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There's been a lot of fuss around the commune offices lately about the upcoming presidential election, and it's high time Omar Bricks weighed in on the action: I say Lil Duncan takes Ivana Folger-Balzac in four rounds. That's a controversial wager, I realize, but I hear Balzac's been betting heavily against herself under the assumed name of Flora Wackser and I've got it on good authority that she's going to take a dive in the fourth.

Even if the upcoming breakroom fight weren't fixed, I'd still be wondering if Balzac was going to be her usual invincible, dirty-fighting self, since she only started the "commune Republicans Club" to piss off the rest of the staff and isn't likely to put it all on the line defending the club's honor. Plus, the only other commune Republican who could get her back if Duncan pulled a knife would be Ted Ted, who's mad enough for a man twice his size but still remains listed as a generous three-foot four on his trading card.

Have you seen these things? Emil Zender's been printing them out on his home computer, a collectable set of the entire commune staff. They're like Garbage Pail Kids, only ugly.

Seriously though, If you haven't seen them yet, the cards are pretty sharp. They've all got pretty awesome embarrassing pics of commune staffers on the front with their vital stats on the back. Ted Ted's is hilarious since somebody somehow had a camera ready when they caught him humping that baby-CPR doll in the closet last month.

I'm in the deck too, of course, but the picture on my card's just an out-of-focus shot of me building a Loch Ness Monster decoy in my garage for that hoax last year, when I was planning on riding it across the East River and into the city like I'd made Nessie my bitch. They should have got a photo of that fuckin' thing sinking into the river like a lead weight with an asscramp and me getting that helicopter ride back to land, but I guess the technology's not quite there to have a whole video clip from the news playing on a baseball card.

Anyway, while we're on the subject, I might as well weigh in on the lame-assed presidential election itself. You know Omar Bricks doesn't waste a lot of time thinking about politics, but when I do I think this: It's time we elected Evel Knievel as the President of the United States. I'll wait a second for the reasoning behind this to become obvious to you.

First and most obviously, I can't vote for Bush. Bush is like the guy you knew in the fourth grade who would light his farts on fire, until he came across a set of flammable drapes and ended up burning half the house down. Maybe when Bush grows up he'll turn out to have real presidential potential, but for now I think we need to protect the White House drapes.

And I'm pretty sure I pantsed John Kerry in the seventh grade. According to office dickwad Raoul Dunkin, that's mathematically impossible, but I'd remember that sour mug anywhere. So no way I can vote for that guy.

Ralph Nader? Sounds too much like Darth Vader. No way I'm voting for some Star Wars geek, he'd probably blow half the budget funding research on the Force. Though I have to admit, I would pay good money to see a presidential debate where Nader does that little throat-pinchy gesture and the other guy drops dead. That would be pretty decisive.

But if Nader could pull that shit off, he probably would have done it last election so he wouldn't have had to spend the last four years working at that organic grocery out in Portland. So really, when you stop and think about it, Evel Knievel's our only good choice.

How hard would the vote be rocked if we had a debate where all the candidates had to out-stunt each other on live TV? I guarantee you some voter turnout for that shit. Let's see Bush or Kerry jump a motorcycle over a dozen school buses or a tank full of starving sharks. No need to take polls over who won the debate when the runner-up ran over his own pelvis or shattered his spine on national television.

And you can forget all this bullshit about purple hearts and who's got the balls to fight the war on terror, let one of those other guys strap a rocket to his ass and try to jump across the Colorado River. Not going to happen. So Knievel wins in a landslide, and he gets sworn in while surfing down a real landslide on a TV tray. Shit yeah.

The only thing that can stop him now is if he's already dead. I need to look that up.

Bricks out.

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I could not be more outraged if I found out the country of Paraguay was needling my sister. Everything in my penthouse apartment is gone, everything. The switchblade toothbrush, the hydro-powered vacuum cleaner, the lithograph of the Zapruder film still. All of it gone, all because I was too trusting. Because I thought I was hip and "with it," because I thought I could reach the young people.

Well, fuck the young people. I want my stuff back. Those guys from M-TV's Cribs were just lousy thieves. Came in, shot a few hours of footage of my penthouse apartment, left, came back in the night and made off with everything. Even the roast beast. I'm starting to think they weren't really from M-TV at all, too.

It started off innocently enough. I had just finished paying off my bookie and had to make another large withdrawal when I realized I had not yet paid the "cleaner" for solving my problem with former commune Office Manager Phil Lampost. I had just emerged from the bank again, counting the thousands of dollars I had withdrawn, when the "talent scouts" for M-TV's Cribs came up to me. I thought them common hoodlums, but they recognized me right away and said they loved my work—although, it occurs to me right now they couldn't place my name.

They told me their predicament, that they had to film an episode of Cribs for M-TV right away and their guest for the episode, comedian Paul Rodriguez, had dropped out on them at the last minute. Once I checked a TV Guide at the local newsstand to verify such a show called Cribs exists (I'm no dummy), I told them it was okay to use my crib for their latest episode. They assured me the young people would be trippin' to have me on M-TV.

It was luck that they had the camera (a Hi-8, and five tapes) with them, so we were off right away. I opened my doors and my fridge to these frauds, and I must say they drank some very expensive foreign beer known as Dos Equis. Hours of footage shot, and perhaps I should have suspected something by the extra attention they paid to the locks and security systems, but I had no idea, I've never seen Cribs before and the young people get into all sorts of weird fads. When they left, I thought I had done a little to bridge the generation gap and reach the future of America. Failing all else I hope these thugs at least have enough facts to know the truth about the Apollo 13 mission.

The fact that they made off with everything I own and, again, drank some pricey foreign beer doesn't bother me all that much. Alright, it bothers me. It bothers me more than you'll ever know. But what really bothers me is the subterfuge and the dishonesty. Perhaps if they had come up to me, forward and honest, and asked for everything I own I might have… no, that wouldn't have worked. I have to admit they at least knew what would work effectively.

No question, I've once again been played like a two dollar fiddle by some sort of fiddle-musician. Just when you think you're as suspicious and distrusting as a soul can get, you learn it's still not quite enough to keep your entire penthouse from being stripped to the bone. I can replace the furniture; it just means cutting salaries all around and selling some of those new-fangled computers I got for the reporters. But I'll never be able to replace the trust, unless there's some place you know that does that invasive sort of procedure.

Fortunately, I have my memories of this deception. And their descriptions. Now, if you don't mind, I have another visit scheduled with my "cleaner" friend.

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