Archive for the ‘Remonstrations of Fingers Rolly’ Category

Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part Two)

March 16, 2013 Leave a comment

By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
File photo

Fingers gnarls at his dinner; he has a strange habit of putting food into his mouth sideways and hunching over his plate protectively.  Suddenly, he will bolt upwards in his seat and, remaining completely still, will gaze for an interminable period at something far off and distant out the window.  Then, he will slowly return to his meal.  For Fingers, eating seems a completely pleasureless experience.

I ask him about his last job.  “Physical education,” he blurts out.  “God damn desert high school.  No fields to speak of, just that cracked brown whore dirt.”  He spits on the floor.  “For a time, I enjoyed it.”  “How so?” I probe.  He stares at me.  Then: “It was fun to torture the unathletic children.  But then I’d have to go into my office to fill out grades or something and even with the blinds shut, I knew that god damn desert was out there, mocking me.”

He takes a long, steadying drink of coffee.  This is a rare, lucid moment.  I know it will not last long.

“Then, I took to sleeping under the gym bleachers at night.  I could no longer use facilities because, standing there, I could see that asshole desert out the window.  So, I started defecating under the bleachers.  The principal called me in after a few weeks.

“What did he say?”

“He said, Fingers– he said, we like some of the work you’re doing.  You’re making important strides in teaching the fatter, unathletic kids how to wear their gym shorts.  But we can’t have this moaning and screaming at the desert.  And now that we’ve learned of this expelling of waste beneath the gym bleachers, well, I’m afraid that’s the last straw.  So, he kicked me out on my ass.”

“What did you do?”

“I went home and made up two signs– I still have ’em, in there in the living room.  Then, I took up a post here in this very chair and started screaming at that sonuvabitch.  That cracked, god damn sonuvabitch…”

He gets up from the table (his rugged gait now marred by age) and starts towards the back door with a shotgun.  I stop him.

“There’s nothing you can do, Fingers,” I plead.

He breathes rapidly but stops at the counter.  He removes his hat and looks at the floor for several moments, blinking.  He seems near tears.

Then, suddenly, his face changes completely.  The transformation is stunning.  FFFFFFUUUUUUCCCCKKKK   OFFFFFFFF he moans slowly.  He tries to strike me but I duck out of the way.  He moves to his chair and begins the deeply unsettling desert moan broken by occasional moments of vile profanity.  I keep out of his way as best I can.  “At this point, he’ll start tearing the kitchen up,” warned a journalist friend.

I dig in and prepare for the worst.

The story of Fingers Rolly will continue in future issues.

Just Try to Find a God Damn Adapter to Fit a Sonuvabitch Three-Prong Plug Into a Mother of a Whore Two-Prong Outlet

March 7, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

File photo

I’d challenge you to find a god damn adapter to fit one of those sonuvabitch three-prong plugs into a mother of a whore two-prong outlet.  You’ll wander around staring at that blue piece of shit carpet for hours before you finally bump into some Johnny Fuckhead with a little name badge who don’t know his ass from a bunch of balloons and just wants to sell you some tapes.  And you’ll just go back home still not being able to plug in that new asshole meat slicer and so you’ll just scream at that desert, that cracked and brown shitcan and then you’ll just fall asleep at your own table.

Then I called up some company and got the scream down to a low moan.  I could talk in between.  But the guy on the other end was from out in the islands and I damn near couldn’t understand a word he said.  I think by the end of the whole god damn snowjob, I sent a check for something and then I caught that motherfucking desert out of the corner of my eye and I just couldn’t help but to scream loud and strong hoping that would be the final time with that big ol’ bitch.

I think it came the other day in a little yellow box.  God damn assholes.

The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Fingers Rolly is no longer being given assignments.

