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People Thrilled by Verdict for Man They Don't KnowNovember 15, 2004 |
Washington, D.C. Whit Pistol A crowd of San Mateo residents vacation from what is actually important in their lives to needlessly involve themselves in a tragedy they've seen on the TV.
Peterson, who may receive the death penalty for his crime, had been accused of the murder of his wife and unborn son, and also committed the despicable crime of occupying TV sets everywhere for more than a year when word of his sensationalized crime reached news organizations. His high-profile lawyer, smarmy Mark Geragos, defended his client as "an abominable dick, but not guilty of the crime." While ...
San Mateo jury came back with the verdict of guilty for Scott Peterson Friday, and a lot of people who couldn't possibly have known the accused mortal to any real degree were really, really pleased. Roars of approval sounded when news of the verdict reached crowds outside, spending valuable time from their lives involving themselves in a case with absolutely no bearing on them.
Peterson, who may receive the death penalty for his crime, had been accused of the murder of his wife and unborn son, and also committed the despicable crime of occupying TV sets everywhere for more than a year when word of his sensationalized crime reached news organizations. His high-profile lawyer, smarmy Mark Geragos, defended his client as "an abominable dick, but not guilty of the crime." While for the opposing side, prosecutor Rick Distaso painted a picture of a man who was "a dick who did exactly what it sounds like he did."
Details of the trial captured the imagination of America, as the miseries of others in the world whose fate our actions control went forgotten. The case became even more fascinating for the uninvolved when it was revealed Peterson had kept a mistress massage therapist named Amber, and the jury were treated to tapes of their sexy phone calls. For months, viewers followed the search for the remains of Laci Peterson, Scott's wife, and their unborn son, and ratings went through the roof when they were discovered in the San Francisco Bay. Peterson was arrested with blond hair, but not for that reason, and was carrying $15,000 the prosecution said he was using to flee to Mexico.
People in no danger from Scott Peterson at all expressed how relieved they were he would be going to jail, or would receive the death penalty. Like Mitzi Kownuhno, of Gleaton, Rhode Island.
"At last, the world makes sense again," over-dramatized Kownuhno, upon watching the verdict on TV.
Those who showed up in person to hear Peterson's fate were also happy about his guilt.
"He's going to get exactly what he deserves, and I would like to be the one to pull the switch," said Herbert Teal of San Mateo, a jobless man who would like to apply for a public executioner position.
Fellow bystander Kiki Armoire agreed. "It's the kind of crime where you have to sit up and take notice. A woman, carrying her husband's child, betrayed by a man she thought was faithful to her… it's scary to think it could happen to any of us." Armoire, 34, admitted she had no husband or children, and had been watching the case extensively between reruns of C.S.I.
"We got him," exclaimed fellow outsider Michelle Pozowonysk, hugging a nearby stranger as she cried. "Thank God we got him!"
In other cities, people gathered in groups to watch the announcement of the verdict on CNN and Court-TV. Living viewers in public establishments such as Vorlon's Tavern in New York City awaited the verdict with baited breath, as if it mattered in the slightest in their insignificant, quickly-evaporating human lives. Most reacted with a swell of joy at the decision, though some demonstrated a degree of disappointment.
"Well, shit," said Jimmy "Meatball" Hughes, a sanitation engineer from Brooklyn. "That's all I had to watch until they start showing the Christmas specials on the TV." the commune news also watched The Verdict, and rooted for Paul Newman's lovable scamp lawyer all the way. Mordecai "Three-Finger" Brown, being a non-corporeal being, cannot stick a pencil behind his ear, robbing him of the one way commune reporters can identify themselves to others.
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 May 17, 2004
My Friend PoloI don't know why everybody expects me to know everything around here. "Omar, what's your car doing parked in my office?" "Omar, who the fuck hired Menudo to tile the break room?" "Omar, what ever happened to that Japanese woman you had living in your house?" What am I, Google? Get your lazy ass over to the library and look it up yourself, Curious George. AskOmar.com don't run for free and when I charge, I charge in pain.
I have to admit though; the "Japanese woman" question did get me thinking. I seem to remember something like that, some kind of foreign squatter in the Bricks Manor a little while back. At first I thought I must be remembering some lame sitcom, but according to resident prick Orson Welch, The Jap of Luxury went off the air years ago.
I definitely remember the house smelling like soy sauce a lot last year, and a quick peek into the compost heap outside shows strong evidence that there was a lot of chop-sticking going on around here during the same time period. So it certainly looks like this place was all Japped up for a good couple months last year. Weird.
