Over 200 Heretics Arrested in New York City Protest

arring factions in the corporeal world clashed Thursday as police arrested 215 blasphemers expressing anti-American sentiments. More than 150 were hosting a "die-in" where they laid down in the street and did a poor impression of dead Iraqi civilians and U.S. troops, while the mathematical remainder of those 215 were melodramatically hosting a funeral procession. All of it was quite a disgusting site to those who like their country, as well as those who found their caricature of the dead highly offensive.

The incident was one of many that seemed to accelerate since the start of the war, the whateverth of March, 2003. Despite support of biblical proportions from the American public that accompanies the inception of every war, small cells of protestors have continued heresy in cities around the country. Over 200,000 deviants have been arrested everywhere from San Francisco to New York City, though primarily San Francisco, for their refusal to accept the edicts handed down by the administration.

"Protesting before the war was one thing. But now that it has started, it's important to get behind our president and give up their own opinions for the sake of showing the world a unified front," said this reporter. "Back in my day, it was more important to believe your president was doing the right thing than to risk possibly thinking he might not have a clue what he was doing."

Across the country, other groups of pro-Bush protestors protested the protestors protesting the Iraq War. As obligatorily mentioned in every article on anti-war sentiment, protestors of administration actions have been met with equally vehement gatherings rallying to support U.S. involvement in Iraq.

"I just think that the president wouldn't go to war if there wasn't a good reason," said stay-at-home mom twelve-year-old Becky Surrey of Burkutt, Missouri. "That's the kind of thing Saddam Hussein would do. You've heard he gasses his own people, right?"

Demonstrators holding signs saying, "Iraq needs a regime change!" and "Support the troops!" as well as other Bush administration sound bytes, have turned out in, let's just say, record numbers to counter the sacrilege.

"If they love Iraq so much, why don't they move over there and live there and protest?" said Hoyt, Arizona truck loader Darryl Gavin. "Because they'd get killed there. They're lucky to live in a country where they can say whatever they want. So they should shut-up and support the war like the rest of us."

The White House, rather than allowing war efforts to be distracted with arguments, has wisely chosen to ignore protestors in the U.S. and the millions worldwide. Others, however, are quick to step up to the administration's defense.

"The Bush administration has strong evidence Iraq has weapons of mass destruction, and it's a shame that so many Americans are so mistrustful that they demand to see such evidence," said White House publicist Fox News in a released statement. "Everyone is allowed the right to their opinion, but they're wrong."

"Independent" news agency CNN expressed a different view.

"The main thing the United States needs right now is a clear, objective report on the war's impact, both here and abroad," said a broad, some pretty anchor thing. "There are two sides to every story, and it's CNN's responsibility to report that. Are people still protesting the war because they're radicals who hate everything the United States does, or are they simply uninformed? It's important to maintain that balanced perspective."

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Well, well, well, if it isn't Boguslaw Sadowski—actually, it is. Or someone who looks incredibly like him.

That's correct, good people, my old nemesis, 40 years my junior, has returned: Boguslaw Sadowski. Also known as "the mad Russian," when he gets extremely pissed off. He may not actually be Russian, but I'm not here to argue semites. All I know is he's my arch-enemy and the stakes in this game of me vs. the mob are raised considerably.

You may remember Boguslaw Sadowski posed as a woman on the internet and tricked me into paying for his flight over here from Eurasia—at least you might remember it if it happened to you. He broke my heart that day. I was all set to meet the most unconventionally beautiful woman of my life and make her my bride, only to find out I had been conned by one of the best. Sure, things work out for the better in the long run, and I met my darling Felchyana, which brings me to my current mixed-up with the mob existence. So maybe things work out for the best only to backslide into the territory of terminally fucked up once again.

But I'm rambling, which is unlike me. What's important is that although ostensibly nothing has changed, things have changed considerably. In addition to trying to find a way out of new mob family and still keep my new wife, I now have my latest worst enemy breathing down my neck.

Boguslaw is unattractive—large and burly, a pock-marked face, iron jaw, slick jet-black hair parted down the middle and a nose worn away by years of fisticuffs. The same features I found so attractive when I thought him a woman are now reprehensible and threatening. He is what the ancient Greeks meant when they coined the phrase, "a man not to be fucked with."

I wish I had that luxury. And a speedboat. But time is slippin' into the future and I'm running short on ideas. As if things weren't bad enough, now in addition to finding a way to take out Yogi and the rest of the ambiguously Russian mafia, I must contend with the world's most intimidating 5-foot noseless mobster.

