The Return of Deep Omar

The jig is up, jig-lovers. After years of speculation, snooping, allegations, bribes, misinformation and games of inter-office dirty pool, it's time to let the cat out of the bag: I am the shadowy commune informant known as "Deep Omar."

True, this is hardly news to regular readers of my column, since I've been dropping hints to this fact for years, and even took the bagged cat out for a stroll a few years ago in my 2002 column "Deep Omar is the Chess Messiah". But as everyone knows, printing something in the commune is hardly the way to get the word out about anything, even to the commune staff themselves, and even when they're all eagerly snooping in hopes of cashing in on Red Bagel's $10,000 bounty for information about Deep Omar's identity.

But now I think it's time to get the word out to the world and let the healing begin. So in addition to writing this column, I've also added an "I'm Deep Omar, Bitch!" tag line to the end of my answering machine message. That alone has four times the word-spreading power of writing something in the commune, so I figure the word is as good as out there.

Because this world, and especially this office, has existed too long in the shadow of lies and deception. I'm tired of Ramrod Hurley claiming to be the leaker in a desperate grab for in-office street cred. And I'm bored of watching Ivan Nacutchacokov take a lie-detector test every time he comes in the office, because of Red Bagel's suspicion about his foreign-sounding name. Also, I needed that $10,000 to get the 8-track player in the Bricksmobile IV fixed since it's been playing Santana backwards for three weeks now and I get egged every time I drive past a church.

I know what you're thinking, why not go all the way and get a CD player put in? Well, you know Omar Bricks is all about that, but I think they just got 8-tracks down in Panama recently since this car isn't wired for that shit at all. The dude at Best Buy said the best he could do would be to upgrade to a record player, but I just don't think that would suit my driving style, which entails a lot of off-road shortcuts and a complete disregard for speed bumps. Plus, having my dashboard eject an LP would look a lot like some kind of weird robot giving me a black-licorice raspberry, and that's not a distraction I need while cutting through the Taco Bell drive-thru to avoid a light.

So in the interest of solidarity and personal finance, I marched into Red Bagel's office last week and spilled the beans that I was the one who had leaked the classified info about him coloring his hair. Not maliciously, of course, I always traded that info for cash or a get-out-of-jail-free card when necessary. And as I reminded Bagel, I only knew because Raoul Dunkin told everyone the same thing when he was drunk at the commune Christmas party back in '99 anyway; I was just the only one who remembered since I hadn't had any of the PCP-laced muffins from that hippie collective Bagel had hired to cater the thing. They had raisins in them, and Omar Bricks doesn't truck with raisins. Yuck.

As soon as he heard Dunkin's name, Bagel forgot he'd spent the last six years digging through the commune trash trying to find me, pushed a cashier's check across the desk and headed off in the direction of Raoul Dunkin with a cricket bat. Sorry, Assbag. But that's what you get for saying my car stinks like Doritos. Bricks out.

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