malignant throat cancer in the body of Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts took a turn for the worse this week—the worse for the cancer, that is, as Charlie Watts and his bandmates whupped the shit out of the tumor.

Most of it is speculation right now, leaked to the press from band lead singer Mick Jagger, who declared Watts' cancer "fucked up beyond all recognition." The cancer beat-down follows six weeks of chemo-therapy for Watts, after a biopsy revealed the growth's malignancy four months ago.

Early reports indicate, after seeing their friend in dire straits from the chemical treatments, the Stones gathered together and went straight to Watts' cancer, treating the volatile collection of cells like a hotel room. By the time it was over, the growth was a nauseating sight for doctors and well-wishers alike.

"I guess we showed that cancer that us old shits can really…," said Keith Richards, puffing on a cigarette and looking skeletal, before degenerating into manic laughter and indistinguishable cockney.

While doctors wouldn't comment on Watts' treatment, stupid doctors, they did say that Watts is in a weakened condition from the chemo-therapy, but mostly from partying with his bandmates as they trashed the tumor. They also said, unofficially, they declared Keith Richards dead while he was visiting his friend, but didn't have the nerve to tell him.

"What matters now," Mick Jagger told The Daily Mirror, "is that Charlie is all better. People accuse us all the time of being big softies, but that's what a band does—we look out for one another. And it was a good business decision. We're just about ready to begin recording another album, then we're out on tour. We're not paying to put up cancer in its own room, and we're sure not sharing any of our groupies with it."

Curious for more information about cancer remissions, the commune visited the Johns Hopkins Cancer Research Institute, specifically Dr. Christopher Haig, a leading expert on cancer and cancer recovery. However, he wouldn't see us, so we went to see one of those New Age whackos in the building across the street.

"What people don't realize is that cancer has feelings, just like any of us," said the whacko, Jenella Wisp, wearing pastel scarves and enough bracelets to kill a gypsy. "Consuming other cells and converting them against the body is just the cancer's way of saying, 'I'm lonely. Let's be friends.' But cancer doesn't know it's doing damage to us, invoking a negative Chi. Cancer doesn't know much—cancer knows jack and shit and jack just left town, if you know what I mean. Cancer didn't get a very good education, and consequently, a lot of the damage it does is lashing out over feeling of insecurity. We went to high school together, actually, me and cancer. Want to see a picture of cancer's yearbook picture?"

By this time, we realized the commune was in way over its head, and stopped recording the conversation, though it took us another seven hours to make a plausible excuse and escape.

Watts, however, returned our phone call and said he is in much better spirits since the alleged cancer-trashing. However, he did think we were Ornette Coleman, and wasn't happy to find out about the deception.

olls conducted by mortal agencies across America are beginning to unravel startling information about polls: They are not always correct, and information is not always given with the most honorable intentions.

This information comes as a shock to pollsters and politicians alike, as some questions have returned information demonstrating the lack of sincerity in responses. A recent Gallup poll on the presidential election found that over 70 percent of respondents described themselves as the head of a their household and reported an annual income of over ten gabillion. According to the latest census information and annual salary figures reported by corporations, determined to be more accurate, less than one percent of the nation actually earns over ten gabillion dollars annually, causing analysts to speculate incorrect information was reported. Backing up this hypothesis is the response to inquiries about the speaker's sex, to which over 97 percent responded "Yes."

Inaccurate polling information leaves some with the feeling that none of the conclusions drawn by polls can be trusted, a disturbing notion for politicians relying on polling information, and an even more troublesome proposition for companies making their money from polling. However, it would explain how polls conducted by different companies can draw different conclusions, such as recent presidential election polls that show the race led by President George W. Bush, candidate John Kerry, or show both tied neck and neck.

"Clearly, someone is fucking with us," said Gallup poll analyst Stephen Herschel. "I guess they think it's funny."

The quandary brings up questions about the similar circumstances of the 2000 election, when Al Gore won a much larger number of votes than predicted in some earlier polls, and less than accorded him by others. Exit polls in Florida also played a significant role in decisions by major news networks to predict Gore the winner of the state, key in the 2000 presidential election, even though the frail polls failed to predict the battle for the state ahead. Herschel, a longtime developer of polling questions for political campaigns, paints a bleak picture of an election with untrustworthy polls.

"A lot of Americans like to vote for the guy who is going to win," Herschel informs. "If they don't have polls to tell them who is going to win, then there is no way for them to make an informed decision about who to vote for. Then there's the nightmare of actually being a candidate running for office and having no polls to rely on. How do you know what to stand for then? How can you reach the voters if you don't have any idea what they want you to say? All you have to fall back on in such a case is personal experience, knowledge of the issues themselves, and leadership qualities. Without polls, you can't preach to the converted."

