he entire Hundred Acre Woods were in a state of shock this week with the harrowing discovery of the bodies of local favorites Tigger and Piglet, in the aftermath of an apparent murder-suicide. Authorities are uncertain as to what motivated the affable jungle cat to such drastic action, but evidence points to Tigger having a long history of mental illness.

“In the end, Tigger just wasn’t able to bounce back from his manic depression,” the tiger’s psychotherapist, Dr. Melvin Dirth, explained sadly. “One day he’d be bouncing off the walls, driving everyone around him nutso! But then the next, you’d find him down at Eeyore’s place, watching sad old black and white movies and gorging himself on Valentine candies.”

According to friends, the effervescent tiger was also afflicted with mild schizophrenia, haunted at times by an imaginary beast known only as the “Heffalump,” which Dr. Dirth believes represented the exteriorization of all Tigger’s inner demons.

“I think we all have an inner Heffalump,” explained Dr. Dirth. “For some of us, it might be a weight problem, or a fear of heights. For Tigger, it was some kind of deadly woodland beast no one had ever seen. Tigger battled his inner demons by pretending to be a jagular on the prowl, though he’d usually only end up scaring Pooh and Piglet in the end.”

“I keep thinking about the last thing he said to me,” sobbed Hundred Acre Wood resident and Tigger acquaintance Kanga. “He said: ‘Woo-hoo-hoo-hoo! TTFN!’ I didn’t realize he really meant ta-ta-forever.”

A funeral service held Sunday featured a mournful poetic reading of the lyrics to the Tigger favorite “The Most Wonderful Thing About Tiggers” and a gag coffin filled with springy nut-can snakes, which everyone appreciated except for Eeyore.

Less is known about Piglet, the diminutive victim that friends describe as a shy, reedy-voiced pig with a fondness for taxidermy. Family friend Winnie the Pooh, a bear of very little brain and longtime Piglet confidant, paints a similar picture.

“Piglet loved nothing more than smacking his lips all the way down to the bottom of a delicious pot of honey,” Pooh reminisced fondly. “No, now wait a minute. That’s me! Who was Piglet again?”

Sentiment and remembrance gave way to practical concerns over the weekend, as industry insiders began to gossip over who would be taking Tigger and Piglet’s places in the two highly-anticipated upcoming Disney films about the Hundred Acre gang, A Roo with a View and Eeyore’s directorial debut, Jackass 2. Though final casting decisions have not yet been made, early rumor points to Tony the Tiger and Porky Pig as strong likely replacements for the deceased pair.

“If you ask me, and I realize that no one has, though they should,” rambled Tigger neighbor and woodland asshole Owl, “Tigger was a victim of cartoon violence. You can’t let children or large cats grow up watching millions of acts of senseless violence on the television and not expect it to penetrate their psyche. Just look at the violence with which Tigger lived his life, crashing around like a whirling dervish, the end result should have been obvious! I saw this coming a long ways away, which is why I’m the only Hundred Acre Wood resident with doorknobs on his doors. That stupid cat never did figure out how to use a doorknob.”

otel heiress and mysteriously celebrity-like person Paris Hilton ruined the lives of millions this week with the announcement that in two years' time, she will retire from whatever the hell it is she does in order to start a family.

Mothers were crying in the streets and children were dumping out bottles of Hilton's best-selling "Sexpot" children's bubble bath in protest upon hearing the news, and at least twelve people had to be talked down from ordering extra dessert and totally going off their fad diets after the news struck.

Internationally, distraught internet bootleg fans lamented the long nine-month-or-longer wait to see Hilton's childbirth video on the internet. Millions expressed a vague sense of malaise at the thought that whatever Hilton is famous for doing, she won't be doing it any more twenty-four months from now.

According to local teenagers, after taking the "oops, somebody stole my sex video and now I'm really famous, isn't it funny how that works" route to career relevance pioneered by Pamela Anderson and ex-hair band dongmeister Tommy Lee, Hilton raised being famous for nothing to an art form, starring in a show about her being famous for nothing on which she didn't do anything, then specializing in ironic movie appearances that capitalized on her status as not an actress.

