A New Hope

Here's something that'll get you thinking, talk about a "Mr Rogers was a sniper in 'Nam"-level surprise. Thanks to commune editor's-brother Gay Bagel's mandate that we boost commune readership and revenue up from absolute zero Kelvin in 2004, it's been officially mandated by the powers obese that I quit writing about my epic saga to get a goddamned car. Apparently Bagay (as I like to call him in print and roadside graffiti) thinks my column may be alienating readers who are too rich to ever have to worry about not having a car, and if they don't read the site we can't siphon their accounts dry of funds electronically while they surf.

I don't know the details, if that's just advertising lingo or if we're actually hoovering out bank notes over the telephone line while those poor rich saps try to figure out what in the hell Boris Utzov is talking about or what. But either way Bagay thinks we've catered to the Salisbury steak set too much in the past, when we should be writing for dudes who order off the menu at Taco Bell and use silver spoons to eat their civet cat pudding.

Normally I'd have my ass chapped by the man giving my creative freedom a titty-twister like that, but from what I hear most of the staff received similar warnings. From the mandate that Lil Duncan start banging celebrity scumbags instead of her usual unknown variety, to the new "no accepting collect calls from international jails" rule (AKA the Ivan Nacutchacokov Accord), everyone around here is feeling the pinch. Except of course for Rok Finger, who got a slightly different haircut and left town, Truman Prudy, who makes appearances here like he was Haley's comet, and the aforementioned Boris Utzov, who from last word was riding bitch on a Harley somewhere in the Dakotas. Or, for that matter, Stu Umbrage, who's writing a gripe calendar in New Mexico, or Sampson L. Hartwig, who's either dead or a big fan of Harry Houdini. Come to think of it, where in the hell is everybody? This place is starting to look like Stuart Anderson's on Mad Cow night. What am I still doing here?

Anyway, the upshot of the whole censorship deal is that I'm getting a "company car," by which they mean Red Bagel's old Camry that he won't drive anymore because he thinks it's bugged. Which I guess is a problem if you're Red Bagel and you say embarrassing shit all the time, but what do I care? The old Bricksmobile had a megaphone for karaoke purposes; this'l be like having my own radio station. Plus since it is Red Bagel we're talking about here, odds are they're not even listening-device-type bugs, the car's probably infested with robotic insects or some shit as a little "fuck you" from the CIA or the Shriners.

All in all it's an uncharacteristically sweet deal for a commune employee, I would have been less surprised to get a post-it note on my desk saying that I AM the new company car. Now I guess Bagel and I are even from the time he ate my carrier pigeon.

Not that I'm getting carried away or anything, after all, it is a Camry. Not exactly a street-illegal funnycar or anything bitchin' like that. And Bagel didn't exactly take care of it after he uncovered the SUV conspiracy and bought himself that armored duck tours truck he drives around town. As a matter of fact, Gay pulled the thing out of a line-up of "bugged" cars Red planned on monster trucking over, replacing it with Raoul Dunkin's Tercel so his brother wouldn't notice. But I don't give a shit about any of that. It's got four wheels and it rolls both downhill and up, so Omar Bricks is calling it a car. Plus I've already replaced the Camry nameplate with one I pried off a Jaguar at the airport, so the stupid 90% of the world already thinks I drive a Jag. The right seat covers and a press-on spoiler should fool the rest.

Bricks out.

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