Ashlee Simpson Debacle Becomes 'October Surprise'

nyone waiting for the much-talked about "October Surprise" may have found it when, on an Oct. 23 broadcast of Saturday Night Live, musical ingénue Ashlee Simpson suffered a technical glitch that revealed her lip-synching to the world.

Legendary "October Surprises" have become a part of election year speculation, most memorably in the Carter-Reagan battle for the White House in 1980, when some suggested Carter's administration would pull off an October release of Iranian hostages and seal his re-election. Instead, he completely and utterly failed to release the hostages, and maybe that was the October Surprise, for the other guy. But you get the picture.

In the Bush-Kerry race, wild postulations on 2004's "October Surprise" included the capture of Osama bin Laden, another terrorist attack on U.S. soil, the release of new information about the economy, or a major degradation in the already-shitty Iraq situation. But if anyone had any money on a hack pop singer igniting the lip-synching controversy, you can collect your winnings, Charlie.

Simpson, a teen tart and possibly sister to "Chicken of the Sea" Jessica Simpson, was caught close-mouthed on stage before a live studio audience while the wrong vocal track rolled as her band played a different song. She apologized to the audience at the end of the show, blaming the incident on a wardrobe malfunction; later, Simpson admitted to using the backing vocal, but said she was sorry and it was the first time and she would never do it again, for honest this time.

The embarrassing event follows another flare-up in the lip-synching issue, when Elton John recently blasted ancient crumpet Madonna for allegedly lip-synching in her live concerts. John was drunkenly furious to hear Madonna had been nominated for "Best Live Act" in some shameless back-patting awards show. "Anyone who lip-synchs in public on stage when you pay seventy-five pounds to see them should be shot," said the famous "Crocodile Rock" singer, who is very gay.

As such flaps become newsworthy, it becomes harder and harder for the candidates to avoid the lip-synching controversy that divides the nation. For younger voters and pop-music, lip-synching is often a necessary evil that helps make stage-shows more involved and choreographed, while other voters and real music fans denounce it as technical trickery for the untalented. Older voters also often ask for the candidates to take a hard stance against rap music, which they proclaim is "just talkin'."

Although his platform is definitively against lip-synching, except on M-TV parody shows, Bush and his campaign would rather avoid a public stand-off on an issue that might alienate the young voters he seeks. While preaching to his conservative base at rallies across the nation, Bush has been known to challenge the legitimacy of music acts using pre-recorded vocals.

"My personal favorite has always been the Charlie Daniels Band," said Bush, to the same vigorous roar of applause he always receives. "If you can catch him lip-synching, I'll give you a coupon good for one free kick in my ass."

The Kerry campaign, on the other hand, has played it close to the vest, trying to court voters who feel that lip-synching should be regulated by the states and private citizens, rather than the government.

"I am against, and always have been against a constitutional amendment banning the use of pre-recorded vocal tracks by a live act," said Kerry. "This should not be taken as support of those who would choose to use such tracks live. I believe live music should be sang, not played back. Clearly, I would like to be elected."

Border Patrol Agents Recruited for Iraq, Since Border Patrol Worked So Well

New Adams Dollar Coin Already Worth 75 Cents

Australian Al-Qaeda’s Accent Makes “Osama Bin Laden” Sound Hilarious

Use of Term “Gaydar” Most Effective Means of Telling Someone’s Gay

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.

º Last Column: Witness the Healing Power of Protection
º more columns

I find myself shocked and disappointed with all of the commune staff. No—more disappointed than shocked, with a hint of disgust. So much so I can't even address them, you, in person. I'm hoping to express myself and my disillusionment adequately in my usual space for ranting against outsiders. Oh! Disillusionment! I forgot I was disillusioned in addition to the disappointment, shock, and mild disgust I feel.

You would think my good, if somewhat comical, name would be enough after all these years of employing you ilk of questionable backgrounds. I stood by you when you needed me most. Everyone called many of you unhirable, and I proved them wrong. Though, true, they ultimately had the last laugh. When editors and website employers were treating you like something they scraped off their shoe, and not in a good way, I took you in and allowed you to spread your wings and soar. Except for Omar Bricks, who took the metaphor quite literally with that batsuit. But you know what I mean.

It's true, when we negotiated the contract to prevent you striking back in July, I made quite a few promises. It's also true I cannot keep all those promises now—for good reason. It's a matter of public record since I accidentally published a private diary page my brother Gay is in a legal fight to take over the commune. Fighting these allegations has cost a lot of money, money I don't have or don't want to personally spend. I have had to dip into the commune secret fund to prevent this hostile (and smelly, to boot) takeover. Therefore, obviously, I lack the funding I had previously counted on when negotiating contracts.

To see myself abandoned like this! It leaves me… well, see the first paragraph. Again threatening a walkout just because I have failed to follow through with a few of those promises. I thought we were a family. Apparently we are, like my deceitful no-good brother is family. But I thought we were a better family.

It's true, I can't afford those fancy ergonomic chairs for the office as I pledged to buy in December 2001 and again promised to deliver this year. If you ask me, your posture is good enough. Ergonomic chairs at this point would be tampering with God's plan to form your backs to his will—or Buddha. If you believe in Buddha. I can't make good on the chairs right now, or the staple removers to finally get those mis-stapled papers apart, but you know me. I'm Red Bagel! Sooner or later I'll make that promise again, and I'll keep it. I promise.

We are a low-traffic website with honorable intentions and lofty goals, but not much more. This was never a get-rich-quick scheme, and I never promised you folks a rose garden. Or actually I may have; if I promised a rose garden, I'll get you a rose garden, but I can't do it before this legal nonsense is settled. Until then, I can bring in a fresh bouquet of daisies daily until we get the rose garden up and running. This I promise to you. And it's not a lame never-kept promise like staple removers and the ergonomic chairs.

What about the promises I did keep? Did you ever think about that? Ramrod Hurley has yet to be put in charge of anyone else again, and has yet to find where we stashed his desk. You all got the piggyback rides. What do you want—blood? I can give you blood by the barrelful, if I thought it would help. It will just take me a few days to get in touch with my blood guys.

I'm full of self-pity over all this feuding. Self-pity for you. You have allowed personal greed and horrible spinal curvature to come between this family. Gay Bagel? Fuck Gay Bagel. He's no Bagel in my book. You guys are the real Bagels, as far as I'm concerned.

If you call the planned walkout off, I'll even put that in writing. Legal name changes for everyone!

º Last Column: Save the Super-Accelerator
º more columns