Colin Powell An Ass Man

.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell answered an M-TV audience's question on the show Be Heard: An M-TV Global Discussion With Colin Powell that, despite contradictory claims by friends and gossipers, he is indeed an ass man.

"Sure enough," Powell said, addressing a room full of inquisitive teen-agers and fine ladies, "I am, always have been, and always will be a connoisseur of sweet asses."

"Don't get me wrong," Powell continued, "I love every part of a tasty young lady—and I do mean every part. But if you nailed me down, oh, I don't know, say held a gun to my hand and demanded to know… it's true, folks. I'm a rear admiral."

Previous statements from sources close to the Secretary of State have suggested he loves big and bouncy titties, the bigger the better. One close friend, female, assured the press Powell was a legman, and couldn't resist a sweet mama with a long pair of "sex handles."

"Again, nothing wrong with a nice pair up there or down there," Powell said with a sly grin, running his hands sensuously against the podium, "but you all have me wrong. I'm into hip fox with a loose caboose."

As if proving his statement, as he exited the press room, Powell stopped and craned his neck trying to catch a glimpse of a female M-TV intern with a fully-loaded trunk on the way up the press aisle. "Mmm-mmm-MMM!" Powell grunted under his breath, shaking his head to escape the vision and exiting quietly.

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By now everybody in the tri-state area knows about the fiery death of the Bricksmobile, that's old news. And really, big deal. It's something that happens to everybody at least once in their life, having their car blow up and tear the garage doors off of three of their neighbors' houses, and getting sued and all that. Just one of those trials of life things like having to waddle into the emergency room with a coke bottle stuck up your ass. No fun, for sure, but it's not like it's your own personal torment that nobody else can relate to. Just part of living la vida loca, like that Taco Bell commercial says.

But this latest wrinkle in the saga is just plain different. First, as I'm sure you've heard, I get banned from every taxi company in the city. Every one! Even the ones that don't speak English. Don't even ask me how that happens; the logistics of it are mind-blowing. I did learn a valuable lesson from this experience, though. If you're going to reenact the "throwing the flaming jack-o-lantern at the dude's head" scene from Sleepy Hollow to surprise one of your friends while he's on a blind date, don't do it from a taxi. Rent a car or something, I don't know. Because a lifetime citywide taxi ban is one hard motherfucking pill to swallow, that's all that can be said about that.

So now I've got no way of getting around, except for this shitty old Schwinn I found in the garage that only works in the highest gear. Believe me, I tried some pretty creative schemes to get out of having to ride that goddamned thing. Like ordering a pizza to be delivered, then riding back to Dominos with the delivery guy, then calling on their phone to order a pizza from another place closer to where I wanted to get to, and so on and so forth. Turns out that gets pretty expensive around the third or fourth leg of the trip, in retrospect I probably should have laid off ordering the hot wings and the extra 2-liters of Coke and whatnot. Not to mention that some of those guys get downright weird about you riding in their car with them back to the pizza place, trying to pull away when you're just grabbing the door handle and all kinds of rude shit like that.

So anyway, a couple hundred bucks later Omar Bricks is back to busting his ass on the goddamned garage sale bike. And let me tell you, if you ever want to work up a healthy hatred of your fellow man, try riding a bike to work. People expect you to ride over in the gutter like some kind of taxi-banned wino on his way to the wine factory or wherever the hell it is winos work. And they get all bent out of shape when you get off your bike to push it up a hill, like they've got somewhere to be all of a sudden. Christ, I wouldn't even be shlepping it up these hills at all if anybody respected the bike lane on the freeway like they're supposed to.

All I know is that this bike thing can't last long. It's all fine and good if you're eight and you don't know any better, but what in the world do they make adult-sized bikes for? I guess to give drivers something to laugh at on their morning commune, cut down on road rage or something. Sounds reasonable. But Omar Bricks is done being the rush-hour punch line; I'm clearly ready for a new set of wheels. Maybe a scooter or something, do they still make those? Those Devo guys sure seemed happy cruising around on those things. Not that I'm going to wear the lampshade hat or anything, I just want some kind of vehicle that does the peddling for me. If I've learned one thing from this whole ordeal, it's that peddling is for suckers.

That, and don't set your car on fire based on an infomercial. So two things. Maybe three, if you count the taxi ban. Shit, maybe I should look into getting some college credits out of this thing. Turning the whole situation on its head, to my advantage and all.

Now that's what they call finding the Kraut's silver linens.

Bricks Out.

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Not to shit on everyone's Christmas spirit, but it just seems like no one is making an effort anymore. All year long I look forward to gathering up the toys and, quite frankly, busting my balls to get all the stuff to everyone and there doesn't seem to be much reciprocation on everyone else's part.

I'm not going to name names, but let's just talk about what some people are leaving under the tree. It used to be cookies and milk, and boy, does that ever get boring after the thousandth house, but at least they were homemade cookies and milk. These days I'm lucky if I can get some half-broken Oreos and a juicebox. I'm not saying the kids are to blame, they're probably the reason I get the Oreos, but somebody out there is just not giving a damn anymore.

You know what I want for Christmas? Well, since you ask, a big fat plate of babyback ribs sitting under the tree would be nice. Just one house, you know, not everywhere. I realize it's more of a hassle than you're used to, but at least in neighborhoods can't you get together and work something out? These cookies are going to give me a heart attack, it's really too much sugar. I have a family history of diabetes, you know. What I basically need is something high-carb 'cause I lose a lot of energy moving from house to house with a finger aside my nose. That burns calories.

And all you construction workers out there, you've got to start making the roofs a little flatter. I can't handle those 45-degree angles anymore. Or just build a deck or something. I'm not worried about the lack of chimneys and the locked doors and security systems—they haven't built a house that can keep me out. But you build a house with a pointed roof and then put satellite dishes and all sorts of shit up there, you're just begging me to skip your house.

While we're on the subject of making my life just a tad easier… kids: Get into something a little easier on St. Nick, will you? Those goddamn Playstation 2s and video games by the ton are not only impossible to make, but they're starting to seriously do some damage to the ol' back. It would be a real crying shame if some of you got into sports again, just asked for a football or a baseball glove or sneakers or something—hardly any of you are in great shape, you know. It wouldn't kill you to go outdoors once in a while.

Oh, and you know what really pisses me off? All those kitschy adults who think it's so funny to write a Christmas list to Santa with their friends. Some group of half-baked intellectuals or cutesy-ass yuppies hang out at Starbucks for a half-hour penning some dumb-ass request for Gap clothes and S.U.V.s and you think it's so funny. Well, you know what? I'm legally obligated to answer all of those letters in some fashion. Yeah, the price-capping laws make it so I don't have to bring you the S.U.V. or anything, but what really pisses me off is that you're wasting my time when you're going to go out and buy the S.U.V. anyway. I have serious business to tend to, real kids who need real Christmas shit, I don't need your jerk-off Christmas lists cluttering up the naughty/nice ratio.

Whew. Sorry. Just bugs me, a lot.

It's not so bad, I guess. Despite everything, all the complaints, I realize I got a pretty good job. I spend about four months driving the elf workforce in the toy production, but they can basically run that themselves, then I bust my ass (and I really do bust my ass) one night a year, which basically leaves me with about eight months to just chill, do nothin'. And for that work I'm celebrated by children everywhere, more than their parents, who do at least half the work I get credit for. Yep, in some ways, it's the sweetest of gigs. Merry Christmas, everyone.

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