I decided to hit the Internet for a little research, which mostly turned up strange cartoon pornography that's likely going to screw up my Saturday mornings for the next few years. But the most useful info came from the commune itself (no shit, we're on the Internet now) in the form of my own Polio columns from last fall. That was really a trip; I was wondering...
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I don't know why everybody expects me to know everything around here. "Omar, what's your car doing parked in my office?" "Omar, who the fuck hired Menudo to tile the break room?" "Omar, what ever happened to that Japanese woman you had living in your house?" What am I, Google? Get your lazy ass over to the library and look it up yourself, Curious George. AskOmar.com don't run for free and when I charge, I charge in pain.
I have to admit though; the "Japanese woman" question did get me thinking. I seem to remember something like that, some kind of foreign squatter in the Bricks Manor a little while back. At first I thought I must be remembering some lame sitcom, but according to resident prick Orson Welch, The Jap of Luxury went off the air years ago.
I definitely remember the house smelling like soy sauce a lot last year, and a quick peek into the compost heap outside shows strong evidence that there was a lot of chop-sticking going on around here during the same time period. So it certainly looks like this place was all Japped up for a good couple months last year. Weird.
I decided to hit the Internet for a little research, which mostly turned up strange cartoon pornography that's likely going to screw up my Saturday mornings for the next few years. But the most useful info came from the commune itself (no shit, we're on the Internet now) in the form of my own Polio columns from last fall. That was really a trip; I was wondering how in the hell people got to our site. Turns out all you have to do is search for "Japanese cat-piss cornhole" and you're there.
So now with that confusion out of the way, I'm faced with a question: What in the hell happened to my Asian live-in cohort? Jesus, you turn around for nine months and these people disappear on you, it's insane.
The last thing I remember, we were teamed up in this rickshaw polo tournament I had organized for charity. Osaka had been building up some serious skills carting me around town during those carless days, and I was getting pretty sharp at not eating shit out the back on sharp turns, so I figured we should put those skills to use for a good cause. There was some static about a school for training immigrants to pull Omar Bricks around town like a dogsled team not being a real charity, but those whiners were weeded out pretty fast and most of them had some pretty sad sack rickshaw-pullers anyway, to say the least. Mostly scrawny neighborhood kids or hookers trying to get off the street, Osaka and I would have poloed circles around them without either of us breaking a sweat.
In retrospect I wouldn't have minded if those guys stayed on, because the poloers who did stick around were a pretty rough bunch who favored a brand of full-contact rickshaw polo that wasn't for the faint of heart. I really felt sorry for anyone who parked their car on Brown Street that day, that's all you need to know.
In the end nobody there could match the skills Osaka and I brought to the arena, but they didn't need to since we flipped the 'shaw while popping a wheelie on the victory lap after I'd scored our first goal. Needless to say the rickshaw was destroyed, which Osaka probably wasn't too thrilled about since she'd paid for it and I'd talked her into getting one of the nice ones, really the Mercedes-Benz of rickshaws, it had a mini-fridge and a doorbell and everything. After the crash there was rickshaw shit all over the street, a stray dog even made off with the portable DVD player. It was a sad scene, especially for me, because I was right in the middle of Rollerball when it happened. I still don't know how that movie ends.
Come to think of it, I don't remember seeing Osaka after the crash, she may have given up on America or been kidnapped by the Triads for all I know. Hell, she could still be at the bottom of that pile of rickshaw rubble, but I bet they've cleaned that up by now. I probably could have stuck around and found out for sure, but the cops were on their way and we only had about ten minutes to make the half-off beers at Runyon's, so nobody was exactly volunteering to hang around for casualty detail.
It's probably all worked out for the best, unless she died. In that case, Osaka, or whatever your real name was, I'll never forget you. Again. After this time, never again. So I'll only forget you once. Probably, can't promise anything. But if you are still around and have learned to read English by now, Foghat's been sleeping on a pile of your stuff, so if you want it back you'll have to talk to him. Bricks out. º Last Column: Happy Camperº more columns
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| May 16, 2005
GuanicaThis column marks day three of my lawsuit with my neighbor Hamms over Guanica, the masterpiece I painted on his bathroom wall in axle grease, batshit and chicken blood. Before you start freaking out, let me explain that the chicken blood part was an accident, since the guy at the pet store never told me that chickens are stupid enough to run straight into a live fan just because they're excited you put "What a Feeling" from Flashdance on the stereo again.
