Editor’s Note: Rok Finger isn’t available this week to bring you a fresh serving of his homespun curmudgeon wit. But in the interest of filling space, since Gay Bagel says big gaping holes on the index page make advertisers cry, we bring you this special edition of Rok Finger’s column, as originally presented in his high school newspaper, Spirit! The first few lines have been lost to history, or possibly a smart editor.

…and of course, I think they would be happier in their own neighborhood. The adults really have hit the nail on the head with this one.

But I digress. As I suggested earlier, I would like to address the number one problem facing this empire of ours, and it’s none of those slimy things I mentioned before. No, I’m talking of course about the “magic box” that has entranced our nation, young and old alike: television.

Fellow teens, the dangers presented by this flashing light show are myriad and numbersome. You have noticed, I’m sure, how anyone caught in its line of fire is instantly stopped and held catatonic for an immeasurable amount of time? Well, let’s forget all the potential dangers of this, like being frozen by a TV in the middle of a busy city street (some shopowners even maliciously display these things in their windows—turned on!) Let’s think about the danger these contraptions pose to our everyday lives.

Have you ever turned on one, just to become lost in the timeless void and awake later with no memory of where, say, four hours went? Sure, we all have, except for me. I refuse to watch the danged thing, excuse my tongue. The effect could paralyze ours, the greatest nation on the earth, when more and more people simply stop showing up to work. Our city policeman will be called to their houses when the smell gets too much for the neighbors, only to find the dessicated remains of some Maverick fan who couldn’t be bothered with eating, sleeping, shaving, or any other of our precious daily activities.

When the machines stop working, you know what happens to our country: Stagnation! It’s the same thing that happened to the ancient Greeks. They didn’t have television, sure, but some of those dramatists were pretty mesmerizing. The volcanoes start a-firin’ and there you are, stuck in the front row to a lava show because you wanted to find out what was the deal with Oedipus.

Let’s face it, nobody even knows how these blasted things work. They were discovered on an archaeological expedition, I hear, or it has something to do with Nazi testing on human beings. And we brought it back with us to the civilized world, not realizing it was syphilis in a cube. Where are these strange “TV networks” located… have you ever seen one?

Maybe we’re not in real danger just yet. But fellow teens, mark my words, one of us has to go—television or humanity. Can you imagine where the path we’re on might eventually end? Grim atrocities like murder might become public entertainment in years to come. Any idiot with a television could decide important matters, like who the world’s best singer is, or who’s hot or not.

I shudder to think of it. Fellow teens, throw your TVs in the river now, while you still can!

You Are Cordially Insulted...
My betrothed and I have decided to write our own vows. We got off to a rocky start, but I think it’s going exceptionally well now. At first, I admit, I sort of confused the vows with New Year’s resolutions, promising her I would cut out chocolate and lose ten pounds by Christmas. But she corrected me, and didn’t even use violence—what a woman!

Abducted by Beatniks
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.

Marry All the Way
Now that my divorce is finalized with Ms. Teddasaurus, you’d better believe I’m lining up all my ducks for the wedding of the century! Well, I suppose that may be overstating things. It’s an early century, after all. I would hate for the great-great-grandson of Prince to be forced to marry the Queen of Neptune, in order to keep us from going to interplanetary war.

The Good Name of Rok ???
I’m backed into a corner, and it’s full of piranha. Piranha that can fly through the air and still eat me, so don’t think I’m talking floppy, panicked fish. I have no choice but to give up my name to Felchyana (or Felchyana Finger, as all the hot-to-trot bachelors will soon be calling her).