ollowing the September special election of Republican Bob Turner to fill the Congressional seat disgraced by Democratic Rep. Anthony Weiner, newspaper headline writers are entering into a devastating period of depression as they face the prospect of never again writing a Weiner-centric news headline.

Rep. Weiner, a U.S. Congressman with a strong Democratic record since 1998, was the subject of a scandal in May 2011 for sending women illicit pictures of his namesake via Twitter. The accusation proved disastrous for the New York Representative and Democratic Party, and a windfall for bored and humorless newspaper publishers who were thrilled to be writing about naughty bits at long last. Boldface text announcing "Weiner Hanging Out on Twitter" and "Weiner Exposed Online" besieged the sleepy culture of America, increasing newspaper sales for people who found it funnier to read than just listen to a description of the disappointing sex scandal on CNN.

A little more than a week after the incident, the Congressman admitted to emailing links to women he was interested in polling, and by the end of June, the 9th District Representative resigned his seat. Headlines continued to roll, tongues firmly in cheek among the newspaper industry, proclaiming, "Weiner Loses Standing," "Weiner Ejected From Seat," and the timeless classic "Weiner Suddenly Pulls Out." Bad times for the sexually mischievous Congressman, great times for headline writers; although the news cut short some of the fun of the journalism industry, they were still guaranteed months of fun as a special election seemed some months off to fill the vacated position.

A confidential source from the New York Daily News, whose name simply isn’t as funny as Tony Weiner, remembered the past four months as if they were last year.

"As a copy editor whose only functions are to proofread stories and write headlines, let me just state for the record you’re lucky if you get big news story in your lifetime—think about it. A big-time politician exposing himself on the internet? That it in itself is gold. But the guy is named Weiner. Jesus H. Christ, that’s better than Cox. You gotta savor it," said the anonymous dude. "Even after he resigned we spent days writing headlines about him, just because dammit, we earned the right. I think we left three serial killings without coverage while we came up with ’Who Will Replace Weiner’? That was my favorite. Man, we’ll never get those days back."

This reporter reminded the confidential informant of the now classic, "No One Big Enough to Fill Weiner’s Slot," then we laughed ourselves stupid.

The halcyon days of headline writing seemed to fade as the date of the special election approached, and dull-as-dishwater Republican Bob Turner defeated the even-less-spectacularly-named Assemblyman David Weprin. The Republican election not only means a big GOP win in a district they haven’t held since 1923, but a promise that future Weiner-related headlines will only seem a desperate play for attention by print tabloids and newspapers.

At the New York Post, there was a somber feeling in the air on election night, and boos went around as a Republican victory was announced. All eyes were misty, and the feeling was best exemplified by copy editor Dawn Draper.

"Gentlemen… that’s our last Weiner." Half-hearted chuckles were all that met the dour atmosphere.

Draper spoke further on the subject as deadline approached, the staff rushing about us like mad men.

"Of course we’ll miss the chance to make Weiner-related headlines, and not just because it sold more papers," Draper said. "We at the Post have been doing Weiner write-ups before anyone else. I myself am responsible for our coverage of the firing of his Chief of Staff in 2006, which spawned the immortal headlines ’Weiner Loses Head of Staff’ and ’Behind Weiner’s Big Sack.’ But it’s never going to be enough for us again to write more Weiner coverage, to give the full skinny on Weiner—sorry, hard to stop doing that. For a while, it was a perfect storm of scandal and ’you’ve got to be shitting me’ names—everyone was game, we were all on board. Oh, the nights we sat here, giggling like school girls over Chinese take-out and writing up new Weiner coverage. We’ll never have that again."

Despite the morbid pessimism of some, others in the industry hold out some hope for the future. The New York Times, famous for its conservative coverage of news and events, has already announced their support for a fresh batch of congressional candidates in 2012, among them 8th District contender Penny Dick, 12th District candidate Patrick Dong, and 2nd District dark horse Mike Dixon-Kuntz.

enis knifing suspect Catherine Kieu Becker, a Southern California woman suspected of slicing off her husband’s penis with a knife and throwing it into the… oh God, I’m gonna be sick. Jesus Christ, she really threw it in the garbage disposal? That’s fucking horrible. Anyway, sorry, I’m better now. Catherine Kieu Becker was released from prison this week in hopes that the dismissal of her case will be the last time anyone in America has to hear the phrase "penis knifing" ever again, or the gory details of just how utterly knifed Becker’s husband’s penis truly was.

"We thought this would be best for everyone," Orange County Superior Court Judge Roy Hanson explained, wincing as he crossed his legs in an unconscious cringing reaction to the very concept of having his penis knifed.

The 48 year-old Becker had been charged with torture and aggravated mayhem after she allegedly drugged her 51-year-old husband’s tofu soup dinner, then tied his arms and legs to their bed frame, pulled down his pants and—I’m sorry, but this is what happened—slowly worked her way through his penis with a dull paring knife, pausing several times to saw through particularly tough cock sinews and to dig at uncooperative bits with a rusty spoon. After finally freeing the penis from its host, Becker allegedly carried it into the kitchen, where she tossed it into the garbage disposal and, wait for it, turned the disposal on. Guys, trust me, try not to imagine what that sounded like.

When officers reported to the scene, they found the victim "bleeding profusely" from the groin (sorry, non-ladies, I know it’s a painful image) and in-between spells of retching, managed to fish pieces of the victim’s penis out of the garbage disposal and transport them with the victim in a sandwich bag to the University of California at Irvine Medical Center, where an emergency cocktoplasty was performed. According to unaccredited medical texts, a coctoplasty involves fitting all of the remaining hunks of a penis into a penis-shaped mold, pouring in roofing caulk and honey, and baking for one hour at 375 degrees.

