he president outlined a plan for America's military future on Friday, speaking at commencement at the U.S. Naval Academy. Bush used the old "good news/bad news" ploy to reveal the facts: the United States will be reducing the number of military bases on American soil, but the president hopes to counter that loss in military might by establishing bases on foreign soil, including new bases in Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and others.

"The future of the military will be more streamlined," said the president, gripping the podium in his usual macho fashion, as he addressed the graduating student body. "The war of the future will have different demands on our country. Fewer domestic bases will be required, since the majority of our defense will involve keeping all countries we conquer in line."

An aide then whispered something in the president's ear, at which point Bush amended himself: "Did I say conquer? I meant liberate. Lot o' countries left to liberate, that's for sure."

Bush's speech came on the heels of a commencement for 976 graduates of the U.S. Naval Academy, all part of the outdated military we'll be getting away from the next few years.

"We will need a strong invasion force, no doubt about it," continued Bush. "And once those countries are occupied—and they will be occupied, no doubt, since we've got the largest military force on earth—there will be new demands on our fighting men and women. F'rinstance, who here knows how to strip-mine natural resources? Not a lot of you fossils, I bet."

Indeed, the fossils had no clue, which is why, according to the president, we'll have to adapt to the changing needs of the new American Empire.

"Gone are the days of the public relations departments, the good will ambassadors, and those large bodies of infantrymen who have traditionally been a pivotal part of wars. The War on Terror requires button-pushers and cool radio-controlled bombers, and a healthy load of transport convoys. And plenty of political figures we can put into power, not to mention the large built-in law enforcement groups, but that's hardly anything you need to know."

Members of the press, new enough to this to be naïve, asked the president if countries that should be operating independent from the U.S. military in months to come will welcome a permanent American military presence. The president only nodded and half-affirmed the question was asked, a clear indication that we have enough military might to assure we will always be welcome.

"And there's no limit to how much we can expand into overseas markets," said Bush, kiping a phrase from his old college business buddies. "Syria's not exactly been quiet. Iran's all acting up. There's plenty of places out there that still need to be sorted—North Korea, and tons of little countries in the former Soviet Union and all. The one place we don't need troops is where we got the most of 'em—the U.S.A. herself. Any way you slice it, the American military's got a big future. It's just not on our soil."

The fossils then broke a long-standing tradition, and instead of throwing their hats up in the air, hurled them at the guest speaker.

olite society was rocked this week when a Kansas man was arrested for unleashing a five-minute tirade of profanity after the clumsy fucker fell out of canoe in a public park, sparking a nationwide controversy over foul language. According to shocked bystanders, recent immigrant dickhead Lataf Smokel shouted “whoops!� “shucks!� and other similar salty words after displaying his canoeptitude, running afoul of a little-known and controversial Kansas state statute outlawing indecent public speech.

“This motherfucker was guilty as shit,� explained officer Turk Winchel, who witnessed the crime. “I heard that asshole go off on his tirade like a cock-teasing bitch with her credit card taken away, with my own fucking ears. There were fucking kids around and everything. Un-fuckingbelievable.�

The event reminds many of the Michigan conviction of Timothy Boomer in 1998, who swore up a storm like Yosemite Sam on swearing pills after a similar canoe mishap on the Rifle River, only to have his conviction overturned by the ACLU after the fucking judge pussied out.

While many legal groups consider such laws to be total bullshit, local citizens have made it clear they’re fucking sick of inconsiderate motherfuckers exposing their children to irresponsible language in public places, and have shown their support for throwing the goddamned book at the homos.

“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s cocksuckers who don’t know how to watch their goddamned mouths in front of children,� explained Rote resident Archdeacon Mavis Plum, over tea. “The world’s not your own personal playground, shithead. And just because some cunt shit you out of her man-trap when you were a baby doesn’t mean you’re entitled to fuck up our children, dickface.�

“Some slut farting you out of her cooch doesn’t make you God’s own miracle, dickwad,� added Reverend Alan Thornburg, in reiteration.

Even normal people were in agreement.