I'd originally bought the chicken to make sure I wasn't going to get cancer from the grease fumes in Hamms' bathroom while I was painting, sort of like the canary in the coal mine idea, only with a bigger bird. I figured canaries are pussies so I wasn't real worried about canary-killing levels of fumes, but if it was enough to put a chicken down I'd probably have to install some ventilation or invest in some scuba gear or something. "Safety First" has always been my motto. But then I had trouble finding a pet store that carried chickens, turns out those places are lousy with canaries, I guess because of the demand from local coal miners and hungry cats, but you ask for a chicken and those pricks try to sell you a goddamned Lhasa apso or something. Like I'm going to take a dog's word on dangerous gas levels. I've already got a dog that puts out enough gas to drive the dodos into extinction, thanks.
That's when I had the bright idea to just go straight to the source and buy a chicken...
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This column marks day three of my lawsuit with my neighbor Hamms over Guanica, the masterpiece I painted on his bathroom wall in axle grease, batshit and chicken blood. Before you start freaking out, let me explain that the chicken blood part was an accident, since the guy at the pet store never told me that chickens are stupid enough to run straight into a live fan just because they're excited you put "What a Feeling" from Flashdance on the stereo again.
I'd originally bought the chicken to make sure I wasn't going to get cancer from the grease fumes in Hamms' bathroom while I was painting, sort of like the canary in the coal mine idea, only with a bigger bird. I figured canaries are pussies so I wasn't real worried about canary-killing levels of fumes, but if it was enough to put a chicken down I'd probably have to install some ventilation or invest in some scuba gear or something. "Safety First" has always been my motto. But then I had trouble finding a pet store that carried chickens, turns out those places are lousy with canaries, I guess because of the demand from local coal miners and hungry cats, but you ask for a chicken and those pricks try to sell you a goddamned Lhasa apso or something. Like I'm going to take a dog's word on dangerous gas levels. I've already got a dog that puts out enough gas to drive the dodos into extinction, thanks.
That's when I had the bright idea to just go straight to the source and buy a chicken from KFC. I figure they're swimming in the birds and wouldn't mind cutting me a deal on one, since I'd be saving them the trouble of killing the stupid thing and shaving all the feathers off with a chainsaw or whatever they do in the back before the customers come in. But you know my luck, I get a real "by the book" type behind the counter and end up having to break into KFC at three in the morning, only to find that they must let the chickens out at night, or maybe each of the workers takes a couple home for entertainment, but they sure as hell weren't anywhere in the kitchen or coat closet.
I briefly considered sneaking into work and making off with the commune's own Mazie the chicken, but I didn't want to take a chance on getting roped into one of Red Bagel's lame after-hours adventures, plus I didn't want to risk any confusing voodoo bullshit as a result of stealing a mystical chicken.
Finally I found a pet store that had a chicken, though they only had one because some fast-talking traveling salesman had duped the owner into thinking it was a rare Polynesian dancing bird, and the guy was still pissed off that he'd traded a purebred Shar-Pei for a chicken and a handful of magic beans. I must have made the guy's day when I took the chicken and the beans off his hands, but it was all for a good cause since now I could get back to painting and had some magic beans to sell to Boris Utzov for lunch money this week.
The chicken only lasted about a half an hour in the end, since the fan I'd brought in to push out the grease fumes and Foghat's B.O. didn't come with any warnings about keeping it away from extremely stupid birds. It did do a remarkably efficient chicken-killing job, however, and I've considered trying to sell it to the guys over at KFC once I've determined that they don't have my fingerprints on file. And really, the random spray of chicken gore did nothing but good things for the bathroom wall painting, adding some interesting texture to the smeared grease and caked on batshit already there.
Truth be told, the batshit part was partially an accident as well, since I hadn't realized that leaving Hamms' bathroom window open all the time so I could get in and out was going to mean the place would become infested with bats in no time flat. But it did give me a name for the painting, and I hear guano is good for wallpaper, though I'm not sure where I heard that. Probably from the "cigarette ash is good for your carpet" school of home improvement, something dreamt up by a clever Deadhead who wanted to get out of cleaning up after his stanky ass.
