Bad Boy Congressman Can't Drive 55

e's brash, he's young, at least in comparison to some other congressman, and he's dangerous. Really dangerous. Seriously, he was recently charged with manslaughter in the death of another motorist. He's South Dakota Representative Bill Janklow, and he's emerging as one of a new breed of rebellious new legislators everyone's talking about.

Authorities charged Janklow Friday with second-degree manslaughter following an Aug. 16 accident when the congressional hellion ran a stop sign traveling at speeds in excess of 70 mph in a 55-mph zone. Whether Janklow was speeding to a hot-to-trot lobbyists' convention or fleeing a savage pack of political paparazzi could not be discerned at press time, but rumors abounded.

Janklow is one of a bold new wave of congressmen creating new political fads. In modern America, where the average fair-weather voter is stuck in the middle of the road and too overweight to drag himself out, Janklow and his posse all have their staunch far-wing opinions—just don't ask them what they are! In fact, Janklow has refused to even identify where he stands on major issues to his own constituency—preferring to sell them the new favorite platform of improved standards of living and honesty and integrity in representation, as long as they don't want details on how we get those things. But make no mistake, his voting record demonstrates he's a Republican—hardcore, motherfucker! Janklow may be the quiet, shy type, but he's not afraid to tow the party line when it comes to the voting floor.

The South Dakota legislator has earned the nickname among associates as "Bad Billy" for his spotty driving record, his pro-GOP voting record, and his hygiene. Consumer activist and delusional Green Party presidential candidate Ralph Nader sent a strongly-worded letter to Janklow requesting his resignation. The incident was described by Nader as "the taking of life by a driver relentlessly bent on turning his vehicle into a lawless, dangerous missile," the Unsafe at Any Speed author wrote in his trademark prose bursting with sensuality.

"Dangerous? Definitely. Boring? Never!" sassed Belfront Herb, responding to questions no one asked. The gossip columnist and Washington (D.C.) insider is also the editor and only contributor to the underground political scandal zine Filibuster, and they've made Janklow their "Hunk o' the Month."

"He's not all talk like those stodgy old senators, and he may not be on the popular committees, but he's hot stuff in the 108th!" claimed the girlish fop. "A lot of naysayers will tell you he's another blend-into-the-background representative, and all his misbehaviour is a failed attempt to stand out. But I'm telling you, and you heard it here from me first, Boomer—we've got another Ted Kennedy on our hands. A future Bob Dole or Jesse Helms. I would say one day the name Bill Janklow will hang in the Congressional Hall of Fame next to Henry Clay. But since they're all in alphabetical order that will really throw the whole scheme out of whack."

This reporter attempted to remind the funny-but-not-in-a-ha-ha-way Washington insider the congressman is facing felony charges with a 10-year minimum sentence, but he refused to address the issue. Unwanted sexual advances forced the interview to conclude early, and the calls at the commune offices have yet to stop.

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If you were paying any attention last column, and not just skimming for mentions of supermodel sex, you'll remember I started a story about building a new Bricksmobile and running down to Sears to get a floodlight for the garage, and how those cheap fuckers tried to con me into paying fifteen large for some kind of gold-plated adapter. Long story short, I remembered I already had an adapter at home, so I called their bluff and let them contemplate my bare ass on the way out the door.

I went home, dug up the adapter and with a little elbow grease I managed to get it to plug into the floodlight. Turned the whole shebang on and no light, but a weird humming noise and the place started to smell like a hair salon. I figured the adapter might have gone bad some time while I was using it to prop up the washing machine, so I unhooked it from the light and considered ways to test to see if the adapter was still good.

When I was a kid, Mom Bricks showed me a trick about how to tell if a battery was still good or not. This was back before they started putting those worthless little pretend power gauge stickers on batteries as part of a partnership with America's Funniest Home Videos, and even before they built that flimsy battery tester into the package.

Nope, back then when you found a AA rolling around back behind the refrigerator, you had to call up NASA and read tea leaves or some shit to find out if it was still any good. Sure, you could wipe off the corroded cat hair, pop it in your Walkman and just hope, but then when the tape started freaking out and playing at one quarter speed half-way through No Sleep Till Brooklyn you had no idea whether it was that battery or one of the seven others that was puttin' on the shits.

