sing state of the art poll-tracking technology, the commune has been able to predict this year’s presidential election winner two days early with a probably 98.77439% accuracy, and the result may shock or disinterest you. That’s right; Al Gore will be our nation’s 44th president.

Though Gore has not been a frontrunner in most of the supposedly-reputable national polls heading into the election’s final week, a highly scientific sampling of unregistered voters within a two-block radius of the commune offices has confirmed the reports of future correspondent Future Bob, who recently contacted the commune from the year 2006 with the news that Gore is president and that pop music had gotten really, really shitty. Also: buy stock in flavored condoms now.

Though it is unclear as of yet whether the Gore win will be the result of an unexpected groundswell of support in the election’s final days, or the emergence of thousands of 2000 absentee ballots from Post Office limbo hell, one thing is unmistakably clear. More on that later.

Perhaps even more surprising than the Gore win was the news that both presidential incumbent George W. Bush and Democratic challenger John Kerry finished well out of the money in the general election, trailing such surprise write-in candidates as The Rebel Billionaire, J.R. Ewing, and “that black guy from 24.” Also receiving strong shows of support were Candidate Zero from the NetZero Internet Service commercials, baseball commissioner Bud Selig, and the soothing, dignified voice of actor James Earl Jones.

Though the point may be moot due to the tenth-place showing of Jones’ voice, it is unclear whether the entire personage of James Earl Jones would have been inaugurated had the actor’s voice won, or if Jones would have had to stay out of sight while his voice was electronically matched, Wizard of Oz-style, to a projected image of either Darth Vader, the dad lion from The Lion King, or some kind of CGI morph of the two.

The revolutionary new poll, devised by the commune’s in-house expert expert Griswald Dreck using the latest Polish technology, also revealed some surprising news about America’s political affiliations. Long-though to be a nation composed almost equally of Democrats and Republicans, this latest poll shows a surprising 74% of citizens who list their party as “Yes!” Another 10% belong to the hard-line “Fuck Yeah!” Party, with a small but vocal minority standing behind their “Not Since We Had Kids” Party affiliation. Also of concern to the current establishment are the upstart “Where?” and “Can I Bring My Brother Dave?” Parties, which appeared to grow in size exponentially between our 10am and 4pm polls.

The demographic splits were even more surprising, with over 80% of likely white trash voters believing that gun control means using both hands. And in a minor note, a surprising 82% of Americans believe Gore is our current president, and are happy enough with the job he’s done to vote for a second term.

In other political news, 65% of likely voters expressed their strong opinion that commune reporter Lil Duncan belongs in the “Hot” category, while teen correspondent Boner Cunningham led the “Not” voting with a skyscraping 92%. Though disheartened by the news, Cunningham informed the commune that he hopes to do better in the upcoming 2008 election, by which time he expects his mustache to have fully grown in.

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I have really done it now. And "it" is not a good thing in this case.

Exhibiting an unusual lack of foresight, I signed away the rights to my and Rascal's likenesses to television producers from way out west in Hollywood. Knowing Hollywood as I do, I expected some sort of daring and intellectual, if fictional, account of our conspiracy-cracking and maybe, just maybe, a few life lessons worked in between our hardline journalistic efforts. Well, needless to say, by my outraged introduction, I got nothing of the sort!

What I got, sir, was nothing but a moronic cartoon, called at this juncture, The Adventures of Red & Rascal. I was mortified. I had to look up what it meant just to be sure, and indeed I was.

Being a cartoon is bad enough, but you haven't heard the worst of it. Apparently in this show, if you can call it that, we are portrayed as quite the buffoons. Like a couple of ninnys, Rascal and I, the cartoon versions, traipse around wildly looking for Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, carrying high-powered laser weapons made to subdue either of them, should we catch them. All of which is just plain ludicrous, since current laser technology is insufficient to detain Bigfoot, of course, and if you're going to try to kill him, you'd better have more than a net and a little laser gun, I'll tell you that. Not to mention the show grievously overlooks all the Loch Ness Monster's charity work and simply paints her as a heartless beast. But we're forgetting the larger point, which is this thing makes me look dumb.

I checked with my lawyer, Whistles Goldman, and found out I have absolutely no recourse, since I didn't verify in my contract I wanted complete control of the project. I figured, in my defense, that they knew I was Red Bagel and would want nothing less. But apparently "should've expected it" doesn't count for anything in contract law.