"She was in that, that uh, Troy movie," remembered ocelot trainer Doug Finken. "She was that pussy little brother that the Hulk had to bail out. Jesus, man, everybody remembers that."

"No way dude," disagreed Finken's companion, Artie Dolch of White Plains, Arkansas. "She was on that show Real World: Rich Bitches with Lionel Richie. How could you forget that shit? That shit was on TV for like, ten years yo. I never watched it though."

Others remembered Hilton's legendary career differently.

"I know she's got a casino in Vegas, that's for sure," explained a confident Lucia Weisman of the Bronx. "Is she European or something?"

"Oh man, she was hot in that one Winger video," added Staten Island's Frank White. "That one where she was eating that big fucking hamburger, you remember that? That bar-be-cue sauce was hot as shit."

Confident in our grasp of what slobs off the street think, we decided to head straight to the source: Paris Hilton's publicist, Liz Dick.

"She's a brand name," explained Dick.

Ookay. So, a brand of what?

"What's hot this week? Cell phones? Paris Hilton is a brand of cell phones. This week. Check back with us again next week, though, since I hear denim panties are on the rise. On second thought, don't call us again."

There must be some sort of law that says I, Rok Finger, can never live next to a normal neighbor. Well, I suppose the neighbors on the other four sides are normal enough. But that doesn't excuse the fact my neighbors to the right are the most obscene excuses for homeowners you've ever seen. You have seen them, haven't you? Leaving their vehicles on the lawn, setting fire to things at all odd hours, walking around the neighborhood in full Nazi regalia. I am not kidding—these are neighbor freaks.

They are the Joneses, if that is their real surname. I'm not sure if they're Eastern European or Russian or what, but they are clearly not indigenous to the area. They claim to be from Mississippi, but their accents are the worst I ever heard. If people in Mississippi all talk like that, I don't know how they ever get anything done—nobody could possibly understand that gibberish. Come to think of it, I'm not sure they get anything done in Mississippi at all. But that's another column.

Don't try complaining to the neighborhood block association either. There's clearly a strong foreigner sympathy streak running through them—maybe they have a soft spot for those who live behind the Iron Curtain, I don't know. But they always take their side. They let them burn animals at all weird animals, calling it "barbecue," an American tradition. But you throw firecrackers at one cat and all of a sudden they're the SPCA.

Nazi-lovers, too, obviously. You'd think that would faze their liberal sensibilities, but they just became very offended and told me I was mistaken. I know the symbols of hate when I see them, good people. A vicious eagle swooping down on the poor and defenseless, and he has it all over his little stormtrooper outfit. Blue shorts and short-sleeved shirt, and that huge bag of dastardly evil he carts around everywhere. If he does work for the post office like the block association says, than how come a different man delivers my mail every morning? Caught you in a lie, Sigfried.

And those little miniature dwarf spies of theirs leave their riding instruments in the yard all day long. For quick and easy get away, should the FBI ever come in, guns blazing, to finally do their job. I've called them three times now and all I've gotten is a tap on my phone and a flower delivery van sitting outside my house. Where are those damned flowers anyway? They should have been here four days ago.

Ginger, the missus, my missus, says I shouldn't worry about it. Especially since I only go outside to throw firecrackers at passing animals. I'm inside every single hour I'm not at the commune, it shouldn't bother me, she says. But it's for her sake I'm worried. What happens when these Nazi freaks kick open the door and try to drag her away to a concentration camp? Or worse, a fat kids camp? Ginger's practically a size 5 now, she'd waste away down to nothing in one of those horrors of human nature. But I do have to go to work sometime. Red Bagel is starting to suspect that beard on Camembert isn't real, and as soon as he remembers I don't wear a beard anyway, my job may be in the stew.

So I'm going to buy a gun. Long and short of it. Hey! Long and short… barrels are long and short. That was almost a pun. But not quite.

Ignoring that, believe me, a gun is the best solution. In fact, I may buy two, since if I'm attacked by multiple opponents, it looks pretty ridiculous to slide across a floor, one gun blazing, to take them all out. And my biggest fear, other than my wife being subjected to inhuman torture, is looking stupid while killing attackers. So… I suppose I'll let you know how this gun thing works out.

º Last Column: The Concert for New Orleans
º more columns