enis knifing suspect Catherine Kieu Becker, a Southern California woman suspected of slicing off her husband’s penis with a knife and throwing it into the… oh God, I’m gonna be sick. Jesus Christ, she really threw it in the garbage disposal? That’s fucking horrible. Anyway, sorry, I’m better now. Catherine Kieu Becker was released from prison this week in hopes that the dismissal of her case will be the last time anyone in America has to hear the phrase "penis knifing" ever again, or the gory details of just how utterly knifed Becker’s husband’s penis truly was.

"We thought this would be best for everyone," Orange County Superior Court Judge Roy Hanson explained, wincing as he crossed his legs in an unconscious cringing reaction to the very concept of having his penis knifed.

The 48 year-old Becker had been charged with torture and aggravated mayhem after she allegedly drugged her 51-year-old husband’s tofu soup dinner, then tied his arms and legs to their bed frame, pulled down his pants and—I’m sorry, but this is what happened—slowly worked her way through his penis with a dull paring knife, pausing several times to saw through particularly tough cock sinews and to dig at uncooperative bits with a rusty spoon. After finally freeing the penis from its host, Becker allegedly carried it into the kitchen, where she tossed it into the garbage disposal and, wait for it, turned the disposal on. Guys, trust me, try not to imagine what that sounded like.

When officers reported to the scene, they found the victim "bleeding profusely" from the groin (sorry, non-ladies, I know it’s a painful image) and in-between spells of retching, managed to fish pieces of the victim’s penis out of the garbage disposal and transport them with the victim in a sandwich bag to the University of California at Irvine Medical Center, where an emergency cocktoplasty was performed. According to unaccredited medical texts, a coctoplasty involves fitting all of the remaining hunks of a penis into a penis-shaped mold, pouring in roofing caulk and honey, and baking for one hour at 375 degrees.

"At first we weren’t sure what was hunks of penis and what was hunks of pot pie that someone had thrown in the garbage disposal earlier that day," explained responding officer Lt. Randy Fletch. "There were some chunks and stringy bits I was sure were pork or tofu or something, but I showed ’em to Dan (fellow officer Daniel Strobridge) and he smelled ’em and was like Nah dude, that’s cock and I was like Yeah, I guess that does kind of look like cock. Anyway, I’m sorry these are horribly disgusting quotes."

Early reports indicated that the penis knifing was inspired by an argument over—God, does it even matter? Is there anything that can ever really justify a penis knifing? the commune news thinks not.

Judge Hanson is on record as having decided to dismiss the case after half of the jury pool passed out during meetings with the prosecution. According to reports, nine of the ten fainting jurors were men, and the other was a big, strapping lass with a deep voice like RuPaul.

"It’s time for America to move on from this penis knifing case," Judge Hanson explained. "And from all future penis knifing cases. I’m serious, we don’t want to hear about ’em. Work that shit out on your own, I don’t want it in my courtroom. If I ever hear the words ’penis knifing’ again, no matter when, it will be too soon for me to hear the words ’penis knifing’ again. Oh God, why can’t I stop saying ’penis knifing’?"

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Here's something that'll get you thinking, talk about a "Mr Rogers was a sniper in 'Nam"-level surprise. Thanks to commune editor's-brother Gay Bagel's mandate that we boost commune readership and revenue up from absolute zero Kelvin in 2004, it's been officially mandated by the powers obese that I quit writing about my epic saga to get a goddamned car. Apparently Bagay (as I like to call him in print and roadside graffiti) thinks my column may be alienating readers who are too rich to ever have to worry about not having a car, and if they don't read the site we can't siphon their accounts dry of funds electronically while they surf.

I don't know the details, if that's just advertising lingo or if we're actually hoovering out bank notes over the telephone line while those poor rich saps try to figure out what in the hell Boris Utzov is talking about or what. But either way Bagay thinks we've catered to the Salisbury steak set too much in the past, when we should be writing for dudes who order off the menu at Taco Bell and use silver spoons to eat their civet cat pudding.

Normally I'd have my ass chapped by the man giving my creative freedom a titty-twister like that, but from what I hear most of the staff received similar warnings. From the mandate that Lil Duncan start banging celebrity scumbags instead of her usual unknown variety, to the new "no accepting collect calls from international jails" rule (AKA the Ivan Nacutchacokov Accord), everyone around here is feeling the pinch. Except of course for Rok Finger, who got a slightly different haircut and left town, Truman Prudy, who makes appearances here like he was Haley's comet, and the aforementioned Boris Utzov, who from last word was riding bitch on a Harley somewhere in the Dakotas. Or, for that matter, Stu Umbrage, who's writing a gripe calendar in New Mexico, or Sampson L. Hartwig, who's either dead or a big fan of Harry Houdini. Come to think of it, where in the hell is everybody? This place is starting to look like Stuart Anderson's on Mad Cow night. What am I still doing here?