"At first we weren’t sure what was hunks of penis and what was hunks of pot pie that someone had thrown in the garbage disposal earlier that day," explained responding officer Lt. Randy Fletch. "There were some chunks and stringy bits I was sure were pork or tofu or something, but I showed ’em to Dan (fellow officer Daniel Strobridge) and he smelled ’em and was like Nah dude, that’s cock and I was like Yeah, I guess that does kind of look like cock. Anyway, I’m sorry these are horribly disgusting quotes."

Early reports indicated that the penis knifing was inspired by an argument over—God, does it even matter? Is there anything that can ever really justify a penis knifing? the commune news thinks not.

Judge Hanson is on record as having decided to dismiss the case after half of the jury pool passed out during meetings with the prosecution. According to reports, nine of the ten fainting jurors were men, and the other was a big, strapping lass with a deep voice like RuPaul.

"It’s time for America to move on from this penis knifing case," Judge Hanson explained. "And from all future penis knifing cases. I’m serious, we don’t want to hear about ’em. Work that shit out on your own, I don’t want it in my courtroom. If I ever hear the words ’penis knifing’ again, no matter when, it will be too soon for me to hear the words ’penis knifing’ again. Oh God, why can’t I stop saying ’penis knifing’?"

Emil's Note: I know what you're thinking, loyal commune-ist: "Oh great, more recycled Finger columns from bargain bin porn mags." Frankly, I'm shocked you would think so cynically. You're wrong on that point as well, as this is BRAND NEW FINGER! It only seems recycled because that's part of his charm. Yes, I found Rok Finger once more, working in the most unexpected of places, as part of a nightclub act in Savannah, Georgia. Yes, now that I think about it, I suppose it was kind of expected. After much cajoling, and tender massage, I convinced our staid old tell-it-like-it-should-be columnist to volunteer a few more pages to remind us of better commune times. He isn't likely to move out of the Peach State yet, but this is almost as good as having him right here in the office! I'll just imagine that old creepy collectible Linda Hunt doll mom keeps down here is him until the real thing is in attendance. So enjoy fresh finger, good people…

My faithful readers, please be kind to me, as I'm a bit out of practice on ranting in typeface. But the Arab who owns the commune now assures me thousands of my fans are camped out in front of the building and will give no one any peace until they receive more of my motivational thoughts and harrowing true stories.

The god's honest truth is that I don't have much to write about. I have not been opining in a very long while, except on stage, and my life has become considerably boring since I earned my living at the commune. Times were tough, I borrowed a sizable high-interest loan from a hyper-intelligent 10-year-old, the enema bar failed, I couldn't pay it back, so I had to go into hiding working in show business. It's the world's oldest cliché, I'm boring myself talking about it.

Still, it's fair to say there's enough of interest to me to keep me breathing. My wife is working the upscale Hoboken real estate market while I'm living the high life on the Savannah entertainment scene, which is perhaps a little depressing, but we're both living our dreams. Her dream involves lots of land and garish sport coats, mine involves thing people really care about, but that doesn't mean they're not equally important. The fact people pay to see me perform each night is what means they're not equally important. Yes, I have broken into the lucrative world of voice-catching action figure performance.

Some people still use the term "ventriloquist dummy," not realizing how offensive it is to those of us who perform. For instance, the little pissant camel-jockey who asked me to write this column still says "dummy, but did he ever think how dummies feel to be called dummies? True, most of them are inanimate wooden dolls that display no emotion, but that doesn't mean they don't feel. And what about the rest of them that do, namely me? So get politically correct already, you stupid Polacks.

I've always had an eye for the voice-catching-inclined, as we tend to shop in the same stores, so it was a lateral move from wearing their clothes to performing in the business. True, I had originally gone to the Yak Yak Club to work as a gruff but lovable bartender, but they took issue with the fact I could not be seen behind the bar. It was the Great Raymondo who noticed I had a touch of talent, particularly looking "creepy as fuck," and while I don't know much about voice-throwing talents like Raymondo, I can say he does a dynamite impression of my voice. Except my Johnny Carson impression, he can't do that. Isn't that odd?

Raymondo, like most convicted sex offenders looking to break into show business, was down and out, and could not afford his own voice-catching action figure, so he asked that I join his stage team—I even get first billing—and simply enhance his jokes by making funny faces and spinning my head around 360 degrees. I'm still working on that part, although I have managed a firm 180, which is no small feat.

Speaking of which, my small feet help. All my life I have been subject to ridicule for being undersized, as well as especially unattractive, but now at long last, when people see me kicking my tiny shoes back and forth while Raymondo mimics my voice, they don't make fun of me, they just laugh and laugh and laugh.

Admittedly, in a perfect world, I would have a lot more to do with the material we perform. It's kind of Raymondo's baby at this point, I'm just shaking it violently. I respect his humor is mostly wood-based and, yes, I get some of the best zings at his expense, but I don't see why we couldn't work in some of my stinging observations on how unnecessary queens are and why should we have to pay taxes. Not to mention a little soft shoe, properly amplified so the audience can hear the tap sounds. But everybody stops somewhere, and once I get to that level of fame where I can squeeze Raymondo out, it will be "Rok & Nobody" instead of "Rok & Raymondo." You know, I've never considered it until now, but I might even cut the "& Nobody" out of the title, why should I have to share my marquee with Nobody?

This has been a reminder of the good old pre-voice-catching days. Almost enough to make me miss the common. Still, big fame awaits me, and I must run. I'm auditioning for Jeff Dunham later today, and I'd do anything to get on that guy's meal ticket. I'm even considering a surgery that allows the voice-thrower to move my mouth by sticking his hand into my back. I'm not saying yes to it, just considering it. Surgical augmentation is all the rage in show business, the showgirls tell me.

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