he world remains shocked and eerily obsessed with the mortal departure of ABC news anchor Peter Jennings after his short but well-publicized battle with cancer. With several primetime memorial specials, newspaper editorials, and lots of merchandise on the way to local stores, people are remembering the legacy of the deceased newsman. But no matter what else people might say about the mark he left, one thing all can agree on: He read the news.

"He not only changed the way we thought about the news, but the way we watched the news," said media kiss-ass Earl Shmonster. "I have no examples to back that up. But you name any news event in the past twenty years, you can bet Peter Jennings covered it. Or introduced us to the guy who was covering it. He was faithfully at his desk whenever something happened that the nation needed to be told about."

Jennings' death, both tragic and timely, has seized the consciousness of a nation that had all but given up on paying attention to the news. His terminal illness has been a dazzling source of conversation and meditation on our own mortality. While some people are already talking about who will be the next ABC news anchor, one thing is patently clear: They will have to die in a really horrific way to steal back the nation's focus from the late Peter Jennings.

"Jennings was a consummate reporter," said a national news editorial copied nearly word for word a thousand times over since the anchor man's death. "He was always in the field, when he wasn't behind the anchor desk. His soothing voice and rugged good looks kept us all calm and placated while he told us about AIDS, rising poverty, election fraud, space shuttles blowing up, and, more recently, terrorism. He was more than the face of ABC network news: He was its voice, too."

The Peter Jennings' death frenzy has carried over beyond a hurricane of media coverage, including a bevy of Jennings-related items for sale on eBay and a series of Jennings news pieces headed for DVD to offer consolation to grief-stricken Jennings fans who possess money. But Jennings' death has affected the world in non-marketable ways, too, convincing several in the population to find out more information about lung cancer. The first thing most of them learn from Jennings' experience: Don't get it.

Spokesperson Nanny Freedmont from the Rubb-Houston Center for Celebrity Deaths: "The death of Peter Jennings was more than the loss of a father, husband, and media professional: It was the loss of someone famous. A person who we saw regularly on the TV every night for years, and whom we've developed a perfectly healthy attachment to. We considered him a friend, and we feel the void he's left behind, and will continue to until at least the next celebrity passes away tragically."

Jennings' departure sparked hundreds of responses from people everywhere, but since we've never heard of most of them, we only selected a few to cover. Like this one from the American Cancer Association:

"Hundreds of thousands of people die from lung cancer every year. But none of them were famous. God bless ye, Peter Jennings, America's nightly news Jesus."

Another fond farewell came from colleague and friendly nightly news rival Dan Rather.

"Jennings was a fine newsman and always read the news without error. He was never stymied by the more challenging words, like 'fiduciary responsibility.' He will be missed. Me, on the other hand, going out in a puff of smoke and a blaze of scandal. I mean, what the fuck, America? What would it take to get a simple friendly good-bye from you people? I'm not on the news anymore either, you know. I guess I'll have to burst into fucking flame or something to get a 'So long and fuck off, Dan!'"

Speaking of bursting into fucking flame, the commune news pays its own final tribute to the world's greatest news reader, Peter Jennings: Out, out, brief candle.

n the wake of a landmark $253 million lawsuit that found the company liable for heart damage caused by its arthritis painkiller Vioxx, things went from bad to shitty bad for drug giant Merck this week, as a group of prescription drug abusers announced they were suing the company for taking Vioxx off the market during the shitstorm of controversy last year.

“We were all hooked on Vioxx, and Merck left us high and dry,� sobbed prescription painkiller addict and group spokesperson Beth Simmons of Noodle Cove, Maine. “Somebody needs to pay for all the bedspreads I shit while I was detoxing after Merck’s short-sighted decision to yank Vioxx off the market.�

“Just because a few pussies had heart attacks is no reason to put good people through the hell we’ve all been through,� added group member Tom Cripe. “Shame on you, Merck.�

“Vioxx got you high as shit,� agreed fellow abuser Dennis Melvin, staring off into space.

Though unusual, the lawsuit is not as revolutionary as many might assume. It follows in the footsteps of last year’s landmark State of Louisiana Vs. BDI Pharmaceuticals settlement, which found manufacturer BDI liable for the productivity lost and emotional damage caused when they reformulated their Mini Thins ephedrine tablets under the new name Mini Two-Way Action, to prevent abuse by truckers and to boost sales among rhinoceros horn-grinding aphrodisiac freaks.

