ortals fled in terror from the Gulf Coast, fearing the rising wrath of Hurricane Dennis. The dangerous storm had already inflicted severe damage on Cuba, then grew in strength to a category 4 storm, which is apparently a meaner storm than what it had been before. But the real threat may lie in a small garden in New Jersey, where corporeal being Mr. Wilson assured reporters the "menace" was after nothing else but his rose garden.

"He's back," stammered the fearful, doddering old fool. "He's back and he's come to finish off the job he started on my flower bed! And then I'm next!"

Old George Wilson, a Ketcham, New Jersey resident of 60+ years, claims the storm to be the reincarnation of a dead neighbor boy who has carried a talent for mischief into his reincarnated hurricane form. Wilson warned the local media, but when they failed to listen, brought his story to the commune, the world's most gullible news source.

"That Dennis has only one goal in mind," warned Wilson. "He wants to destroy my roses and drive me out of my mind!" When it was pointed out that those were actually two goals, old man Wilson pulled out a chunk of his own hair and screeched.

Indeed the hurricane has destroyed several gardens and virtually everything else it touched in Cuba, and has turned to engage the Gulf Coast of the United States. Though the New Jersey rose garden in question is several hundred miles out of the hurricane's current direction, Wilson assures all it is the hurricane's ultimate target.

Some of Wilson's story was easily verified, including the existence of a young boy named Dennis Mitchell who lived next door to Wilson in the 1950s. Though the boy mysteriously disappeared several years ago and his body was never found, Wilson claims the hurricane now bombarding the United States and terrorizing himself out of a feud the ghost carried into his new existence.

"That little monster says he just wants to play," groaned the old man, "then he makes noise and sets off fireworks and wreaks havoc on everything. He had to go, don't you understand? He had to! I just… I needed peace and quiet. That's all I wanted… a little peace and quiet!"

Though there didn't seem to be any doubt to the possibility of a young troublemaker being reincarnated as a category 4 hurricane, some further explanation seemed necessary: Why trash Cuba as he did? Why not simply come back as a tornado in New Jersey, or a gopher, or any number of creatures cable of destroying a garden quickly and efficiently?

"I'm not sure why he came back as a hurricane," admitted Wilson. "But I can guess why he attacked Cuba. That Mitchell boy always hated the Commies. He planned on growing up to fight them in World War III. He… he always made me be the Reds. He forced me to play soldiers with him," sobbed the old man.

Contacted for further comment, Wilson's wife contradicted the man's version of the story, painting a picture of an old fussbucket and a charming young man who just wanted to be friends.

"Oh, I thought he was a perfect little gentleman," said Mrs. Wilson. "The problem with my George is, he's just grumpy. He's half out of his mind sometimes, you know. And if that hurricane does destroy that rose garden of ours… oh, well. Tropical winds will be tropical winds."

fter weeks of suggesting that patients who had gone blind while using the company’s best-selling erectile dysfunction drug were pussies, the pharmaceutical giant Pfizer has assumed a new tack this week, as explained in the recent publication of the company’s informational packet entitled “Viagra Doesn’t Cause Blindness, Yanking Your Wank for Five Hours Causes Blindness.�

“Not only does Viagra work, sometimes it works all too well,� Pfizer spokesperson Dennis Baylor chuckled knowingly in explanation. “And sometimes it takes a little ‘self control’ to get that horse back in the corral, you know?�

Baylor continued to speak in baffling euphemisms for several minutes.

“Like if a business meeting’s about to start, or your wife’s pulling up in the driveway and you’ve still got your pants off and the Ken dolls and Candyland pieces strewn around the bedroom, well then it might be time to take matters into your own hands, if you know what I mean,� Baylor inferred, possibly speaking from personal experience.

“But too much of a good thing can be a bad thing,� Baylor continued. “And the old wives’ tales might be right about how being a little too friendly with your member might just lead to a little condition we like to call the blind man’s buff.�

Doctors like to call the condition non-arteritic anterior ischemic optic neuropathy (NAION), or in English, the sudden, permanent loss of vision due to swelling of the optic disc. Pfizer argues for a coincidental association, given that the NAION condition is most common in the sadly overweight and the diabetic, both prime markets for the company’s dick pills.

Pfizer’s Viagra has been for years the leader in the lucrative Erectile Dysfunction market, known as “ED� to everyone but guys named Ed. A serious health side-effect like blindness could torpedo the company’s profits, since being blind is nearly as much of an obstacle to scoring chicks as is not being able to get it up. Add the two together, and you’re in some serious deep shit.

