he election debates have grown extremely heated, even in mid-April, and with Ralph Nader tossing his durag in the ring, the outcome in November is ever up for question. Analysts are even trying to predict the effect frustrated gay Republicans will have if they pull out of the president and get behind John Kerry. Which leads many to speculate: What the fuck? There are gay Republicans?

Apparently so. They even have a national organization, the Log Cabin Republicans, which possibly a reference to a place Lincoln used to "entertain" visiting dignitaries. the Log Cabin Republicans, or "Loggers," as I've just said, aren't completely sold on voting for Bush this November, following the president's hard-on stance for a "Defense of Marriage" act to amend the constitution. Neither party has come out publicly in support of gay marriage, but the Democrats have taken the bold step of saying they wouldn't fuck with the constitution. According to polls mysteriously conducted, average Americans are against homosexual marriage but also against a constitutional amendment outlawing it.

As a heterosexual woman trapped in the body of a man, I've always found homosexuals something of a mystery. But at least they seem pretty straightforward, no pun intended, in their political support of candidates who pledge their support. Why would homosexuals want to support Republicans, with their history of voting against issues that support them? It's almost as crazy as the notion of a black Republican.

Paula Squatt, a spokesperson for the Loggers and big-time lesbian, espoused the organization's point of view.

"Just because you're gay doesn't mean it's the only thing that affects the way you vote," said Squatt, feathering her hair in a mirror. "We are multi-layered individuals, and issue-conscious voters. We believe in an unrestricted market and stressing the power of the individual to make his own fortune in our society. We think social programs do not encourage people to make better lives for themselves. And overwhelmingly, we believe in a stronger defense for this country, and putting more money into the military. Just because you're gay it doesn't mean you can't vote for Bush in November. I'm not voting for him because I'm a woman, and his gender politics really piss me off."

Still not convinced, I interviewed some gay Republican friends I know from a local dancing establishment. Why did you vote for Bush in 2000?

Del Beauchamp: "He had it goin' on."

Smonika: "He had more 'strut' than Gore."

Roberto Love-Package: "I've always had a thing for Texans."

Vera Wadlow: "The ballot was confusing."

Obie Dufresne: "I liked how he wanted to get tough with crime. I'm a criminal, Mr. President. Get tough with me."

Pete: "I'm a masochist."

Admittedly, they might not be the most representative of gay political groups, but they know how to party. The ultimate answer for why homosexuals would support Bush, even in the much smaller numbers than they support Democratic candidates, should lie in the numbers. Republicans and Democrats both have a history of voting for and supporting legislation that by a large margin favors those with incomes over $150,000 a year. Since a great majority of Americans live far under that annual income level, the question becomes: Why would anyone vote for either party?

espite escalating violence across Iraq, US Marines remain confident that all will be well in the country once the NBA playoffs begin this week, distracting Iraqi insurgents from their anti-occupation agenda with dazzling basketball action. However, though the mesmerizing influence of fantastic NBA drama may likely sooth the current conflict, experts warn that new tensions could arise between the San Antonio Spurs-loving Iraqi populace and the largely Laker-friendly occupation forces.

The nation's Shiite majority is comprised overwhelmingly of San Antonio Spurs supporters, led by Muqtada al-Sadr, a Shiite rebel cleric and hardcore Spurs fan who is often photographed wearing a Tim Duncan jersey along with his traditional turban during basketball season. Experts are at a loss to explain Iraq's passion for the San Antonio team, which may be caused by that region's similarity to Iraq in arid climate and close proximity to hell. Despite their underdog status, Iraqis seem convinced the Spurs will prevail against the great white dragon of the Los Angeles Lakers.

"Fallujah my noojah, bitchaz!" al-Sadr mugged for television cameras on Monday, flashing some kind of bizarre Iraqi basketball gang signs.

"The thing you have to understand is that these fanatical loyalties in Iraq go back hundreds of years," explained Iraq expert and big eater Dr. Erwin Stagg. "Or however long the NBA's been around, that long. Imagine you were a Spurs fan and a bunch of Laker fans burst into your house and started bossing you around and eating your chip dip. How would you like that? Not much, I think. Now imagine they had guns and your house was the size of Iraq. Pretty weird, eh?"

