Steven Seagal's Life Like Bad Steven Seagal Movie

ews just keeps getting better and better for fans of the bizarre and absurd. Friday allegations were made that "actor" Steven Seagal, famous for his chubby-flanked kicking and limp ponytail in horrible action movies, is linked to a private investigator who alleges Seagal hired him to terrorize a reporter.

The victim of the terroristic threatening was a Los Angeles Times reporter, Anita Busch, whose name was being held confidential by police at press time. Busch wrote articles alleging a former filmmaking partner of Seagal's used mob connections to extort $700,000 from the actor, who, in one of his own movies, would have likely punched out the ex-partner with one Aikido punch and cracked the mob boss's arm into a severe fracture before kicking him backwards off the balcony. Instead, the actor paid the money.

Private investigator Anthony Pellicano was allegedly hired by Seagal to scare Busch away from writing her articles about the extortion. Police reports say in June the show biz reporter found a dead fish, a rose, and a note saying "Stop!" on the hood of her smashed car windshield. The monosyllabic note initially led police to suspect Seagal's involvement, but the combination of the dead fish and the rose was just slightly more imaginative than anything that appeared in his films, leading investigators to believe Seagal's involvement was more hands-off.

Just after the incident, Busch was approached by two men and told to stop writing articles about Steven Seagal. Had Seagal not been the perpetrator, and been in the car, and had the whole thing been one of his movies, he likely would have gotten out of the car, leaped upon the hood to deal out a series of bone-splitting kicks before flipping through the air to land behind the larger villain, bending his arm back and forcing him into the car's hood, warning him not to mess with the lady again.

Further, had this been a Steven Seagal movie, the police force would have been under the power of the corrupt Hollywood star/villain—Seagal, in this case—and seeking their help against the threatening would have been fruitless for the victim. However, the victim did go to the police in this case, and Seagal's alleged henchmen were arrested and charged with the incidents. Seagal has yet to be charged, but a paper trail and witness accounts may put Seagal behind bars yet, this time for a crime he did commit.

In the private investigator Pellicano's office, police found a cache of plastic explosive, a detonating cord and blasting cap, two grenades, 15 to 20 bundles of cash bearing $10,000 wrappers and a number of pieces of jewelry—i.e., things you might find in the hideout of the lead henchman in any Steven Seagal movie. Had the police not intercepted Pellicano and his hired goon, according to initial statements, plans were in place to blow up Busch's car, something that would have sent movie-Seagal out in the night, angrily breaking into the top boss's house—his own, in this case—to deliver the final, fatal beating that ended the movie.

In the real world, however, Seagal waits patiently for his court date, when his lawyer will argue fine points and details of testimony to discredit Pellicano's claims of direct requests from Seagal that initiated his actions. There is likely to be little kicking and punching, and Seagal will be referred to as Steven or Mr. Seagal instead of "Jack," "John," or "Mason Storm."

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It's that time of year again—the anniversary of this time last year. What have you been doing with yourself in all that time? I sure do have some stories to tell. But not for today.

Those Olsen Twins are national treasures. And like other treasures, I say we bury them in a secret, unmarked location and make a handwritten map to remember where it is. Come back in a hundred years, see if they're still there.

If I have two hundred dollars, and you give me thirty-five more dollars, how much money do I now have? And why did you give it to me? Just being generous, or trying to curry favor? Because I'm not for sale, you soulless jester.

I finally saw that Titanic movie from a few years back. Let me get this straight—did the boat sink or what? I wish they could have spent a little more time explaining that, I got lost between all the subplots.

These are the times that try men's souls. And if you haven't tried soul before, I would suggest trying a man's Marvin Gaye collection first. Nobody sounds quite like Marvin Gaye.

Have you ever eaten a cauliflower? Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen anyone actually eat one. Where do they all go?

When I was younger, I wanted to be a train conductor. I'm not sure what one does, but I thought it a wide-open field with room for advancement and a place where I could really bullshit my way through the job. Good security, too, an industry with a proven record for bouncing back from recessions. But I had to give up those boyish dreams and take a job climbing flagpoles, of course. Some flags don't come down without my help. I make a difference.

Why is it, in hardcore pornographic movies, you always see erect penises, and in softcore pornographic movies, you sometimes see flaccid penises? Now that's ironic.

If I had a dog, I would name him Amberson—no! Clayton. Or Rags. That's a good, solid dog name. I need more time to hash this one out. Sorry for bringing you an incomplete thought.

