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Taking the Fifth Sweeps the Criminal NationFebruary 18, 2002 |
Salt LakeCity, Lochsen Bagel Non-talking alleged criminal about to get a royal talking-to.
Popularized by the wave of Enron and Arthur Andersen officials taking the Fifth in front of the current Congressional probe, "Fifthing"—as those in the know are calling it now—has become the fashionable way to respond to charges. Fifthing has long been the preferred manner of defense for white collar suspects and political figures undergoing questioning, but lately it's extending far beyond.
"Nearly 30 of our suspects in questioning have taken the Fifth Amendment this week," said New York Cit...
riminals are usually the last ones to be on the front of a trend-setting movement, being sheltered away in their underworld subculture or prison. But the hippest of hip are entirely accused criminals, and most have latched on to a new fad—invoking the Fifth Amendment.
Popularized by the wave of Enron and Arthur Andersen officials taking the Fifth in front of the current Congressional probe, "Fifthing"—as those in the know are calling it now—has become the fashionable way to respond to charges. Fifthing has long been the preferred manner of defense for white collar suspects and political figures undergoing questioning, but lately it's extending far beyond.
"Nearly 30 of our suspects in questioning have taken the Fifth Amendment this week," said New York City police sergeant Michael Rosen. "Ranging from domestic abuse cases to drug trafficking and murder suspects. It's a popular defense right now."
"I am invoking my Fifth Amendment rights against self-incrimination," said alleged murderer Ricky "Bollweevil" Hines to three detectives questioning him. Hines was found with a bloody axe in the apartment of a hooker, who was found dismembered and clearly labeled by body parts in her own freezer. Charged with the murder, Hines appeared disappointed and could only shake his head, adding, "I hope that after making the agonizing decision to take the Fifth, it doesn't appear to others like I am guilty of the crime I've been accused of."
"The Fifth Amendment is there to protect the innocent man against self-incrimination," said accused shoplifter Boot Martin. "Perhaps a few weeks ago I would have reacted differently to the charges against me, but after much soul-searching and consideration, I am taking the advice of counsel and Fifthing—I mean, invoking my rights according to the Constitution. I will not incriminate myself. Let the eyewitnesses and that lousy videotape do it."
"It really doesn't change much," said Law Professor Dershall Alanowitz. "Either you confess or you plead not guilty. Most of the time the accused doesn't elect to take the stand against themselves or anything, no surprise there. Kenneth Lay just took an old hat and gave it a cool new feather."
Much of the buzz surrounding the Fifth Amendment comes from the Enron hearings and the parade of Enron officials, most notably former Enron CEO Kenneth Lay, who all took the Fifth rather than answer questions from senators on the committee. Lay, once finished delivering a practiced speech declining to answer questions and announcing he'd invoke the Fifth Amendment, was then subject to harsh insults and jibes by the Congressional Committee. Sen. Ernest Hollings (D., South Carolina) implied Lay's tie was purchased cheap at a K-Mart sidewalk sale. While Sen. John McCain (R., Arizona) stated Lay should be tried for crimes against humanity for his shoes alone.
Like most fads, criminologists and law experts believe it will pass quickly.
"Before too long," said Professor Alanowitz, "criminals will be back to confessing and telling their stories at length, for movies of the week and hot tell-all books. And Fifthing will be as out of date as Ken Lay's suit. Did you see that number? Ike called, he wants his burial wear back." the commune news is only too happy to incriminate itself, and invites you along for the ride. Ivan Nacutchacokov wants everyone to know the musical he's writing about his life is coming along fabulously, except for the music part, and the words could use a little work.
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 December 9, 2002
If I Were a Carpenter I Would Build You a Home Out of My HeartNancy, sweet Nancy—my heart beats for you and you alone. To see that smile of yours, though the teeth are somewhat crooked, is the only thing worth living for. I would do anything in the world to show you the vastness of my love, like Brando's ass.
If my heart were made of wood, I would break apart the lumber and build you a house, a house made from my heart. You could live in my heart literally the way you do metaphorically now. Sure, my heart is kind of small, I would have to make the walls extremely thin, and we're not talking any kind of mansion here, but a shack—a shack made of love, from and out of my heart.
