Ancient Writings Turn Out to be Gang Graffiti

recent discovery of ancient heiroglyphics in Egypt describing a military victory by the legendary Scorpion King, and believed to be the oldest on record at approximately 5,250 years, has been relegated to runner-up status by a team of archaeologists working for the last four years in this southwest Asian spot where the Tigris joins the Euphrates. The team revealed yesterday that they have uncovered an ancient wall inscribed with primitive cuneiform marks that date back nearly 6000 years, or from about the year 4000 BC.

"We're very excited about this," said team leader Dr. Robert R. "Bob Bob" Clemons. "We've said all along that this is the cradle of modern, recorded civilization, right here, not that wasteland along the Nile. Those Egyptologist bitches can kiss my dusty brown ass, along with the dusty brown asses of every single one of my fellow researchers!"

The marks that had Dr. Clemons crowing like a jaybird and dancing about so excitedly appeared to be no more than a series of triangles and inverted vees, but their significance was made clear by the buzz that rippled through the international press corps that gathered to report the news.

"You can see right here," Dr. Clemons pointed out, gesturing to a series of isoceles triangles, "that there was definite gang activity going on in the area back in those ancient times. This line, for example, reads 'Sargon II is down with Nebuchadnezzer.' And over here, we have a reference to the 'Euphrates Mob,' a rival gang to the prominent 'Hanging Garden Boys' that dominated the banks of the Tigris."

Other cuneiform scratchings were translated as being gang slogans such as "Zoroastrians rule," "Medes are skanky bitches" and "Sumer Power – we the best, fuck the rest." There were also long listings of gang members' names, such as "Smiley," "Johnny Boxer," "Li'l Puppet," "Droopy," "Seymour" and "Jehosaphat."

When asked t o comment further on the translations and their significance, Dr. Clemons simply said, "Maybe some other time period, honey. Ha! That's an archaeological joke. No, but seriously, I've got a bottle of newly-unearthed 3000 year old wine waiting for me back at my tent. I'd hate to see it spoil." Though the remaining members of the press clamored for more information, all they got was a glimpse of Dr. Clemons' dusty brown ass disappearing into a complex of dark linen stretched between poles on the edge of the dig. He was seen carrying a large wheel of cheese, an earthen jar and some dates, and was leading a goat on a rope.

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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 call it whatever you will, the word is out that Omar Bricks wants all things New Year's to choke hard on a turd, now and forever.

Before you start assuming that Omar Bricks is just jumping on the recently fashionable "New Year's Eats Old Pussy" bandwagon, check the record. I've never been a fan of the holiday, and I stand behind my record dating back to the third grade, when thanks to poor legal advice I stayed up all night on New Year's Eve in a confused attempt to see if Santa Claus was real, and instead got the drop on so many drunks in bulge-ridden leisure suits that to this day I still involuntarily beat children whenever I smell polyester. I've only had one good New Year's ever, and that was the year I forgot it was New Year's and spent the night locked in a canning plant, getting sick on mangoes.

This year had its own flavor of suck since I was under the mistaken legal impression that the statute of limitations for all 2005 crimes runs out at midnight on December 31st, so I'd spent the whole night running around and settling scores, dealing out hasty justice like my immune ass was about to turn into a pumpkin. I also set free all the dogs in the neighborhood, mainly because I've always wanted to see a shitload of dogs running together like in the old Chuck Wagon commercials. I had to rush and do a half-ass job of setting a parade float on fire just to get home in time to watch the Times Square countdown, a yearly tradition for lazy, television-watching sons of bitches everywhere.

Now, no one needs a call from CNN to catch the breaking news that New Year's television sucks big wet titty. Any time they schedule over two hours of air time for a ten-second event, you know there's going to be more crappy filler than a case of Winky's, those off-brand Twinkie knock-offs Foghat always wants every year for Christmas. About four seconds after the ball drops, they unleash an endless cavalcade of morons strategically positioned around Times Square, standing around saying shit like "There sure are a lot of people here… yep…" I haven't seen that many uncomfortable silences on TV since they gave that narcoleptic Chevy Chase his own late-night show.

