“That’s bullshit,” countered Wolfe in his hot-to-the-web response. “If I give you Phish concert tickets, and you go there and get your ass kicked by a big dude for singing along during a serious jam, I don’t get to go down and sue the big dude or press criminal charges. Especially not if there’s shield laws that protect big dudes from being prosecuted for kicking ass when a guy ruins a concert. I mean, think about it—makes no sense.”

Wolfe was released early from his sentence following a deal with prosecutors. The boggelist, who went to jail for refusing to turn over the video tape, turned over the video tape. In exchange, he didn’t have to go back to jail, an agreement Wolfe called “a sweet deal” for himself.

In addition, Wolfe was freed from testifying as to the contents of the video. Early testimony not released to law enforcement allegedly included such descriptions as, “That’s a guy really flipping out ‘cause the cops are coming,” and, “Oh, check this guy. What a prick.” Apparently prosecutors decided they could do without Wolfe going on record.

Wolfe came to the attention of federal authorities when his video aired on local news, but the boggelist stood by his convictions by refusing to allow outtakes from the video to air. According to Wolfe, the outtakes were mostly when vengeful rioters protesting the G8 summit and calling for anarchy kept bursting into laughter when a few of them mispronounced the word as “annanarchy.”

“Getting out of jail for giving them the video I refused to give them seven months earlier has allowed me to strike a blow for justice,” Wolfe concluded in his “fuck you” to the system. “Let this stand as evidence that bloggers are as dedicated to protecting their sources as any other print or media journalist. Also, the arresting officer was a total douchebag, so I really couldn’t give up the tape until I heard they totally canned that guy’s ass.”

Despite pressing pleas from commune reporters, Wolfe refused to embrace the word boggelist, so we exacted our revenge by misspelling in this article.

Turkey to Block Offensive Websites; commune Offers Pre-Emptive “Fuck You”

Obama to Change Spelling of Name to oBAMa for Maximum Impact

Oasis, Killers Combine Forces to Ruin Sgt. Pepper’s for Everyone

Global Warming Poses Threat to National Parks, Says WWF’s “Machoman” Savage

The day started out innocently enough, at least for those of us who harbored no venom in our souls, waiting for the slightest Dokken-related opportunity to spit it free. I rose at noon, after a refreshing fourteen hours of sleep, and proceeded to peruse the Journal for its most salient feature: Get Fuzzy. As you can imagine, I breakfasted on a hearty bowl of disappointment. Apparently the volatility of soybean futures means more to some depraved individuals than the slice-of-life adventures of Satchel and Bucky. I feign no supernatural ability to explain these things, my dear.

Turned away coldly by the inky black indifference of the Journal, I opted instead to soothe my soul with a little skeet shooting from the bedroom window, with neighborhood birds standing in for skeet. Don’t get started about my habit of ridding our neighborhood of incessantly inconsiderate songbirds, my dear, if they had the good sense not to side with morning folk they’d still be alive and in one compact, non-shotgunned piece. I shed not a tear, after their daily double-insult of leaving the late-night hours to the shrill noodling of crickets, in addition to polluting my restful morn with their whistling farts.

As you well know, my dear, for I have explained it in detail on several occasions, nothing elevates a reflective noontime sheet-shooting spree from a pleasant diversion to the realm of the sublime like the thundering hair rock of Los Angeles natives Dokken.

The moment is crystallized in my mind like a dog trapped in amber, my dear. I had just winged a squirrel that had picked a poor time to attempt traversing the power lines spanning our property, and was marveling my shotgunmanship when you burst in, as if my privacy were nothing to be taken any more seriously than the word of a Scotsman. You burst in shouting some nonsense about orphans sleeping downstairs and the weak heart trapped within the chest of our frail, elderly, taking-her-sweet-time-to-die neighbor Mrs Weatherborrow. Most of this was drowned out by the blast of the shotgun as I spied a child’s kite hovering tantalizingly just over our property line, but what you said next I will take with me to my grave, possibly on a Post-It note. Turn down that noise? That noise? Oh, my dearest Deidrebane. How you seek to wound me so, and my, how you’ve learned just where to stick the blade.

