he first attempt to locate 33,000 missing sex offenders in California failed when there was no response to a highly-publicized offer of a phony coupon good for "one free molestation and/or sexual assault."

It was a disappointment for state government, who has faced ridicule since January 7, 2003 for its admission that it lost 33,000 sex offenders from its registry. The registry was created in response to Megan's Law, legislation requiring convicted sex offenders to register their addresses with the state, manipulatively named after a murdered sexual assault victim.

"The coupon was not real, let me stress that," said California Department of Public Relations VP Millie Scheiner. "Damn truth-in-advertising laws required we put that note in all ads promoting the 'amnesty coupon,' but we made it really small and put it in the fine print. Who reads that? Well, apparently sex offenders are wise shoppers."

Part of the annoyance at the failure is that the state will now be forced to pursue more expensive searches to find the missing sex offenders. Budget analysts have suggested that it could cost the state at least $20 million to find the sex offenders and register them once again. To stave that cost, other proposals are already flowing in.

"A major step in reducing the cost of the search is to eliminate places you won't find sex offenders," said Geoff Jermaine, founder and president of PervSearch, an independent company formed with hope of winning a state contract to find the missing sex offenders. "For instance, it's pretty safe to assume we won't search police stations. We know they're not in prisons either, so that cuts down on a lot of search areas. How much of California can there be?"

The second step, according to Jermaine, is to actively seek places that might provide a good hiding place for sex offenders, like Georgia and Catholic churches.

"Our first step will be to check stadiums, large open fields, mid-size towns and army bases, anywhere that could house 33,000 people—that's a large number of perverts to go walking down Hollywood Boulevard in the daytime," said Jermaine. "But more than likely we'll have to consider the possibility that they've all split up by now. It's a damn shame. That's going to make the search a lot harder."

The state government hasn't ruled out hiring an independent contractor to locate and register the missing sex offenders, but they are still considering all options at this point. Governor's office insiders have leaked a number of possible methods of finding the sex offenders, including putting their faces on the side of milk cartons with messages such as, "Have you seen me? I'm a rapist. Please call 1-800-SEX-PERV." Early success with the milk carton search method could lead to T-shirts with similar messages, and might even catch on as a fad with cynical high schoolers and twentysomethings.

Still other solutions are on the drawing board. America's Most Wanted star John Walsh said he has approached the state government with a proposal for a weekend marathon on Fox where they show pictures of the missing offenders, present computer representations of what they might look like with old-time mustaches and glasses, and take calls from anonymous informers.

"I think it could be really great, for California and for Fox," said Walsh. "We could have a huge total board behind me and periodically I tell them to show me the total, and the roll up the numbers. We could continue right through Sunday night and I bet you we get at least 25,000 of them back. With the help of viewers like you."

Recovering the sex offenders would be the first step for California in recovering from its humiliation. According to insiders, Gov. Gray Davis has received countless prank calls from national senators, representatives, and other governors asking if he left the sex offenders in his other pants pockets, or saying they have seen the 33,000 missing ex-convicts at the local Safeway.

Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead

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Rok Finger's shopping list is full to bursting this year, like my bladder. This time last year I was a different man, though both of us the same height and with the same hideous facial features, and I bought only a few gifts, for my wife, Arvelyn, my cat, Makeshift, and the handful of bastard children I have spread across America like Jenna Jameson.

This year is a different story, though the similarities to the plays of Neil Simon are strong enough to invoke copyright-infringement issues; this year I've had to fall back on my friends, both at my new apartment home and here at the commune offices, so it's safe to say I have a long Christmas list this year.

I've never been good at Christmas shopping. In fact, a dispute over whether or not I owed my first wife of 30 years, Wyfe, a Christmas gift was what ended that marriage. It's just hard to find the perfect gift sometimes, especially for under $5.50. At first I thought I'd buy all my friends one of those Segway Human Transport thingamajigs—well, you won't believe what the snakeoil salesmen are charging for those things. I'd have to put in a lot of overtime to get even one, and I could probably supply everyone with a lifetime supply of shoes that would work just as well.