These Fucking Pricks and their Pants

February 25, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

File photo

I can’t believe these fucking pricks and their god damn pants.  I could take you right to a men’s store and find you that fucking revolving belt stand but god help these little shit perverts. “I can see the crack of your ass!” is what I want to yell.  Instead, I just holler at the desert– all cracked and brown and just fucking king hill bullshit.

Pants come in two colors– brown and blue.  They try to fucking sell you anything else and any self-respecting man would turn the other god damn way.  You just have to be careful you don’t turn the way that leads into that mother of a whore desert.

Mother used to have this fucking spinning jenny.  Spun out belts made out of thick as shit hemp.  Not only were your slacks not ever going to fall down but you couldn’t even remove that lousy little asshole.  It was hopeless then.  You’d just sit around and there was not a single godforsaken thing in the world you could do.

That sonuvabitch desert is back again.

The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Fingers Rolly is no longer receiving assignments.

Why Don’t You All Just Eat Some Shit?

February 18, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

File photo

You start complaining to me about those balloons or about the price of gas or about the line to buy new dungarees and I’m gonna’ tell you all the same thing.  Why don’t you all just eat some shit?

If you want, I’ll help you.  You can even sit at my own fucking table, long as you don’t mind a fucking leaky tractor transmission in front of you.  Not like a tractor does anything at all to that asshole of a desert.  Throws dirt up in the air so that it just settles again, that big bitch.  I know my brother-in-law ripped me off on that one; we all knew he come from gypsies.

You can complain all you want about it but I’ll say it and they’ll say it– why don’t you all just eat some shit?

Can you believe the cost of a fucking stamp?

The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was actually assigned no article at all.

Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part One)

February 15, 2013 1 comment

By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
File photo

In the past few weeks, the world has become entranced by the writings of Association reporter Fingers Rolly.  And yet, I always found myself wanting more.  Who is Fingers Rolly?  What are his thoughts?  Can he even be known?

I made the long drive to the Lankville Desert Region to find out.

Fingers Rolly lives on a patch of desert surrounded by a natural arrangement of lovely pincushion cacti.  His home is a series of old aluminum trailers that have been shoved together in a fanciful manner, thereby creating a rather large structure.  There are the remnants of succulent gardens along one edge and a well-tended gravel walk but the land itself is cracked and brown, pulverized into dust by a relentless sun.

The road simply ends at Mr. Rolly’s rambling home; it goes no further.  A tremendous amount of dust kicks up as I pull to a stop.  Upon alighting from the car, I detect a strange sound that suddenly changes in timbre.  Whereas at first it had sounded mournful, now it sounds almost demonic.  I realize that it is the famous desert howling of Fingers Rolly.

Will he even answer the door? I ask myself.  “If he’s howling, you can forget about it,” said an anonymous source, whom I probed for information about the mysterious writer.  “You’ll have to try another day.”  But I am resolute.  I quickly change into a finely-tailored suit (I had been wearing some workout short pants and a lightweight shoulder harness) and make my way to what I presume to be the front door.

The demonic howling suddenly stops.  Nothing moves.  No sound can be heard from within.  “Fingers?” I call out.  I tap again at the door and it suddenly swings open.  I can perceive only shadows from within.

I enter a mysterious room.  There is a living room set (leather sofa and chair, cowboy motif) but large hand-painted plywood signs are stacked neatly against them.  I flip through the cracked and warped messages, clearly punished by the desert sun– NO!  GO AWAY!  LEAVE!  I DO NOT WANT YOU!  I cross to a bookshelf– more signs stacked on the dusty floor, more strange pleading edicts to persons unknown.

The howling comes again– this time low and somber.  I move towards it.  It is lighter here– a filthy kitchen stacked with old tins and bottles, covered with a deeper layer of dust.  And in a kitchen chair, I find the great writer.  He is shaking and moaning.  He almost appears to fall asleep at times, then suddenly bolts upright and lets loose a vile stream of profanity.

I gently put my hand on his shoulder and he turns around.  He is sweating and his clothing is filthy and ragged.  On the cluttered table before him, I find some stationary from a long-defunct hotel– Fingers Rolly is working on his latest article.

