Scientists Say No, Really, Universe Shaped Like Soccer Ball

ccording to U.S. and French researchers reporting in the science journal Nature last Thursday, the universe is shaped like a giant soccer ball, patched together out of a dozen spherical pentagons. No, really.

Data from NASA's Wilkinson Microwave Anisotropy Probe, a device the researchers insist is made entirely of tapioca, has indicated that the universe is finite and symmetrical. The probe maps background radiation left over from the Big Bang, the interstellar genesis event that occurred over 20 years ago, according to researchers.

The same researchers also indicated that regularly ingesting expensive sugar pills will cause your cock to grow big and hard like a redwood. Other revelations discovered by the researchers last week: grizzly bears are terrified of clowns, nobody can see you if you have your eyes closed, and if you stick your tongue against the railroad tracks in February, no way will it get stuck there.

The argument for a dodecahedral universe, made up of twelve pentagons forming a sphere, is a radical departure from earlier theories. It would also seem to end the fierce debate in the scientific community over whether or not God likes soccer. Previous suggestions about the universe's shape, from Boellinger's Taco Theory to Neumann's assertion that the cosmos is shaped kind of like an abstract pelican, have been proved absurd by this latest data.

"We were just shitting you when we said last year the universe is shaped like Lon Chaney's dong," admitted researcher George Ellis. "It's actually shaped like a soccer ball. Scout's honor!"

Fellow researchers Jeffrey Weeks and Domar Segui, still high from the rush of their groundbreaking discovery, greeted Ellis' announcement with a sustained jag of scientific giggling.

"Totally!" agreed Segui. "A big-ass soccer ball, filled up inside with galaxies shaped like blueberry muffins."

"Oh yeah!" remembered Ellis. "I almost forgot about the muffin galaxies! Most of them are shaped like that, except the one that's shaped like a high-heeled shoe and is made of braunschweiger."

"And candy!" nodded Segui, choking on a licorice whip. "The stars are made of candy and Mars is made of chocolate and nougat!"

"And the Milky Way was douched out of the vagina of the giant space-goddess in 1942!" shouted Weeks above the cacophony, which quickly died down. "Okay, that was going too far," admitted an embarrassed Weeks.

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Like the Bible story, Rok Finger is resurrected from the dead. Stand slack-jawed pointing all you want, good people, but of course, I only mean I'm back using my old-fashioned moniker instead of the new and improved Godfrey Bellmont name I was just getting used to.

Apparently the FBI considers it a "security breach" if you tell anyone about your new identity or being involved in the commune. I swore to them I told no one, only the commune readers, which statistics say are close in percentage to no one, but it wasn't good enough for them. They shanghaied us in the middle of the night, throwing us in laundry bags and tossing us into the back of a van and carting us off to another safe house. Though, actually, Camembert did say he was just asked to accompany them to a new location, so I wonder if that guy was even with the FBI.

But no matter. I didn't even spend too long at the new safe house, or the new identity they established for me afterwards. The FBI allowed me to choose my own new name and apparently there's another "Ben Affleck" out there getting a lot of attention, and oddly, more death threats than I ever got as a witness against the mob. Again, bagged and vanned, only to wind up with another secret identity in a new undisclosed location.

Would you believe the name Ted Kaczynski was already taken? I wouldn't want to be that poor son of a bitch. I got a lot of interesting mail, though, even a bunch of returned packages I didn't get a chance to open, but the FBI declared the new name a security leak and moved me quickly to another house.

I actually began to like my next name, Omar Bricks, but I began to get a lot of angry men showing up on my doorstep complaining about how I defiled their sister, daughter, or lawn maintenance vehicle. I was still determined to bear it out, but I began getting calls from the Daredevil Adventurer's Society complaining their dues were 9 years late, and repeated requests from the Car of the Month Club to pay off my supposed balance. Enough was enough, and that was quite enough, so I abandoned that name.

For the sake of anyone else looking to make a name for themselves in the Witness Protection Program, I'll save you some time by saying don't bother with these names: Sammy Gravano, John Gotti Jr., Robert Mugabe, Abraham Lincoln, Sharon Tate, Tommy Chong, Sid Vicious, Martha Stewart, Charles Taylor, Jack Ruby, Slobodan Milosevic, and William McKinley. Not all received threats of bodily harm, but all had more than their share of problems and I wasn't quick to trade Rok Finger's for them.

All this was quite interesting, if for no other reason, I found out the FBI has a limited warranty when it comes to Witness Protection. Earlier this past week they threw themselves into laundry bags, tossed themselves into the back of a van, and disappeared in the night with no other explanation. Camembert said he believed I had taken more than my fair share of new identities, and since I was adamant on giving up my column anyway, they didn't believe it was prudent to waste their time creating another one for me. Which is just as well. I was born a Finger, I'll die a Finger, and perhaps very soon. I still have my mob problem to solve.

Fortunately, I still have my new home in Tempe, Arizona. It is a bit arid, and the commute to commune offices in New Jersey is a bit trying, but it's easily safe from the mob. I would like to see how the mob would even guess I, Rok Finger, now live in Tempe Arizona.

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The time has come, and no one is happier than I am. The honus is on the president to prove he's a man. He's been disrespected every which way by everybody in the business. Celebrities, political commentators, foreigners living abroad. Now the president has but one option to earn some respect: Kill a man with his bare hands.

Yes, at this point, even shooting a man in a gunfight in the middle of the day, high noon, will not get the president the respect he needs. He has waited far too long to make an example out of some ballsy jackass badmouthing him. The only way to get some goddamn respect at this point is a hands-on, take-no-prisoners approach.

When you think of our least-respected presidents, you know, Gerald Ford, think to yourself: Did he ever kill a man? Nope. Ford was not an elected official either, let's not forget that. He had more reason than anybody else to kill a man, it was necessary for him to earn the public's respect in a way no elected official needs. Especially with that Chevy Chase smart-ass giving him the business on Saturday Night Live each week. Sure, there are reports that Ford rubbed out a guy here or there for making fun of him and his golfing accidents, but without a body, without some verified film of it or whatever, he's a big pussy in the eyes of the nation—and our history books.

Who didn't sit up and take notice when Reagan, his first week in office, grabbed that cook in the White House kitchen and drowned him in the big pot of clam chowder? All those wise-asses shut the fuck up real quick back then. The statement was clear: Shut the fuck up now or you're next.

Bush followed suit strongly, leading the charge into Panama in 1989, not even a weapon in hand, and beating Manuel Noriega to death with a loaf of stale bread, impaling him on an American flag that was left flying on the capitol building for some months for all to see. A tough move, no doubt, he got some respect with a capital R. And now, with the current president under such strain and trial, a lot of pundits are asking: Like father, like son?

George W. Bush has but one course of action as I see it: The next time he's out in public somewhere, pick the biggest guy out of the crowd. And break him like a goddamned baby. Whether or not the guy says anything, hell, he can even be Bush's biggest supporter, I don't care, that's the only way he's going to get props at this point. And weapons are out. Bare hands, kung fu or backstreet brawler style, the kind of mano-a-mano the Ultimate Fighting Championship founders would be proud of. If Bush's shirt happens to tear and reveal his ripped muscular physique, all the better. People need to be saying, for weeks afterward, "Christ on the rag, did you see what the president did to that big motherfucker on the White House lawn? I wouldn't want to be that asshole, that's for sure."

I have faith in the president. As his campaign slogan made clear, he comes from a long line of ass-kickers goin' way back. But now, if there was ever a time, now is the time to prove it.

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