report released Friday disclosed that savage viruses that shred most human flesh and destroy normal mortal bodies will not even mess with people on American soil. The study, researched at Bolchek University in Ames, Iowa, and financed by the American Family First organization, had been going on for more than five weeks when it made its findings public in Friday's press release.

The news comes as a great relief to weary earth-dwellers in the United States, as word came of a deadly Ebola-like virus continuing its rampage through Angola, some country most Americans aren't familiar with in Africa. The World Health Organization (WHO, sometimes known as the Teenage Wasteland Group) announced shortly before the Bolchek press release that 173 people in Angola have died from the virus known as Marburg, and four more non-U.S. countries have been placed on the warning list.

News media assured American citizens the country will be alright, since they have something of a track record for surviving problems without U.S. intervention, and have even survived some caused by them.

The Bolchek study findings, however, provided a large relief from worry about viral invasions by other dangerous contagions such as Marberg and Ebola, including CCHF, Dengue, SARS, Lassa fever, and the Kinks. According to research, done in Bolchek's famous $3 million Sid Caesar Facility, virus cells, when given the choice between healthy cells of different nationalities, will always shy away from American DNA.

"It's totally awesome," said project head, 18-year-old super-genius Nills Van Raftan. "We stumbled on it a bit by accident. We were testing the effect of Ebola on the blood cells of African mice—since we wanted to save the American mice for better experiments—when one of the team members had a nosebleed and accidentally contaminated the sample. Imagine our surprise when we saw the Ebola contagions were scared shitless of messing with the American cells. And who can blame 'em?"

If the results are verified, and frankly nobody's doubting the outcome of a second test much, it answers a great number of questions for the world's nerdy virus-following community. Such as why have SARS and Mad Cow and other disease variants been too chickenshit to mess with the U.S. of A.?

"For any number of reasons," posited spindly weakling Van Raftan, "virus cells simply will not infect American cells, at least those of the United States. It could be because U.S. cells don't brook backtalk from foreign viruses. But, if my personification of American cells is way off, it might also be because viruses know that if they mess with American cells, they're risking a massive investment of money in destroying their asses. They can work their way through Africa, Asia, and even Eastern Europe for years, and we'll leave them alone—but first time they start infecting Americans on American soil, they're on our list. Companies even drop all the new dick pill technology they're working on and concentrate on the hot new market for pharmaceuticals to keep Americans healthier than foreigners."

When asked about AIDS, a virus long plaguing even American citizens, Van Raftan made a squeal, smiled sheepishly with his braces on display, and shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe some viruses are retarded. But it does give us something to work on when we get frustrated with erection research."

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That's the fact, jack. Given my recent falling out with Camembert and Lee's eternally-disappeared status as of late, I decided it's better to have my pride than a roof over my head. And if I can have neither, what with the extreme damage I did to the roof with my New Year's Eve fireworks show and my complete shame at being me, I'll at least not live under the roof with a card-carrying communist like Camembert. Actually, the card said Brown County Public Library, but if the free loaning of books to disabled people isn't an early sign of communism, I don't know what is.

"But Rok," you ignorantly begin, "if you're so anti-communist, why do you work for a place called the commune (lowercase intentional)?"

Christ, I never thought about it before. You confound me, wise imaginary talking-aloud reader. Oh, that's right, I have thought about it before. The rationale I came to was that I am the voice of dissent for this politically peculiar powwow of pundits. Any fool can see, as I easily do, that the commune is not strictly communist, though that Bludney Plud always seems to be going through everybody's desk like he believes in state ownership, him being the state. In practice the commune is merely a source of left-wing propaganda and seldom-reported news and fun conspiracy theories. What role does a mook like me have in a place like this? Simple. I provide the voice of the counter-culture, which is to say the Establishment, which is counter to this counter-culture, which makes me counter-culture here.

What happened? Oh, yes, I was discussing being homeless. I certainly know what those without homes are complaining about now. It is quite a scary experience for a guy like me, short, unattractive, but unquestioningly sexually alluring, to be out amongst the dregs of society without any walls separating them from me. Not to mention the experience of being pelted by water when it rains—or worse, when it doesn't.

Things are more difficult than in the past, the other times I've been unceremoniously thrown out of wherever I was living. Acting-Asshole Ramrod Hurley has instituted a ridiculous new policy of locking the doors when everyone leaves at night, so now I can't sleep in my desk anymore. I'm really, honest-to-God out on the streets again. For the first time.

