week to myself, to get over this sickness. So I began watching that Lord of the Rings movie I like so much, where the short men outwit and humiliate the tall people. Quite a good film, they should consider doing a sequel to it at some point.

And good people, here was my solution all the time! When the valiant little fellow gets stabbed by the grim reapers, he's all in a state, far worse than myself. The gargantuan hippie attends to his wound, but cannot fix it, so he calls on the daughter of Aerosmith, the girl who rides the horse, and he tells her he needs Elvis medicine.

Of course, I was intrigued. The rock star offspring scooped up the proud little man and carried him off to Gracieland immediately. Suddenly the movie made sense. They kept referring to the giant hippie as the heir of the king, but I thought they meant a king of England or something, not the King. It certainly puts the movie in a new light.

Now, I'm no idiot. I know Elvis is dead. But that doesn't mean his heirs or someone else isn't living the high life at Gracieland right now, sitting on piles and piles of Elvis medicine they're hoarding all to themselves. Or maybe they hand it out to tourists, as a good-will gesture and Elvis' last request. I could picture the man, clear as day: "Now, uh, lookee here, baby… I gotta go on, it's my time now, but you gotta look after these people. Medicine for everybody. Do me proud."

What a man.

Well, Elvis, you can certainly do me some good. In fact, after I finish this column, I'm going to Gracieland, Gracieland, Rumney, New Hampshire. Or perhaps this time it's the one in Memphis. If so, then Memphis, New Hampshire, here I come! I've got the urge for a little Kingly medication.

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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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