After the depressing spectacle of listening to Dick Clark drunk his way through the ball-dropping countdown, I was in heavy need to distraction, so I went quick to the pantry for the case of Safeway beer I'd been saving all year for the occasion. Two minutes after the drop was over, Dick was still on stuck on twenty-seven, and I was really glad I'd saved the beer. It was a sad, sad state of affairs, ladies and gentlemen, and I spilled an entire case of beer on the couch. Some would say that's what I get for opening all the cans at once, but you save time your way, I'll save it mine. I just wish I'd noticed that the beer was spilling sooner, since the couch swelled up so much it pitched me onto Foghat's loveseat, and I accidentally touched way more dog underbelly than I care to admit. Now Foghat won't even look me in the eye, which makes going to his room to use the Super Nintendo especially uncomfortable.

That's right about when the neighborhood mob showed up to get their mailboxes back, which I'd been driving around collecting all night so I could open up my own Mailboxes ETC and hook up some sweet business tax breaks for 2006. I had to take a break from juicing my couch to talk the mob out of setting my neighbor Hamms on fire, because he had about 400 mailboxes lined up in his front yard like some kind of surreal drive-in theater (I didn't want to fuck up my grass). It all ended okay though, since I was able to convince the mob that the mailbox caper was exactly the kind of thing my other neighbor Mitch would do, and he wasn't home, so I had everybody over to my place to help suck the beer out of my couch.

Which may sound like a great time, yeah, but actually it was kind of weird. So screw New Year's. Bricks out.

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Anyone who's been receiving the commune Enthusiasts Club's personal newsletter should know we planned on discussing the major issues facing the commune and how we, as commune fans, should react.

Before I get into that, however, I would like to ask everyone out there to sign up for the commune newsletter by contacting me at Zenderphenia@hotmail.com. The last time I gave this out in a column I received a huge number of people signing up, followed by about a million pieces of junk mail detailing how I could enlarge parts of my anatomy. I'm glad for the huge turnout, folks, but I do have to wonder why I'm not hearing from any of you again. Very few of you are showing up at the actual Club meetings and just as many aren't responding to my e-mails asking for information for the Club records, like your name and stuff like that, nothing too personal. A lot of e-mails are even bouncing back, so maybe you accidentally gave me the wrong reply address.

Still, it was a record-setting turnout for the commune Enthusiasts Club last weekend when those two guys showed up who thought we were actual communists. Sorry we disappointed you, guys, but I'm glad you stuck around for the entire meeting and I finished your free literature as was part of the agreement—interesting stuff, I'll write you personal e-mails back.

Hopefully we'll see Christopher and Stag again, they'll be welcome additions to the club as soon as we can get their last names and put them on the roll. I'll just pencil in "Marx" as the last name for now. But even with the confusing large turnout, Vice-President Sandy Meckler and I managed to get some club business done.

Besides the glaring absence of Editor Red Bagel being the big speedbump in the commune road right now, and the faltering quality that has followed, as commune Enthusiasts (capitalization intentional) we should be considering the efforts by major press junkets to lock the commune out of press meetings and other legitimate-press events. Reuters, AP, and all the major networks seem to be involved in some sort of conspiracy to cripple the commune in its attempts to get the news and report it accurately. In this age of nationalism and presidential yes, ma'am-ing, it is of greater import than ever before that the commune have access to the newsmakers the same as larger media outlets. Only the commune will report the news without putting a spin on it.

It appears to stem mostly from an April 25 press conference held by Ari Fleischer, and an incident involving commune reporter Ramon Nootles, who pointed to a CNN correspondent and said a little too loudly, "Check out the nips on that one." Those of us who know the commune's troubled history with the mainstream press, however, would not be surprised to learn this incident was staged as a trap for Nootles—Helen Thomas is always standing next to the thermostat in the White House press room, and Nootles is famous for his observant nature on reactions to cold temperatures.

Anyway, this has been more a thorn in the commune's side than a complete shut-down of news access. But if the attempt to keep them from gathering facts continues, how should the commune keep its facts straight? Maybe the mainstream press would like to see the commune just make up things, fabricate quotes and even news incidents like that New York Times reporter?

Fear not, commune Enthusiasts. We need to pull together and petition the press to allow the commune a second chance. That way we'll continue to get all the news that's only moderately fit to print.

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