opular radio talk-show host and notorious blowhard Rush Limbaugh was recently revealed to be in the terminal stages of losing the ability to perform any normal human function but talk. Very soon, Mr. Limbaugh will exist solely for the purpose of flapping his purplish, rubbery lips and belching out enormous amounts of miasmatic wind over the nation's airwaves.

"It's the absolute worst tragedy involving a large Nazi gasbag since the explosion of the Hindenburg," said Limbaugh's personal physician, Dr. H. Himmler. "Oh, the humanity, the humanity, the inanity…"

Dr. Himmler's colleague, Dr. J. Mengele, echoed the sentiment, saying that it is "natural for muscles that aren't used to atrophy, but we've never seen a case as advanced as this one in such a short time."

Apparently the only thing keeping Limbaugh, who was declared brain-dead in the late 1980's, alive is the constant motion of his jaw and tongue. "Well, yes, he is an opinionated fellow, there's no doubt about that," said his personal assistant, a Mr. A. Speer. "He likes to let everyone around him know what he thinks. I believe that's what's kept him going all these years, even though he can't walk, eat, scratch his ass, shit, fuck or smoke a cigar without assistance. Still, you've got to give him credit for such single-minded devotion to doing what he does best." Upon saying that, Mr. Speer rapidly retreated to the back of Limbaugh's expansive chair with a bucket and a large handful of wet paper towels. "Christ, here he goes again, all over his goddamned self," he was heard to mutter.

When asked for comment, Limbaugh replied, "What? Huh? Did you say something? I can't hear a blessed thing! What?"

recent poll has shown that, in the wake of the September 11 flight attendant's brunch gone bad, a vast majority of Americans would be willing to give up many of their Constitutional rights for a guarantee of some measure of safety and security and the chance to "sleep one full night without worrying about some goat-herder's son with bad breath slamming a loaded passenger jet into my apartment building," as one anonymous respondent put it.

Apparently, many citizens feel that a strong police state and the complete suspension of the Bill of Rights is the only way to keep terrorist activity from destroying our precious way of life. Among the rights that people polled would willingly give up are the right to privacy in their homes and persons, the right to avoid wiretaps and other electronic eavesdropping, and the right to be free from unreasonable search and seizure. There was initially some debate on the issue of whether Americans would give up the right to "supersize" their fast-food meals, but that has been tabled at the present time.

Said respondent Connie Bologna, who identified herself as a professional escort for generous gentlemen, "I'd be happy to have about five or six strapping young law enforcement officers handcuff me spread-eagle to an iron cot and give me a full body-cavity search with their nightsticks or batons or billy clubs or whatever you call them. Absolutely. If it helps stop these terroristical attacks, I'm all for it. Where do I sign up?"

Another poll respondent, diva Ladyboy Smacky, commented, "You mean let the police get their hands all up in my stuff? Honey, that happens anyway. But if it means saving our country, well, just let me get my lube first. And fix my makeup, mm-hmm."

Added Bologna, "Oh, yeah, uh huh, honey, I heard the hell out of that!"

The poll was conducted at the Motherlode Bar on Post Street in San Francisco, and has a five percent margin for error, considering that tired queen Charlene and her boyfriend Ray participated, and everyone knows they lie about everything and never answer a question seriously. When it was suggested that the patrons of the Lush Lounge across the street also be polled, Ms. Smacky sniffed, "Who cares what those bitches think? Honey, I'd have to go find a rat just to give a rat's ass."

It takes a lot to shame Rok Finger, friends. Three counts of indecent exposure, a national trial for treason and a bastard child in Spanish Harlem have all failed in the past. But I have to begrudgingly admit that like a Nazi eating a ham 'n' Russian front sandwich, I've bitten off more than I can chew. I am a failure as a physical trainer.

In my brazen youth of two months ago, I volunteered to help my nephew Camembert, a scrawny wire-thin nerd for whom the very word "wormy" was invented, get back into top peak physical condition, like yours truly. It was an embarrassing incident to say the least, for both myself and poor Camembert, who to this day is still checked into a clinic for those with critically poor self esteem, listed in stable but serious condition.

Camembert, son of my wife's sister Gretastock, was recently in a severe car wreck and had been milked like an attractive cow by the insurance company during his stay in the hospital. On top of everything else, now they wanted him to hire some expensive physical trainer of vaguely Swedish descent to get back into shape. Ha! I'd rather him die than be taken advantage of like that! Camembert wasn't ready to go quite that far, but through arrangements with my wife, Arvelyn, I put myself in charge of his physical recovery.

Well, needless to say the first few weeks are better left unmentioned. It was nobody's fault, to look at it objectively, Camembert was way too eager to please and I rushed in a little uninformed. I still say he walked a good minute like a veritable stallion, even if the doctors with their all-powerful "medical science" say the spine is broken and he'll never walk again. I was disappointed, sure, but I could still do a lot for upper body strength even if he was paralyzed for life. Still, you should have seen him walk for that minute, it was quite a sight.

As most of you know, I don't like to work out with fancy gym equipment, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my jock. So I was damned if I'd let Camembert do the same. The first step was to lift my car, just like I used to keep in shape. And let's be fair, people--it's a Volkswagen, it's not a Cadillac or anything, I'd say it's fair game and definitely not "cruel and unusual punishment" like the Geneva Convention says in that quote the judge cited. But, admittedly, perhaps Camembert was a little out of practice to start so big. I say if you can do it there's hardly a greater confidence booster. I surmise with his legs all floppy thanks to Mr. Toothpick Spine that fiery little Camembert couldn't quite get the leverage he needed. I assure you when I set it to neutral I was only trying to help him in his effort and of course I wouldn't have done so if I had any inclination the car would roll on him, but I guess that's why they give you a driver's manual, to detail these sorts of things.

I was at my most desperate by this time, as you might guess, and I had basically given up on my proven methods of training. And knowing me, you'd probably say, "Rok, acupuncture?" Yes, acupuncture, you precocious, smarmy bastard. And when did we get on the first name basis all of a sudden?

The eastern art of applying needles to pressure point seemed like a sure shot to overcome Camembert's numb legs and now-broken arms. I thought I might at least stimulate the muscles and keep them in shape while he was incapable of moving them. Let me tell you now, good people, acupuncture is the biggest Chinese put-on since that papier maché wall they constructed. It's clearly just a scam to earn back from gullible round-eyes the money they lose in their restaurant buffets. Either that or a specific kind of needle is required that they keep secret, because I can tell you the crochet needle is not an effective replacement.

Camembert forgives my well-intentioned mistakes, at least while the demoral fills his bloodstream. Whether or not I'll ever forgive myself is another story.

Okay, I did. Phew. It was hard to live like that, but it's taught me a lesson. There are just some things Rok Finger isn't cut out to do in life. But I'll always know I should try it first just to make sure it is or isn't one of those things. Who knows? Maybe there's still a carpenter, beer distiller, opera singer, or astronaut in me still waiting to get out.

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