Capitol Hillbilly Defends, Embarrasses South

eorgia senator Zell Miller brought a congressional debate over the judicial nomination of Miguel Estrada to a screeching halt Tuesday, pitching a spectacular tantrum that left members of the Senate shaken and, if they were from the South, in denial of being from the South. Beating a wooden spoon on an empty coffee can, Miller called for attention and proceeded to deliver a rambling diatribe, punctuated by numerous down-homeisms and analogies involving coon hunting, which some believe was in protest of CBS's proposed reality show The Real Beverly Hillbillies. Full translated texts of the outburst were not available as of press time, as all known hillrods in the area had gone fishin'.

The controversial senator, known for attending congressional meetings barefoot and wearing a straw hat with denim overalls, has been barred from several debates in recent months for inappropriate bursts of banjo strumming and repeatedly not speaking English.

"Ladies and gentlemen, as a proud hillbilly let me say this: shame on you, CBS!
I don't know what they letters stands for but they Can't Be Serious! CBS as a network Coulda Been Somethin' but gone hafta settle for Caught Bein' Sneaks! Cause we of the hillbilly persuasion, and in that I speak for myself and others I know, ain't gonna let them get away with this crackerjack for one more minute!"

"Oh, Christ. Who let him out of his box?" whispered the unfortunately named Saxby Chambliss of Georgia. "There must not be any auto racing on today."

"Too long has hillbillies like myself, and remember I can say hillbilly because I am that, but you best don't, cause it's offensive and will get you a slapped mouth, but we the people have too long been the backside of popular humor at our expenses," continued Sen. Miller. "Offensive comic strips like Snuffy Smith and Lil Abner is just one example. Except for that one where Snuffy gets his foot caught in a beaver den, that was a hoot and a hollar."

"Good lord," groaned Tennessee senator Bill Frist. "At least he left his damned dogs at home this time."

As if on cue, four mangy hound dogs burst loudly into the Senate chamber at that moment and ran around the floor, barking and smelling things. The dogs had to be corralled by Sen. Miller, who offered them bits of raw pork from his pockets.

The proposed CBS show that started the ruckus would have been an update of the popular 60's sitcom The Beverly Hillbillies, only featuring real hillbillies in real danger.

"All throughout hist'ry there has been people who needed to look down on someone as less than theyselves, and the hillbillies next door have long been such a convenient target. No more, gents! The dignity of mountain people shall never again be trampled on by anyonest but theyselves."

"I know he's a Georgia man," confided Sen. Mitch McConnell of Kentucky. "But I'm telling you… He must've had some serious absentee votes from West Virginia or something. Because damn."

Florida governor Jeb Bush appeared and provided a quote without being prompted. "South? No, Florida's not part of the South. Who told you that? Florida's not really the South. I mean, yes, geographically it is south of some states, but inbred retard speaking, we're not really 'the South' at all. Florida has a large relocated population, and the simple fact of the matter is we have way too many Jews to be considered part of the South. Jews and the South don't mix; they're like Kurds and Wheys. Scientific fact. And yes, I admit to being from Texas, but that's beside the point. As everyone knows Texas is its own nation, like the District of Columbia."

Debate continued on the Senate floor over who was really from the South, while Sen. Miller led his dogs to a rusted-out pickup truck parked on the front lawn of the Capitol.

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Rest easy, faithful commune reader, and any friends you might have: the commune is once again back in our hands.

If the spate of month-long repeats we've been running haven't clued you in, the commune was in a bit of a sticky situation as of late. And it wasn't, contrary to popular belief, just an attempt for us to catch a few winks while our competition stomped us into the ground. I had planned a little time off for the loyal commune staff, and everybody else we employ, but something more like a week, or even a few hours with me just not poking everyone to keep them working at top speed. But it didn't turn out as expected at all. Not at all.

To sum up, terrorists invaded the commune offices. Nothing less than Al Qaeda terrorists, or at least it appeared to me when the small group of foreign men stormed our offices with machine guns and demanded we all choose who would die first. We all chose my brother Gay Bagel, of course, unanimous vote (can you beat Gay voting for himself? What's up there?) Raoul and Ramrod tied for second, somehow beating out my favorite, Ivana. I placed a distant fifth, and I think it has something to do with putting real caramel in the caramel apples at this year's commune Days fair. But anyway, back to the terrorists.