So, unless you wanted to get a summer job or something so you could replace all the batteries, you had to find some way to figure out which of the coppertops was riding bitch. Shaking them seemed like a good idea, but they didn't make any obvious half-empty rattling noises, plus since they were so small it was hard to be sure unless you shook your head the same way while you held the battery to your ear, and that just got confusing.

Likewise, tapping on them was no good, and tests to see if the empty ones rolled slower proved inconclusive. None of them floated, and if you cut one in half with bolt cutters it made a huge mess and you couldn't use it then anyway, even if it turned out to have plenty of juice left. That's when Mom Bricks stepped in and showed me that if you touch the end of the battery to your tongue, you get a little shock if it's still good. I later learned this works for other body parts too, though that's a story for another column.

Fast-forward to Saturday night, and what works for a battery should work for an adapter, right? Well, I touched the end of the adapter cord to my tongue and there's no nice way to say how fast the Omar Bricks weekend went to pot after that. I don't really want to talk about it.

Let's just suffice it to say that's the first time I've ever shit out anything that was on fire.

Bricks Out.

º Last Column: Let There Be Light
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At the risk of offending those of you in this world who were attempting to appease Omar Bricks this holiday season, I think it's safe to announce that this Christmas was a bona fide, Class A, Jesus Christ barfing into a French horn wipeout. No car, no immediate future promises of a car, and no surprise celebrity blowjobs to make up for the fact that I didn't get a car for Christmas. If you've ever been kicked in the nuts by a kangaroo, then you know the kind of pain I'm talking about here.

The week before Christmas I started to get the feeling the car thing wasn't going to happen when my cousin called to ask me what size kilt I wear. I told him I can squeeze into a size you'vegottabefuckingkiddingme, at which point he said something about how he'd have to eyeball it then and hung up. Bad omens rarely come so clearly or call collect.

I held out some hope until Christmas Eve, when I left the garage door unlocked in order to facilitate a magical car surprise Christmas morning for any interested parties who might want to sneak a Ferrari in there while I was sleeping. Not that I realistically expected anyone in my family to have that much class, but I figured maybe some drunk would pull up to my house by mistake and leave his keys in the ignition. Could happen. Of course, the down side is then I'd have some drunk sleeping in my garage while I was out Christmas joyriding, but I can't honestly say I'm sure there's not one in there somewhere already. So I figure I'd at least be breaking even on the deal.

Around 2am I thought I heard a would-be Santa out in the garage, but it turned out to just be a family of raccoons eating the paint off my lawnmower. I was tempted to chase the hungry little bastards off with a claw hammer, but since it was Christmas I decided to leave them be so they could go off somewhere to die in peace. I'm not sure how toxic the model paint was that I used to paint the flames on that lawnmower, but there was a picture of Jonestown on the back of the jar so I'm pretty sure that spelled bad news for any forest animals or neighborhood kids who've been teething on those tasty paint chips. All I know is Darwin didn't need to go all the way out to Galapagos to find this kind of natural selection in action.

I went back to sleep and dreamt that George Burns was there shitting sugarplums into my cereal bowl, only they weren't sugarplums. When I woke up it was Christmas morning, but not the kind where you come downstairs to find your heart's desire wrapped up under the tree. No miraculous car in the garage, not even some long-lost depressed relative who'd signed the title before wrapping the exhaust hose around into the driver-side window. No such Christmas magic for Omar Bricks this year.

So I did the rounds, got some socks and a juicer that blows right through socks like they were made out of tissue paper. Not bad. Somebody got me a beer mug that says "Fuck You!" that was pretty nice. Got a deworming kit for Foghat, though frankly I'm not sure if that's a nice precautionary gesture or a subtle hint that my dog has worms. Like I'm the only one who hasn't noticed and my dog's some kind of gnarly science exhibit, ruining family picnics and shit. I'm not even sure how you're supposed to check for that kind of thing, I guess I've always assumed it would be obvious. Like your dog wants to go fishing all the time or something.

Anyway, it was a pretty standard Christmas in the life of Bricks, nothing to be ashamed of. And refreshingly light on death threat Christmas cards this year, really. But I'd be lying if I said my Christmas spirit wasn't thrashing around at the bottom of a lake, wearing cement Reeboks right about now. All because of the Christmas wish too beautiful to come true. But I suppose it could be worse. I could be my neighbor Dale, I hear he's got some dead raccoons he can't find somewhere up in his crawl space that are making his entire house smell like Teddy Roosevelt's bunghole. Yuck.

Bricks out.

º Last Column: No Need to Check That List Twice
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