“Merck formed a good-faith pact with their customers,� explained prosecuting attorney Ray Longam. “An implicit agreement that said: you get hooked on our pills, crushing them up and snorting them up your nose, or shooting a solution into your ass fat, scamming your insurance company out of thousands to feed your addiction, or turning to the black market to buy Vioxx pills stolen out of the medicine cabinets of old ladies, you hold up your end of the bargain, and we’ll keep you high as fuck all the time. Only Merck didn’t live up to their end of the bargain. And that’s just not right. Somebody’s got to stand up for the little guy.�

Joe Borchard, a little guy who estimates he snorted over $10,000 in powdered Vioxx pills during the painkiller’s short reign, is happy to know his voice will finally be heard. “I had to switch to OxyContin after they took Vioxx off the market. And that was a major pain in the ass. I could never remember how to spell it. One time I snorted a whole bottle of pimple cream on accident, and that shit dried out my brain for like three weeks.�

A Merck spokesperson, however, finds the lawsuit to be absurd.

“These people are clearly stupid,� explained Merck spokesperson Charles Ludlow. “Vicodin will get you so high you shit your pants and don’t even know it. So what were these people doing messing around with Vioxx? If we give these people a few million dollars in a settlement, they’re probably just going to blow it trying to get high off asthma medicine or something.�

Legal experts contend that an unfavorable judgment could cost Merck millions in expired Vioxx tablets, rumored to be buried in bunkers in the New Mexico desert. Industry insiders suggest that the pharmaceutical giant would be better served by paying off the plaintiffs before the trial even begins with free samples of Arcoxia, the company’s Vioxx replacement, which is twice as addictive as Vioxx and gets you so high there’s no way you’d get to the courthouse on time.

Something has forever changed Rok Finger, good people. Whether it was my recent wedding to the most beautiful and loyal woman in the world or that recent colonic, I can't say for sure. But I feel, as I said, changed in brand new ways. Changed back to how I was before. No more galavanting off at the drop of a hat. I no longer need to insecurely plow through the far corners of the nation, seeking my next new thrill just for fodder for my column. I can find material from my regular joyful life—that is the change I've undergone. And I'm going to start by complaining about my goddamn desk.

I say this with all sincerity: It's a desk that deserves death. Whatever form of death you can deal out to a desk, I'm all for it. I'll debate all the right-to-lifers or liberal nutcases till kingdom come (next Wednesday, I believe), but that desk should die. It's the worst excuse for a flat surface to store pencils and everything else I've ever seen. It's a joke. Other desks laugh about it behind its back—we merely can't understand them because it's all in inaudible desk talk.

What's wrong with it? I'm glad you asked, using me as a proxy. Its drawers are too small, for one, and it only has one. So indeed the term "drawers" isn't even inaccurate. Small drawer. And a bumpy surface… why, my own penmanship makes me vomit. I can't stand to look at it. It's all because of the desk, believe me. I used to have the world's most beautiful handwriting (my "i's" and the way I dotted them once made Nelson Mandela cry), but this desk has turned it into Muhammad Ali's handwriting. With the boxing gloves on. And I'm not even bringing up the two legs shorter than the other two on this wobbly little shit. Okay, I mentioned it. I feel the need to be spiteful.

This may seem like another sudden shift in personality to some of you readers, especially those of you who have read my several columns praising my desk, and the handful of you who bought my book of poems dedicated to my desk. You might wonder, is this the same desk? Could it be the same desk? I can't tell you it is or isn't. All I know is this misbegotten wooden bastard was waiting for me when I returned from my honeymoon, and it's certainly not the character I remember from my old desk. However, when I left, my old desk was buried under a pile of clutter (not the snack cake Clutters; just various piles of paper, pens, pencils, paper clips, folders, and racist figurines). And of course my desk has been buried under that clutter since 1999, roughly. When I returned, it was clean. Whether it was due to the local janitorial staff, desk-cleaning vigilantes, or that birthday wish I made last year, I can't be sure. But I miss the desk that had been under that clutter. This one is the bane of God.

Come to think of it… why would anyone even clean a desk? What end does it serve? I think… and wild speculation isn't quite my area, but I'll play devil's Bagel on this one… I think it might all be part of a huge plot to swipe my desk. As if I wouldn't notice! As if I'm some rube who doesn't know his ass from another large object you can set drinks on. They've pushed me too far. I'll find out who the desk bandit is here and I'll give them what they deserve—this crappy desk they've already slipped me.

The thought of it alone steams my beans, and you all know how I hate wrinkly, moist beans. But they won't get away with it. I'll find them all and make them pay, the desk conspiracists who hide amongst us. I'll track each and every one of them down to the end of the earth if need be, and maybe even if they don't need it. It is fun, after all.

On a somewhat related note, this new desk they brought me this morning seems to be living up to expectations. Not stellar, but alright, in a fits-the-bill kind of way. Fast service, too, since I only requested a new one yesterday, when I got back from my honeymoon.

None of this, of course, lessens the crime committed against me with the crappy desk. Consider yourselves warned, conspiracists.

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