commune Reporter Lil Duncan Contracts Syphilis

reedom-loving news source the commune was the victim of international terror this week when much-beloved (no exaggerration there) reporter Lil Duncan was diagnosed with the venereal disease syphilis.

The disease, caused by the bacteria Treponema, was discovered in Duncan after a series of blood tests and physicals given to all commune staff members except Easily Riled Herb. The tests were specifically looking for anthrax or other communicable diseases possibly spread by terrorist to American news sources like ABC and NBC.

After the diagnosis, the commune offices were filled with panicked men and some of the randier women who were terrified they had contracted it, though so far all testing has revealed only Duncan carries the disease at this time. All commune staffers, especially fearless commune editor Red Bagel, will be tested second or even third times to verify the absence of syphilis.

"Terror has hit home, way too close to home, you ask me," Bagel told a group of commune reporters he demanded quote him in the next edition. "Terrorists strike to make us fearful and terrified. Hence the name, stupid. Well, they have struck, and I guarantee you, the terrorists will pay! Put that part right under the headline, too, Nootles."

Duncan's doctor J. Ernest Fielgüd, a specialist in sexually contracted diseases, and medically schooled in them as well, has informed the commune that syphilis is a bacterial disease that is no longer the death sentence it was deemed early in the 20th century. With penicillin, the doctor said, syphilis can be eradicated from even late-stages sufferers.

commune Research Editor, Griswald Dreck, however, disagreed.

"If syphilis shows up, the party's over, that's all I can say. Little microbes invade your neurons and turn you into a character not unlike Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining.' Brrr! All work and no play make Lil a dull girl. Check her typewriter, I betcha anything she's got stacks and stacks of that shit on her desk. I'm outta here, no joke. You sit and wait for the ax in the chest, jack."

Dreck packed his tiny ventriloquist dummy-sized suitcase and vacated the commune offices quickly. All other commune staffers are visibly shaken and worried, but so far wait patiently for the outcome.

Lil Duncan could not be reached for comment as I ain't getting near the syphilis-beridden bitch.

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What a couple of weeks it has been! To jump right to the gory details, I'm no longer a nature documentary narrator, as I hoped to be last week. That was a little outlandish, I can now see. So I made the logical jump to pirate!

Logical though it may have been, I didn't see the wisdom of it and give up nature, no. I had to become the pariah of the countless Australian animal-taunters out there first, or actually I sat idly by and watched Camembert become their pariah. Camembert tried to convince them he was no threat to their livelihood, and in fact didn't even want to be a rugged outdoorsman, even after I tried so long to make him into one. But they wouldn't hear nothing of it. I think the Australians are naturally suspicious of the handicapped anyway, it probably didn't help his case. Camembert soon became the most hated man in Australia. And they even like Yahoo Serious down there.

One day Camembert and I had gone out monkey-hunting, even though he had actually asked to go to the Australian-equivalent of Wal-Mart, and they cornered us right out there in the open. Or perhaps they didn't corner us so much as challenge us, and I thought Camembert could put them in their place once and for all. He has pretty good upper body strength, that Camembert, and there were only four of them, with minimal weapons, so naturally I assumed the match was fairly even. But no luck.

They bagged Camembert, chair and all, and tossed him into the ocean, a lot of which surrounds Australia. I thought I might get off the hook easy, seeing as how they believed me some forgotten species of bald Koala bear, but they bagged me, too, me—Rokwell T. Finger—and threw me in after Camembert, shouting for him to "take this hideous thing with you." Apparently Australians have never heard how words hurt more than knives. Not that the knives didn't hurt, too.

We could have floated for days for all I know—I get sleepy washed adrift at sea. Camembert says it was about 40 minutes. Then the pirates found us.

That's right—pirates! Real true-to-life pirates. They didn't wear puffy shirts, fancy jackets, or eye patches, but one guy had real bad pink eye. As for dressing-style, they were much more of the shorts and polo shirt variety of pirates. For a pirate ship, it was surprisingly devoid of parrots, but they did have a dog named Fucker, with quite the uneasy stomach.

Neither were they very jolly Jolly Rogers. According to the head pirate, Kevin, they hadn't boat-jacked anybody in a number of months. He was even considering giving up the business and going back into telemarketing. In general they were all pretty gloomy and dispirited. What they really needed was a leader, a brand new captain with spit and vinegar, someone with the vision to make them successful. If you've read my column for any length of time I think you know where this is going.