The concerns about polls beg the question, why in the world would someone not report accurate information to a faceless corporation? Winston-Salem University of North Dakota's Professor Big Jim Dean, of the Department of Psychology, postulates a theory:

"As strange as it seems, we theorize that some people don't realize the value of an accurate poll, or even stranger, could care less about the questions themselves. These people may give inaccurate information on a lark, or to make themselves feel more important than they might by reporting accurately. Others may have their own political agenda, and try to shape the outcome of the poll by giving information that they think will further their own cause, whatever it may be. Alas, these may be the dangers of asking random people their thoughts and feelings on issues. At least, this is the research I've accumulated by talking to my students. And I don't see any reason why they'd make up something like that."

"You down wit OCD?"

"Hold on, I'm washing my hands!"

Ah yes, here we find ourselves again, another day, another Dolf Lundgren. I sit here, striking a dashing pose, young restaurateur (that means brave, right?) with a devil-may-care grimace and a flinty stare that reminds many of the unbridled Amazonian beauty of Larry Flint himself. You, I can just picture you there, commune readers. Sitting in class (not to mention in school), dreamily scratching your rump in a way that reminds many onlookers of Katherine Hepburn, when her ass itched. These are the draconian days of our lives.

"You down wit Oppenheimer Pension Plan?"

"Yes, you are familiar with my customary mode of behavior."

If I could save time in a bottle, I'd probably forget to poke holes in the lid and it would end up dying, its lifeless corpse lying there, feet up, staring accusatorily for weeks until I remembered that oh yeah, I saved time in a bottle, and went to check on how it was doing. That's probably why you can't do it.

Some of God's greatest gifts are unanswered conference calls. Some hillrod told me that once.

BTW, I've come to be mildly obsessed by the term "hillrod" lately. Since moving to New Mexico my speech is frequently punctuated with phrases like "Hillrods! Twelve o'clock!" and "Arrr, there be hillrods afoot." The hillrods down in shipping are busy making voodoo dolls out of mud and chocolate, they don't find this sort of thing the slightest bit amusing. They also say "nuclear" funny.

I went to a day spa the other day, I thought it was a brothel but they waxed my Mason-Dixon line instead. That's between your toes, commune readers, you sick and physiologically challenged individuals. I'd hoped deep in the deepest recesses of my elementary school education that the place's design ("De sign, boss! De sign!" "That's right, Tattoo, my troll-like friend. It says 'Keep your midgets leashed'." "I no like puns, boss!") was merely a novel backdrop for exotic Korean handjobs, but by the time the big hand said six and the little hand said six too I had to give up the ghost on that expensive little fantasy and swallow the hard truth that I'd just dropped a hundred bucks to have my face wrapped in avocado and bacon.

When that bill comes due, you'll come over and find me perched on top of the coffee table, floating in a sea of tears that has nothing at all to do with the fact that I tried to flush a cowboy hat down the toilet. I look forward to it; I'll be waiting with Belgians.

Did I mention my apartment is also serving as a half-way house for mice? Even in the desert, you'd think I would have scorpions or Spaniards or something instead. My landlord may be a Spaniard, there's no question he's a worthless turd, which rhymes, sort of. He still doesn't believe I have mice, in spite of the perfect arc-shaped hole at the base of the wall in my kitchen, the "Home Sweet Home" mat which sits just outside that hole, and also the cat-face-shaped dent in my big frying pan.

I've been trying to smoke the little bastard out by blowing second-hand cigarette smoke into the hole every time I remember to do so. At this point it may just be a race to see which one of us gets cancer first, but I heard something about second-hand smoke being more deadly, so I think Vegas should favor my odds. Plus with his small size I'd have to be smoking like one of the Golden Girls to get the same cancer-causing effect per capita.

Truth be told, I'm not sure how many mice are in there, or how I'll even know if they've passed on to Mousehalla. When I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night I swear I can hear them scattering in the kitchen, yelling "SHIT! IT'S THE FARMER'S WIFE!" in their little high-pitched voices. Could that really just be a dream? Maybe I dreamt it all; maybe I don't really have any mice.

Badgers, on the other hand. We're thick with badgers.

All right commune readers, it's time for Stu Umbrage to duck off into the belfry to lunch upon sweet artichoke-hearts and New-Mexican-grown peaches. The Democratic Party keeps calling in an attempt to get me out to the polls this year, and I no longer feel safe downstairs. Could this be yet another sly ploy to get me under a tuna net? We shall see...

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