Testifying against the mob hasn’t been as much fun as I thought it would be. Not only has my life been repeatedly threatened and endangered, I’ve had to change my name and address more times than Martin Luther, and they’ve made me give back all those nice suits. But good people, I’m convinced I’m doing the right thing. It feels far too horrible to be the funner brand of wrong thing I’m more familiar with.

Despite my own convictions, however, the mobsters gunning for Rok remain unconvicted. Which brings me to something I once vowed to you, my mother, and the state department I would never do—I, Rockwell T. Finger, must leave the country.

I state it somewhat generally, as I’ve already left the country. At least now I know the world is not flat, it at least has another hemisphere. I’m living down under, and this time I don’t mean in mother’s basement. Australia, good people. G’day, queen! Like they say locally.

How can you say anything bad about Australia? Let’s try. For one, I’m not certain what they’ve been told, but this language is certainly not English. Where I come from, America, we invented English, and I know English when I hear it. They have all sorts of oddball names for things down here. Mates, sheilas, kangaroos—I know a five-foot rat walking upright like a man when I see it. Cutesy names don’t help me get to sleep any better at night. Maybe once I’ve finished the giant mousetrap I’ll know sleep again.

Felchyana’s taken to the place quite well, but she’s a foreigner, no surprise there. All non-America places are probably alike to her. Unroll a sleeping mat out on the tundra and crash for a while, all the same. She has started to add these Australian colloquialisms to her speech though. I thought at first anything was better than gangsta slang, but changed my mind after coming home to, “Oy, bitch!” a few dozen nights.

Not that I have a job. I intended to commute to the commune as I had in the past, but I ran straight into some body of water following the map north. I can still communicate using this “Intro-Net” device, but it’s not the same as being “hands-on” in the office. Sitting at my desk, holding my hands tightly on my old Royal typewriter so Ted Ted doesn’t take it to hock at the local Pawn & Gun, trying to think about what really pisses me off that hasn’t been sufficiently covered in previous columns or constitutional amendments. Working from home is just not for me.

I will say it’s been a new experience. And I hate those. Which is good, since I pay the bills with my seething, undying hatred after I allow it to fester and boil up into column inches. Not that I was ever in danger of losing it, not as long as those New York Times liberals are still alive and kicking. So in the end, it may be good fuel for many more columns, but right now, I’m having trouble getting a good hate on.

But you know Rok Finger’s way of doing things—always give everything a fair shot. Then when it fails miserably you can sound even more sincere in your complaints. Felchyana and I are going out this week to find where they filmed that boxing movie trilogy in the Z-Land. Afterwards, if I can spare the time, I’m going to reunite Men at Work, a little extra-credit brownnosing for boss Bagel. Eventually, one day, it will be safe to set foot on American soil again. And when that day comes, I’m going to take a hefty dump on Australia before leaving. With affection.