Afghanistan to Host 2006 Winter Olympics

he International Olympics Committee announced Friday that the site of the 2006 Winter Olympics has already been chosen, and it will be Kabul, Afghanistan.

The Committee denies claims that political influence played a part in its decisions, but would not deny the possibility all Committee members were bribed handsomely.

British Prime Minister Tony Blair suggested it would be a major boon to the Afghanistan economy, as well as the spirits of its people.

"With this to look forward to, who wouldn't be excited and proud to rally behind its flag?" stated Blair. "In 2006 the world will turn its eyes toward Afghanistan, again, and this time it will be a good thing."

Afghanistan is a poor country in Asia with a population of approximately 21,900. Critics have suggested that Afghanistan is in no position to host the Winter Olympics of 2006, with a long history of civil turmoil, a weak economy that could not successfully sustain the expense of the Olympics, and lacking virtually any snow throughout the year.

"Once again the International Olympics Committee has stuck its foot in its collective mouth," said Marvin Kappel of the IOC watchdog group Oly-OxenFree. "They have allowed their decisions to be biased again for whatever reasons and are allowing a country without the proper requirements to host the Winter Olympics. Afghanistan currently has no sports teams and no ice rinks. I don't believe IOC claims they'll have a 50,000-seat stadium built by 2006. You don't make that kind of money selling goat cheese, barring some unforeseeable rise in the market value of goat cheese before 2006."

According to commune Research Editor Griswald Dreck, Afghanistan is a country rich in culture and heritage. They have had many imports and exports in their many, many years as a country. The Russians once tried to invade Afghanistan and were unable to. The Russians have also previously tried to invade America, most notably in the movie Red Dawn. In closing, Afghanistan is a culture rich in heritage and culture.

The recently elected president of the International Olympics Committee Jacques Rogge was questioned by the commune in regards to the feasibility of Afghanistan hosting the Winter Olympics, but he angrily cursed us in French and threw a glass of wine into our faces.

Afghanistan interim leader Hamid Karzai spoke well of the decision.

"The IOC has done a great thing for this country and its people, and given us hope that we will move forward into the next century without delay," said Karzai. "We are excited to host the next Winter Olympics and will not engage in pointless arguments about snow and what constitutes proper accommodations. If they can make it snow on Jimmy Stewart in Pottersville, we can make this plentiful substance in Afghanistan as well."

Turkey to Block Offensive Websites; commune Offers Pre-Emptive “Fuck You”

Obama to Change Spelling of Name to oBAMa for Maximum Impact

Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Pepper’s for Everyone

Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWF’s “Machoman” Savage

Growing up with snowflake, one learned to drink their sap in the morning. There was no time for globe-girdling as we chased the bears though the jungle of oil refineries, then were eaten like pudding by Lyndon B. Johnson. "Let's get away from the sea!" I remember thinking. Robin sails home to tell the tale. "May this car bring you happiness," he begins. "It's rotunda is all you expect Japan to be. The sky is our home. The earth is our winding path. As the wheel spins, the pot forms clarified butter." Robin always speaks of butter as a mother would. He's prone to dream of beautiful maiden cats and lovely lands. He hates the sea. He says snowflake is too heavy for most tree limbs to support. Once again, he is right. Get a shovel.

You will find yourself at war with the sea. Try again later.

º Last Column: Fortune 4
º more columns

Never again will Rok Finger get drunk off his sorry short-stack ass and wake up smack-dab in the middle of Utah, I can tell you that much.

For those who need the long story, I'm sending this column via the Infanet or whatever that commune clerk called it because I have yet to make it back from the big weekend Lee and I started last Wednesday. I had been a little down lately, as you can imagine—what with the recent divorce, being kicked out of that all-black neighborhood, finding out I was being stalked by a pro-wrestler, Camembert failing to walk despite my attempts at faith healing, and the world not coming to an end and all as I predicted. But Lee, ever the trooper, suggested we go out and have a boys' night out, no Camembert, no women, no underpants, and just let the whim and station wagon take us wherever it dared.

I would say Utah is where it dared, wherever the hell Utah is. I'm not sure of the name of the town so I have been referring to it as Mormonville, laughing my ass off and making the guilt-ridden townspeople blush a very peculiar shade of red.

Most of the weekend is forever lost in the cobwebs of my already-hobbled memory. Lee made mention of a girl in a wheelchair showing him a good time, but I suggested we more than likely went home, dressed Camembert up and made inappropriate advances toward him. Which sounds like a lot of fun, I hope one of us or a nosey neighbor taped it for us to enjoy when we get back. Until then, we're stuck in Mormonville and trying to fix the station wagon, nicknamed by Lee the Shagwagon, for our triumphant return home.

I suppose Mormonville is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live here. Truthfully I was just being kind to say it was a nice place to visit, it stinks like Satan's crotch to visit. There is nothing to do here—nothing! I've got three suggestions for you, Mormonville: Gambling; prostitution; radical unlicensed cosmetic surgery. Any one of these might liven up this place a little more, but until then I suggest you change the name to Dullsville.

Oh. It appears the town is actually named Dullsville. One of the local residents informed me of that fact as I was dictating this column to the telegraph lady. I somehow managed to stay awake long enough to hear him out. Goody.

Suffice to say, if you get the chance to come out to Dullsville, kindly turn it down and then sting with a salty barb the nimrod who suggested it—I find, "No, thank you, you limp ballsack," to be particularly biting, at least when it's been directed at me.

Dullsville is even more boring than it's name. The town is in such a sub-catatonic state that crashing through the wall of the church at 8:35 a.m. on a Sunday morning doesn't even bring the police out. One old lady even passed the collection plate to Lee, who was asleep on the airbag. I did contribute a dollar though, and after that we all enjoyed some handsome potato salad and baked beans at the church outing.

The people are the friendliest people in the world, and when you've spent six hours driving west with a carful of drag queens, that's saying something. Even so, I don't plan on staying a minute longer than necessary in this above-ground tomb. Maybe the old Rok Finger would have found it nice here, but I'm the newly-liberated bachelor Rok Finger, and I like living high and fast, in the high and fast lane. I think me and Lee might make it a five-day weekend every weekend from now on.

Of course, I'll have to wait for Lee to wake up first. I would try to wake him, but he looks so comfortable, despite the imbedded windshield glass in his forehead.

º Last Column: No One Will Believe We're All Doomed
º more columns