fter years of staunch, stiff-jawed and clenched-buttocksed opposition to human cloning research, President Bush issued a startling reversal to his January "Pig Men" State of the Union address this week, and now is apparently in favor of the controversial scientific pursuit.

A tearful Bush, admittedly "a little behind" on his TV viewing due to "the usual work b.s.," finally got around to viewing the fifth and final season of HBO's acclaimed drama Six Feet Under on DVD this week, an event that seems to have had a profound effect on the president.

"Just being reminded that everyone you know will die one day, that really makes you think," explained the president, not previously known as a fan of thought.

"Keith!" Bush suddenly shouted, mid-sob. "Why'd he have to go so young?"

Those in the terrifying position of being close to the president's thought processes claim that a recent twelve-hour DVD marathon viewing of the show left Bush in a deep near-thoughtful funk, a condition aides hadn't seen the president in since the cancellation of Timecop in 1997.

"Seeing that documentary really got me thinking about the people close to me, and how to keep them from ever dying, ever," explained Bush. This reporter chose not to take this opportunity to explain the difference between drama and documentary, or the inevitability of death, to the president.

"At first I was thinking about time travel," continued Bush. "But that never worked out so hot in those Michael J. Fox movies. Plus, it gets all confusing and hard to follow the story. Then I thought about the fountain of youth, but I couldn't think of any movies where that really worked either. I just kept thinking of the end of Gremlins where that scary thing melts in the fountain—yuck. Anyway, then I turned on the SciFi Channel and that got me thinking about human cloning."

Reports indicate this is not the first time the president's opinions and policies have been changed by popular entertainment, including Bush's proposed tax breaks for hot rod owners last year after viewing The Dukes of Hazzard, and the president's call for storm windows to be installed in the White House after finally getting around to seeing Twister in 2001.

Critics have long suggested that most of Bush's policy moves and public statements over the course of his two terms have been inspired by old Clint Eastwood movies and various Chuck Norris action vehicles. Debate rages concerning the timing of Bush's 2002 statements about clamping down on whistleblowers, coming as they did days after the president reportedly attended a screening of the environmentally-themed Steven Soderbergh film Erin Brockovich.

"I guess it's easy to feel one way about a subject, until it potentially affects someone you care about," Bush explained about his change of heart in the cloning debate. Asked if he would then be sending his daughters to Iraq to help with the nation-building efforts, Bush ignored the question and asked if this reporter had time to stick around for a spontaneous viewing of Top Gun on DVD.

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There comes a time in every man's life when he must become a man. Except for Pee Wee Herman or Michael Jackson. (Owing to weirdness.) Or Gary Coleman, owing to shortness. Or unless he becomes a woman first, like RuPaul. But everybody else: eventually you've got to pony up. And Omar Bricks' pony is here.

How do I know? Read the tee-shirt, bitch.

Some misguided fucknuts actually consider home ownership to be the tell-tale sign of adulthood, but you and I know better than that. After-all, the King of China has a million palaces and he's only like five. Or if you need an example that hits closer to home, think of the Olsen Twins, or that kid from War of the Worlds. I'm sure they've all got houses, and probably in the same neighborhood. Which would suck if you live in that area, since your neighbors never mow their lawn or take out the trash, and just want to play with LEGOs all day. Which is a complaint several of my neighbors have levied against yours truly, sure, but I'd like to see some kid invent an air cannon to shoot his garbage over his house and into his neighbor Mitch's back yard, which is where that mountain came from that Mitch skis on in the winter.

No, an adult isn't made by the things he owns: not a house, not a dog, and most definitely not a car he borrowed from some bank robbers in Panama. An adult is made by whether or not other people think he's an adult, and Omar Bricks now owns a shirt that says ADULT on it in big, red letters, ending all previous debate on the subject.

Don't ask me where it came from, or what I was doing before I woke up wearing this shirt. If you know the answer, send me an email, because I'm curious myself. If it involved daycare in any way, then fuck that, don't tell me any boring stories. Make something up about alien abduction and we'll both be happier. I'd much rather think I woke up in a Starbucks bathroom with pissed pants wearing an alien sorter tee-shirt than to think I've been moonlighting at some daycare clinic that has a hard time distinguishing the staff from the patients.

I've been wearing the shirt for six days straight now, but don't worry, it's been in the shower with me a few times in that span, so it's not as if the thing smells like crotch snot. To be honest, I just haven't been able to bring myself to wear a different shirt since everyone's reaction to this one has been too entertaining to pass up for a single day, even if my "GIRLS DO IT" shirt has been feeling a little lonely this week.