Even if this were not the case, if my heart were just my heart as it is now, sinew and muscle, probably more muscle, I'm not really sure of the make-up of the human heart, I would still build you a house. It would likely be grotesque and hideous, and haunt you in your nightmares, and once again, would be extremely small and thin-walled; but it would not stop my building it. I would not stop building it even if you demanded I stop, for that is how much I love you: Enough to not listen to you. The only thing that would stop me would be my death, which likely would have occurred as soon as I ripped my own heart out.
Perhaps I could live on an artificial heart. Artificial, like William Shatner's hair. I understand people can only live so long on artificial hearts, so I definitely would have to work fast. It would be a rush...
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Nancy, sweet Nancy—my heart beats for you and you alone. To see that smile of yours, though the teeth are somewhat crooked, is the only thing worth living for. I would do anything in the world to show you the vastness of my love, like Brando's ass.
If my heart were made of wood, I would break apart the lumber and build you a house, a house made from my heart. You could live in my heart literally the way you do metaphorically now. Sure, my heart is kind of small, I would have to make the walls extremely thin, and we're not talking any kind of mansion here, but a shack—a shack made of love, from and out of my heart.
Even if this were not the case, if my heart were just my heart as it is now, sinew and muscle, probably more muscle, I'm not really sure of the make-up of the human heart, I would still build you a house. It would likely be grotesque and hideous, and haunt you in your nightmares, and once again, would be extremely small and thin-walled; but it would not stop my building it. I would not stop building it even if you demanded I stop, for that is how much I love you: Enough to not listen to you. The only thing that would stop me would be my death, which likely would have occurred as soon as I ripped my own heart out.
Perhaps I could live on an artificial heart. Artificial, like William Shatner's hair. I understand people can only live so long on artificial hearts, so I definitely would have to work fast. It would be a rush job, this heart house, but I'd get it done. Barring the days needed to recover from surgery, assuming I could even find a surgeon who would remove my heart just so I could use it to build your house. I mentioned it to my psychiatrist last week and he said most of them would turn me away at the door. But that wouldn't stop my search.
Come to think of it, this is a lot to ask, you know. Are you sure you want a heart house? I go through the trouble of ripping my heart out and getting an expensive operation and heart that will only last a few weeks just to build you a shitty heart-shack, you know, it all sounds like I'm doing all the work in this relationship. Why don't you give up your heart as well? Or build me a house? If we put them together we can make a bigger heart house, you know, and we can probably share it. I could even make a porch out of my liver and use your lower leg for stairs—it's not much to ask, one lower leg. I'm giving up my liver for the porch, goddammit. You won't even walk on crutches for me.
You know what? Fuck this whole thing. You're starting to make me feel like a big asshole. It's too bad I can't build a house out of asshole, I'd have more than enough at this point. The smell might bother you at first, but if our regular house isn't good enough, you have no right to complain. And I don't want to hear one word about how shitty my heart house is. If you had given up a few more body parts I could have really decked it out, but noooo, not Nancy, it's fine to cut people up and use their body parts to build adobes as long as it's not her body parts. You can be a real selfish bitch, you know? Like when my friends and I are playing X-Box and you yell from the bedroom to turn the volume down, you have to get up for work in 2 hours. Nice, Nancy, real nice.
I'm sick of this bullshit. You know, I think I'll build you the heart house anyway. Why not? You already saved me the trouble by ripping my heart out for me. Might as well do something with it. But don't expect no mansion, you life-draining succubus. º Last Column: I Challenge You to a Race Around the Worldº more columns
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|  April 14, 2003
Omar Bricks: Modest as a MotherfuckerA 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...
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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. º Last Column: I Hate Old Moviesº more columns
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Milestones1812: Some kind of war of note happened, probably involving some big shot historical guys. People waved their dicks around and shouted, most likely.Now HiringBitchin' Ninja. Ass-kicking ninja needed for sword-swallowing, punching through solid rock, hiding underwater for days at a time, providing tactical superiority over other online news-magazines, cosmetics consultations, brick-laying, snowboarding out of airplanes, cooking delicious soufflés, cowering foes with a steely glare, and taxidermy. Mystical world-view a plus.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Better Living Through Buggery | | 2. | Tom & Jerry: A Reunion | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Best-Kept Secret Recipes | | 4. | Undercover Exposé: My Three Days as a White Blood Cell | | 5. | Critics' Corner: Books and Shit | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 9/6/2004 Booya, America. I'm not sure what that means, but it seemed appropriate. Whatever sentiment that expressed, you can file it in triplicate because Roland McShyster's in a good mood today. Good? Nay, agreeable! I've seen the proverbial bluebird of happiness and I ate him on my salad this morning. What better time to review some of Hollywood's finest handiwork, September-style? I don't know.
