Hippies Busted! 600 Weirdoes, Peaceniks Arrested for Blowing Minds of the Establishment

he situation in Washington, D.C. was all wavy-gravy Friday when approximately 650 radical "protesters" were arrested for getting trippy on the government and local police in their attempts to denounce White House calls for intervention in the Middle East and the International Monetary Fund for its global policies.

According to the various protesters, who were likely extremely high, the United States, the World Bank, and the IMF have engaged in tactics of sharing wealth with nations with no dire need for it while allowing third-world countries beset by poverty to suffer. True or not, the ridiculous protests by nutcases and fruitcakes slowed down traffic and interrupted the normal flow of the capitalist machine for several hours. The police, the national heroes of September 11^th, were brought in to clear the way for hardworking apathetic citizens.

"Everything is returning to normal here," said D.C. police captain Gilbert Hayes. "Go back to sleep."

Protesters used glaring signs, offensive T-shirts, and shouted un-American slogans like "The president is wrong!" against police, buildings, and in the general direction of the United States. Police used justified force to make the protesters stop getting in the way of honest Americans, resulting in only one reported injury and countless bruises which couldn't be helped.

"Go back to college!" shouted one enraged cop as he kicked a hippie ten feet down Pennsylvania Avenue, a new personal record.

Some whacked-out nit-pickers also held demonstrations against the Gap, the international jeans store chain most famous for their annoying advertising and putting their jeans on shelves instead of racks. According to the fruitcakes, who were so high they took off their clothes and ran around in their underwear, the Gap exploits workforces in other countries with poor labor laws. How this was a surprise to anybody or affected the cost of American jeans was uncertain.

Most protesters were released on a small bond, like the cost of one of their dime bags, after being charged with upsetting mainstream America and refusing to do whatever the police said. Five were charged with destruction of sacred artifacts, commonly referred to as corporate and government property. A charge of treason was unlikely, but police are looking into it.

"It is important that as long as we have the freedom to speak in this country," said protester Lisa Morgan, referring to some anachronistic line in the Constitution, "we use that freedom to make our leaders aware of how we feel. Not only if our own liberty and comfort is threatened, but if those in our country are doing immoral things in the name of the United States in other countries."

Morgan's LSD tirade was ended when a dutiful officer smacked her in the head with a club, very possibly "bringing her down."

It was not expressed to the public at press time whether Washington, D.C. had the available jail space to hold all protesters who weren't released on bond, but if necessary there's possibly enough space in Camp X-Ray in Cuba to house all the militants.

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Editor's Note: In lieu of Rok Finger's absence, he asked us to print a friendly filler message from his roommate Camembert.

Hello. I'm Camembert Morgen and I suppose I should introduce myself as Rok Finger's roommate. Since Rok couldn't fit a column into his schedule this week, he asked me to fill in for him. Well, he ordered me, but it's not like I listen to him. I'm not scared of him. My girlfriend can beat him up. He's small. Honestly, I'm not scared.

As I said, Rok couldn't do this column this week. Don't worry, it's not a bad thing—not for Rok, anyway. He married an unlucky woman named Ginger Baker over the weekend. Good for him, I say. Terrible for her. I guess she thinks he's rich or something. Maybe she's fooled by the velour suit he wears whenever they go on dates. I don't know. Maybe he has some inner qualities that make him attractive. Though I've never seen any.

I guess I should tell you a little about myself. I can't imagine Rok would waste time in a professional website column talking about his roommate. I'm Camembert, as I said, and I have a hot girlfriend, Loretta. Rok and I are distantly related. Very distantly. I'm his ex-wife's sister's son. But our relationship is a lot closer than that, really, since he paralyzed me, moved into my apartment uninvited, made me a mob target, got me kidnapped by pirates, and generally made my life hell on a daily basis. But he did introduce me to my girlfriend, so I suppose things are about even. Now that he's married, I'm hoping to get out on my own with my girlfriend and make a new life for myself. God willing.

I can't believe anyone really wants to hear about the wedding, but I'm sure if you're fans of Rok Finger, I can't believe you exist anyway. I'll describe the wedding so as not to embarrass myself further with revealing details about me.

