The Roof is on Fire

The most important thing we need to get clear right now is that Omar Bricks did not set the commune's roof on fire. When historians tell the story of the commune and why the whole goddamned building probably burnt down, they'd better not turn to the Bricks Excuse as a convenient solution to their own damned laziness. This has happened all too often already. Every last piece of furniture from the offices of our downstairs neighbors at Crochet! magazine goes missing one day, then turns up on eBay being sold in a "Readymade Office" auction by somebody called chxdigbrx, and all of a sudden I'm a prime suspect. Or somebody takes apart Red Bagel's new car, piece by piece, rebuilds it in his office, then wipes out into the hallway tearing mid-office donuts in the middle of the night and nobody bothers to look beyond the suspect whose wallet was found on the floorboards. Do you have any idea how many wallets I have? I can't keep track of that shit. It was probably still there from the time I tried to fit Bagel's car in the elevator as a surprise birthday present. Use your heads, people.

Any armchair Columbo worth his weight in assfat can see that the roof fire was obviously the work of Crochet! operatives. Do you think it's any coincidence that the fire was started on the roof, insuring that it'll hit our floor first, long before it ever gets to those Crochet! bastards and their precious fire-fuel-free empty offices? I think not. And who but those diabolical Crochet! skunks would think to plan it so deviously and so perfectly, to make it look like my roof-mounted potato cannon and homemade generator were the culprits? Hell, they almost had me convinced, that's how good they are. When I was up there last night, shooting potatoes out into the Flatbush night and reveling in the sweet music of airborne, starchy chaos, at first I thought it was cool as hell when the cannon started shooting those flaming spuds. Hell yeah! It wasn't part of the design, no, but some of life's greatest gifts are happy accidents like that, like the time I figured out you can sharpen your knives just by tying them to shoelaces and dragging them behind your bumper while tearing ass around the neighborhood.

But I hadn't shot more than seven or eight beautifully flammable taters arching out into the night sky before I realized those Crochet! bastards had somehow snuck in behind me, probably while I was trying to hit that hot air balloon, and had set the whole goddamned roof on fire. I got a few more shots off, no use in wasting a perfectly good potato cannon that wasn't likely to survive the fire, before I discovered the much more important fact that my shoes were on fire. Time to go.

I didn't sleep all that well last night, since I'd really liked those shoes. But the day just went from bad to worse when I got to work this morning and noticed that the building was still on fire. Everyone at the commune offices was still going about business as usual, and nobody had called the fire department because we aint a bunch of lousy snitches. The Crochet! staff was gone, big surprise there. Funny how they always seem to know when the building's on fire or dangerously brimming over with asbestos and radon.

I imagine we're going to have to evacuate at some point, once the fire sprinklers run out of water. They can't last too much longer, since we turn them on all the time when it's hot. I can't say I'll be sad to go, all those gay-assed solar panels Ramrod Hurley had installed on the roof smell like tofu when they burn, so it smells like healthy death in here. I've spent most of the morning throwing shit out the windows to save it from the fire. Okay, I've been throwing shit at the people below evacuating the building, but you can bet your ass none of those computers or fax machines or things are going to burn up in the fire, either. That's called multi-tasking.

Hold up, the rest of the staff has been playing hide-and-seek in the smoke and apparently I'm it now. I want to see how long they'll hide if I just leave and don't tell anybody. Wish me luck. Bricks out.

Kibbles 'n Shit
Any of you hear about this poisoned dog food scare? I don't know how long this shit's been going on, I only found out when they cut into KNTZ's rock block on Thursday night to announce that Spuds MacKenzie was dead, from an Alpo overdose. At first I... (4/23/07)

Driving My Life Away
Omar Bricks here, writing to you from the seventh ring of hell, or as it is known in mapese, Nashville. How'd I get here? What am I doing here? All fair questions. If you come up with any plausible answers, let me know. It all started, if these... (3/12/07)

Christmas: Don't Try This at Home
It's recently been brought to my attention that the commune has not been appearing online for the last, say, nine months, give or take a full-term pregnancy. I guess the saying is true: you're always the last to know when your stuff stops getting... (1/15/07)

The Deep Freeze
Not leaving your house when it's really cold is an art form. Any yuhtz can sew a couple dozen dead geese together in the shape of a parka and head out to brave the elements. It takes a real man of character to exist for days, even weeks in the dead... (2/27/06)

Eat Shit, New Year's
New Year's: the holiday, the spectacle, and the brand of adult diapers, can all kiss Omar Bricks' cherry red ass. That's not a threat—it's a promise. Actually, come to think of it, it's an invitation, but that doesn't sound nearly as menacing. But... (1/16/06)