But anyway, the painting turned out great, whatever the department of health or Hamms might think about it. As one local alcoholic art historian has observed, "it's like Picasso's Guernica, without all the crappy parts." Which was cool by me, since I was just trying to finger-paint Lynard Skynard rumbling with a gang of tough nuns. Now the question is just to determine who really owns that bathroom wall: Hamms, whose house it's attached to and surrounded by, or Omar Bricks, who provided the blood, sweat and tears that made it into a work of art that may or may not be dangerous to the public health. The courts will have their say, but I leave the true judgment up to the art fans, who I've been charging $10 a head to use my ladder to get into Hamms' bathroom.
Bricks out. º Last Column: The Seven Month Itchº more columns
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Milestones1969: Rok Finger is deeply offended by the sights at Woodstock, which has little if anything to do with his favorite Peanuts character.Now HiringTrombone Player. Follow Bludney Pudd around office playing hilarious "wahnt-WAHNT" everytime he does something pathetic. Overtime guaranteed.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | How Do You Keep a Moron in Suspense? | | 2. | Uncle Macho's Naked Lunch | | 3. | Grenades Are from Granada and other Historical Nuggets | | 4. | Raoul Dunkin: Pussyfoot | | 5. | The Best of Wrinkly Raisin Breasts | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 2/4/2002 Aloha, America! Nope, I'm not reporting to you from sunny Hawaii today but that was a pretty good guess. I'm just in a sunshine and grass skirt kind of mood today; I can't explain it. Maybe it was that Hawaiian Tropics commercial I saw the other day. Or maybe it was the Eskimo Pie I ate this morning. Actually the more I think about it, that Eskimo Pie bit doesn't make a bit of sense. Some would argue that you can't get any further away from Hawaii's welcoming shores than to be huddled in a miserable freezing igloo, gnawing on whale fat. And they're probably right, but nevertheless I link the two mentally. Maybe it's those cute little pudgy babies. Come to think of it, Eskimos and Hawaiian Islanders sure do look a lot alike. Maybe a little too much. I'm beginning to think they're running a...
Aloha, America! Nope, I'm not reporting to you from sunny Hawaii today but that was a pretty good guess. I'm just in a sunshine and grass skirt kind of mood today; I can't explain it. Maybe it was that Hawaiian Tropics commercial I saw the other day. Or maybe it was the Eskimo Pie I ate this morning. Actually the more I think about it, that Eskimo Pie bit doesn't make a bit of sense. Some would argue that you can't get any further away from Hawaii's welcoming shores than to be huddled in a miserable freezing igloo, gnawing on whale fat. And they're probably right, but nevertheless I link the two mentally. Maybe it's those cute little pudgy babies. Come to think of it, Eskimos and Hawaiian Islanders sure do look a lot alike. Maybe a little too much. I'm beginning to think they're running a scam on us, a complex ploy to secure more than their fair share of dancing puppets on the "It's a Smallish World" ride at Disneyland. Interesting. You tend to the entertainment reviews below while I ponder this further over another Eskimo Pie.
In Theaters Now:
A Beautiful Mime
If there's one thing this movie taught me, it's that mimes are a lot more tolerable when they're jaw-droppingly gorgeous and have the body of a porn star. I'd like to thank Jennifer Connely for expanding my cultural awareness and my BVDs for a solid two hours in this powerful film. There's a lot of awards buzz surrounding Connely's performance here, and I have to agree: she's hot as hell! You can bet I'll be keeping an eye out for her Golden Globes in the future.
Big Fat Liar
What's funnier than Jim Carrey running around like he's retarded and not being able to tell a lie? You guessed it, a 300 pound Jim Carrey running around like he's retarded and not being able to tell a lie. They promised the sequel would be bigger than the original, but none of us dared to think they were talking about Carrey's drooping leg fat. And yeah, it's pretty funny, but I have to admit it's the ultimate insult when Hollywood would rather dress up attractive people in fat suits than hire one of the many genuinely fat people available for the role.
Collateral Damage
Arnie's latest meat-headed action flick casts him wholly unbelievably as a nerdy office drone who's expertise in collating office files and Xeroxes somehow prepares him to be an awe-inspiring ass-kicker who cold-boots faceless terrorist booty, in triplicate. Wait until this one comes out on video, then put it back on the shelf and see if they have any decent soft-core in stock.
I Am Sam
The Dr Seuss classic takes a turn for the creepy in this dark psychological thriller starring Chris Kattan as the food-obsessed stalker who just won't let Michael Douglas' businessman be. Some might consider this re-imagining disrespectful to the original book, but I'm convinced that Dr Seuss himself would have done the train shoot-out scene just the same way if he'd had access to this kind of technology back in his day.
