Shuttle Tragedy Not Even a Blip on Radar Screen Any More

ess than two months after the space shuttle Columbia exploded in the skies over a number of western American states, a Gallup poll reveals that at least 87% of all citizens don't even remember that it happened. Six percent said that they recall "something like that sort of happening a while back, or whatever," and another seven percent simply replied "Huh?"

"It was the gravest and most important news of the moment. Americans everywhere felt a profound sense of grief at that tragic loss, at least until more important events occurred," said FOX anchorman Brit Hume. "It was humbling, at the time, to experience such a stirring loss for our nation, but it was understandably forgotten when the Michael Jackson interview aired, and 'American Idol' returned to TV, and after we declared war on France and, uh... oh yeah, Iraq."

"We at CNN are dedicated to forging the path to the truth of these mortifying events and exposing the cause for as long as it takes," CNN anchor Shepherd Smith pointed out. "But that was provided there were no new developments in the DC sniper hearings, or Martha Stewart didn't set her Imclone stock on fire. And, as everyone knows, there were a lot of breaking stories in the days following the Challenger explosion, including- What? The Columbia? When?"

MSNBC reporter Victoria Corderi added with a giggle that she couldn't recall "even the tiniest detail of that story now. I can tell you where I had my hair done last week, though. And I can name all fifty state capitals. Want to hear? There's Augusta, and there's Birmingham, and there's... wait, is it Birmingham? Oh yeah, and I think Atlanta, or does that take the place of Augusta...? And there's definitely Albany. Definitely Albany. There's Sacramento, too, but wait, I'm getting out of order..."

Systems analyst Prudy Righteous, of Hellflung, Arizona, responded to the Gallup poll, and told pollsters that she thought she remembered something about finding a big pile of twisted metal wreckage and what appeared to be a scattering of human remains while vacationing at her parents' ranch in west Texas, but that "It all seems like a blur to me now. You know how you have those funny kind of wakey dreams, where everything seems so real, like aliens standing over your bed and anal-probing you, but you don't really remember it in the morning? It was kind of like that."

Another respondent, unemployed seasonal worker Manuel Shorthoe, of Reamer, Nevada, said that he thought he saw something bright streaking across the sky a couple months back, but added that "You guys prob'ly shouldn't pay much attention to that. I see that kind of stuff while staring at the ceiling in my living room all the time. You know. But hey, did you catch that Michael Jackson interview? Man, that guy is like a total freakin' freak, you know what I'm saying?"

When asked if they thought the shuttle program should continue in light of the now-forgotten tragedy, a full 90% responded "Heck yeah! How else are we going to get to the airport? You know how much long term parking costs there?"

Because the number of people sampled was much higher than usual -- a whopping 57,392 people responded, probably because they were all promised that Bill Gates would send them a check and a gift certificate to the Gap if they did so -- the margin for error was set at approximately plus or minus 14%.

Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead

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In 1947, a researcher at MIT realized that he knew the Pope. Well, not him personally, but his cousin Bernie once met a guy who's grandfather's shoeshine man once stepped on the Pope's robe when he was staggering out of a bar one night, so that was pretty damned close to knowing the Pope. This researcher's gears started turning upstairs as he realized the ramifications of what he had discovered. "I'll be shit in dip, I know the motherfucking Pope!" he yelled to no one in particular.

Then he promptly went out and got shitfaced in celebration, dying of liver failure in a cheap motel nine years later after waging a half-assed battle with alcoholism. But while he was at the bar he had mentioned, loudly and in the form of a song, his discovery to a man in a pirate costume who was occupying the barstool next to him. The pirate said "Arr, the Pope indeed!" and moved further down the bar, but another researcher sitting at a table within earshot heard the conversation. He was less of a fuck-up and actually did something with the information, thank God.

He sold the idea to a third researcher for a fix of heroin, and went off to Naked Lunch his way into oblivion. This third researcher wrote the idea on the back of a map of Utah, where it stayed in his trunk for ten years, until he went to sell the car to a naïve college freshman who actually believed that the car's monstrous rust problem was a new high-tech ventilation system. When the researcher was cleaning out his trunk he found the map with the idea scribbled on the back, and since he had recently been fired from the University for selling test tubes as magic condoms, he decided to make this his next project.

He called the project Six Degrees of Mark Womack, because Mark Womack was his name and he liked to tell naïve freshman girls he had six degrees so they would sleep with him. When one would occasionally ask what his degrees were in, he'd make up subjects like Astrocomedy, SuperBiology and Calculean. Womack spent the first six months of research feverishly trying to figure out how he knew the Pope, and why he couldn't kick this lousy fever. First he called everyone he knew to ask if they knew the Pope, then he just started calling people at random from the phone book in hopes of finding a link. After six months and an assassination attempt by the phone company, the answer finally came to him while he was driving to the police station to bail his brother Don out of jail.

Don had once been arrested for sneaking into Madonna's house dressed in a floor-length evening gown, and Madonna had of course recorded the theme song for the Pony Express: "Express Yourself." Pony Express rider Wild Buffalo Bill McLanihan had once shot Walter "Left Turn" Sykes for riding his horse too slow on the hauling-ass trail, and Sykes was the maternal great-great-grandfather of Father Parrish Lunt, who once French-kissed the Pope at a Vatican mixer before being reassigned to Buggery Beach on Easter Island.