It would have been one thing if the racket in question had been Winger, Deidrebane. They’re hardly worthy of your polite attention, my dear, say nothing of your rapture. Or if it had been a guilty pleasure like Slaughter pummeling from the speakers this morning, shaking the very air and vibrating the bathtub down the hall with each well-placed bass note. Referring to the work of those gentlemen as noise could be forgiven, albeit with a healthy slathering of condescension on the part of yours truly. But no, my wife of many a year, it had to be Dokken. It’s as if the very Gods themselves have chosen the method of my slow undoing.

Have you learned nothing from my frequent lectures concerning the mannered vocal stylings of Don Dokken, my dear? Have my haikus addressing George Lynch’s heavenly fretwork fallen upon deaf ears? Am I the only on in this house whose very dreams echo to the strains of “Alone Again”? Please, tell me you at least remember the driving force of “The Dream Warriors” from that Nightmare on Elm Street movie we watched. You didn’t think I keep renting it again and again for the filmic content, did you? I swear, Deidrebane, sometimes it’s like I’m married to a total stranger.

It’s fortunate for you our neighbor to the East just put up that giant birdfeeder. Some things cannot be forgiven, my dear, but given enough concussive shotgun blasts in close proximity to one’s head, it’s entirely possible they may be forgotten.

º Last Column: For the Last Time Deidrebane, Those Aren’t the Feds
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The way I see it, we have two choices: We can sit back and wear black kerchief armbands and piss and moan about the death of rock ‘n’ roll—or we can save it. Guess which one Derek Zomny is all ‘bout.

I speak the fothermuckin’ truth when I say I have the one band that can save rock ‘n’ roll. I’m not so different than Jon Landau in Rolling Stone years ago, saying with certainty, “I have seen the future of rock ‘n’ roll and his name is Bruce Springsteen.” My case is exactly the same, except for Rolling Stone had readers. Also, I am in the band that is the future of rock ‘n’ roll: Face Mask.

Despite being the lead singer/songwriter/lead guitarist/manager/van driver/owner for the band Face Mask, I have no bias when I say we are the best fucking band out there right now. When people ask me what is our sound, I say pure fucking beauty, man. We aren’t like other bands and we refuse to sound like them. We aren’t like these other bands that came to save rock ‘n’ roll but just kipe the original sound of some other band. Oasis? Puh-leeze. They’re sub-Beatles. The Strokes? The Velvet Underground meets the Buzzcocks. We sound like the band Jesus would have had and nothing else.

Like any band, we had to start by playing covers of our influences. Josh (rhythm guitar, though sometimes the lying prick will tell girls he’s lead guitar, as if) was really into the Edge a long time ago, but now he listens to mostly Clapton. So we worked “Sunday Bloody Sunday” into our repertoire. Nash, our bassist, has always been a big Rush man, so we had to play “Tom Sawyer,” and since him and me both like the Zep, and I could do the shit out of a scream, we covered “Immigrant Song,” too. We used to have a big fat drummer named Sticky Pete, too, and he made us do some Primus shit we weren’t into, but we kicked his ass to the curb for a more photogenic dude on skins, Clint Warhawk. He’s not an Indian, but fuck if you can tell that. And he’s really into Guns ‘N’ Roses, so we added “Sweet Child O’ Mine” to our latest set list.

I don’t have to tell you guys, however, that the real test for a band is their original material, and nobody has the fucking original material we do. I write songs like John Lennon and Paul McCartney were locked in a fucking room with Kurt Cobain and Bob Dylan. You go into that room and maybe you find nothing but blood and entrails and a pile of pure genius songs, that’s what it’s like in my composition book where I compose.

Songs like “You Don’t Bring Me Malt Liquor,” “Tongue Death,” “Fancy Fucking Girl,” and “Trip on This Shit, You Cock” (an instrumental, but not because I couldn’t think of lyrics) will go down into the rock history books next to “Eleanor Rigby,” I guaran-fucking-tee you.

This may all seem like cocky boasting to those of you who haven’t heard us yet, but I swear, Face Mask more than lives up to the expectations I give you. And anyone who doesn’t believe me, and will be in the Richmond, Virginia area May 25 is welcome to come to Thomas Jefferson High School on prom night and see the future of rock ‘n’ roll, alive and kicking. We also do stage-diving.

º Last Column: Lyric Corrections
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