he White House announced today that a special investigator has been chosen by Attorney General John Ashcroft to question Al Qaeda prisoners being held at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. After much consideration, Ashcroft's choice was San Francisco detective "Dirty" Harry Callahan.

"Callahan is one of the best interrogators anywhere," Ashcroft told reporters. "For an investigation of this caliber, we decided to call in someone outside the FBI and CIA to take over the questioning at this point."

Controversy surrounds Callahan, who has been labeled by the ACLU and Serial Killers' Trade Union as a "dangerous, reckless monster" who will stop at nothing until he gets what he wants.

"Say what you will," Ashcroft responded to the charges, "Callahan gets results."

Inspector Callahan, who has earned the nickname "Dirty" Harry among his colleagues, fielded a few questions after Ashcroft's introduction.

A reporter from the Washington Post confronted Callahan about charges of brutality and the disregard for procedure, particularly concerning First Amendment rights. Squinting, Callahan leaned into the microphone and whispered menacingly, "What about the rights of those two buildings?"

Ashcroft began chuckling under his breath until he tumbled out of his chair.

White House officials confirmed Callahan would be traveling to Guantanamo Bay immediately to begin his interrogation of the Al Qaeda "ragheads," in his words. Already Callahan has begun his plan, requesting five minutes alone with each prisoner unsupervised, which was immediately granted by the Ashcroft.

Assisting Callahan in matters of interrogation will be his recently-assigned partner, also from San Francisco, Ruiz de Santo. De Santo, a young officer fresh from the beat to the detective squad, is excited about his opportunity to work with Callahan.

"Sure, he's a little gruff," De Santo said with a cheery smile, "but underneath that I'm sure he's a good guy. You wait and see. After all this I'm going to invite him over to the house for dinner with the wife and kids. He'll be a family man by the time we're done, I'll bet my life on it."

Callahan has recently aroused controversy by calling the trial of alleged Al Qaeda terrorist Richard Reid a "sham" and proposing trials of terrorists be cut short so they could be taken out back and shot on live television. Civil rights advocates were outraged, especially at Callahan's suggestion that current airline policies for dealing with unruly passengers be replaced.

"When I see a whacko trying to light his shoe bomb on fire, I shoot the bastard, that's my policy," stated Callahan.

The White House is optimistic that Callahan will retrieve valuable information that could lead to the dismantling of the Al Qaeda terrorist network, and perhaps even the capture of Osama bin Laden.

"By the time Callahan's through with one of those guys," President Bush said, "we'll know everything from where he was born to how many times his girlfriend farts in bed. The terrorist being questioned, I mean, not Callahan."

n a recent poll of Enron CEO's, the American economy was said to be doing "just fine right now, just fine."

Enron CEO and acknowledged Ponzi-scheme expert Ken Lay, queried while attending a White House get-together with his butt-buddy George W. Bush, the alleged president of the United States, put to rest rumors that the economy was about to go south, or was, in fact, already in the tank.

"That's a lot of horse shit," Lay said, laughing heartily. "I mean, sure, a few thousand people have been laid off recently, and maybe one or two of 'em are going to have to sell their boats or their vacation houses, but from where I sit... ha ha, excuse me, I just find this very amusing... from where I... ha ha ha!... from where I sit... oh, dear god, this is too much..." Lay chortled convulsively for a few minutes, then paused to wipe tears from his eyes. He took a few deep breaths with the aid of what appeared to be a large canister of nitrous oxide, and shook his head vigorously. Finally somewhat composed, he continued, "From where I sit, the economy is just peachy-fucking-keen! Ha! Ain't that right, Cracky?"

Lay then reached over to smack the alleged president hard on his backside, which caused him to nearly drop the glass pipe and butane lighter he had been holding up to his face, and to cough and choke on the voluminous clouds of acrid smoke that billowed from his mouth and nose.

"Oh, yeah. Whatever you say, Kenny," Bush said, once he had regained his composure. "Kenny's my main man," he went on, "whatever he says, you can trust it to be truthorious."

