Poll Shows Americans Willing to Relinquish Rights

recent poll has shown that, in the wake of the September 11 flight attendant's brunch gone bad, a vast majority of Americans would be willing to give up many of their Constitutional rights for a guarantee of some measure of safety and security and the chance to "sleep one full night without worrying about some goat-herder's son with bad breath slamming a loaded passenger jet into my apartment building," as one anonymous respondent put it.

Apparently, many citizens feel that a strong police state and the complete suspension of the Bill of Rights is the only way to keep terrorist activity from destroying our precious way of life. Among the rights that people polled would willingly give up are the right to privacy in their homes and persons, the right to avoid wiretaps and other electronic eavesdropping, and the right to be free from unreasonable search and seizure. There was initially some debate on the issue of whether Americans would give up the right to "supersize" their fast-food meals, but that has been tabled at the present time.

Said respondent Connie Bologna, who identified herself as a professional escort for generous gentlemen, "I'd be happy to have about five or six strapping young law enforcement officers handcuff me spread-eagle to an iron cot and give me a full body-cavity search with their nightsticks or batons or billy clubs or whatever you call them. Absolutely. If it helps stop these terroristical attacks, I'm all for it. Where do I sign up?"

Another poll respondent, diva Ladyboy Smacky, commented, "You mean let the police get their hands all up in my stuff? Honey, that happens anyway. But if it means saving our country, well, just let me get my lube first. And fix my makeup, mm-hmm."

Added Bologna, "Oh, yeah, uh huh, honey, I heard the hell out of that!"

The poll was conducted at the Motherlode Bar on Post Street in San Francisco, and has a five percent margin for error, considering that tired queen Charlene and her boyfriend Ray participated, and everyone knows they lie about everything and never answer a question seriously. When it was suggested that the patrons of the Lush Lounge across the street also be polled, Ms. Smacky sniffed, "Who cares what those bitches think? Honey, I'd have to go find a rat just to give a rat's ass."

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Sorry, sorry, sorry. Seems like everybody's sorry for something these days. Sorry for having the same exact car as me and parking it in the same supermarket parking lot. Sorry for having the stun gun set so high. Sorry for naming their gay bar "The Crank Shaft," even though that sounds an awful lot like a bike shop to anyone who doesn't have a copy of the latest gay code handbook. "Sorry for breathing audibly while you were trying to urinate, Mr. Bricks. Thank you for pissing in the pocket of my good dress pants to show me the error of my ways."

Seems like we've got quite a lot of sorry sons of bitches in the world these days. If they're not sorry for mowing over the donuts I left out to cool on the lawn, they're sorry for misleadingly naming the town Hempstead despite their almost total lack of interest in hemp products. "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't ride your bike on the escalator." The hell I can't! Did you see that wheelie?

And a lot of good it all does me. Why don't you shit out an apology onto a ten-dollar bill for me then, if you're so sorry? At least then I could put it toward a new go-cart to replace the one that was destroyed when you put up that new fence in your back yard without telling me. You could have at least painted it white or some color that shows up better in the moonlight.

But no, as usual, this world is all talk and no action. As if an apology is going to resurrect my streak of consecutive blocks driven without touching the brake pedal. And to be gut-wrenchingly honest, sometimes I doubt the sincerity of some of these apologies, or at least the degree to which they're heartfelt. Was that guy really sorry that his wife gave birth while I was trying to enjoy my McMuffin? I wonder. And I think I might have detected a hint of sarcasm coming from that blind lady when she apologized for blocking my view of that new Victoria's Secret billboard downtown. I don't know where she got off, it's not like I force-fed her all the cream cheese bagels that made her ass so freakin' big as to obscure a billboard. And I can't have been the first person to point that out to her.

I've been thinking about it, and I think I'm going to get myself a donation jar, like all the hard-luck cases and fast food restaurants have. Now put down your lawn darts folks, I'm not saying I'm going to go in and lift one that's full of dimes for cystic fibrosis or anything terrible like that. I'm going to buy one. Probably. I might have to ask some of these people where they shop at when their beggin' jar gets worn out, if there's some store tucked away somewhere I haven't bothered to look. And if there's more than one, then which one is the high-end jar store, since I want a pretty swanky jar so that nobody will confuse Omar Bricks with a common bum or street freak.

Once I get the right jar, then we'll see who's really sorry and who can put their money where their mouth is. If somebody's really sorry, they can hit me up with a ten spot or whatever they're comfortable with and I'm compensated. Bingo. If they're not, and they're really just being sarcastic, well then they're not very likely to pony up for the "Sorry Jar" since that's a level of extreme sarcasm you don't find too often in this country. You have to fly over to England for that kind of shit. Either way I win, in some manner of speaking.

So anyway, yeah, that's it. Sorry the column wasn't funnier. Ha, bet you wish you had a jar now, eh? Bricks out.

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It's another day on the bunny trail. Let's hop this motherfucker onward.

Have you listened to this new grunge music? It's all the rage. It's more real than heavy metal, because these kids are singing about the real pain they are in. It mixes together the noise of punk with the melody of pop. And it commercializes fantastic.

For my money, if you're going to buy a melting cheese, Velveeta is the only choice. There may be others, but I don't care enough to do any research about it.

Has anyone ever thought about how to make peace between the Muslims and the Israelites? Am I the first to think of it?

If there's one thing I'm famous for, it's my colossal temper. I get angry two, even up to three times a year, and can say quite ornery things. Of course, all this is moot, since I'm famous for nothing. But if I were, that would be it.

There is some brand of lunchmeat that makes all the pain of the world go away. I can never remember the name. I want to say Hormel, but that may have just been something I saw on the shelf. A shame. Good lunchmeat.

I have played pool before, believe it or not, and cracked a ball. It's a shame, because I would have won that game, had it not been for my injury.

Have you ever worn contacts? I never have. I tell you now, if they make your eyes bleed tears, I will never wear them. I will not be convinced otherwise of this.

Just a minute—I have left my car running outside. Wait—too late. It hit a telephone pole. I must remember to put the car in park.

Do you believe all these Russian women that want to come to America? They contact American men by email and even marry some of them, just to get a plane flight to the U.S. And yet, they all refuse to talk to me. This is why they lost the cold war. Their standards are way too high.

If I were to receive a prominent role in a Hollywood blockbuster, I would be quite surprised. Not as surprised as the rest of the world, I'm sure.

Mexican food—where's that from again? I want to say Mexico, but that sounds too easy.

Hold on—my car's being towed. That's really quite unnecessary. The telephone pole stopped it well enough.

I wrote to another major market magazine about my attempted UFO abduction, but they have also rejected me. What is so hard to believe about a man fighting off a crew of extra-terrestrials, crashing a UFO into the sea, and swimming the hundred and fifty-mile distance back to shore? I have pictures, but they are foggy.

It turns out Napoleon was quite a short man. Stop me if this sounds crazy—I reason that his diminutive posture is responsible for his mad dash to take over the world. Yes, it may sound a little crazy, but just consider it for a while.

I have never had an out-of-body experience, but I have been caught naked on the neighbor's lawn quite a few times. And I don't plan on stopping. Do you hear me, country sheriff? You don't scare me.

It's my car! Look out!

Sorry. Apparently the tow truck failed to hook it up correctly to the tow bar. On the bright side, the car is now in my living room, so they can't take it away without a warrant. I watch TV.

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