ext Wednesday will mark the first anniversary of the Sept. 11^th attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, a day of tragedy that made Americans pause from their normal lives and rally together in support of the victims. In addition to fears of new terrorist attacks on the anniversary, most Americans are uncertain how to commemorate the event. Already, however, most are expected to resume their habits of complaining about the smallest of problems.

"I hope they give us the day off at work," said Texas cell phone salesman Bob Whiterich. "It's like a national tragedy and crap. How are people supposed to work on a day like that? And if I knew I could take a couple of vacation days Monday and Tuesday and head to the beach with the family."

Most companies and government agencies have decided against imposing a holiday, feeling the anniversary would be spent better keeping businesses and services functioning as normal. Even plans for restricting air travel on Sept. 11^th have been declined, feeling the statement to the rest of the world, including Muslim extremists believed to have launched the attacks, is a stronger exclamation of solidarity and a country affected, yet not shaken in their resolve by terrorism.

Mark Turnskit, a 42-year-old UPS driver and volunteer fireman in Piermont, North Dakota, however, thinks that is bullshit.

"It's bullshit, man," said Turnskit. "We need a day to remember the importance of it all and stuff. I have a lot of friends back east, in Ohio. A cousin of one of them was married to a firefighter and I think he may have been in the World Trade Center disaster and stuff. I haven't talked to them in a long time—I don't write letters and all, you know, and I don't have their e-mail address or anything. The worst part is not knowing."

Added Turnskit, "I'm a firefighter, so I know what it's like. I could have been in that place just as easy as all the guys who were."

California telemarketer Steve Gerber has made no change in plans for Sept. 11^th. "What is that, a Wednesday? I don't imagine I'll have time to think about the loss of lives and how great it is to live in a country that is still the most secure and wealthiest on the planet. Maybe some time in the evening, after work, if there's something on the Discovery Channel talking about it or—aw, shit. West Wing is on that night, right?"

"I would take a minute or two to stop and think about life and death and all that," said Howett, Tennessee factory worker Milt Darling, "but the Dodge has been crapping out on me a lot, lately. I'll probably have to worry about getting a ride to work. Life's so fucking unfair, man."

Decatur, Georgia realtor Shari Cartier summed up the feelings of most Americans on the subject: "It will be a dark day. This has been the greatest tragedy in history of all time. Something like 6,000 people died—that's more than died in Vietnam, you know. But, c'mon, I got my own life to worry about. Those damn Peel St. properties aren't going to move themselves. And the kids can't take themselves to karate."

The most significant commemoration of the day, outside of New York and Washington, D.C., is likely to come from Perkins, Nebraska, where button collector and local crackpot Vernon Heston is planning on building a scale model of the World Trade Center towers out of Popsicle sticks. Although, according to Heston, if the price of Popsicles continues to skyrocket, the whole thing will be scrapped.

ock musician and poet Bob Dylan received the ultimate honor Friday night from an unknown fan believed to be under the influence of several chemical substances. For all his years of service in changing the face of modern music, Dylan was knighted in a brief ceremony behind the Homebrew bar and grill that took only a couple minutes.

Dylan, who was performing an unannounced set at the Homebrew promoting his new album, was extremely surprised and delighted by the honor.

"It was very cool," said Dylan. "You don’t get into this life with thought of major rewards like being knighted. You do it for the music, or maybe the money. This is quite a big moment for me and I’d like to thank the drug-influenced guy who bestowed this upon me, wherever he is."

Dylan was on his way to the parking lot of the club with friends when the unidentified high guy stopped him in the alley, proclaimed Dylan the man, and knighted him with a very quick tap on each of his shoulders with an empty Thunderbird bottle, pretending it was a sword. He then pissed his pants and stumbled back into the club. Surprised but happy with the honor, Dylan continued on to his car.

"I thought about trying to find the guy, but I didn’t want to insult him after he had just done this very great thing for me. I was also a bit shocked by it all. Even if you expect this sort of thing is going to happen, some alley behind a club is about the last place you’re ready for it."

Columbia Records, Dylan’s label, has jumped all over the high-press event. New releases of all Dylan’s previous albums are being issued with a royal seal on them under the artist heading of "Sir Bob Dylan."

"Everyone at Columbia has always known America has a special genius in Bob Dylan," said Columbia V.P. of Advertising John Bonlee, "and now people everywhere will know that. The dude on heroin or crack or whatever behind that club knew it, and recognized Dylan for his years of service to the music industry and world as a whole."

Sources report that if the blitzed night club rambler can be found, Columbia Records would like to have him knight Dylan again, just for the sake of press, on a two-hour TV special with friends and fellow musicians playing songs in Dylan’s honor. Dylan, who has written rock ’n’ roll and folk staples like "Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man," "Blowin’ in the Wind," and "Like A Rolling Stone," could not verify the possibility of a two-hour TV event, but said he would definitely not want to air opposite Friends and Survivor.

I hope all of you are content to die in the middle of the night, having accomplished all in life you set out to do. Because it is certain to happen shortly. The world is about to be destroyed by ominous forces from another world or plane of existence and no one will believe me. I suppose that is what really bothers me about it all.

Oh, make no mistake, good people—Rokwell T. Finger has no urge to die. Certainly there's a lot I have left to do in life, like anything substantial at all. Or eat a green apple, that always seemed like a wild experience I wanted to try at least once. But none of that matters now (refer back to first paragraph)—it's about to become dust in the wind, like the band Kansas. I think they also had a song by that title.

These aliens, who will be destroying us imminently, made one mistake: They foolishly broadcast their secret correspondence on Channel 26, the local UPN affiliate, thinking nobody was watching. Lucky for the earth I really enjoy that The Parkers television show. Then again, nobody believes my tale of the invasion, so I suppose the aliens did not make one mistake.

The aliens—or other-dimensional earthling beings, I don't want to sound ignorant to them if they aren't from outerspace—are small, green men that appear to exist in minimal dimensions. I could hear their alien war jargon, and most of it sounded like unintelligible nonsense. Words like "fudge-striped" and "chocolicious" were tossed about as they prepared to stomp the earth flat. Without the help of a translator, I could only guess at their plans by the sinister looks on their small faces. That brown goo-firing gun of theirs spoke volumes to me alone.

This is not another "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast, I assure you—these aliens aren't martians. To mistake them for martians would be to seriously miscalculate and risk losing casualties to their goo-gun, and I'm sure it would offend them as well. Which is not how I want to start my future life as a slave, should we fail to stop them.

Still no one will believe me. It really pisses me off. I can live with getting killed, the insulting part is to realize your friends and co-workers place absolutely no value in your judgment. One even suggested the signal I intercepted was a television advert for some kind of candy product. This is what I get for working with a gaggle of hippies, beatniks, and fruitcakes—they'll believe anything. Except for me. Why won't they believe me?

Needless to say, knowing what I know, I plan on living these last few possible days to their fullest. I've worn my best underwear, straight out of the drawer (no waiting for Saturday now; every day will be wear the nice underwear day) and I've begun writing that play on Norm Abrams that I've always dreamed about. I've also taken to reading The Golf Bible for myself—not just skimming it, but really reading it. And I've begun writing out my will, which will surely be the filler for my next column should this whole thing turn out to be some sort of mix-up. But I'm reasonably sure we're going to die, so I'm not worried about that.

In the meantime, hug your children tight and perform dangerous erotic acts on your loved ones with care, certain that it may be the last time. Maybe these mysterious Keeblers will be thwarted, but it won't be by anyone here at the commune.

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