Now, I'm a huge fan of Dickens like every other ancient person. But like railroad work, homelessness is only fun for spectators, not for participants. The sooner I can get into a place for living, a what do you call it, house or apartment, the better. Much like prison, I'm too delicate to survive on the streets. I would never consider something drastic like, say, prostitution, but I have been considering it lately. Still, I don't think it will come to that. No one in the world is mentally ill enough to pay me for sex.

I have asked Ramrod Hurley for an advance on my next paycheck, which is to say I've told him I need to be paid with money instead of Raleigh cigarette coupons from now on. When I have enough in the bank, the bank being my ragged slacks pockets, I will find an apartment and begin living there. It will be nice to be out on my own, inside again. No one but the desperately poor should be forced to live like this.

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You've probably heard a lot of talk lately about how I "caused" the recent commune server crash by trying to hook up the giant electric Tyrannosaurus Rex I bought off eBay from those disgruntled Universal Studios chumps to the commune power grid. No doubt these accusations stem from the fact that I once traded the original www.thecommune.com domain name to a couple of burnouts at a Phish show for a bag of mushrooms. Once guilty, twice shit as the saying goes.

But before you get your tits in a twist deciding I'm guilty before innocent and all that, pigeonholing Omar Bricks as a fan of jam bands, let it be known I didn't know we were going to the concert. I thought we were just going over to Danny's house to hang out, and the next thing I know we're all at the arena. And once you're at the place you pretty much have to roll with shit and go to the concert, unless you want to hang out with all the guys selling patchwork pants and homemade burritos in the parking lot for three hours. All things considered, that was about on an even suck level with actually going to the concert, but I figured at least they don't let dogs inside. The last thing I need is some guy's stoned golden retriever staring me down all night and giving me the creeps. Truth be told, I've never been real good at going long periods of time without blinking.

So we get our asses inside, and the suck is already in full swing because Johnshark made us late haggling over the price of a hemp candle he thought we could smoke in the bathroom once we got inside. I make a beeline for the beer tent, naturally, but when I turn around, Johnshark and Danny are just gone. Turns out the guys I was walking next to on the way to the beer tent were just these two bizarro alternate-universe Johnshark and Dannys, two guys who kind of looked like them through the dry ice and other assorted smokes, but in reality they didn't know a Johnshark from a Assshark.

Now I'm rolling solo through jam band hell, stuck listening to the five-hour version of "Wolfman's Brother" without conversational distraction or Danny inevitably getting naked and trying to crowd surf. So out of desperation I strike up a conversation with the only two hippie dipshits I can find who aren't clog dancing, and before I'm sure what's what I've sold them the commune's domain name for a ziplock bag full of hopefully-psychedelic mushrooms. Judge if you must, but it was so loud in there, I don't think you would've done any better.

The way I figured it, nobody can really "own" a name, that's just some legal bullshit mumbo jumbo, so it was like I was getting the shrooms basically for free. I remember something about the Indians using the same argument after they traded away New York for a pooka necklace and things seem to have worked out okay for them. Not so for Omar Bricks, however. There must be some kind of special Indians-only law on that one, like how they can legally snort heroin or give peyote to little kids because hey fuck you, I'm an Indian. And there's some kind of Indian-giving clause to that where they can scotch a deal because the great sky spirit says land belongs to all God's creatures, something all Shirley McLaine like that.

Whatever the actual law is, turns out it doesn't mean shit if you're no part Indian, and that means I got screwed on the whole thecommune.com domain deal. Not that the mushrooms were bad, they were alright, but I got sick on my landlady's dog later that night, and the eviction crew didn't give two shits about what the great sky spirit had to say about Omar Bricks having all his shit thrown out on the lawn at four in the morning.

Thankfully in the end nobody was hurt. Except Raoul Dunkin, who Red Bagel hit with a portable toilet after he got the news, but whatever. I don't know if he thought the domain debacle was Dunkin's fault, or if Bagel just hit him with that chemical toilet because he didn't like him. Either is entirely plausible. But life went on at communeonline.com, and we were all a little bit wiser about Indian laws after that day.

As for who blew up communeonline.com, beats the shit out of me. But if you ask me, Raoul Dunkin has been wearing a snazzy new hat that I find pretty suspicious. Draw your own convictions from that, Sherlock. Bricks out.

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