As I said, I have a long Christmas list. It includes everyone here at the commune, like Red Bagel, Ramrod Hurley, Lil Duncan, Ivan What's-his-commie-name, Omar Bricks, Raoul Dunkin (though everyone's chipping in on a bag of dead rats for him, so that saves some money), Sampson Hartwig, Boner Cunningham, the tall black drag queen, the short mealy-mouthed loser in the overalls, that castrating-bitch ex-wife of Ivan's, the girl from that old TV show, the pixie in the cupboard, the movie review guy, Ramon Nootles (or as some like to call him, "big bag of S.T.D.s"), those three photographers, including the one who charges Bagel five different paychecks by using different names like "Snapper McGee," Ned Nedmiller and the insane chicken (though I can probably get them one combined gift), the dead baseball player reporter, and the scary bitch who tells children's stories. Oh, not to mention all the Rent and Poet people, the Book people, the guys who do the tiny type, the copywriters, the cleaning staff… what I mean to say is, forget this malarkey, Rok Finger is getting cards for the entire office staff. Uno cards.

Which leaves the few important people in my life to get real gifts for, mainly Camembert and Lee. They'll be hard to buy for—Camembert will likely want all kinds of handicapped-oriented gifts, like books or sweaters. Lee will probably want things musicians like, such as bass strings, tuning forks, and primo grass. I can't afford these sorts of things. And I haven't even bought anything yet for the former pro-wrestler stalking me.

Very possibly I'll just go back to the old plan, buying something for Arvelyn and Makeshift—at least they never complained. Sure, Makeshift would release an antagonistic "meow" and soil my couch, but I don't count that as a complaint unless I hear, "Fuck you, Finger." Which he's only said once, so I'm in good standing. And Arvelyn, well, maybe I'll just drop the counter-suit and give her the alimony she's asking for. It is only $5.50. Ah, Arvelyn—say what you will about her, she knows a man's limitations.

Hmph. Now I feel very sad and depressed… doggone suicidal rage, all attached to the season. Christmas is here at last!

So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good gift—Rok Finger autographed press photos. They cost practically nothing since I clip them out of printed columns from work, and they say exactly how much everyone means to me.

º Last Column: Re-Decorating My Life
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A Gonit on a sled
races home to his bed
through the colon of a whale
sleeping on a bed of shale
snoring gently, without fail.

Through corridors the green sled slid
past hooks and nooks
where blue snails hid
by toreadors who long debated
how they'd come to be located
improbably, deep in these innards
and who was singing that Lynard Skynard.

The Gonit's sled shot past the belly
where several ships swayed in the jelly
each one's crew singing quite loudly
a different tune, and they sang it proudly
all except for an alien saucer
who's crew sat glumly, reading Chaucer.

And from the stomach's cavernous walls
sounded pounding, and muffled calls
to keep it down, we're trying to sleep
and we hope you drown, you bleepity-bleep.

The Gonit slid
the Gonit slipped
past a half-digested ship
and a clam who had the grippe
and a drunk who was quite ripped.

A school of sturgeons
were seen merging
with a herd of white sea horses
and a jar of jellyfish changing courses.

A submarine was wedged between
an obese dolphin and a walrus,
six antelopes who'd caught a virus
squeezed by in search of mint papyrus.

And still the Gonit sped along
from colonic locations far and yon
through endless twisting tubes and tunnels
that slowly narrowed like a pink funnel.

The tunnel's subtle turn and twist
lulled the Gonit like a hypnotist
and his eyes began to droop
by the three-hundredth loop-the-loop.

First he nodded, then he dazed,
his eyes took on a glassy glaze
as he began to dream and dream of sleeping
because quite shut his eyes were creeping.

Into a Gonit dreamscape he sweetly slipped
as his body slouched forward and his round head dipped,
a move he regretted, there can be no doubt,
when he missed his turn and was pooped right out.

º Last Column: The Girl Everyone Just Sort of Assumed Was Native American
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