ne the most potentially controversial stories in recent years was successfully nipped in the bud by the Bush White House and its ever-faithful assistant, the national news media, as the ongoing story of former Cheney Chief of Staff Lewis Libby's indictment, the first of a sitting White House official in history, was relegated to page 3 by bored news directors and other major Republican-driven news stories.

Libby, called "Scooter" by his many enemies, is the first and likely only casualty of the under-covered story of a White House leak, in which the identity of a working CIA operative, conveniently the wife of Bush opponent Joseph Wilson. Wilson's wife Valerie Plame was outed as a spy by a conservative columnist, and his source was traced back to the White House. While liberals hoped the 22-month investigation by Special Counsel Patrick Fitzgerald would reveal the dirty tactic came from a source as high as presidential counselor Karl Rove, the most the Democrats could succeed with was a guy named Scooter. And the victory itself was short-lived.

As soon as news of the Libby indictment, a potentially president-destroying story, was announced, the Cheney Chief of Staff resigned and the White House began its onslaught of less important announcements, starting with the retraction of Supreme Court nominee Harriet Miers, the nomination of mini-Scalia Samuel Alito, and more news from the clusterfuck in the Middle East that is Iraq. To seal the deal and firmly erase the recent memory of criminal charges against White House staff, the president released a string of obscene and bizarre comments guaranteed to push the story off the page—covered elsewhere in this edition of the commune.

Democrats and White House insiders alike were surprised by the effectiveness of the Bush administration's "Operation: Bury the Story."

DNC strategist Michael Fallusmore: "Damn, but they did it good. We were a little busy basking in the glee of what should have been a catastrophe for the Bush-ites and GOP. Then we woke the next morning and couldn't find a trace of it anywhere. The news media were suddenly much more interested in the predictable choice of a conservative white guy for the Supreme Court. Real shockaroo there. But still, you have to give them credit for weaseling out of the unweaselable. I guess all we can do now is hope some reporter finds that dead hooker in Karl Rove's Toyota."

An inside source at the White House, some Bush college buddy whose phone we tapped, agreed with the quick removal of the story.

"I totally can't believe it worked," said the source, then giggled as he did a line of blow. "I suppose it would have been a hard uphill battle if all the major media outlets hadn't bought into the importance of these other routine stories and decided to shrug off the boring details of criminal and possibly treasonous behavior inside the walls of the highest pockets of U.S Government. What? Yeah, I'm completely wasted, so what? I always talk like that."

The president did his part as leader of his party and platform to diminish the importance of the story to the news media and the American people, by dressing in ugly suits, appearing as unphotogenic as possible, and keeping his comments quite limited to make for lousy B-roll for the visually oriented media outlets. Bush responded Thursday to Libby's plea of not guilty to the charges.

"Yep, yep," said the president, quickly shuffling off to a birthday party of a friend being held at a Washington, D.C. Chuck E. Cheese.

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I've got two good reasons why you should never, ever name your semi-weekly column My Friend Polio, and here they are: One, you would be seriously stepping on my toes and repercussions would be quick and deadly; and two, it's just bad karma, and let me be a brazen big-dicked example to all of you.

Things have been downright rancid lately, like I need remind you. No car, no bus or cab rides since they banned me for having a sense of humor, and if another punk kid makes fun of the basket on my bike I'm not even going to explain how it's screwed in and the screw's stripped, I'm just going to jump to the ass-beating. Then there's the lingering smell of cream of broccoli dogshit in Bricks Manor and I don't even want to mention being embarrassed by a chess-playing computer, like we live in Tron-world or something. Needless to say Omar Bricks needed some cheering up last week.

I was extremely pumped about Halloween, the one time of year you can throw rotten eggs at someone's house or dig up their septic tank and dump it into their pool and folks just laugh it off—well, most folks. Usually I eschew the costume, or have a real go at it being all philosophical and such, like one year I went as the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, but that gets dull explaining over and over. So this year dressed up as John Quincy Adams, not that I thought it was a great costume or anything, just a last minute thing—I had the outfit already to break the ice with a judge in this court thing, and it didn't really work well.

First thing that really bothered me is all these dumb questions. "Who are you supposed to be?" "Oh, cool, John Quincy Adams—and what is he famous for?" "Hey, how fuckin' old are you? What are you doing trick-or-treating?" People get all uptight when you point out you're not dressed as a historian, why don't they look John Quincy Adams up in a goddamn dictionary. At least most of them get pissy and refuse to give out candy, one old lady totally passed out. I felt a little bad, but I did call an ambulance after I loaded up on candy—don't get all righteous with me, man, she had Sweet Tarts. Nobody gives those out anymore.

