Monday, July 8, 2002
Stop the presses, or the servers, or whatever the hell the politically correct term is these days: the commune family just got one dude larger. And no, don’t call your bookie yet; Lil Duncan isn’t pregnant. We’ve all heard, and started, enough of those rumors on the Internet to know that nothing short of a full cervical exam will allow you to cash in on that one.

No, the real reason for the skyrocketing population of the hypothetical commune family is less likely to be seen on a motel TV at three in the morning: longtime commune staffer Kendra Beuttle just got married! Who was the lucky guy? Well, if you had your money on Dorick Dominovic of the Ukraine, then you’d better make sure your bookie hasn’t skipped town because you’ve just hit some kind of monster long shot. Damn. I’d ask how you did it but I’m not sure I really want to know.

Personally, I don’t know too much about Dorick, besides the fact that you can’t get on his good side by calling him Dork. The strongest impression I got from him was that his English is, how you say? Sucks. I’m not sure how Kendra landed him so fresh off the boat, but every time I saw him at the wedding he looked like he thought it was all an elaborate procedure you had to go through to buy bread in America. Poor guy. I’m not even sure how well he knows Kendra or how you say “hose hound” in Ukrainian. He looked at me funny when I told him she gets around like Goodyear, so I just decided to leave it be after that.

I mean, if he wants to marry the biggest slut this side of Lil Duncan, that’s his own home-based business. It sounds like an indecent proposal from the get-go to me, but as long as she can keep a cock out of her mouth long enough to say “I do,” I imagine it’ll work out okay for those two.

I basically came to the wedding to see what would happen when Lil showed up, since those two had been at odds ever since word got out that Kendra was claiming to be Lil at parties and was horning in on her “commune slut” racket. Just the week before, Duncan had been overheard screaming “Screw you and your wedding party!” in the halls of the commune offices, and Omar Bricks was one guy who sure as hell wasn’t going to miss it in case she meant that literally.

So probably the biggest shock of the evening came when Lil never showed up for the wedding at all. Actually, nobody else from the commune came, ruining my visions of a drunken rant of a toast from Red Bagel and Rok Finger slipping a disc on the dance floor. Today somebody told me it was because Kendra had only been working here two months and was a California Queen-sized bitch, but whatever. Invited or not, Omar Bricks got a free plate of seafood medley and a bladder full of champagne; I’d go to a Manson family wedding to dodge another night of TV dinners and reruns of M*A*S*H with Foghat.

The ceremony itself went pretty smooth, except for the part when Dorick put both rings on his fingers and tried to run out before the vows were completed, so maybe he knew more than I gave him credit for. Kendra’s dad wasn’t about to see a little case of cold feet and petty thievery get in the way of true love, and every romantic’s heart was warmed when he grabbed Dorick by the nads and hoisted him back up on stage. I have to imagine that’s going to make for some kick-ass wedding album photos, plus I don’t think Kendra was too into the idea of having kids anyway.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when Dorick sobbed out his “I do,” though from the way he was cradling his crotch in his hands I’m not sure if it was the emotion of the moment that was choking him up. Regardless, the knot was tied and Dorick’s family got five bucks apiece and some magic beans to carry the steamer trunks out to the car for the honeymoon.

On the way out of the hotel Kendra stopped at a courtesy phone and called Red Bagel to tell him take her job and shove it sideways, since she was now “attached to a husband like some kind of beautiful suckerfish.” The moment probably would have been more triumphant if Bagel had ever heard of her before, but he got the number for her honeymoon hotel and assured her he’d get back to her once he’d asked around a little bit.

Me, I took a cab back to Bricks Manor, pondering the wonders of life along the way, and thanking the spirit in the sky that I didn’t have some kind of psychotic bitch sucking my life out of my ass with a siphon hose. As the cab pulled up to my front door, two questions stuck in my mind like glowing streetlights in a black sky.

I wonder if Foghat taped M*A*S*H for me?

And who told this taxi-driving motherfucker to pull up on my front lawn?

Bricks out.

Cesarean Sections Are Overrated
Piss on the shitdick who says Omar Bricks doesn’t have any culture; I went to the opera last weekend. Saturday night I was dressed to the nines in the flashiest translucent shirt any of those crusty old shits had ever seen.

Miracle in a Bottle
The other day I came out of the African drum store to find a whole smorgasbord of tickets under my windshield wipers. A couple were for sex shows, but most of them were parking tickets for some bogus rap about blocking the exit to a drive-thru. Like Wendy’s is going to have a big lunch rush or something.

Adventures in Dogsitting
I think Mitch may shower with these dogs. I’m not kidding, I’m pretty sure he takes them everywhere he goes. I heard he got kicked out of Disneyland last year after Benedict threw up on the Matterhorn.

Prohibition Here We Come
Plain and simple, something has to be done about these slack-ass teenagers who drink until all hours of the night and then pass out on my doorstep. They buy lousy booze and almost always finish the bottle, and half the time they get into fights with my friends who have also passed out drunk in the doorway.

Time to Check Up on Tunisia
Some might argue, in their whiney little “hip-hugging jeans are out this year” voices, that we haven’t heard much from Tunisia lately since nothing is going on over there, and besides it’s a big freakin’ desert with like ten people living there. But isn’t that just what Tunisia would like us to believe?

I’m Only Sleeping
Piss off, commune readers. Omar Bricks is here to say one thing and one thing only: leave me alone so I can get some decent shut-eye for once in my goddamned life.

Controversy, Ahoy!
Anyone who hasn’t been living under a rock for the last twenty years doesn’t need to be told this, but just in case I have any hermit crabs among my readership, let me state this loud and clear: Omar Bricks is not afraid of a controversial tee-shirt.