n a move that surprised few familiar with the terrible wrath of the legendary Iranian Navy, British Prime Minister Tony Blair announced today that his country would be surrendering to Iran rather than facing almost certain destruction.

“A proud era in the history of Great Britain comes to an end today,� announced Blair, Prime Minister since 1997 and secret Transformers collector even longer. “We had a good run of it, I’d say,� a proudly defiant Blair mused. “But you don’t muck about when you’re dealing with the Iranian Navy. I have my kids to consider.�

“There’s no use crying over spilt milk,� agreed British Secretary of State for Defence Desmond Henry Browne (BSSDDHB). “It’s been fun, I must admit, being the top dog on the international scene. Or perhaps second-to-top dog, after America… or maybe third after Germany. I don’t have recent figures in front of me. But the point is, every dog has his day, and we all knew our day had to come to an end some day. At the hands of the Iranian Navy? How else?�

Iran’s Navy, a fearsome juggernaut of nautical supremacy, has terrorized the seas since the 1200s, when Iran began conquering coastal lands at will and making pirates eat their own hats. With coastal access to the crucial Arabian and Caspian Seas, the land mass of Iran was ideally located for maritime dominance. Even geographical limitations such as a lack of access to the Pacific Ocean were laughed at by the Iranian Navy, infamous world-wide for carrying their huge warships by hand overland when doing so would be more impressive than simply sailing around the Cape of Good Hope or even around small islands.

Massive blockades of Iranian warships crippled the world economy numerous times in the 1500s, with the entire Spanish Armada going to their deaths in a futile attempt to import much-needed Spanish rice in defiance of Iran’s wishes. The Iranian people, though poorer than a record executive on land, have nevertheless lorded over the seas for generations, with an iron fist and a wooden bottom. Because an iron bottom would sink like nobody’s business.

This latest development came to a head when 15 British sailors were captured by the Iranian Navy while conducting a routine search of a cargo ship carrying fuses and detonators in Iraqi territorial waters.

“We had just finished inspecting and signing off on the Iraqi freighter,� explained naval officer Roger Phillip, communicating through a photograph released by the Iranian Navy via holes ripped in his sweater forming the message in Morse code. “When suddenly the very sun was blotted out by an armada of fearsome warships, and we knew our own doom had engulfed us.�

Though the unconditional surrender of a world power over a small naval skirmish over 3,000 miles away is unusual, few consider Britain’s move premature, given the unbelievable hurt the Iranian Navy could rain down on the U.K. should they get their dander up.

A few foolhardy souls have suggested a death-before-dishonor approach, unwilling to bow down to their Iranian masters so quickly.

“I think we could take ‘em,� grumbled brave sausage peeler Roscoe Euclid of Saxby, loading supplies into an inflatable dingy moments before going to his certain death.

Final plans have not been announced as to what Britain’s new Iranian overlords plan to do with the country, though early indications point to a bonanza of beheadings.

Iraq blah blah blah Suicide blah blah blah Dead

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A recent poll of girls hanging out in the food court at the mall has yielded this unexpected result: the words most commonly associated with Omar Bricks in the minds of teenage girls are these: cocky good-looking son of a bitch. Actually, those were three separate entries, but I like the way they run together. The good-looking part actually came from a guy working at the novelty gift store; I'm not sure how he got a hold of one of the ballots. But I kept it in the mix, for scientific reasons and because I think it was probably a back-up choice in the minds of most of the food court girls. Makes sense.

Before you jump to any ludicrous conclusions, let me first off say that the "son of a bitch" part didn't bother me. As far as I'm concerned, that's between teenage girls and Mama Bricks exclusively. If any bare-midriffed mallrats have a problem with the way Mama Bricks butters her bread, they know where to find her. As she's fond of saying, I'd just recommend bringing several friends and a first aid kit, that's all.

Nope, what really set off my bullshit alarm (I recently had to have it recalibrated after watching half of the State of the Union address on TV before I realized it wasn't Sesame Street) was the "cocky" bit. I mean, what a bitch. Whichever one of them it was. Omar Bricks is a lot of things, including the masked daredevil who jumped a dirt bike over the turnstiles at the State Fair last year (I would have got away with it if it weren't for the blabbermouth working at the cotton candy booth that broke my fall), but cocky? That really takes some imagination.

