80s Rock Icon Don Johnson Denies Money Laundering Allegations

he entangled world of celebrity indictments grew thicker this week with questions arising concerning an alleged money-laundering scam involving popular '80s contemporary rock star Don Johnson. Johnson, most famous for his 1986 Billboard top 5 hit "Heartbeat," denied the accusations unequivocally.

According to an unnamed German source we're calling Sigfried, Johnson was found carrying $8 billion in cash, bonds, and share certificates which sparked an investigation of money laundering by authorities. Evidence verifying or nullifying the claim has been slow to surface.

Johnson, a successful '80s pop vocalist/songwriter, called the rumors "ill-founded and farcical," though outside sources claim the actual quote was "farcical and ill-founded." According to the stylish, gravel-voiced singer, the unfounded accusations have already caused him embarrassment and irreparable career damage: Two credit card accounts have been closed for investigation and the Epic record label has dropped the artist, approximately 2 weeks to 14 years ago.

The charges seem compounded in the wake of other celebrity criminal news, including the ongoing preliminary trial of actor Robert Blake for the murder of wife Bonnie Lee Bakley, as well as the shoplifting trial of Winona Ryder and implications of extortion and mafia connections to kung fu master Steven Seagal. Statistics invented quite recently suggest the American public has grown weary of celebrity scandal and grows more inclined to believe charges, even when presented without evidence.

Johnson became a dominant force in contemporary rock with his 1986 album Heartbeat and the eponymous single, which rose high on Billboard charts and established a new soundscape for late-'80s rock. Aided by Johnson's dry golden hair and rugged, stubble-laden good looks, as well as his penchant for sockless pastel slacks and sport jackets, Johnson's strong feel for powerful synth music and evocative lyrics established him as a rising star in rock. However, a lag in returning to the studio made Johnson's work on the similar Let it Roll sound dated and familiar in 1989. The popularity of his music paved the way for Johnson's work in other projects, such as TV's detective show Miami Vice and Melanie Griffith. Johnson became reclusive after the disappointment of his follow-up album, rarely appearing movies, refusing to do interviews, and accepting a role in a Friday night CBS television series.

Hopes for a musical comeback diminish in the wake of the money-laundering allegations. Some insiders suggest Johnson, a perfectionist with his music, had been working on his follow-up album since 1992 in a secretive sound studio in Los Angeles, foregoing his well-established "Miami sound." Others say plans for a project for a Traveling Wilburys-type supergroup with Bruce Willis, David Hasselhoff, Jim McMahon, and Dogstar bassist Keanu Reeves have been indefinitely sidelined.

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No one is more surprised than Rok Finger at the results of his latest physical. I will spare you the details I usually render in graphic description, inviting several letters of complaint to my mailbox, and instead inform you of the doctor's shocking surprise.

"Rok, you're a dancing machine." Those are the words he said, I kid you not.

By this he meant my physique is perfectly constructed for dancing the night away. The twist in particular would be no problem for someone with my spinal make-up. It appears my vertebrae are especially springy and soft, which explains why after starting my early twenties at a good five foot two I've shrunk so badly over the years to now stand at three foot nine. Though I'm not complaining, it's a small price to pay for perfectly filling out a pair of boogie shoes.

True, my skill in dancing is hardly noteworthy. In fact, my previous efforts to dance have resulted in being strapped down by paramedics with a wallet placed under my tongue. But such a small obstacle shouldn't stand in the way of my destined greatness on the dance floor. You heard what the doctor said—a machine, he said. Dancing. Machine. You're. A. Rok.

Your friend Rok Finger is no stranger to scaling large obstacles, people. And this Everest of an obstacle will be conquered. I've already begun.

The first step, I've calculated, is to increase my rhythm, or as a the hip will define it, acceptance of the beat. After several further explanations and fruitless examination of Webster's Dictionary and P-Funk's Dancetionary, I decided the best course of action was to start nodding my head to a whack beat. It was difficult, I had to practice at home before I could take it out into a club or anything, but I think I've become an expert at beat technology.

It is a small step (dance step, that is) but it will suffice to start me in my career of dancing excellence. I have begun to assemble a dancing wardrobe. Wardrobe? More appropriately called my "gear," the dancing soldier's camouflage. I built it like a house from the bottom up, starting with a stylish pair of blue suede shoes. Yes, just like the Elvis anthem of a few years back. The dresser at the store, Fancy, said my color was emerald, like money, another word she used to describe me, and therefore outfitted me in a suave glittery emerald jumpsuit with a purple streak of vinyl up the side. She said when I "move" (street code for dancing) I look like a green and purple tornado. That was all the salesmanship I needed!