If you think we're going to sit around and let third-world demagogues gun us down, you're sadly mistaken. To stand there and let terrorists kill you would mean the terrorists have already won. So I "flipped out," in the modern vernacular, and began to toss body after body against the wall. Many were Ivan Nacutchacokov, always in my ever-loving way, but I'm sure I got a few terrorists in there, too. We had just enough time to vacate the offices and taking our most valuable possessions with us. I had just enough time to unleash my deadly security force of weasels for the bastards to choke on, while Gay Bagel had just enough time to change the website programming and select a variety of articles for a few "best of" issues, so we wouldn't lose precious advertising revenue after we fled the terror. You never know when you might be able to use ten bucks, I suppose.

The fact that Omar Bricks did not follow us, and was in fact found at his desk, business-as-usual upon our return, speaks volumes about the perceptive depths of Mr. Bricks. We did find he had strapped one of the terrorists to the back of a grizzly bear, but upon closer inspection it's apparent he had mistaken the infidel for Ramrod Hurley.

I could thrill you endlessly with tales of our life on the run, searching out hiding places from which to build a new commune and the way our reporters cobbled together stories out of dust and scraps so we could continue to get the truth out to you. But thrilling you would be contrary to the usual routine of this column. Let's just say we were stumped for days on end on how to get our offices back and rid ourselves of the invaders. Well, I was stumped. Everyone else told me to call the police, the FBI, or any number of establishment-serving official organizations who hunt terrorists for fun. I was convinced this was not the right path. Until I got sick of living day and nigh with my staff in an abandoned building. So a quick call to the feds and we had our offices back, and a hefty reward as well.

It turned out, by the way, that the "terrorists" were actually nothing more than some Middle Eastern mercenaries hired by Crochet! Magazine to end our longtime dispute once and for all. Needless to say, Crochet! gots to pay for its major league fuck-up. And if you see Omar Bricks on the street, thank him for that insightful 10-part investigative report on ben-wah balls he did, but tell him I can't publish it because he submitted it to the faux Bagel mercenary. Who is planning to publish it in a prison newsletter, I think.

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Greetings, good homos. Rok Finger here, reporting from the street. Which street isn't important right now, and besides the sign is in a bold font that offends my sensible eyes. Go ask a little bird if you really need to know that detail of my story.

If I've learned one thing from my time on the street, and I have, it's that homos are people too. And by that I mean that everybody's a homo these days. So I hope that's going well for all of you.

Rok Finger, however, is a man cut from a more old-fashioned cloth. Burlap. Most self-respecting men have no time for such a rough, abrasive material, preferring a fabric more pleasing to the touch like Dacron or sponge. Which is why Rok Finger has always sought the company of the female sex. And by that I mean females willing to have sex while I participate or take notes. And thanks to the twin pillars of emotional neediness and parental neglect, these women do exist. Against all odds, especially the steep ones determined by the good people of Las Vegas.

Those unfamiliar with the Finger legend might not know that I built my considerable early fortune on the windfall from a bet I won when my former wife, Arvelyn, slept with me on our wedding night. I had taken action from her parents, a local biologist, and Arvelyn herself, and I am not boasting when I say the odds were low and the payoff large. To this day Arvelyn curses herself for the lack of restraint she showed that night, falling asleep with the key to her chastity belt in plain view on her key ring atop the hotel nightstand. We were married fifteen years before she paid off that debt, after which time I had to learn to use my legs again and adjust to a life of not being carried around all the time.

If I've learned two things from my time on the street, and some would argue that I have, one would be the homo thing, no doubt. But the other thing is that we've really come a long way in bed-making technology since the days when everyone slept in cardboard boxes on the street. You don't realize just how comfortable a real bed is until you've spent a night sleeping in a dumpster full of basketballs behind a sporting goods store. Regardless of slanderous comments I may have made in this very column in the past, those mattress-makers really know what they're doing. My apologies go out to them for any uninformed remarks or calls for bloodshed I may have made previous to now.

If you're waiting for a third thing, you'll have to continue doing so as I haven't learned it yet. To be pathetically, shiveringly honest, I'm tired of learning the lessons the street has to offer. Call me old-fashioned, but Rok Finger prefers his lessons in easily-digestible half hour sitcom form, watching shows like COPS from the comfort of my own home. Or even someone else's home. A friend, neighbor or visually-challenged sexual predator would suffice. I don't claim to be picky, as long as you don't harbor political views or any opinions that differ from my own. Any interested parties need only leave their front door open tonight, with a trail of donuts or pulled-pork sandwiches leading to a warm bed near a cable-ready television.

I'll do the rest.

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