Oh, and just for the record, the powers-that-be here at the commune wanted me to tie-in some product placement to this week's column, so I'm supposed to mention that the commune's official tee-shirt, that black one that just says "THE INTERNET" on the front in white letters, is back in stock. They got some more after the Crochet! staff bought out all the old ones to use as diapers for that children's hospital they were supporting. Oh, and while I'm at it with the tie-ins, that new four-meat breakfast sandwich from Burger King is pretty choice as well, just don't wipe your hands on your commune shirt while you're eating it or else you're going to look like a serial killer the next time you go into one of those black-light midnight bowling joints.

Anyway, the reactions to my "ADULT" shirt have been uniformly hilarious, and a lot more fun than the flack I caught over my infamous "Tits Ahoy!" tee a few years back. My favorite so far has been Rok Finger's, since The Rok actually believed me when I told him this shirt was from that Pakistani video store, Movie Muff, around the corner from the commune offices. I told him they had a whole special room in the back where they kept the movies for adults, instead of the English Patient/Grinch/Patrick Swayze bullshit for kids they stock the rest of the store with. Finger left immediately to check it out, since for some reason he's been rooting around for a copy of My Giant to rent for years, and didn't realize he'd been shopping in the non-adult section this whole time. Though my hunch is he ended up with some weird Middle-Eastern fetish porn instead, since he hasn't been back to work for three days.

As for Omar Bricks, I'll be spending the rest of my week crocking up more hilarious shirt explanations to sell to momos on the street, as well as putting in some more work on my plan for a matching car decal, possibly wreathed in blue flames. Bricks out.

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I definitely need to hire out as a Fourth of July consultant. If you think you don't need a Fourth of July consultant, you've never experienced a Bricks Fourth of July, end of story.

It's about a month away, I know, but when you want to make it a memorable good time, you've got to plan well in advance. It's just not smart to put a houseful of fireworks and a truckload of Miller Genuine Draft together without more than a little planning. Now usually I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy, even if the ass of the pants rips out and you get kicked out of the kid's birthday party, but hey, it's not like I knew the kid anyway—nothing ventured, nothing gained; but when it comes to Fourth of July, Omar Bricks turns into a rocket scientist of event planning.

It's more than just explosions and drunken fight after drunken fight—shit, if I didn't have that on a daily basis I'd hang up my hat and go home already. The way I see it, Fourth of July is the world's celebration of pure, uncut freedom, and for me there's nothing better worth celebrating. Hanging out with buddies, sipping beers, and trading swimming pool-building tips is like a fart in freedom's face. Omar Bricks don't fart in anyone's face unless they personally asked for it or take out those little opera glasses in public, which is the same as the former in my book.

It takes more than a month just to save up enough money to rent the arena. Why go through the trouble and expense of renting an arena? Well, you might as well ask what's the point in having a demolition derby—you can't hold it in your backyard, don't argue with that because I've tried. And the demolition derby is the big part of the Bricks Fourth of July gathering, and in the tight-money times I haven't been able to rent an arena I find an unguarded farmer field is a fantastic substitute. If you check with your friends who fake crop circles on the weekends they can probably tell you which places are frequently unsupervised and have the best tire traction.

Then you have to select the special car, I like to nickname it the "doom buggy". The best way, I've discovered, is to hold a little private lottery the night before—if you have one hundred ping pong balls, a giant hamster ball, and a tuxedo, have a little fun with it, it's like a party in itself. Then whatever number wins that's your car, since they'll all have numbers painted on them at the derby. I would recommend keeping it something only you know. Sure, you can let everybody in on the secret, but when most people find out the car's trunk is full of fireworks the volunteers to drive it dry up real fast.

No demolition derby is complete without a lot of beer, whether you're a spectator or a driver. Still, with luck you'll get flipped over by the car with the bulldozer prod welded on the front early and can get a seat right up front in time for the first explosion to hit the doom buggy. Man, that's Fourth of July. Our founding fathers would have been proud enough to piss themselves.

That's just my favorite part, of course. Some Bricks partygoers love shaving the heads of the derby losers. Others love the swimming pool full of Thunderbird, throwing flammable things on the bonfire, or the wrestle Lil Duncan contest. I'm not complaining, I love every part of it, even the swarming of S.W.A.T. team members to close the whole thing down gets me kind of misty-eyed. Like America, there's a little something for everyone. Bricks out.

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