he launch of the national “do-not-call� registry was met with overwhelming demand last week as millions of Americans proved willing to crawl over their own dead mothers to sign up for the list, hoping to end years spent in unsolicited telemarketing hell. The unexpectedly high turnout seemed to answer the standing question of public support for the new law, which had been attacked by telemarketing groups as an infringement on their rights to free speech and practicing utter contempt for consumers.

President Bush signed the bill in March, commenting on the legislation at a White House ceremony last week.

“Unwanted telemarketing calls are intrusive, they are annoying, and they-hold on. Hello? No, goddammit! I don’t read the newspaper, fuck off!�

The new law gives the Federal Trade Commission the power to fine telemarketers up to $11,000 every time they call a number that appears the opt-out list, beginning Oct. 1. Consumers who weren’t confused into inaction by having to call a do-not-call hotline to make sure other groups do not call them voiced their approval of the law, and personal enthusiasm for finding additional ways to curb telemarketing in the future.

“You see, what I’d do now, first I’d stab ‘em right in the jimmy sack with a fillet knife,� caller Randy Hackle of Dilmont, Nebraska explained to a switchboard operator. “That’s just to get their attention, mind you. Then we’d open up a new forum for communication with a ball-peen hammer and some broken ceramic tiles.�

“Our research has indicated that most consumers appreciate being notified by telephone of the latest deals and special purchasing opportunities,� said smug Direct Marketing Association representative Tony Marsh, just begging to be kicked in the fucking nuts. “This unconstitutional law is a political witch hunt and we don’t for a second believe it reflects the will of the American public.�

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about killing telemarketers,� explained caller Christophe Williamson after registering his cell phone number with the directory. “Okay, well yes, actually I am. But what I’m really talking about is what we’ll do with their bodies after we kill them. That’s what really sends a message.�

In spite of such an overwhelming public response, many telemarketers remain steadfastly oblivious to popular sentiment, almost as if they weren’t really listening at all and were just waiting for a pause so they could tout the virtues of their practice.

“If we don’t have the right to approach consumers unsolicited, people will be deprived of potentially valuable offers that they would otherwise not hear about,� offered telemarketer Mark Finch in a dehumanized monotone, wincing audibly as a car backfired outside his window. After jotting down the unsolicited quote and questioning where he got the commune’s telephone number, this reporter hung up after Finch refused to take a hint that the conversation was over.

The new law has thrilled anti-telemarketing activists nationwide, who have been fighting the trend for years using both legal and quasi-legal guerilla tactics.

“My main hobby is getting these people’s home telephone numbers, and calling them at home,� bragged anti-telemarketing pioneer Sylvester Pinks of Tehachapi, CA. “Every hour on the hour, all through the night. Then I play back recordings of their mothers having loveless sex. That stuff’s not easy to get your hands on, true, but it’s all worth it when you hear their reactions. Especially on speakerphone with some buddies over and beer. Talk about Miller Time! Class-ic.�

he death of legendary comedian Buddy Hackett early last week at the age of 78 was met with fond remembrances and tributes from his family and fans, and a collective relieved sigh from the nation’s remaining elderly celebrities.

“You know how the saying goes,� explained Bob Hope, 100. “Celebrities always die in threes. After Peck and Hepburn went, every celebrity over 60 had to wonder if they would be next. Actually, I think most of these assholes thought it would be me. Maybe I’m just oversensitive, but I was definitely getting some strange looks last week.�

“To be honest, I thought it would be Bob Hope,� confessed comedian Red Buttons, 85. “How old is that guy? He’s definitely cheating death at this point. That guy’s so old he looks like a big walking scrotum. If he gets any older, some far-off king’s gonna have to wrap him up in a silk box like a goddamned royal tortoise. When he does go they might have to count that as three celebrity deaths wrapped in one, like some kind of loophole for rolling over the oldometer.�

Some elderly celebrities handled the superstitious deathwatch more gracefully than others, with actress Fay Wray, 96, noted by loved ones for her calm demeanor and total lack of response to external stimuli all week. Comedian Sid Caesar, 81, took the threat more seriously, locking himself in a hyperbaric chamber with a pistol upon hearing the news of Hepburn’s death. “Let ‘em come and get me,� Caesar was quoted as snarling as the door to the chamber was sealed. It was unclear whether Caesar was referring to old age or gremlins.