Anyway, the upshot of the whole censorship deal is that I'm getting a "company car," by which they mean Red Bagel's old Camry that he won't drive anymore because he thinks it's bugged. Which I guess is a problem if you're Red Bagel and you say embarrassing shit all the time, but what do I care? The old Bricksmobile had a megaphone for karaoke purposes; this'l be like having my own radio station. Plus since it is Red Bagel we're talking about here, odds are they're not even listening-device-type bugs, the car's probably infested with robotic insects or some shit as a little "fuck you" from the CIA or the Shriners.

All in all it's an uncharacteristically sweet deal for a commune employee, I would have been less surprised to get a post-it note on my desk saying that I AM the new company car. Now I guess Bagel and I are even from the time he ate my carrier pigeon.

Not that I'm getting carried away or anything, after all, it is a Camry. Not exactly a street-illegal funnycar or anything bitchin' like that. And Bagel didn't exactly take care of it after he uncovered the SUV conspiracy and bought himself that armored duck tours truck he drives around town. As a matter of fact, Gay pulled the thing out of a line-up of "bugged" cars Red planned on monster trucking over, replacing it with Raoul Dunkin's Tercel so his brother wouldn't notice. But I don't give a shit about any of that. It's got four wheels and it rolls both downhill and up, so Omar Bricks is calling it a car. Plus I've already replaced the Camry nameplate with one I pried off a Jaguar at the airport, so the stupid 90% of the world already thinks I drive a Jag. The right seat covers and a press-on spoiler should fool the rest.

Bricks out.

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Now every person loves Christmas,
Near every last one.
'cept the Kaiser of course
who don't like it none.

The Kaiser don't like it,
no more than a sliver.
He hates it like taxes,
or a boiled smelly liver.
He thinks it's the worst thing
he's seen in some time.
He hates it like beechnuts,
or poetry that rhymes.

Nobody's quite sure when he started his hating,
Not least his mother, nor the waitress he's dating.
Some think that his conscience was ate by a frog,
Or that a starved reindeer bit off his Yule log.
Some think it's that Christmas he got locked in a Hooters,
Or as a small boy that his pooter got neutered.

But whatever it was, his life or his genes,
Around Christmas he grew to be frightfully mean.
He'd sneak into toy stores and stomp on the toy trains
All dressed as Santa, just to mess with the brains
Of the children who stood there and hoped all the while
That he'd stay away from the Nintendo isle.

But the Kaiser grew bored of his old Christmas tricks
And he even got tired of heaving those bricks
At the Christmas parade, or his rumor that festered
That old Santa Claus was a child molester.

One year he decided it was time for his coup,
For he'd pulled all his pranks and had nothing to do.
He'd fed chili to all of the reindeer at the zoo,
And he'd tracked down Burl Ives and had painted him blue.
So he dreamt up a plan on the 12th of December,
The final grand prank for which he'd be remembered.
This was a dastardly, devious idea so smelly
It seeped out his ears like a shiny black jelly.

The Kaiser sent Santa a gift in the mail.
The address? He'd questioned a snail in the hail,
And checked with a quail that had eaten a whale,
Who said it was current and would work without fail.

The gift got to Santa, who was quite surprised,
When he opened it and could not believe his own eyes.
It was a gift like no other, of which Santa had dreamed:
A watch with a Global Positioning Beam.
But the Kaiser knew something, that no-account jerk,
The Kaiser knew that those things never quite work.

So when Santa took off on that Christmas Eve night,
With that watch on his wrist, all was not right.
And before very long it became quite apparent
That Santa's directions had become quite aberrant.

The land looked like Russia, but the watch told him Greece,
Though the farmers were wrapped up in parkas, not fleece.
Then the watch changed its mind and it said Gall,
Then it said the mountains just north of Nepal.
Then it was England, and then worst of all,
It said he's on Rice St. somewhere in St Paul.

Meanwhile, the Kaiser's eyes glowed with elation
Santa Claus getting directions from a gas station!
He'd never make it, Christmas was over!
The Kaiser smiled and he kissed his lucky clover.

The Kaiser then drifted into a dark sleep,
And dreamt of cod liver oil and black sheep.
He slept like a stone, with hardly a wiggle,
Except for the occasional evil dream giggle.

And when he awoke, he sprung from the bed
With visions of No Christmas ripe in his head
But from his window, quite to his dismay,
He saw tiny foot prints, and tracks from a sleigh.

The Kaiser spun round and gasping, quite shocked,
He found his small bedroom to be quite well stocked
With presents and candy. He yelled "What a crock!"
When he peeked in his stocking and found a large rock.

And above his stocking there hung a small note
That Santa had left there, and on it he wrote:
"For the new watch I'm thankful, my merry old chap.
Thanks just the same but I'll stick with my map."

The Kaiser, defeated, threw a tantrum right there
He spit in his spittoon and pulled out his hair,
He tossed his tree out the window and his rocking chair
Came rocking and tumbling right on down the stairs.

And then something happened that seemed strange to me,
His heart swelled and grew to it's own size times three.
And the Kaiser was rushed to the hospital of course,
As that heart's too big, unless you're a horse.

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