Omar Bricks is, and presumably always will be (unless I wake up with super powers one day or something, then screw it) one modest motherfucker. I haven't taken credit for half of the amazing shit I've done and haven't called out one-third of the fronting wannabes who don't deserve to lick the sweat off my balls. And not because I lacked the vocabulary to adequately explain my innate superiority, either. Omar Bricks has made up more words to describe his bitchin'ness than most suckers have ever even heard of.

Everyone seems to forget the time years ago when I saved all those little kids from the apartment building that burnt down after my porno collection caught on fire. They wanted to put my picture in the paper with this ass-kicking article about how I had braved certain exposure to uncomfortable temperatures to throw those kids off the balcony to safety. They would have been screwed if I hadn't been there, since the stacks and stacks of XXX magazines (and enough pizza boxes to build a fort) stoked the fire into some kind of special effects inferno, and nobody had hauled away the mattress I threw out that was blocking the hallway. But when the time came for my fifteen minutes of newspaper glory, I said no way, Jose (the guy's name, I think). Omar Bricks isn't in it for the glory. Saving those kids and making out with their mom behind a fire truck was reward enough for me.

What kind of cocky son of a bitch lets a cherry story like that go untold? (Before today, anyway.) Nobody I know. Most guys would have it printed up on a shirt that said "AWESOME HERO" on the back. But not Omar Bricks, Modest Motherfucker. Besides, that shit's expensive and they charge by the letter.

Clearly there's some player-hating going on down at the mall, and that's the kind of shit for which Omar Bricks cannot stand. Next time I see those girls they can buy their own goddamned frozen yogurt.

Bricks out.

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I know, it comes as a complete shock to me as well. It's probably in our American nature to assume that everybody feels the same as you do, that everyone shares the same values and the person you're talking to is not some sort of weirdo with a goofy opinion they're just waiting to drop on you. I feel the same way. I was so sure everyone around me believed in the same things as good ol' Rok Finger that I seldom allowed anyone to get a word in edge-wise. Imagine my surprise when I had a mouthful of peanut butter and Camembert used that moment to express outrageous dissent.

Of course the only thing that's been on the news lately is the War on Iraq. And I understand there are those who oppose the war, I have the news in my apartment. I can watch the footage and see the signs to know that some people disagree with our right to do whatever we want over there. But to know one of those weirdoes is sharing a roof with you, that was more than I could bear.

So we're watching this news broadcast and see all these nutjobs hanging out in New York City or some other exceptionally liberal city area with signs saying "War sucks." What kind of hootenanny philosophy are we teaching our young generations? But that's another diatribe for another column, probably a previous one. I'm watching all this and remark to Camembert, "What kind of hootenanny philosophy are we teaching our young generations? And in New York, alas, where the Iraqis bombed the Statue of Liberty."

"I think you're wrong, Rok," Camembert said to me. Do you believe the brass balls on that handi-capable prick? At first I thought it might be some kind of outright ploy for leadership of the apartment, then I realized his ilk probably doesn't believe in leadership. They just set up a council and everybody's on it and nobody ever gets told what to do. They have a name for that kind of government, you know. I just can't remember it.

Knowing all this doesn't help much. In fact, I was happier a few weeks ago when I was ignorant of Camembert's radical political views. To be fair, I haven't been really happy since before my wife tried to assassinate me.

Making it all the harder is the fact I haven't seen Lee since those Arab guys invited him to fight for freedom with them, he just packed up and ran off. He's always been pro-freedom, so that's no surprise. But even if I'm happy for Lee and his righteous group of new friends, that still just leaves me and Camembert alone in the place together. The three of us, including my cat Makeshift, but Makeshift is decidedly apolitical. She really only has an opinion on Friskies and tongue bathing, either way she's not going to get into this hot political debate between me and Chairman Camembert.

I suppose I've been reluctant to admit it, but it's high time I found my own place. I've thought about it before, sure, like when Camembert and Lee locked me out and told me to find somewhere else to live. But once I broke in again the idea slipped my mind. It's time to open that case up again, I'd say. I'll live with all sorts of people, no matter how different, as long as they're just like me. Accepting such a vastly different political idealist and his beliefs is just plain nuts to me.

It would be a good idea to get out soon, too. I'm getting tired of continuously talking to avoid him infecting me with his weirdo propaganda. Even Rok Finger has his diatribe limits.

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