urprise abounded following the January 9 election in the West Bank, when it was forecast Swedish pop supergroup ABBA had a landslide victory and would be declared president(s) of the Arabic state. ABBA, who could not be more white, and had not been aware they were even nominated, were more surprised than anyone else.

ABBA, a musical group who reigned during the age of disco, is comprised of members Benny Andersson, Agnetha Faltskog, Anni-Frid Lyngstad, and Bjorn Ulvaeus. The Swedish sensations held 60% of the vote over the nearest competitor, Mustafa Barghouti, in the nation's first U.S.-approved free election. Upon conceding the race, Barghouti told a crowd of followers, "I can't believe I lost to ABBA."

A third contender protested the election, Palestinian politician Mahmoud Abbas, who claimed the victory more rightly belonged to him. Mahmoud Abbas had spent a great deal of money and time campaigning, claiming the Swedish supergroup had not even entered the Palestinian state at any time during the election process, or possibly at all, ever. Election officials said they would look into it, though the way they shook their heads made it seem more like an effort to pacify the sore loser.

Spokespeople for ABBA, who disbanded in 1982, thought we were messing with them. Being spokespeople for ABBA, they said, they get that all the time.

Results came Sunday night, as Election officials tallied votes as they came into the office. The election was problematic, given recent economic constraints necessitated write-in ballots for candidates in many areas, but officials felt sure enough of the results to give the blue-eyed Swedish pop group an early victory. After Barghouti's concession speech, Palestine waited patiently for ABBA to declare victory. After Mahmoud Abbas tried to assert his right to the presidency, Election officials rejected his claim, based on the strict literal nature of Palestinian law.

"It says ABBA here," said one official in a snooty tone, holding up a few slips of handwritten papers that constituted votes.

Despite the apparent reluctance of the "Waterloo" superstars to accept their new role in international politics, Israeli Prime Minister Ariel "The Little Mermaid" Sharon called Stockholm, Sweden to congratulate any members of ABBA he could find. Eventually, Bjorn Ulvaeus accepted the charges, but reportedly told Sharon it had all been some sort of misunderstanding. Sharon would have none of it, he later told the press.

"We believe ABBA may find politics a tougher game than the music business, but not by much." All the reporters in the press corps politely laughed at the Prime Minister's joke. "Israel is eager to outline a plan of peace with ABBA for the future of Palestine. We are already working out a number of proposals, including disbanding the government and repatriating Arabic nationalities in the occupied territory in exchange for a weekly variety special on Arabic television, and a five-record deal with Yzbeki Records, a premiere label. I see a brighter future for these dancing queens, and for Israel."

Election officials were still holding to their decision as of a week following, but did say they would review all appropriate records and laws to determine whether four people could hold a position formerly held by one Arabic man. If a challenge arose, a run-off election could come up for ABBA, Barghouti, and Mahmoud Abbas, or a three-way race-around-the-world to decide the people's choice to lead Palestine.

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Few were happier than good Samaritan Rok Finger when Lee came out of his coma. Sure, Camembert appeared happy about it—a little too happy, if you ask me. But I was the one who had loaded him up with alcohol and convinced him real men can knock back a few dozen Harvey Wallbangers and then drive with no problem, so the guilt was more than enough to make me hope for him to pull through—and when he did, I expected a few questions. Where am I? How did I get back here? Why didn't you take me to a hospital? Why can't that kid walk? But this is not what I expected.

Lee after the crash did not really seem all that different from Lee before the crash (let's refer to him as Lee B.C.). Yes, he's taken to speaking in rhyme and wearing a three-foot peppermint-striped hat, but I thought it a phase we all go through. What really bothers me is he won't answer to Lee anymore and insists I eat rotten meat and eggs.

Okay, they may not actually be rotten, but they're bright green. You tell me what your first assessment is of the quality of this ham and eggs he's pushing. I wake up, my first guilt-free sleep in a week (besides my afternoon naps), and find Lee cooking breakfast. Fantastic! It appeared at first the crash actually improved him—the old Lee never cooked breakfast, woke up early, paid rent or bathed. I considered taking Camembert for a ride like Jeff Bridges took Rosie Perez in Fearless, hoping for the same great results as with Lee; or Rosie Perez herself, if I could get her in the car. That is, until Lee revealed his true colors—bright green.

