As you may remember from last year's KookyStuff Roundup, it's my policy not to use humorous year-end items that have already appeared elsewhere. The idea is to provide you -- the overstuffed info consumer -- with fresh tidbits that you just won't get anywhere else. Though I'm happy to do this, it's not easy. Once, long ago, there was only one humorous year-end review: Esquire's Dubious Achievement Awards. Now, there are many. Many many. In fact, I run a daily check at local newsstands, and so far only Cat Fancy and Concealed Handgun have come out with wrap-up- free New Year's issues. I wish more publications would follow their lead, because each time another roundup appears, it's like unleashing a cranky editorial gremlin on my ever-dwindling KookyStuff file. "Hey," I can almost hear the gremlin saying as he waves a yellowed clip at me, "love this item where Richard Gephardt says, 'I'm opposed to film colorization because in black and white I have eyebrows.' Funnnny stuff. But you know what?"

". . . What? . . ."

"You can't USE it!"

Sorry. I don't mean to complain. I'm resigned to the fact that my items rarely involve known personalities. It's just that so many of them are also . . . cheesy. A few are beneath even my liberal standards. In late January, the AP wire carried a story about a rampaging gang of "dung-flinging Finnish drama students" at the national theater school in Helsinki. Described as a "revolutionary group with an unclear agenda," the students, reportedly as a protest against traditional theater, went berserk during a performance in the provincial city of Oulu, stripped, "flinged dung" at the audience members and attacked them with whips. And if you want to read more about that one, I suggest you buy a January copy of one of those West German "news magazines" with nekkid people on the cover, because we'll not discuss it here. Nor will I go into any detail about:

1. Ritsuko Taho, the Harvard University art instructor who assigned her "Fundamentals of Sculpture" students to adopt a chicken, get to know it as a pet, then watch it get slaughtered, take it home, cook and eat it, and use its bones to make a sculpture.

2. The two dogs who were mating near (note that: near, not on) an airport runway in Topeka, Kan., shortly before Air Force One was scheduled to land. They received "shotgunnus interruptus" from a security guard who said he was "only following Secret Service orders" to "get rid of anything that moves."

3. The Alliance, Neb., man who built a working Stonehenge copy out of old cars and appliances as "a gift to the community" and yet, perversely, has decided not to allow tourism or sunrise visits by Druid auto mechanics seeking good engine-rebuild karma.

I faced one other problem this year. For some reason (maybe they're ashamed), it was impossible to get the principal characters in my KookyStuff dramas on the phone. In all cases except one, they either didn't have a phone, were unlisted, didn't answer or wouldn't call me back. Last summer it was reported that Dolly Parton's 5-year-old nephew Derek had caused a sensation in Sevier County, Tenn., by "faith healing" his sister. She had a bellyache from eating candy, and he prayed: "Lord, please help Mandy because she foundered on M&Ms." Miraculously, the bellyache disappeared later that day. Wouldn't you like to have Derek's number next time you OD on fruit rollups? So would a lot of people, but his mother is unlisted. Then there's Rabbi Mordechai Winyarrz of Boca Raton, Fla. Mimicking the wrongheaded action of many 1970s Sunday school teachers who tried to be "hip" by playing "Jesus Christ Superstar," he produced a rock album meant to reach out to Jewish teens. It even has a rap song, "Rappin' Jewish," which goes: "La-die-doo, I'm a Jew 'cause I think it's cool/ Yeah, I eat kosher meat 'cause I ain't no fool/ Ask me anything you want to, but I will repeat/ I say being Jewish makes me groove to the beat." Was I super-bummed when the rabbi failed to return my calls? Yes.

But enough whining. On with the Roundup:

Aerial dogfights to decide dump "bragging rights"! In Seattle last summer, sanitation officials were considering using radio-controlled model airplanes to scare away sea gulls that swarm over the Cedar Hills garbage dump -- presumably because they're a nuisance to picnickers who want an unblocked view of the sky while relaxing in the dump. Actually, that's my guess -- the story didn't contain a much-needed "why this needs to be done" paragraph. And when I called the garbage folks, all I got was a recording that said: "We do NOT accept hazardous waste or tree stumps."

Handling snakes the old-fashioned way! In October, the congregation of a Baptist church in Rock Hill, S.C., was confronted by a "dreadful pile of snakes" that came through a ceiling hole and wriggled onto the rafters. It happened during a Saturday night church banquet that was held in a nearby junior college auditorium. "All of a sudden, people started pointing and looking at the ceiling," said the Rev. Reid White. "And then I saw it -- a pile of snakes crawling around in the rafters . . . It seemed like the high-toned organ was what woke those snakes. The faster they played that organ, the faster the snakes moved." Naturally, the congregation's pastor "interpreted" the whole thing by saying the snakes were sent by God to "deliver a message" that the auditorium needed a new roof.

I know what you're saying. There's a few inches of column left -- how is he going to top that? Easy, with: Brooke Shields and her "Biker Party"! This one should make the major news organizations feel pretty dang dumb that they don't subscribe to my favorite magazine, Outlaw Biker. As reported in the November issue, Brooke and her mother were in North Carolina filming a Bob Hope special, and one night they turned up at Rick's Topless Lounge, a biker hangout, "for a coupla cold ones and a little partyin'." "There was no confusin' her with the other hardbellies {slim biker chix} at the bar," the article says. "And how did Brooke decide to relax? By takin' her first ride on a Harley and tearin' through the North Carolina night packin' behind a tattooed and leathered biker named Boda." (Boda is short for "big old dumb-ass.") For the doubters among you, there are pictures, one of which shows Brooke hanging on tight and grimacing, an expression described in the caption as "a serious sign of baboon butt" -- the rawness that afflicts first-time chopper riders. Wow! By the way, gals, Boda is looking for a new old lady. (Asked about Brooke, Boda simply shrugged and said: "She's too young for me.") Applications should be sent c/o Outlaw Biker, Suite 2305, 450 Seventh Ave., New York, N.Y. 10001, with copies and poster-size photos sent to me just in case, you know, Outlaw Biker moves or closes. And let me tell you, as I sit here looking at Boda's grinning, helmeted bearded, red-lipped, beefy head resting on that sturdy if blobby 420-pound frame, I'm thinking: If I were a hardbelly, you know what my New Year's goal would be?

Exactly. That which Brooke cannot have. A pink helmet that says, in Gothic reflecto letters: "Boda's Momma." ::