“What kind of dickless honkeys would talk like that in front of our kids?� asked Maybel Cummings, a local PTA leader. “Talk about your real sacks of monkey shit.�

While many journalists reporting the story found Smokel’s language too fucking objectionable to print, since the commune only officially exists in the Cayman Islands this reporter is free to hint at the true extent of their offensive nature. Beyond such merely-scandalous epithets such as “golly,� “hoo-boy� and “Heavens to Betsy,� Smokel was also quoted as dropping several pants-shitting unmentionables. The most unpublishable of the man’s crimes against decency is spelled like “shit� and rhymes with “hoot,� if you catch our inference. Irresponsible rumor also points to the word “eff-hockey stick-eye-pee� being heard, though spontaneously blocked from the memories of several present in a subconscious act of self-defense.

Some anonymously supportive locals have suggested that Smokel may just be unfamiliar with American customs, since wherever he’s from, words like “he*k� and “d*rn� may be perfectly acceptable language in mixed company. But most Rote residents find that pretty fucking unlikely.

Good people, I have had one of those experiences that only happens to other people. I have been abducted! And not by aliens, as you might first suspect, and even hope. I was abducted by beatniks!

It starts like any other story of abduction. I found my car stalled, by myself out on a rural road, away from the bright lights of the city—even the stars themselves seemed dim that far out. I tried to start my car once again and only got that whiny "enh-enh" sound going. Immediately, I got out and began walking, naturally fearing a UFO would show up and give me a super-suit to fight crime with. I don't have that kind of time, bossy Neptunians. But something more incredible happened!

Beatniks, tooling around in their convertible jalopy, motored alongside me like something out of a Ginsberg dream. They chatted me up and asked me if I wanted a ride. Of course, I never take a ride with beatniks, like mama Finger always said. But they wouldn't take no for an answer. I found myself soon bound and gagged, tossed into the back of the jalopy like a sack of potatoes.

I couldn't imagine what they wanted with me. For a short time, I even imagined they were aliens disguised as beatniks, in order to draw slightly less attention to themselves—but that made no sense. I invited them to probe me, and though one of them mulled it over for a long time, none of them took me up on it. They instead seemed to concentrate on writing poems about me, asking me what my bag was, and then reading said poetry to me while they charged me a lot for a simple cup of coffee. No mistake; these were beatniks.

Why me? No one can say. But they did say—apparently I'm one major-domo angry cat. Or, as Pie-Daddy said, "Yo, normally we ain't down with the anger thing. Some bad-mood Charlie starts his mantra on us, we all like, 'Chill, Franklin.' But your rage, man, it's like a thing of pure beauty. That kind of rage glows forever, like a firepit in a down-and-out steel mill that burns in hopes of one day…" And at this point I stopped listening. What he clearly said, as far as I can tell, is that my anger is better than everyone else's. The rest was superfluous.

I figured I would stick around with them, for just a short while, and give back something to the artistic community—especially since we've tried to remain good friends, the community and I, ever since that truce we signed back in 1971. If I can take a few hours out of my busy schedule and inspire a whole new generation of beatniks, it's the least I can do. But no more than a few hours, I told them, because I have shit that isn't going to do itself, frankly.

But these cats (check me out; I'm catching on already!) weren't content to just let me sit around and be a muse. They kept asking me questions, like how I grew up, what my relationship with my mother was like, and what made me so damned disappointed with life that I had to go around in a constant rage. I could only tell them I'm just lucky, I guess. But they still pressed me. Answer this, answer that! Only they had actual questions instead of "this" and "that," which actually aren't. I got bored of all that fast. I have angry columns to write and X-M radio distributors to boycott, I can't waste all of my time answering questions. Sitting around not answering questions, much less of a drain on my time. The questions had to go.

We couldn't come to an amicable agreement, the beatniks and I, so I crafted an elaborate escape plan. I carved an exact duplicate of myself out of soap (the nose was particularly hard to get right) and then, once I had it all tucked into my bed, announced I was going to the local grocery store to get enough soap to do models of them as well. It worked brilliantly, and I, of course, never returned.

I feel a little bad, abandoning a life as inspiration to the poets of tomorrow. But Rok Finger's always been a doer, good people. Not a doee. Nor a doe—ignore any type-O's suggesting that.

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