Yes, it's the pirate's life for me. And Camembert, of course; I suppose I could let him off the hook for this one, given he doesn't quite have sea legs yet, but at this point it would shock him into a heart attack if I were to throw myself into severe danger and not bring him along. Besides, the married life was getting a little boring and Felchyana had locked me out of the house a month ago. I was getting tired having never consummated the marriage anyway.

To sum up, this may be the last Rok Finger column you receive for quite a while. We were fortunate enough to stop here in Singapore and find a fax machine, but Neil's got the caning tomorrow at two so we'll be out of here by four at the latest. Writing isn't the pirate's life, and that's what I do this week. Or now, I mean. Wish me luck, good people, for tomorrow this salty dog returns to the sea. Now I'm off to find a charitable local to blow the man down.

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You know what really pisses me off? People who can't whistle but still do. Talk about begging to be beaten about the head and neck areas. Whistling isn't even that enjoyable when it's good. Even if you're stuck in an elevator with the Stradivarius of whistlers, the Grand Dragon or whatever they call the dude who wins the World Whistling Championships down in Arkansas or wherever they have that crap, next door to the freaks who can play banjo like some inbred Jimi Hendrix, even if it's THAT dude and he can whistle like God himself farting out a melody, he's still probably gonna be whistling some song you don't like. In fact, that's a pretty safe bet since it's rare that somebody whistles any song you actually want to hear, anything hardass like "Ironman," instead it's usually the Andy Griffith theme or "Butterfly Kisses" or some gay bullshit like that.

According to commune answerman and office Sorry champion Griswald Dreck, whistling was invented by the Nazis in WWII as a way of drawing Allied snipers out of their hiding places. The German soldiers who were pinned down would whistle "Oye Como Va" and other annoying German songs off-key for days on end until the sniper finally went batshit and came charging out, yelling like "Alright fuckwad! Who wants to get bitchslapped all the way back to Hamburg?" If the Nazis spoke English at all, a hilarious fistfight would ensue since the Germans only knew Nazi karate, and that just involved stepping really high and heil-Hitlering to block everything until you either got your ass kicked or the other guy fell down laughing. If the German soldiers didn't speak any English, then they'd just shoot the guy.

Disgruntled American vets who didn't get the promised pot to piss in and cherry Mustang in every garage upon returning home from the war brought whistling back with them as a subtle revenge, and before long it spread like an embarrassing nickname all across the country. They even changed the name of the thing from a "Nazi face blow" to the less disgusting term "whistling" to make it more marketable, and soon happy assholes everywhere were whistling away, without even knowing they were giving Adolph Hitler a hard-on in his grave.

Some shit happened in the intervening years, bottom line is eventually whistling spread to my neighbor Dale, which is the worst thing that could have happened. This goddamned guy whistles day and night, and when it's hot I can't even close my windows or spray him with a fire extinguisher and blame it on the weather. Remember that Stradivarius whistler I was talking about earlier? Dale's what it would be like if that guy got kicked in the head by a moose and still thought he could whistle great but actually sucked a giant dick.

The other day I was sitting at home, trying to explain to Osaka why it would be great if she bought a rickshaw to pull me around in (solving both my transportation and never-been-pulled-around-in-a-rickshaw problems in one brilliant move) when my train of thought was totally cocked in the ass by that tone-deaf Sinatra in his back yard, whistling the theme to Simon & Simon while he turtle-waxed his patio chairs. I think it was the Simon & Simon theme, but to be honest he tends to medley shit together and none of it is right anyway so I can never be sure what specifically I'm pissed about. Could've been "Save the Best for Last," but I guess I still give the dick more credit than that.

So my concentration is shot, and one of the all-time great convincing arguments is lost to the sands of time. Talk about an extra-large crock. Enough is enough, and it's time to go on the offensive. It was one thing that Dale insists on calling me "O.B." even though that's just a tampon joke waiting to happen. Now he was messing with my bidness, as the badasses in the movies like to say when they're black badasses.

I'm thinking of having my bathroom wall replaced with Plexiglas so every time Dale looks out his window he gets an eyeful of Omar Bricks' bathroom business. I'm not sure if watching your neighbor take his morning shit is on par with having to put up with some moron whistling ABBA all the time, but hanging a B.A. out the bathroom window every now and again clearly isn't getting the message across. And nothing sounds better in a memorial service than a story about the time you scared a neighbor into an early grave by pressing ham on your Plexiglas bathroom wall one morning in July.

If that doesn't work, I'm sure I can pay some neighborhood kids to shoot some of those insanely loud whistling fireworks in the dude's bedroom window while he's sleeping. That's the kind of experience that can change a man. Not that you heard that from me, when it happens remember I was speaking hypothetically. Bricks out.

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