I politely refused to eat his foul-colored eggs and porkskin, but that wasn't enough. He kept offering to make the setting more presentable in any way to make me eat them. A bigger or shinier plate, a glass of milk, bringing a fox to the table or threatening to trap me in a box. I'm not sure what either of those would do to improve my appetite, but he was pretty insistent. He already had the fox locked in my bedroom. I still tried to politely reject it, then I resorted to the F-word—flatulence; odd-colored food makes me gassy. But he would not be thwarted.

Even going to the office didn't stop him. He popped up in the backseat of my car and tried to shove them in my mouth. I later found him stuffed inside a drawer of my desk, which at his full 5'5" height made it uncomfortable for him, I'm sure, yet he still was trying to force these emerald eggs and bacon down my gullet. I told him I wouldn't even eat them on a train, or on a plane—though it looks an awful lot like travel food. I beat him to the punch as well by telling him I wouldn't eat them in the rain, a sewer drain, off a yellow stain, if served by Billy Zane, while listening to the Clash's "Train in Vain," wrestling Tom Payne, or if I was insane. This impressed him to no end, I believe.

Then, finally, just to be left alone, I tried them. Nobody was more surprised than I was.

I was made horribly, horribly sick. They rushed me to the emergency room and pumped my stomach, and when they found green meat and eggs, let's just say the doctors and nurses chided me into humiliation in front of the whole emergency room. They said it was obvious Lee had a severe head trauma and needed medical attention as well. And me, well, I was just an asshole for eating green eggs and ham offered by a man with a critical concussion.

So I've learned my lesson. Or maybe I haven't. I won't eat any food that isn't the right color anymore, I know that. Sometimes your instincts are dead on, and men in peppermint hats can't be trusted.

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Good people, you are now reading at a licensed gun owner. That's the truth—except for the license thing. I'm still studying for the exam.

And if you think having a gun doesn't change your life, you should shoot yourself right now. Oh, that's right—you don't own a gun! No, my friends, gun ownership changes everything. Colors are brighter, things taste better, people are truly scared of you wherever you go. Sometimes I don't even have to show them the gun, the bulge in the side of my jacket is enough to get me a front place in line.

Lest you think it's pure fear that gets us gun owners the good life, it's not. Respect. People respect gun owners, because they have taken the biggest step in self-defense that pansies and left-wingers don't have the stomach for. But if the local police department's riot force comes swooping on them down for the big martial law takeover, who do you think they're going to call? Not Ghostbusters, '80s nostalgia fans.

I went gun shopping originally just so I could protect my life, my car, my house, and my wife, in that exact order, from my insane fascist neighbors, the Dickenses. I soon discovered that danger lurks everywhere, and only gun owners can see it all around us. With a little help from the gun store guy. Did you realize you could be walking down the street, minding your own business or participating in a foot race around the world, and someone can simply walk up and stick a knife in your face and demand all your money? And get this—if you give them all your money, they could still kill you anyway. There's no law says they can't. Well, that was all I needed to hear to be put in a proper paranoid frame of mind. I asked for—nay, demanded I get my gun right then.

Most gun owners have to wait about a week for a background check and all to go through, but the shop owner said he was giving away guns for every purchase of his special $900 bullets. I worked out the math and it turns out it's about the same price as buying the guns and the bullets, and since it was a free gun, I didn't even have to wait for the background check! Score: Rok Finger.

The gun owner tried to convince me a derringer would fit my own personal "style," but did you know those things were the smallest in the store? What's the point? Why even have a gun at all? Why not just go full-blown pussy and buy a taser or something? Not yours truly, nor me. No, good people, Rok Finger needs the kind of false security only provided by a long barrel .357 Magnum. Now who's dangerous, invisible stalkers in the night? Me, that's who.

Not that owning the IROC-Z of guns has been easy. I bought a holster for it, only to realize it doesn't fit in the holster. So I stay up all night and, with Camembert's help, refit the damned holster, only to find out I can't walk properly with the gun in the holster—damn my otherwise perfect height! All that trouble of getting a long barrel gun and I had to saw it off in the end anyway. But I understand that makes it more illegal, which makes it more exciting.

I was also dismayed to find out you can't reuse the bullets. I must've wasted about 79 shots before I realized that. I had been picking up all my bullets so I could recycle them—well, I never could get back those 8 shots I fired into that bus. Only then did I find out you have to buy new bullets every time you want to shoot something. Yeah, it's kind of a rip-off.

And the best thing ever, now that I'm on the porch most of the night shooting at random animals, I don't see my neighbors so much anymore. None of them, on any side. I suppose the Dickenses are inside their house, shades drawn, reevaluating their takeover of our block.

So sleep tight, neighborhood. Rok Finger's on watch now.

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