It was almost brilliant in its simplicity! And more importantly, it proved scientifically that Womack kind of sort of knew the Pope. He ran out into the street half-dressed to share his incredible news with the world, and was run over to death by a trolley.

Luckily for science, that pirate-dressing guy from the bar ten years previous had been working on the same problem this whole time, mostly while he was in the doctor's office awaiting his weekly treatments for lupus. Samsonite Cooks had taken a somewhat different approach than Womack, focusing instead on the idea that any two people on earth could be connected by a chain of six or fewer acquaintances. He came up with this idea after running into an old ex-girlfriend he'd been avoiding and subsequently misunderstanding the title of Womack's project. However, he quickly realized that this was bullshit, since it's not like Leon down on 6th street knows the freakin' President. Shit. That dirty dog would need at least 100 steps and a hang glider.

Thus, the idea lay dormant in Cooks' sock drawer for another forty years until he sold it in a sports bar men's room to Michael Bacon, celebrity brother and one half of the celebrity-and-his-brother musical duo The Bacon Brothers. Bacon was desperate to step out of the shadow of his actor brother Kevin, a man who wears jogging shorts so hideously small you can see his Bacon bits. Michael Bacon pitched the idea to Ernie Bradley, an upstart board-game publisher desperate to step out of his own brother's shadow, and there the parlor game Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon was born. Michael became rich but still could not escape from his brother's shadow, so he had to settle for playing out of key when Kevin sang, making him look like an asshole.

Science jumped on the Six Degrees idea and claimed it was real, much as they did after the first Star Wars became popular. The world took notice, said "Huh, weird" and went back about their lives. More importantly, however, a young scholar-for-hire named Griswald Dreck started his own mail-order business, linking customers to the historical figures of their choice for a nominal fee, and ended up landing a regular columnisting job after he linked Red Bagel to Ivan the Terrible in four steps flat. It's a small world, as they say. Or sing.

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As my readers know, I believe strongly in charity—one look at my wife will tell you that. She holds the demeanor and loving look of a woman who's weathered many a charity event at her husband's side. So most Rokophiles are well aware of "Rok Finger's Kids," a charity that helps out comatose orphans or bed-bound sons and daughters of parents who just don't give a damn.

These are some of the sweetest kids you'll ever meet, the ones who are awake. Many act like nothing's wrong and are just glad to be alive, truly they wouldn't even know they were miserable recipients of God's wrath if Rok wasn't there to tell them.

And Rok isn't in this for the trendiness or ego-trip, though both are very nice; Rokwell T. Finger is here to help. In the past I've tried Labor Day and Memorial Day Telethons, but I really don't stay up past 6 p.m. that often, so those haven't been very successful. But every New Year's Eve I hold a telethon in their honor down at the Wild Pussy Cat Club and, though it's untelevised, all donations go to the kids, bless their bedsored little hearts.

But all that money is not enough, the kids still need new things. Like sheets, pillows, some need medicine or something, not sure of the details, I just know they're needy. So that's why Rok is introducing these high-grade cookies, the sale of which will benefit the kids immensely. Though Lord knows they could never eat any of them, they'd start choking or something, bless their little reclined souls.

Each box is $20, but for that price, kids will get new socks and reading lights or something. The comatose kids will get something, not sure what, but I'm willing to bet those nurses who wipe them and role them over and empty their piss jugs, they don't work for free, you know? Twenty dollars will go a long way to help with that. If I ever find a place to buy everything cheaper than Target, maybe some corporations join in with the charity (wink, wink) we'll be helping more and more kids faster than you can say "huge tax write-off and free publicity" (wink, wink).

But it won't feel like charity, no sir. These are high-grade cookies, I assure you. With names like "Super Chunkolate Chip," "Strips O' Chocolate Heaven," "Chocolotta Paradise," "Pecandides," "Raisin Canes," "Stupendos," "Mintos," "Peanut Butter Jesuses," and "ButtCookiers," how can you think of NOT enjoying the hell out of them? They're so scrumptious and good these bastards melt in your mouth before you open the box. I'm not kidding you, I've tried them, they're good. One Pecandide nearly put me in a sugar coma, they're rich and packed with deliciousosity.

I guarantee you one taste of any of those cookies, the next Girl Scout who comes to your door, you'll dry heave in her face. They're that damn good. You'll get so addicted you'd kill your mother for a box. And it all goes to help the kids, so how can you refuse? You can't! Don't try it! Just give into temptation and buy a bunch!

I must stress these cookies are sold in BOXES, I cannot sell cookies individually. I suggest all you moochers out there who are too cheap to spring for a whole box all go into together and pool your money or something.

Also, if you'd like to help sell these cookies on behalf of "Rok Finger's Kids," I'd love your help. I'm pretty much left to sell them alone, the kids aren't out chasing down leads or anything, I can guarantee you that. So please, come out and overindulge for charity.

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