“I liked Buddy and all, but if it was between him and me, and it was, I’d pick me. So I’m glad it was him. He was probably in bad shape, anyway,� rambled Phyllis Diller, 86. “Probably had a compacted bowel or the snorts or something, he’s probably better off. I definitely am.�

While talking to a pair of twentysomething autograph-seekers, actor Mickey Rooney, 83, commented on his fondness for Hackett, with whom he once shared an ice cream. Rooney then answered his fans’ queries by explaining that Hackett was neither the mascot for Lee jeans nor the inventor of the hackey sack.

As they walked away, one fan was heard commenting to the other.

“Jesus Christ, Mickey Rourke looks like shit!�

Actor Karl Malden, 90, eulogized earnestly about Bob Hope’s career for 20 minutes before this reporter could adequately explain that it had been Hackett, not Hope, who passed away last week.

“Nah, you’re funnin’ me,� colloquialized Malden. “If Bob Hope’s still alive, how come he’s been haunting my dreams all week? Unless that was Eli Wallach. Hmm. Is that bastard still alive? Tell you the truth; it starts to get hard to tell ‘em apart after a certain age, they all take on that Jacob Marley look after about 80. Shit, maybe it was the Ghost of Christmas Past! Gah! What’d I give you last Christmas, the bath towel or the VCR?�

This reporter left Mr. Malden to his soul-searching, opting to pursue a quote and a Dilly bar from a passing ice-cream truck driver.

I open this column with a firm and hearty, "Thanks, dicks." This is not directed to you dicks reading at home, but to the dicks who neglected to inform me Red Bagel had returned and the commune staff was operating normally under his rule again. I was barricaded in that office since May, fearing swift and brutal retaliation, while at any time someone could have knocked on the door and said I was merely demoted again. True, I probably would have considered it an attempt to lure me out and not believed them, but it was worth a shot.

It's all meaningless what-iffery by now, since I was forced to come out to use a regular rest room after my coffee can filled up, and noticed the staff laughing rather than lunging at me with swords and daggers. When I asked, someone even told me Bagel had annexed the floor above us for his own new office, and I could have the dank dungeon I had made my own since January, if the smell of human waste didn't nauseate me. It doesn't, so I thank Bagel's kindness and take it as a minor promotion for all my good work in his stead.

As you can tell by all this, I'm no longer a big deal around the commune offices. But from what I understand, if the door to the office had been open when Bagel returned I would have been castrated and choked with a frayed electrical cord, so waiting had its advantages as well. After enough time, and self-prescribed morphine, Bagel was back in a friendly mood and decided to merely demote me to King of Dinks, a title which Raoul Dunkin had to relinquish to me.

Some could see it as failure, but I look at it as an inverted success. Sometimes you have to fall back to the bottom of the ladder and start your career over to move ahead. And that's what I'm doing at the commune. Also, as you can see, I was mightily addicted to sharing my thoughts with the readers after months of filling in on Bagel's "Or So You Thought" column, so I decided to introduce my new rotating column "Poop of the Century." True, I wanted a regular semi-weekly feature like Finger or Bricks, but it was Bagel's suggestion I do a periodic column or sit on it and rotate, hence the idea. He was right, too; now that I'm freed of the duties of Acting-Editor I can return to my first love, masturbation—I mean, reporting. Sitting in my smelly office writing columns all day isn't my style, at least Bagel says so.

Unfortunately, the call to write a column is muddled with the call to prove to the world I'm not dead, so that's mostly what this beginner's column is about. It's important I get my Social Security number reinstated so I can find a new apartment and re-open my bank account. Personally, I'd hoped someone at the commune might have mentioned I was in the office and hadn't been killed on the job as the death certificate said, but in fairness, as Lil Duncan said, everyone was extremely busy trying to bust the piñata when the investigators dropped by.

Don't expect this little corner of the commune to be another self-indulgent crybaby's story of the little things in life that piss him off. Let the other columnists engage in that ego-stroking. Ramrod Hurley is interested in tackling the bigger issues of the day, and blowing your mind in the process. That's a lot to do in one column, one particular edition might have more blowing and less issue-tackling, but in general I'll try to mix the two well enough.

I just hope you readers are into getting tackled and blown.

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