I've spent years building up my reputation and now it all has to end like this. What kind of fear am I going to instill in the puppetmasters who lurk in the shadows if every Saturday morning I'm seen falling hundreds of miles into a chasm and crashing in a puff of smoke? For one thing, they'll have unrealistic expectations on how to kill me, which might not work in my benefit like you'd think. The Red Bagel they all knew beforehand was a clever and cunning adversary, not some disproportionately fat and angular idiot who shouts "Fiddlesticks!" when he's confounded. I shout "Fuck!" and anyone who knows me can tell you that.

I did get a percentage of the merchandising rights in all this, which are worth an estimated $24 million, but what does that mean to me? I've already got so much money I give boxes of it to staff members in lieu of actual birthday gifts. If that doesn't tell you how meaningless it all is to me, I don't know what will. No, the money is nothing to me. My reputation—that's stainless steel, and before now, positively uncorruptible. Not to mention it's going to make Rascal look bad, too, and I will stand for that only slightly more than the damage done to me.

Rascal is a loyal and fearless manservant, always has been since whenever I hired him. Seems like years ago, but the pay stubs don't back that up. Rascal would follow me into the gates of Hell, me safely behind by at least 30 feet, and would only come out when I okayed it. That's how dedicated he is to my service. It breaks what you might call my heart to see him maligned in such a fashion.

Still, I have to admit, that Australian accent they gave him is both dead-on and hilarious. They really did their homework, these Hollywood slimeballs.

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Once again we are celebrating the best kind of weekend, good people—a 4-day weekend. Is there anything better in the great scheme of things than having to work one day less than usual. Of course. There's the 4-day weekend. Praise be to whatever genius created this thing, having only three days of actual work at my job before another, if somewhat disappointingly short weekend, comes around. And there's always that one week when the commune was shut down for Red Bagel's circumcision—that was a sort of gloomy vacation, but the kid survived and our fearless editor was cleared of all charges. Still, I have an idea that will blows your socks all the way up to your hands so you look like a lazy puppeteer: The 368-day weekend.

Are you aware that 2007 ends on a Monday? Good people, this gives us an amazing opportunity to demonstrate that America still knows how to have fun. Let us take that weekend before the last Monday in 2007 and start the longest weekend the world has ever seen. A 368-day weekend! I'm not joking, I wouldn't even know how to joke about something like that, I take my weekends far too seriously. Do you know how many barbecues you could have in 368 days? How many exhibitions of dangerous fireworks? How many days you could mow the lawn, shirtless, enticing the female neighbors? Just think about all the nights you could stay up researching bus tickets to Albany until 3 in the morning, carefree about the stack of work waiting for you on your desk back at that miserable office?

Believe me, I love my job. If it wasn't for my job, I would feel I lacked definition, and had no purpose in the world. It's doing whatever it is I do that makes me who I am. Still, that aside, it's a soul-sucking, worthless, abysmal darkness having to work day-in, day-out. It saps the very will to live out of me thinking of the things I love in my life and how I can't do any of them because I have to spend 40 hours a week performing some bullshit function to keep our crass commercial society steaming along, crushing the innocent under its tracks. So nothing perks me up like a long weekend! And a 368-day weekend would be the longest ever.

Imagine: You leave from work on the evening of December 29, 2007 (and it's been a wonderfully short Christmas week anyway) and you return on Thursday, January 1, 2009. Wait—coming back to work on New Year's Day? I don't think so! By necessity, this plan has to be a 369-day weekend! Good Snapple, this plan keeps getting better by the minute! 369 days it is.

I'm not blind to the practical difficulties of such a plan. I'm well aware that if the banks don't function in 2008, if the farmers don't grow food and the grocers don't stock it, if the power company just shuts down for the entire year, it might cause a less-than-enjoyable weekend. I say bullocks! Which is British for bullshit. Whenever I have a long weekend I can just do a few columns ahead of time, or play catch up when I get back. Why don't we do that? Everybody stock up all the food you can in December 2007, and buy a lot of batteries and gasoline generators. I have a laptop with a battery, so I should still be able to get on the computer. But who wants to? It's a weekend! This prettyboy's not working for the weekend.

Forget the dreary drag of the office, let go of that boring drive to work every day— we can hold the presidential election in 2009. The president can't do the country any more damage if we're all at home watching The A-Team on TV Land. All I'm saying is think about it, Americans. I just might go ahead and take the "long weekend" myself if no one else wants to do it. Feel free to stop by the regal Finger estate to see my wife, Ginger, sunning in the deck chairs and good ol' Rok himself mowing the lawn. Check out my pecs.

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