Baylor was evasive when asked to clarify, in simple terms, what exactly the company was blaming for the incidents of blindness.

“What, are you daft?� Baylor balked. “Choking the chicken, slamming the ham, paying a visit to Peter O. Johnson, tree-hugging, the friendly fist!�

“Uh… spanking it, giving a slap-down to the little man, torquing your tuna, performing the holy handshake!� continued Baylor, growing frustrated and less nice by the minute. “You know, kid, dong massage!�

Unable to get a clear answer from Pfizer, this reporter turned to men’s men on the street for answers.

“Yeah, my mom always told me that would happen,� explained disco-ball installer Trent Yardbird. “Going blind because of, you know, taking your little buddy out for a skipper. Pulling the pud, slapping the salmon. The man’s crank handshake. You know what I’m talking about.�

This reporter’s further requests for clarification were all met with a withering “Man, you stupid.�

However, this reporter will not rest until he finds the truth, commune readers. At the suggestion of commune editor Red Bagel, I’ve scheduled an interview with my high school health teacher, Mr. Thorpe, as I continue my dig for the truth. Apparently Bagel believes he may have inside information relevant to this investigation.

Editor's Note: In lieu of Rok Finger's absence, he asked us to print a friendly filler message from his roommate Camembert.

Hello. I'm Camembert Morgen and I suppose I should introduce myself as Rok Finger's roommate. Since Rok couldn't fit a column into his schedule this week, he asked me to fill in for him. Well, he ordered me, but it's not like I listen to him. I'm not scared of him. My girlfriend can beat him up. He's small. Honestly, I'm not scared.

As I said, Rok couldn't do this column this week. Don't worry, it's not a bad thing—not for Rok, anyway. He married an unlucky woman named Ginger Baker over the weekend. Good for him, I say. Terrible for her. I guess she thinks he's rich or something. Maybe she's fooled by the velour suit he wears whenever they go on dates. I don't know. Maybe he has some inner qualities that make him attractive. Though I've never seen any.

I guess I should tell you a little about myself. I can't imagine Rok would waste time in a professional website column talking about his roommate. I'm Camembert, as I said, and I have a hot girlfriend, Loretta. Rok and I are distantly related. Very distantly. I'm his ex-wife's sister's son. But our relationship is a lot closer than that, really, since he paralyzed me, moved into my apartment uninvited, made me a mob target, got me kidnapped by pirates, and generally made my life hell on a daily basis. But he did introduce me to my girlfriend, so I suppose things are about even. Now that he's married, I'm hoping to get out on my own with my girlfriend and make a new life for myself. God willing.

I can't believe anyone really wants to hear about the wedding, but I'm sure if you're fans of Rok Finger, I can't believe you exist anyway. I'll describe the wedding so as not to embarrass myself further with revealing details about me.

The bride wore a lovely black dress, and the groom wore a tuxedo that he may have gotten from a ventriloquist dummy. But you can't tell—one of the better fitting suits in his little collection. They wrote their own vows, but I don't think I heard too many of his because the crowd was laughing very loudly. Rok never makes me laugh, personally, but if you had to live with him you probably wouldn't laugh either. I think the vows were very adamant about who washes the dishes, and he might have swore a little, but that's hardly shocking for Rok.

There was one slightly amusing part for me, I admit. The flower girl, Ginger's daughter Becky, was actually taller than Rok. You don't see that very often. Flower girls taller than the groom, I mean. Everybody's taller than Rok. Heck, even in my chair I'm a little taller than he is. But don't tell him—he gets outraged about it.

After the ceremony, which was mercifully short outside of the vows, we threw rice at the newlyweds. Rok threw beans back. I'm not sure why he had beans with him. He might have just anticipated the rice and wanted something to fight back with. Again, I'm not surprised. But they piled into his car with the special high-pedals and drove off on their honeymoon. He told me where they were going but I didn't bother to commit it to memory. I'm better off not knowing where he is. If the Feds ask me.

So what do they do here at the commune? I'm writing this from home, and although I've got internet access, I've never bothered to read the site myself. I get enough Rok Finger at home, thank you. For another thing, I can't swallow any of that news they put out each week. Does anybody actually believe that stuff? Ah, but I'm no critic. I'm just a regular guy trying to help out a maniacal roommate while he enjoys the silence in the house with his girlfriend, Loretta.

Did I mention I have a girlfriend? She is H-O-T hot, too. And she's real.

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