If you died tomorrow, how many lives do you think you would have affected? How many of those were positive effects, and how many negative? Could I have your bicycle? Seriously, you're not going to need it where you're going. Heaven has a hell of a public transportation network.

Pardon me—just making room for a fresh beer.

There's another thing I've always wondered about, but it escapes me at the moment. I'll leave this space right here, so I can come back to it.

As a little boy, my father always thought I would grow up to be president some day. But I showed him! Try to tell me what to do.

I have never danced with the devil in the pale moonlight, but I did once have sex with a young woman dressed as a witch in a real dark room, at a Halloween party. That has to count for something.

Why do they call it root beer, when normal beer is made from—shit. That's a total misfire. Forgive my clumsiness. This just isn't working out. How about I get my act together so I don't embarrass the both of us in this fashion, and come back next edition? Sounds good to me as well. Good day.

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Contrary to popular belief and a lucrative office pool, Omar Bricks will one day again own a car. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day and for the rest of my goddamned life, even if I have to stick a wheel up Henry Ford's ass and ride him to work like a unicycle. It will come to pass.

Seeking to end the Curse of the Bricksmobile once and for all, I set out this weekend intending to play the field and test drive a few of the many suitors for the title of Next Bricks Ride.

At first I was really excited to test out one of those new electric cars, thinking that would be a blast in the pants. But of course that turned out to be a crock, turns out just because it's electric doesn't mean it can defy gravity like those slot cars we had when we were kids. You know the ones I'm talking about, they would race up the wall and back down, unless of course you took the very top piece of the track out, in which case they would race up the track and knock a picture frame off the wall, leaving a bitchin' electric burn mark on the wall like Frankenstein's undershorts. And the best part was you could do it again, after you found out where the car ricocheted behind the toilet in the bathroom. That was my favorite toy when I was a kid, and I spent countless hours figuring out the different angles you could put the track at to get the car to shoot toward a friend who was swinging a whiffle ball bat, or to see if you could smoke one by the mailman's head. Tyco missed the chance to make a freakin' mint by marketing those things as a Thelma and Louise playset back in the 90's, I'm telling you.

So anyway, after that it's the usual bullshit about "You wrecked our car into a bank," and all that "he said, she said" nonsense. I say if you're going to let people test-drive fruity electric cars next door to a bank with a giant sloped façade, well you wrote your own script for that saga. But you know how people are, always carping about some imagined offense and looking for a chance to sue.

Personally, I don't think electric cars are ever really going to take off until they make them more like bumpercars. Because that one I drove was flimsy as shit. I rammed this guy because he was wearing a 49ers hat, and when I got out to say "Don't worry dude, it's an electric car!" I realized the thing was nearly totaled. Whatever the master craftsmen who made those bumpercars knew about durability has clearly been lost to the ages. They must have opted to start from another branch of electric car evolution, the golf cart. And fun as those things are, only a jackass would ram two of those things together as a funny joke. They need to go back and start from scratch with the original bumpercar as their model, and just make them faster. That'd be badass. They can even keep that big pole that sticks out of the back, it'd be perfect for a flag or hanging wet laundry. By the time you got anywhere, your clothes would be dry and would smell like the city as a free bonus.

I thought maybe one of those hybrid gas-electric cars would be a better deal, like you could be stealthy silent but still backfire when you needed to, for effect. And I guess the one I drove would be all right, if you were playing a nerd in a movie or something. But for practical everyday use it was pretty weak. That thing was so small I'd have to buy a bike lock to keep some juiced-up ex-con from carrying the thing away while I was inside organizing my pocket protectors. I'm not kidding, I pulled off a Flintstones stop at a light once to impress the ladies and my shoes didn't even smoke.

But the real problem with the hybrid car came when it was time to refuel. Walgreens had a sale on D-cell batteries, so I figured tossing a half-dozen of those in the tank ought to do the trick, right? Well, if you're on the same page with me there don't even think about test-driving one of those hybrid cars, because it's not going to end well, trust me.

After that debacle I decided that gas was going to have to meet my car-propulsion needs for the foreseeable future. And you know what that means; I made a bee line straight for the Hummer dealership. Because if you're going to drive an car that runs on old-fashioned gas, you might as well drive the one that uses the most of it. We don't have time this week to go into how my Hummer test drive went, but tune in next issue when we'll discuss the prosecution's case and why they make those Taco Bell drive-thrus so damned small.

Bricks out.

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