The tricks didn't go over any better. Nobody out there can take it like they dish it out, I swear. Everything was pretty mellow, too, in comparison to early Bricks tricks—no more calling up relatives out of the obituaries and pretending to be the deceased, there was a general consensus that wasn't funny, despite everything I thought. But there's no way to make people laugh anymore, even on Halloween. I dressed up like Spider-Man and swung through Jeff's window during his party and all I got was, "Omar, you broke my window and you're hemorrhaging." Then after that, I passed out, but after that, with stitches, I cut the brake line on the cop's car and—well, he says it's a jailable offense, I say it's not, we're supposed to meet in court next month and work it out.

Election day was actually more fun. I don't usually vote, but that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun, right? I had a box full of lost wallets I collected when I bartended for a few years and it's a blast to see how many times you can sneak in there and write-in Jimmy "SupaFly" Snuka before they realize you're the same guy. This time it was 13, but keep in mind that's only using hats, no wigs or facial hair or anything. You got to admit it would be pretty wicked to tune in during election night coverage and hear, "A surprise upset as 30% of the vote went to retired wrestler Jimmy 'SupaFly' Snuka for city comptroller."

Maybe next year. By that time I'll have all this legal trouble sorted it out. It's hard to believe but apparently it's illegal to vote more than once in this city, even when you explain to the judge you were just fucking around.

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Few of you would have guessed who is the greatest peacekeeper in the world, if I didn't tell you right now it's me—Rok Finger. I do not own this title simply because I've bestowed it upon myself, and am too big and intimidating to keep people from taking it away again. I own this title now because I have brought together the two estranged neighborhoods surrounding me, with nothing but this silver tongue in my mouth. Never let it be said bodypaint didn't bring something good to the world.

Perfunctory backstory: I found out Poodlegrass, the neighborhood Ginger and I live in, is more properly called West Poodlegrass. This explained immediately why I have not been getting my mail, and I presume some hotshot over in East Poodlegrass has been enjoying that pubic hair comb & brush set I bought from eBay, but that's a rant for another time. The neighbors won't talk to me, of course, but they did mention to Ginger when she inquired about the mail trouble that West Poodlegrass and East Poodlegrass frequently had mail mix-ups.

This might have been enough for the unambitious female mind of my adoring wife, and the endless drones living around us, but Rok Finger had to wonder: Why West and East Poodlegrass? Had there been an irreparable rift between the two at some point in history? And if so, was this irreparable rift beyond repair? I didn't know what it was, but I didn't think so.

So, owning the gigantic brass balls that I do, I ventured into the hellish maw of East Poodlegrass and braved their idiot rabble and unintelligible accents to talk to their leaders—frightened and worried about what kind of bizarre government they might practice. Well, turns out they aren't all that different from us, although they do practice a strange kind of "democracy" where officials are chosen by the populace to represent their wishes as a government body that decides laws and enforces them. Quite a twist from our own secret oligarchy, eh? Red Bagel would be impressed.

Hmm. I got sidetracked. Quite unlike me. But anyhow, it turns out Poodlegrass was separated for purposes of deciding county borders. West Poodlegrass is in the traditional and respectable Pork County side of New Jersey, while East Poodlegrass resides in the forgettable and tragic Bowling County. Well, just give up now, I thought, you can't change county lines. Or could I? No, I couldn't. But I did have an entreaty for the president of the East Poodlegrass Neighborhood Block Association: "Mr. Gorblatt, tear down the wall that divides our two great neighborhoods!"

I was at this point informed it's not a wall at all, but a stalled-out train that's been parked on the tracks for a great number of months, and they were as interested in moving it as I was. What a thundering blow for freedom! All I had to do was get this train moving again.

A simple matter, of course. Whenever I want something big and ungainly removed and lack the ability to do it myself, I merely inform Omar Bricks that I overheard his old nemesis Johnshark Remnants say nobody could move it. Competitive he is, I'll give him that. By the next morning the train had disappeared, washing up off the Jersey shore and making quite a news story. But my interest ended there. I had done it: Maybe East and West Poodlegrass would still have separate names, but now residents could freely cross the tracks as they wished and exchange their correct mail with each other. Thanks all to me—and I guess Bricks gets some honorable mention in all this, if you're going to hold me to the wall on it.

What's next? I'm not sure. But I do think it's time those two Carolinas stopped all that fussin' and fightin'.

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