Then I hit the clubs. And I rock hard, let me tell you. Just the little bit of expertise I picked up from bobbing my head, no doubt buoyed by the new confidence found in my dancing wardrobe, I've become a very intimidating figure on the dance floor. Most of the time other dancers are too self-conscious to join the floor while I'm on it. But when a brave few manage to two-step up to me, we have a gay old time. Sometimes extremely gay. The ladies love me, we dance like tornadoes and carry on loudly laughing away. Well, they're laughing, I'm usually too busy concentrating on my steps.

What more can I say? This machine is in high gear. Not the gear you wear, but the gear like a car. Hence the machine metaphor. I'll bring you more news as I make dancing news on the club scene here and there. In the meantime, I must go get the rubber soles of my blue suede shoes patched.

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Ah, my sweet Nancy. Another year, another anniversary, and our love endures. Why does it last? Is it because ours is a love meant for the ages, without judgment or fear of reprisal, a shared connection between two people who are soulmates? Yes, a smidge. Mostly it continues to grow stronger because we never let ourselves lapse into staleness.

As you know, Nancy, I am not simply a heart that never stops loving and a mind that never stops obsessing over our love. I am also a penis. I am a testicle. Two testicles, in fact. I am a body, the throbbing impulses of a man. And you are more than love to me. You are the rounded hips, the supple breasts, the plush lips, the honeyed cave hole of a woman. We satisfy each other's bodies as we do our eternal longing for companionship. Yes, Nancy, like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, we express our love with constant humping.

The years pass, Nancy, but our physical love continues to bring us closer. No matter how many times we do the nasty, my darling, I never tired of the act, and I know you feel the same. For no matter how we may copulate in familiar ways, when things grow too familiar and comfortable for us, we always choose to raunchy it up with a little romantic experimentation. Your leg here, our backs bent this day, dangle these here and lick them—our imaginations are limitless when it comes to our storied love-making. Even if we were blithering retards, dear Nancy, we still have that dirty Japanese comic book with all the pictures of weird positions to try.

What a treasure the fables positions of the Comic Sutra has been to us. We've tried all of them, I believe, Nancy, some of them in other rooms of the house. Some say there are only 103 positions, but you know what I say to that—do them twice. And then do them underwater. There is no spice for a relationship like an aquatic sexual adventure, and as long as our neighbors leave their gate unlocked, we will continue to follow our inner Neptune and Neptilla.

Sometimes, dear Nancy, what we hide is more exciting than what we reveal. A sheer negligee may give a breathtaking hint of the beauty of your naked body, inspiring more excitement and ecstasy than I have ever known. Just as the small football helmet on my wang does the same for you. Sometimes, for an added touch of sensuality, we may play our own erotic game of Blind Man's Bluff, feeling our way to each other's bodies in the dark. At least once we remove the furniture, there's no way I want my dick in a sling again, but that probably goes without saying.

What does not go without saying is that I always prefer your naked body in the light. Do not think my talk of concealing your goodies or making love in the dark means I'm ashamed of your body. Though both of us have aged, Nancy, I find you just as sexy as you were ten years ago, on the sliding scale that we've both aged and, sure, you're not as hot as you used to be. Your sister has your body from ten years ago, but I would not sleep with her Nancy, since I love only you. I may think of her to inspire my erection, but I will make love to you with that erection, Nancy, and almost all the time I'm picturing your head on that body. That could not possibly be cheating.

No matter if you have gained a little weight, if your thighs now rub together in a disconcerting way, and if your breasts do not rise like fluffy couch pillows as they used to. If you have pancake boobs now, it's all the better for me to lay on top of you and cram my love inside. You complain about your cottage cheese buttocks, but I say those indentations are the dozens of dimples from the many wrinkly smiles your ass gives me whenever I look at it.

It's for our erotic life together, and no other, that I keep all those pornographic magazines in my workshed. I don't know why you're getting so bent out of shape, Nancy—you should only be bent out of shape for our coupling. The magazine may be called Chicks With Dicks, but the reason I have those is obvious: A chick with a dick is still a chick. I don't need chicks with vaginas. That's why I have you, my love.

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