The bride wore a lovely black dress, and the groom wore a tuxedo that he may have gotten from a ventriloquist dummy. But you can't tell—one of the better fitting suits in his little collection. They wrote their own vows, but I don't think I heard too many of his because the crowd was laughing very loudly. Rok never makes me laugh, personally, but if you had to live with him you probably wouldn't laugh either. I think the vows were very adamant about who washes the dishes, and he might have swore a little, but that's hardly shocking for Rok.

There was one slightly amusing part for me, I admit. The flower girl, Ginger's daughter Becky, was actually taller than Rok. You don't see that very often. Flower girls taller than the groom, I mean. Everybody's taller than Rok. Heck, even in my chair I'm a little taller than he is. But don't tell him—he gets outraged about it.

After the ceremony, which was mercifully short outside of the vows, we threw rice at the newlyweds. Rok threw beans back. I'm not sure why he had beans with him. He might have just anticipated the rice and wanted something to fight back with. Again, I'm not surprised. But they piled into his car with the special high-pedals and drove off on their honeymoon. He told me where they were going but I didn't bother to commit it to memory. I'm better off not knowing where he is. If the Feds ask me.

So what do they do here at the commune? I'm writing this from home, and although I've got internet access, I've never bothered to read the site myself. I get enough Rok Finger at home, thank you. For another thing, I can't swallow any of that news they put out each week. Does anybody actually believe that stuff? Ah, but I'm no critic. I'm just a regular guy trying to help out a maniacal roommate while he enjoys the silence in the house with his girlfriend, Loretta.

Did I mention I have a girlfriend? She is H-O-T hot, too. And she's real.

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What's shakin', Kevin Bacon?

Things are okay here. I'm still adjusting to living in New York and especially working at the commune. It's a perplexing place. I’ve been here a few weeks already and so far the only person who's spoken to me is Omar Bricks. I nodded to him in the hall and he convulsed like he's just stepped on a power line and said:

"-bzzzzrrt- Ah, sorry about that. Freakin' security robots! They don't understand anything short of a pizza wheel to the neck."

After that I'm not sure if I'm upset about not hearing from the rest of the staff. Not that a little common concern wouldn't be nice, you know? So, how was your bus ride? Four wheels? Eight? Did you get a mid-ride meal or just peanuts? Here's to hoping your ears popped okay. The standard stuff.

One thing I do know for sure, the commune employee directory is hopelessly obsolete. Apparently they change employees like a whale inhaling plankton, and I think the employee list includes everyone who walks in the doors or is spotted within 100 yards of the building by the guy up on the roof with the binoculars. I'm not kidding, Employee #7710 is listed as "Suspicious Man with Jeri Curl". It's nuts.

And Christ in a cameo, the commune sends us emails about everything! Any time someone retires or transfers or quits or contemplates taking a break to use the bathroom, I get an email about it. I get all excited thinking it's an email from someone nice and instead it's a notice that Bramblethorpe Titdonkey has been promoted to Salad Bar Manager. Do I look like I give a shit? Should I wear a different shirt?

Ah, alas, I must persevere.

Mainly I'm just working on settling in. I just talked to my new auto insurance guy, and he kept saying he would drop my rates considerably if I drove a Hummer. Or something like that. Something about a hummer.

What else? Didn't have time to make a lunch today, so I stole a can of honey-roasted peanuts from the bank to snack on. I just made a really bizarre sound dislodging one from my throat and suddenly some crazy bastard was in here in a duck-hunting hat. I need to hurry up and eat the rest of this can before I choke to death or get shot.

Speaking of the bank, one thing I've discovered recently: If anyone gives you any shit while you're there, just start bleeding everywhere and they'll give you anything you want just to get you out of there. Nobody wants any freaky hemophiliacs running amok in their bank. It's like an unwritten rule or something.

I guess I'd better get back to this paper airplane prototype I've been working on, since this column is going nowhere fast. I've got some flaps torn into the wings so I think it's going to fly pretty sharp. Should put somebody's eye out for sure. Sounds like a... hey, why is a "Barrel of Monkeys" supposed to be so much fun? Who's word are we taking on that? More so than say, a Bathtub of Lizards or a Closet of Weasels... or a Trunk of Pigs? I really wonder.

Can you believe masturbate.com isn't in my spellchecker? What is this, the stone age?

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