When asked if he thought most other Americans shared his rosy view of the current economy, Lay said simply, "Ha! Who gives a flying fuck? What color are their parachutes?"

To which Bush chimed in, "Yeah. Joke 'em if they can't take a fucking."

Lay then stared hard at his compatriot for a few long seconds, and finally commented, "You know, you really are a fucking idiot, Cracky, just like everyone says."

"Shut up!" retorted Bush. "Am not!"

The two then engaged in a slap fight that lasted nearly ten minutes, with Lay appearing to get the best of Bush by feinting with his left hand and repeatedly connecting with his right on Bush's cheek.

Asked for further comment on the state of the economy, Lay just waved his hand in dismissal and chuckled some more.

Signaling that the interview was concluded, Bush then turned his attention back to the glass pipe and lighter, ignoring both Lay and this reporter.

The event was a simple Saturday morning gathering that featured Colin Powell doing a sprightly tap dance for the guests, followed by John Ashcroft demonstrating some of the latest torture techniques on a group of unnamed Middle Eastern detainees and a ritual deflowering of all the underage daughters of the White House staff. Brunch was served, and it was a hearty Texas-style repast, composed of hearts of retarded felon salad in a balsamic vinaigrette and baked Mexican baby head with truffles.

No one is more surprised than Rok Finger at the results of his latest physical. I will spare you the details I usually render in graphic description, inviting several letters of complaint to my mailbox, and instead inform you of the doctor's shocking surprise.

"Rok, you're a dancing machine." Those are the words he said, I kid you not.

By this he meant my physique is perfectly constructed for dancing the night away. The twist in particular would be no problem for someone with my spinal make-up. It appears my vertebrae are especially springy and soft, which explains why after starting my early twenties at a good five foot two I've shrunk so badly over the years to now stand at three foot nine. Though I'm not complaining, it's a small price to pay for perfectly filling out a pair of boogie shoes.

True, my skill in dancing is hardly noteworthy. In fact, my previous efforts to dance have resulted in being strapped down by paramedics with a wallet placed under my tongue. But such a small obstacle shouldn't stand in the way of my destined greatness on the dance floor. You heard what the doctor said—a machine, he said. Dancing. Machine. You're. A. Rok.

Your friend Rok Finger is no stranger to scaling large obstacles, people. And this Everest of an obstacle will be conquered. I've already begun.

The first step, I've calculated, is to increase my rhythm, or as a the hip will define it, acceptance of the beat. After several further explanations and fruitless examination of Webster's Dictionary and P-Funk's Dancetionary, I decided the best course of action was to start nodding my head to a whack beat. It was difficult, I had to practice at home before I could take it out into a club or anything, but I think I've become an expert at beat technology.

It is a small step (dance step, that is) but it will suffice to start me in my career of dancing excellence. I have begun to assemble a dancing wardrobe. Wardrobe? More appropriately called my "gear," the dancing soldier's camouflage. I built it like a house from the bottom up, starting with a stylish pair of blue suede shoes. Yes, just like the Elvis anthem of a few years back. The dresser at the store, Fancy, said my color was emerald, like money, another word she used to describe me, and therefore outfitted me in a suave glittery emerald jumpsuit with a purple streak of vinyl up the side. She said when I "move" (street code for dancing) I look like a green and purple tornado. That was all the salesmanship I needed!

Then I hit the clubs. And I rock hard, let me tell you. Just the little bit of expertise I picked up from bobbing my head, no doubt buoyed by the new confidence found in my dancing wardrobe, I've become a very intimidating figure on the dance floor. Most of the time other dancers are too self-conscious to join the floor while I'm on it. But when a brave few manage to two-step up to me, we have a gay old time. Sometimes extremely gay. The ladies love me, we dance like tornadoes and carry on loudly laughing away. Well, they're laughing, I'm usually too busy concentrating on my steps.

What more can I say? This machine is in high gear. Not the gear you wear, but the gear like a car. Hence the machine metaphor. I'll bring you more news as I make dancing news on the club scene here and there. In the meantime, I must go get the rubber soles of my blue suede shoes patched.

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