I sought out Omar Bricks' advice, being something of a young ruffian himself, and I believe what he said was quite true: "A man can only be pushed so far until he explodes like a mailbox full of gunpowder." That wasn't so much his advice to me on the situation as it was a warning of what would happen if I kept bothering him for advice. But it's as true in our time as it was in his, yesterday afternoon just before happy hour.

It's clear I will have to act, and with extreme prejudice and racial epithets. But like a thick scab, I must pick my moment. Camembert is already on board, and has guaranteed he will "fight like a crazed rabbit if you drag me into this." Whether he was directing the fighting at me or our common enemy, I'm not sure, but when push comes to shove, Camembert will roll in on my side, if I push him in that direction.

My current thought is to make allies with the, let's say, "Russian" mafia while awaiting Lee's return. When Lee comes back, with his kung-fu grip and sizzling bass lines, I will finally have the backup I need to challenge Yogi for leadership of the mob. Not that I necessarily want to be a mob leader, but I've heard stories like this before—hearty and sincere white people forcing their way into gangs, taking them over, and using them as a tool for good. And if I had a Coolio song to back me up, I could even make it into a box office hit. But first thing's first.

Step one: Bide my time. Step two: Gather a bad-ass army. Step three: Challenge for leadership of the tribe. Step four: Make a hit motion picture with a best-selling soundtrack. Step five: Stop telling all my secret plans in my nationally web-published column. But that's a consideration for a more peaceful time.

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Don't even start with the nonsense about this all being Omar Bricks' fault. Because I won't stand, sit, or recline for it.

In case you've been living on Planet Asshole in the Out-of-Touch Nebula for the last month, you probably noticed that the commune's been running third-string filler for the last month. And maybe you're the curious kind of son of a bitch who wondered why. Good for you, kissass.

First, the facts: No one is sure how all those weasels got into the commune's offices, where they came from, or what they were eating in there for a month, besides Ivana Folger-Balzac's expired birth control pills and possibly Gay Bagel. But whatever the reason, the last month at the commune has been like some insane cross between War of the Worlds and Gremlins. I also want to throw Cheech and Chong's Up in Smoke into the mix, for no other reason than that I really like that movie.

Having 1,200 weasels suddenly descend upon the office at 7:15 one morning did surprisingly little to interrupt business at usual at the commune for the first few days. We just had to turn up the talk radio a little louder to hear over the sounds of all those weasels fucking and killing each other. But then the rapidly-reproducing weasel population spread to our downstairs neighbors Crochet! magazine through the heating ducts and those candyasses had to learn how to use a flamethrower, which threatened to throw off the balance of the commune-Crochet! arms race, so Bagel decided to call in an exterminator, a safari guide and an exorcist to handle the problem.

This somehow gave the exterminator the wrong idea, since he joined forces with the weasels and killed both the safari guide and the exorcist before being double-crossed by those devious weasels, who were then all the more dangerous for being armed with chemicals and mousetraps.

Naturally, once the shit had completely hit the fan, they called on Omar Bricks to solve the problem. Or, more accurately, we all got locked out of the building after the weasels declared it an independent state and I had to call home for Foghat to come bail us all out, because I had left my car keys in my pants pocket up in my office and there was no fuckin' way I was walking all the way home.

Twenty minutes later Foghat showed up wearing his favorite trucker hat, went upstairs, and took a shit so nasty the weasels cleared out like an afterbar party when Truman Capote shows up, or at least the ones did that didn't turn to stone instantly upon contact with that toxic dog-funk.

But then it turned out we'd only traded one problem for another, since after Foghat dropped the ass fantastic nobody could figure out how to get that Chernobyl crap out of the office without sacrificing anyone smart enough to operate the elevator. Finally Bagel called the police, but the bomb squad refused to go in, so they had to send in their remote-controlled bomb robot, which kept rebooting every time it got within twelve feet of that epic turd.

Eventually they just decided to set the building on fire, or else that may have been the result of one of the flaming arrows I'd been shooting in the windows in hopes of taking out Ramrod Hurley or some other weasel, I'm not sure which it was. But the building definitely caught on fire and through some weird alchemy Foghat's ass-baby turned into a gnarly, turd-shaped cubic zirconium, which I'm now using as a paperweight on my desk.

commune fans or PETA freaks might remember a similar incident three years ago, when the commune offices were overrun by a staff of monkeys hired by Red Bagel to help the commune appeal to a more upscale readership. Similarities to that incident aside, this was definitely the worst time the commune has been overrun by small animals. Except of course for the great bass attack of 2003, but that goes without saying. Bricks out.

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