Ancient Writings Turn Out to be Gang Graffiti

recent discovery of ancient heiroglyphics in Egypt describing a military victory by the legendary Scorpion King, and believed to be the oldest on record at approximately 5,250 years, has been relegated to runner-up status by a team of archaeologists working for the last four years in this southwest Asian spot where the Tigris joins the Euphrates. The team revealed yesterday that they have uncovered an ancient wall inscribed with primitive cuneiform marks that date back nearly 6000 years, or from about the year 4000 BC.

"We're very excited about this," said team leader Dr. Robert R. "Bob Bob" Clemons. "We've said all along that this is the cradle of modern, recorded civilization, right here, not that wasteland along the Nile. Those Egyptologist bitches can kiss my dusty brown ass, along with the dusty brown asses of every single one of my fellow researchers!"

The marks that had Dr. Clemons crowing like a jaybird and dancing about so excitedly appeared to be no more than a series of triangles and inverted vees, but their significance was made clear by the buzz that rippled through the international press corps that gathered to report the news.

"You can see right here," Dr. Clemons pointed out, gesturing to a series of isoceles triangles, "that there was definite gang activity going on in the area back in those ancient times. This line, for example, reads 'Sargon II is down with Nebuchadnezzer.' And over here, we have a reference to the 'Euphrates Mob,' a rival gang to the prominent 'Hanging Garden Boys' that dominated the banks of the Tigris."

Other cuneiform scratchings were translated as being gang slogans such as "Zoroastrians rule," "Medes are skanky bitches" and "Sumer Power – we the best, fuck the rest." There were also long listings of gang members' names, such as "Smiley," "Johnny Boxer," "Li'l Puppet," "Droopy," "Seymour" and "Jehosaphat."

When asked t o comment further on the translations and their significance, Dr. Clemons simply said, "Maybe some other time period, honey. Ha! That's an archaeological joke. No, but seriously, I've got a bottle of newly-unearthed 3000 year old wine waiting for me back at my tent. I'd hate to see it spoil." Though the remaining members of the press clamored for more information, all they got was a glimpse of Dr. Clemons' dusty brown ass disappearing into a complex of dark linen stretched between poles on the edge of the dig. He was seen carrying a large wheel of cheese, an earthen jar and some dates, and was leading a goat on a rope.

At Least One
Team in SuperBowl ‘Really Came to Play’

War on Terror Finally Focused on Real Threats

Who’s the Black Pit That Killed a Night Club Prick? Elevator Shaft — Damn Right

Apple iPhone to Contain Real Fruit Filling

Testifying against the mob hasn't been as much fun as I thought it would be. Not only has my life been repeatedly threatened and endangered, I've had to change my name and address more times than Martin Luther, and they've made me give back all those nice suits. But good people, I'm convinced I'm doing the right thing. It feels far too horrible to be the funner brand of wrong thing I'm more familiar with.

Despite my own convictions, however, the mobsters gunning for Rok remain unconvicted. Which brings me to something I once vowed to you, my mother, and the state department I would never do—I, Rockwell T. Finger, must leave the country.

I state it somewhat generally, as I've already left the country. At least now I know the world is not flat, it at least has another hemisphere. I'm living down under, and this time I don't mean in mother's basement. Australia, good people. G'day, queen! Like they say locally.

How can you say anything bad about Australia? Let's try. For one, I'm not certain what they've been told, but this language is certainly not English. Where I come from, America, we invented English, and I know English when I hear it. They have all sorts of oddball names for things down here. Mates, sheilas, kangaroos—I know a five-foot rat walking upright like a man when I see it. Cutesy names don't help me get to sleep any better at night. Maybe once I've finished the giant mousetrap I'll know sleep again.

Felchyana's taken to the place quite well, but she's a foreigner, no surprise there. All non-America places are probably alike to her. Unroll a sleeping mat out on the tundra and crash for a while, all the same. She has started to add these Australian colloquialisms to her speech though. I thought at first anything was better than gangsta slang, but changed my mind after coming home to, "Oy, bitch!" a few dozen nights.

Not that I have a job. I intended to commute to the commune as I had in the past, but I ran straight into some body of water following the map north. I can still communicate using this "Intro-Net" device, but it's not the same as being "hands-on" in the office. Sitting at my desk, holding my hands tightly on my old Royal typewriter so Ted Ted doesn't take it to hock at the local Pawn & Gun, trying to think about what really pisses me off that hasn't been sufficiently covered in previous columns or constitutional amendments. Working from home is just not for me.

I will say it's been a new experience. And I hate those. Which is good, since I pay the bills with my seething, undying hatred after I allow it to fester and boil up into column inches. Not that I was ever in danger of losing it, not as long as those New York Times liberals are still alive and kicking. So in the end, it may be good fuel for many more columns, but right now, I'm having trouble getting a good hate on.

But you know Rok Finger's way of doing things—always give everything a fair shot. Then when it fails miserably you can sound even more sincere in your complaints. Felchyana and I are going out this week to find where they filmed that boxing movie trilogy in the Z-Land. Afterwards, if I can spare the time, I'm going to reunite Men at Work, a little extra-credit brownnosing for boss Bagel. Eventually, one day, it will be safe to set foot on American soil again. And when that day comes, I'm going to take a hefty dump on Australia before leaving. With affection.

º Last Column: The Name Game
º more columns

Once upon a time
Or so goes the line
I heard tell a notion
Of a gold magic potion
Its power mysterious,
A bouquet quite delirious
It filled all who drink
With the charm of a king
The strength of ten oxen
For lifting or boxing,
The smell of a flower
And ten times the power,
Eyes that would dazzle
And a wit that would frazzle
The smartest of Greeks,
Send them crying for weeks.

It came in a vial
Gold like a sun's smile,
And gave off an odor
More than peculiar
And all who came near
Fled quickly in fear
And assumed without stirring
The vial contained urine

One day was a man
Who wandered this land
With no sense of smell
And then no way to tell
What lurked in the beaker
That lay near his sneakers
Despite better judgment,
He drank deeply of it,
And found all the gifts
From the previous list
Bestowed upon him
Much to his chagrin

Yet no one believed
And quickly took leave
Despite all his pleas
They said he drank pee

º Last Column: The Man in the Baloney Suit
º more columns