Let There Be Light

The solution to The Great Omar Bricks Transportation Dilemma of 2002 came to me in a dream last Friday night. In the dream I was running away from this big car-wash monster thing, some kind of snuffleupagus made from those shaggy spinner things that wash the cars.

It wasn't really chasing me; more like sliding slowly down a hill. But I was running in place on those damned metal rollers like always, so the carwash was gaining, minute by minute. I don't know why I didn't just hop off the stupid rollers, but it was a dream thing so that solution didn't occur to me then any more than having sex with the Easter Bunny does to you right now. Before you read that.

In front of me there was a window, and on the other side of the window there was another me, some kind of good-looking son of a bitch Omar Bricks clone who was just sitting there, building a car out of pizza boxes. Now, at the time I was pissed that I was handed the shit end of the stick on which Omar I got to be in the dream, but then I killed the monster by having sex with that girl from the BMW commercial, so it all ended pretty good.

After I woke up, it dawned on me. With money a little tight in the Bricks household since the out-of-court settlement, why flush away even more precious green paying some overpriced beerbellies up in Detroit to build a car for me when I could build it myself? I've seen some of those guys and believe me, it can't be that hard.

One thing led to another and I decided to set up a production area for Bricks Motors in my garage. Now you might have thought that since the Bricks garage didn't have the Bricksmobile in it any more, it was just sitting there empty. But it was not. I don't know how, but shit piles up in there like assfat on an Eskimo. So I spent most of the day dragging junk out to the curb, including a dozen kiddie pools that had some kind of weird residue built up in them and half a parade float that I somehow ended up with. It wasn't the most fun I've ever had on a Saturday, but it was nice to finally pull the flush-handle on that hellish garage mess.

But the problem was that by the time I got all of that shit cleaned out of the garage, it was dark and I couldn't see a damned thing to draw in chalk on the floor where the car should go. Those Detroit auto-building slobs might be fat and stupid, but they had one thing Omar Bricks didn't: lights and shit.

Now, at first I was reluctant to just run out and buy some lights, figuring I might be able to build some torches or something to light the garage, like in the old days. But after some problems with the rafters not being fireproof, I decided that you can't build a car without spending a little money. Even Henry Ford probably had to buy some tools and lunch and whatever.

I went down to the store and found a floodlight that was perfect for the garage, plus it had a little devil on the package. Can't go wrong there. But the cheap cocksuckers didn't include a power cord, and they wanted me to shell out an extra fifteen bucks for an adapter. Well, in Omar Bricks' book, that's like tipping a stewardess: Strictly for assholes who are trying to show off. I had an adapter somewhere at home that I'd bought at a garage sale a few years back, and I was pretty sure it still worked. So those rip-off artists at Sears went home fifteen dollars poorer that day.

I'm sure you're all crawling up your own asses in anticipation of what happened next. Well, sorry to crap on your commode compadres, but it's gonna to have to wait until next column. I'm not gonna snow you on this one, I have to piss like Montezuma's Revenge. And since the commune shitter's backed up like a fat man's colon, this entails a waterlogged Bricks jog over to the Popeye's up the street in a hurry. While I'm there I plan on getting into some popcorn chicken, and you can kiss my ass if you think I'm going to hike all the way back here after a full meal.

So consider it suspense, or whatever floats your boat.

Bricks out.

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