I Wish I Was Dead or
Otherwise Incapacitated
the commune's Rok Finger sings the breaking up blues 

Monday, March 4, 2002
I’m fucking miserable. What an asshole I’ve been.

Sorry for the Turkish, good people, but Rok Finger’s hit rock bottom. No fuckin’ pun intended. In fact, if I did intend a pun in any slight or possibly intentional way, beat me to death with a dirty broom handle.

As you’ll no doubt know, I’ve separated from my wife of 30 years, Arvelyn. Things came to a head and blew up after the whole possibly poisoned food incident, I won’t go into the lousy stinking details, but just to cut through the bullshit, we’re broken up. I’ve been living in my office at the commune since then, drinking from the water fountain and Ramrod Hurley’s hidden Jim Beam bottle and eating the plants growing in the window sill of Omar Bricks’ cubicle. Sure, I feel a lot better once I’ve eaten, but I always come back to here. Rock bottom. No pun, yadda yadda.

I’m sure I’ve expressed how large and impressive a bitch my wife is. Not that I’d totally recant that statement, but as of late I think it only fair to mention I’m no prince to live with either. Let’s face facts, loyal readers: I’m a huge prick, and not the good kind of huge prick ladies talk about. I’m the awful kind of insane, self-destructive huge prick who drives away good-hearted women who love him.

There is no God. That’s obvious. What kind of God would make a huge prick like me and then give him a perfect woman just knowing I’d drive her off just like I did all the other good women in my life, and small children as well? A huge prick God, of course. Satan, I think he’s called. Yeah. God is Satan.

Oooh! Shit. This song, this song is so true. No shitting you, this is dead on the truth. I’ve heard it before but it never made sense like it does right now. Indeed, we’re all stars in the dope show. I’m turning it up, Nacutchacokov and all his shushing can shove themselves up his ass, which would be a physics nightmare. He just works here, I have to live here. I don’t think he’s from this country either.

Sometimes I think maybe I should go outside, since there’s always a better chance of being hit by some sort of traveling vehicle or being struck by lightning. Earthquakes, they’re rare but they could happen. Something could fall out of a window, like my desk, and crush me flat under it. Arvelyn would get all the insurance money and I’d finally do something worthy of her, what a fucking prick I am. The bitch. Oh, shit, I just remembered, I made the cat my beneficiary. You see? This is the kind of humongoid prick Rok Finger is, no denying it.

I’m thinking of getting out The Catcher in the Rye and reading it again. Christ, I haven’t read that book in thirty years now. In fact, I don’t think I ever read it. I burned it once. It’s hard to remember now what all that was about, I think I was just trying to be cool.

Bagel can shove his deadlines up his ass. I’ll turn in a page full of randomly pressed keyboard markings before I write another column. I’m on contract, dammit, they can’t hold me. Besides, I don’t think they edit these things at all.

Anyway, I’m muddling through, good people, loyal friends, fans of a huge prick. I’m sure by next time I’ll have a column better prepared or something. Or, with luck, I’ll be dead and it will no longer be an issue. Fuck me.