“Will you speak with me?” I ask.  I find a chair on the opposite side of the table.  There is an ancient transmission before me, resting on a yellowed newspaper.

“Didn’t you see the sign you…you little asshole?” he says in a voice that, I am immediately convinced, is possessed.

Before I can respond, he begins howling again, then cursing wildly.  This goes on for four hours straight.  As the light begins to fade, I interrupt and offer to prepare dinner.  Fingers looks up– his face seems his own now.  “Go ahead, you fucking asscake.  Who’s stopping you?”  He looks back to the window but I can tell he is grateful.

I search the dusty cupboards for our meal.

Give No More Than $15 for a Tiger Painting

February 12, 2013 Leave a comment
Fingers Rolly Man on the Street

Fingers Rolly Man on the Street

I’m telling you straight– don’t let these godforsaken pissants cheat you.  Give no more than $15 and you’ll get yourself a perfectly good god damn tiger painting.

You can hang it over a chair.  Maybe the chair where you sit and scream at that asshole of a desert– all cracked and fucking brown and just mocking you. But give no more than $15.

I’d go $20 for sofa-sized.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on safety tips for Halloween.

That Piece of Shit Never Did Give Me Back My Fucking Five Dollars that He Borrowed to Buy a Fish Dinner

February 6, 2013 Leave a comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

File photo

I don’t know what the fuck is going on but that piece of shit never did give me back my five dollars.  He borrowed it to pay for that motherfucking fish dinner we had at the church near the overpass.  You walk twenty feet and you’re in a fucking swamp.  What kind of asshole builds a church by a swamp?

Afterwards, we went back to the shack and I screamed at that fucking brown desert.  That piece of shit looked shocked by the whole thing, ended up leaving early.  Fuck him.

But he does owe me that five dollars.  He got the cod.

The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on goalie masks.

I Don’t Know What the Fuck is Going On at these God Damn Fire Stations Anymore

January 31, 2013 1 comment

By Fingers Rolly
Man on the Street

File photo

Christ as my god damn witness, I don’t know what the fuck is going on at these god damn fire stations anymore.  Used to be, you had a brick building that’d sit between some other brick buildings.  They had a fucking flag hanging out front, some windows, and a little dog that was always an asshole.

Now they’ve got these motherfucking centers.  Huge bitches that sit off on their own in front of a bunch of shitbox houses.  They look like god damn shopping malls.  And you think they ever bring the engines out on Saturdays for a hose-down?  Fuck no.  You don’t ever see one of those freeloading fucks.  I mean never.

And that’s what our taxes go to.

The Pondicherry Association News would like to apologize for the preceding article.  Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on hockey jerseys.

You Buy a Hose and it Comes Packaged in Cardboard and Wire Ties and I Guarantee You’re Not Getting That Fucker Out of There

January 22, 2013 Leave a comment
By Fingers Rolly  Man on the Street

By Fingers Rolly   Man on the Street

You go to a place like that Home Dump place and you buy a hose and it comes packaged in that fucking shitbird heavy cardboard with those pieces of wire all around it and I guarantee that you’re not getting that fucking hose out of there.  I guarantee it.

You can bring out the big guns– those heavy old scissors used to cut tin or maybe some pliers, a hammer, the whole fucking toolbox.  You go at that motherlovin’ packaging like a wild dog but you’re not getting that fucking hose out of there.  Can’t even move those fucking wire ties.

You can take it up to your attic and throw it down three stories and that god damn cardboard coffin still ain’t coming loose.  You give up hope.  You spend the night in your fucking car just looking at that thing lying there in the yard, mocking you.  You can scream at it over and over but you ain’t getting that hose out of there.

I guarantee it.

The Lankville Daily News would like to apologize for the preceding story.  Mr. Rolly was assigned an article on funny baby names.

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