Rollerball
I know what you're thinking. Cross the white-hot fad of rollerskating with the popular teenage dance movie, throw in Skeet Ulrich, and you've got a sure hit on your hands, right? Think again. Take a closer look at what you've got on your hands, and note it's nutty texture and off-brown hue. Pretty nasty, eh?
Now on Video:
Captain Correlli's Man-dolphin
I can't honestly say I knew what the hell was up with this movie, or how they got Nicholas Cage involved, but to suffice it to say it was original. It was sort of like a cross between Buck Rogers, Powder, The Abyss and an Arco commercial, if that makes any sense. It wasn't bad, but it was one of those movies that makes you wonder if you left the gas on.
The Curse of the Sade Scorpion
Another strange one to keep you scratching your head until you're in need a band-aid. Imagine if they remade "Anaconda" in the desert, with Ben Kingsley instead of Ice Cube, and instead of a big snake eating people it's a scorpion that sings "Smooth Operator" almost constantly. And believe it or not, this was actually the scarier movie of the two. Come to think of it, maybe that's not so hard to believe.
Ghost World
The second feature from Nintendo Pictures follows the reasoning that if the original is good, throw in a egg-pooping dinosaur and it'll be even better. I'm not sure what to think of the result, however. Whoopi Goldberg has some great lines as the wise-cracking dinosaur, but I just couldn't get over how dumb Patrick Swayzee looks in that little plumber hat.
Kiss of the Drag Queen
Jet Li is back and this time he must face his toughest adversary yet: his own ambiguous sexuality! How will Li react when he finds out that the girl he just chop-sueyed a platoon of ninjas to save turns out to be a flamboyant drag queen from Frisco? S/he is Li's perfect match, but will he risk the scorn of his ultra-traditional culture and his macho ass-kicking buddies to know her love? No chance, but he did kick a guy's ass with a tuna fish in a scene that I thought was pretty cool.
Television:
The networks are rushing out new episodes of their biggest shows for what they call "sweeps" and that means it's the best time to be a television fan! Here's some highlights of the coming week:
Frasier (NBC)
The episode we've all been waiting for as the champ puts to rest old grievances with his longtime arch-nemesis Muhammad Ali. A tear-jerking episode, or something gets jerked anyhow.
Si, Esse (CBS)
I've been hearing everyone raving about this show about forensic science cops, but didn't think it sounded appealing. Still, pretty ballsy move to have an all-Spanish cast. I managed to follow it pretty good and this week's episode ought to be the best as that guy who seems to be in charge has an affair with the young girl with the sombrero, who I think might be his protogé or something. Hot Spanish chicks and possible nudity? Roland is there, compadré!
Everybody Loves Reagan (CBS)
Last I heard this guy was drooling all over his presidential bib in some nursing home, so I don't know how he gets a hit sitcom. Then again, I still don't know how he beat Mondale in a landslide. It's their biggest episode yet this week as the current president (you know, the one with the dirty name) stops by to talk about his space station that blows up nuclear missiles. You won't want to miss it. I will, though.
Video Games:
State of Emergency (PS2)
This flag-waving tribute to New York is long on sentiment and short on fun. Sure, I agree firefighters and cops and paramedics and all of them are the real heroes, yeah, I'd gladly look the other way if they wanted to murder somebody or rob a bank, but any game with more candle-lit worshipping-at-the-feet and less fighting and explosions just isn't my idea of fun. Not that they aren't walking gods among us, of course.
Rackless (Sexbox)
The boys at Microsoft are going all out to beat the competition. This game is truly a new frontier, as you're a cosmetic surgeon trying to pump up the chest of a young hottie who just can't attract the boys 'cause of her natural flatlands. Keep adding on inches to turn her from Kate Moss to Jennifer Connelly and watch out you don't snap her spine in half. Success is its own reward!
Ninja Gayed In (PS2)
Wash-out of a game based on that Saturday Night Live gay ninja character that was only funny the first sketch. You play the ninja in sequined black commando gear and can stun enemies with glitter-laden throwing stars or your special move which I'll save you the nausea of describing.
There are foul things afoot, Entertainment Policers. After a little cursory research on the "internet", I've discovered that the Eskimos and the Hawaiian Islanders do in fact share a common ancestor! From everything I can tell, his name is Saul Worthington and he lives in the Bronx. Looks like I'll be giving our Mr. Worthington a little phone call this afternoon to get to the bottom of this. Wish me luck, America!   |