In Theaters Now:
Anacondors: The Hunt for the Blood Orchard
Leave it to Hollywood to make a big-budget fright flick of out of one of my doodles from seventh-grade art class. That's right, it was me, when I was twelve I drew the first half-snake, half-endangered bird hybrid to ever terrify a hot tub full of blonde cosmetics models. I don't have...
Booya, America. I'm not sure what that means, but it seemed appropriate. Whatever sentiment that expressed, you can file it in triplicate because Roland McShyster's in a good mood today. Good? Nay, agreeable! I've seen the proverbial bluebird of happiness and I ate him on my salad this morning. What better time to review some of Hollywood's finest handiwork, September-style? I don't know.
In Theaters Now:
Anacondors: The Hunt for the Blood Orchard
Leave it to Hollywood to make a big-budget fright flick of out of one of my doodles from seventh-grade art class. That's right, it was me, when I was twelve I drew the first half-snake, half-endangered bird hybrid to ever terrify a hot tub full of blonde cosmetics models. I don't have the slightest idea how Hollywood got its talons on my sketch, since I thought for sure my mom had thrown it out. The sad thing is I didn't even get a chance to complete the colored-pencil work, so those Tinseltown hacks had no choice but to fuck it up and make the wings purple, totally defeating the purpose of crossing an anaconda and a condor in the first place.
But how was the movie, you ask? Who asked that? I see you back there. Anyway, it was as good, and as bad, as could probably have been expected. The CGI on the Anacondor was a little weak in parts, and if you've spent a lot of time wondering what a half-snake, half-bird would sound like when it belched, you're going to be disappointed. But I did actually appreciate the movie's plot, about a ragtag gang of reality TV rejects searching for the mythical blood orchard, where once you go in, you don't come out. They never really covered why in the hell anyone would want to find that place, if it had delicious apples or what, but it still made for a pretty wicked tagline on the poster.
The Brown Bunny
Ugly-chic "smoking heroin off a toilet bowl" fashion model Vincent Gallo takes a bizarre tangent in his latest film, The Brown Bunny, Gallo's self-directed and harrowing portrait of the PETA-nightmare and ultraviolent cartoon staple Elmer Fudd. Though not the most obvious candidate to play Fudd on the big screen (I would have gone with either Ned Beatty or Chris Elliot), Gallo brings a edgy neediness to the picture that suits the character well.
Though the very idea seems absurd at first, and the out-of-focus and Blair Witch-like chaotic trailer doesn't help, a film delving into this dark territory seems obviously overdue in retrospect. After all, loveable and dim-witted as he may have seemed in the children's cartoons, who was this guy, really? What kind of sick bastard treks off into the woods to shoot rabbits in the face at point-blank range with a double-barreled shotgun? Did he run out of squirrels to napalm? Chainsaw broke down after he cut that last gopher in half? What kind of woodland beat-downs did this freak suffer as a kid? Leave it to Gallo to ask the question the rest of us were laughing too hard to ponder, to see the tears behind the amusing, murderous rage of this mysteriously befuddled hick.
Suspect Zero
Few things in life would be scarier than spending years on the trail of a serial killer, only to discover at the last moment that it's Billy Corgan from the Smashing Pumpkins. Holy shit. Talk about scary, that guy looks like what would happen if the dude from Midnight Oil got locked in a bakery overnight. And what if the lead investigator, an FBI hounddog with the nose of a man, turns out to be a huge Pumpkins fan? What does he do then? If Corgan's singing that godawful "Tonight, Tonight" song you shoot him, of course. But what if he isn't? Do you try to get an autograph, and then shoot him? What if he won't wait around long enough for you to run home and get your Pisces Iscariot mayonnaise poster? What if your garage band was scheduled to play in the big battle of the bands that night, and your guitar player just called in sick? What then? Definitely a cool set-up for a thriller, though I thought James Iha was badly miscast as James Iha.
Whew, America. That was a workout. I'm definitely feeling it in my pecs. Hope you are too, and be sure to get plenty of Vitamin B or something. Check back in a few weeks, I'll be the big hunk of hunk dishing out the movie reviews for your favorite Internet backwater, the commune. Until then!   |