In an effort to keep the peace, troops stationed in Iraq have been admonished to keep their team biases to themselves when dealing with Iraqi civilians, though President Bush did the coalition efforts no favors when he ended his news conference last week with a fist-pumping cry of "Go Lakers!" Pundits are calling this move a ploy to boost Bush's flagging public support, a desperate change in tactics after the president realized he had milked the tit of conservative Christian dogma drier than Phyllis Diller's snatch.

Complicating matters further, considerable pockets of Detroit Piston-loving Sunni Arabs dot the Iraqi landscape, increasing chances of further tribal violence in this already war-torn land should the Spurs and Pistons meet in the NBA finals.

"Yo, San Antone gonna smack you down when you come wit dat weak-ass shit," an Iraqi youth said through a translator, seeming to address more than the upcoming NBA finals. Though when asked to elaborate, he just pantomimed slam-dunking a basketball, which may or may not reflect upon the US's long-term prospects for democratic nation building in the region.

Even terror mastermind Osama Bin Laden wants a piece of the playoff action, offering an Arab cease-fire in exchange for US and European forces putting down a dime on New Jersey for him and maybe hooking up a little courtside seat action. Negotiations with Bin Laden apparently stalled out after coalition negotiators were unwilling to budge from their best offer of a generous satellite TV package and a game-worn jock strap from Nets point guard Jason Kidd.

The NBA finals are scheduled to wind down in June, which coalition planners feel will be close enough to the June 30th hand-over date for Iraqi sovereignty to allow US forces to get the fuck out of there before anything else blows up. Though if the Spurs are eliminated from the playoffs in an early round, the US may have to choose between extending their occupation of Iraq, or teaching the Iraqis to love baseball.

The tale of how I escaped the angry mobs of Haitian dissidents is the most chilling, exciting, and inspiring story that has ever happened to me. Consequently, I sold the rights to it so it could be made into a Hallmark movie (look for it on CBS this Fall, with James Woods as the handsome Rok Finger-type character). This means I can't tell you about it, but don't worry, I have a number of stories almost as amazing. Have I told you how I started the Atkins diet this week?

It's part of my effort to rebuild my life now that I'm back on steady shore and have forsaken my pirate ways. No doubt anyone would miss the charming shanty of the sea, but I believe I'm better off—some are meant to sail the sea and poach whales or whatever else there is to do out there, while others of us are landlubbers. And I lub land. I was meant to wear stifling three-piece suits, grease my hair with my own homemade pomade, and live in tract housing. No sense in defying your true calling.

It's been a difficult transition, no doubt, but made easier by the boost from the friendly Hallmark people. I've bought my own home in the West Hills neighborhood of New Jersey, not more than a stone's throw from the commune offices—in fact, this morning I hit Raoul Dunkin from my bathroom window. It's a lovely neighborhood, full of friendly and successful people, the kind of neighborhood that usually gathers together to sign a petition keeping me out. But in this case they were slow and I benefit from it.

Back to the old routine, the kind of life Rok Finger was meant to live. I get up, eat breakfast, read the morning paper, make tomorrow's breakfast, and drive to work to get a full day's job done making up column ideas. It's such a natural fit I don't even know why I ever left. Which is not an exaggeration, I have completely blanked on the original reason I left the country. I'm not even sure where I went—Angola? They had accents but spoke English. I seem to remember having a wife, but the specifics escape me.

Don't worry about my companionship, though—as always, in tow with me is good friend Camembert. But he's only towing me until my sprained ankle heals. Those violent political revolutions can be hell on the joints. It's just as well I need his assistance, because now I'm in a position to finally pay back all the friendship Camembert has shown me over the years, allowing him a room in my new house. He repeatedly told me he was content to return to his old apartment, but since the mob torched it in our absence, it's not quite as nice as it once was. It's all for the better—two better roommates you could never find! Camembert and I have never even had an argument. I tell him what to do and he does it, no argument.

Not that we don't have some minor problems. He complains the house is not handicapped accessible, but I say as long as you have a window the house is accessible. Camembert's requested I put in a ramp somewhere, either that or move his bedroom down to the first floor, and I suppose I might throw him a bone on one of those requests. A ramp would be a lot of fun to ride that chair down, if you put it at the right angle. I might even be able to put a loop in it, as the rollercoasters do, as a nice surprise.

Some might call this new old life of mine boring—well, I say shut-up. In a pleasant, smiling sort of way. I welcome the safe, the secure, the familiar. At least until something better than the dead-end suburban existence comes along.

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