Jackson Alleges Reverse Racism

Santa Claus on Trial: Week Three

Unknown American Philosopher Dead

Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines

Eminem, Ex-Wife Reunite to Work on New Material

The call to alert had come! Or perhaps it was a call to alarm, there's a tricky subtle difference between the two that's always been tough to nail down. But whichever it was, the phone was ringing! Snuffles sprang into an action pose with his patented super-sound: "SPRAAANG!" This could only mean one thing: Snuffles' super-hero compatriots, Trophy Wife and Token Gay Friend, had been taken hostage by Dr. Crossbaum and were being held captive in his secret industrial park lair! Oh no! With several other patented super-sounds, including "BRONK!" "FDDDDT" and "Pbbbbbb…" Snuffles shot across the floor like a runaway meatball. With unprecedented smork, Snuffles leapt into the air, pausing briefly to explain that "smork" is a measure of canine superpower on a scale of one to twelve, and shot like a pot-bellied rocket toward an open window.

With paws feverishly skittling at the wallpaper, Snuffles impacted the wall two feet below the window and slumped down to the baseboards, landing in an upside-down canine super-heap. "Interesting," thought the Wonder Dog. "Looks like Dr. Crossbaum has raised the windows once again!" With that sly remark, Sunuffles scratched behind his ear for a few minutes before falling asleep in a sunbeam.

Snuffles awoke with a start, his super-ears already working double-time even though they were only being paid for time and a half. There! In the distance! The neighbor… mowing his lawn! This could only mean that Snuffles' super-compatriots were still in ever more perilous peril! Snuffles hurried over near the closet to find a super box he could pull over and stand on to see out the window. He then quickly became preoccupied with sniffing under the closet door and a new mission arose: There's beef jerky in this closet!

Sniffles pawed at the bottom of the closet door and barked in a manner signifying that he did, indeed, mean business. Few present doubted him, especially not a pill bug hiding in a crack between the floorboards. Pawing to no avail, Snuffles cursed the diabolical contraption. Could it be Trophy Wife and Token Gay Friend trapped inside? Bound and gagged silent, with the package of beef jerky tucked into Token Gay Friend's Jansport backpack as their only means of sending a distress signal? It was looking increasing more likely as the only plausible explanation.

For a time, Snuffles considered fashioning a crude lock-picking device out of a chicken bone and a shoe string, as he had in Snuffles Gets Spayed and Wonder Dog Gone Missing. Snuffles chewed on an old tennis shoe distractedly for several minutes while weighing his options, then it hit him like a bolt out of a licked electrical outlet. It was so obvious, and he'd almost fallen for it! Clearly, the jerky was a trap set by Dr. Crossbaum and his minions: the ear-pulling baby or the nameless man who's breath always smelled of Ding Dongs. Clever, Dr. Crossbaum, but not clever enough! Snuffles smiled a satisfied dog smile as he humped a discarded high-heel shoe. Snuffles, Wonder Dog: 37. Dr. Eli Crossbaum, VMD: 0.

º Last Column: The Story of the Unids
º more columns

Some guys have all the luck. Others just get a mouth full of boot heel and bloody tooth shards on a cold October morning. I heard a song about that once.

I'll give you three guesses which category Omar Bricks falls in this week, ladies and gentlemen. And the first two don't count since if you guess wrong I get to rap on your knuckles with a ruler. Something like that, it's an old saying from the bible.

But I'm not kidding, this has been a week for the record books. Assuming somebody somewhere keeps records on bad shit that happens to good people. And I think that's a fair assumption, since if there's some geek out there keeping a log of every time Spock scratches his ass on Star Trek, and I know there is because I lost a Frisbee in his yard one time, then anything's got to be fair game.

Make no mistake about it, this has been a four-alarm, hide the virgins, call out the National Guard variety of bad week. If two more things go wrong I'm going to hit up the president for some of that disaster relief cash you're always hearing about. It doesn't seem like there have been any massive floods or boat show fires lately, so I think he can spare the dough. Hell, if he could walk a few blocks in my Reeboks I think he'd fetch the big novelty check for me personally. If you've ever had your tits kicked in by the fates, you know what I'm talking about here.

Everybody knows about my well-publicized car troubles and my citywide taxi ban. For most people, the parade of tears would end there, but for Omar Bricks they're just getting the marching band and sweater-wearing elephants out of cold storage.

I come home Friday night to find out that Foghat got into a can of Cream of Broccoli soup that I didn't even know was still in the pantry. It must have been left over from when I was selling those bottles of Turd Bird Ale, my homebrew bathtub beer, at the Fair a few years ago. There was a food drive for the homeless going on across the street, and I admit that I got into some bartering with the hobos by the end of the night. I didn't want to have to carry any heavy shit back to my car when the Fair was over and I thought some of those canned goods might come in handy if we ever got around to nuking the Russians or whatever.

Little did I know that Foghat is part Cream of Broccoli hound, and he went straight-on ape when I brought that crap home. I gave him a bowl just to get him to stop bouncing off the furniture and peeing everywhere, and sweet flaming Christ was that a mistake. If you can't imagine what happened next, give your own dog some foul-smelling cream-based soup some time. Just make sure you've got the carpet-cleaning place on speed dial.

Well, it turns out that just not giving Foghat the soup again wasn't enough, because that idiot dog figured out how to work the can opener and it was like déjà vu all over again. After the second episode I thought I'd purged the house of any trace of Cream of Broccoli soup, but Friday night I was rudely educated otherwise. Let's just end that tangent by saying that if anybody wants a couch that can blister paint at a distance of ten yards, you're welcome to come drag it off my lawn.

You don't even want to know half the rest of the heinous shit I've got going on right now. Yet another ludicrous paternity suit (like I've ever even been to Canada), the mouse I've got living in my refrigerator, the little six-year-old kid who's stealing my mail, and the list goes on and on. I'm starting to think it's some kind of conspiracy, though I haven't had time yet to work out exactly what the logistics of the whole thing might be. I'm biking over to Red Bagel's place later in the week to try and figure the whole thing out over a few beers; we'll see what comes of that.

All I know is I get the feeling like somebody's fingering Omar Bricks' asshole, and it ain't Omar Bricks. Somebody's got some explaining to do.

Bricks Out.

º Last Column: Sub-Transportational Carsick Blues
º more columns