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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So I'm down by the movie theater the other day, showing some local kids how to play a game I invented called Pogs on Fire, and you wouldn't believe who I ran into. I won't even make you guess, it was Alvin Reggie. Okay, maybe you might believe it since you probably don't know who in the hell I'm talking about. He could be some guy I see every other day for all you know, so it might not sound all that strange to you. But trust me, it's plenty strange. Unless he was an extra in a crowd scene in some movie without me knowing it, it's pretty safe to say I haven't seen Alvin since the fourth grade.

So that made it strange, even beyond the fact of running into a dude named Alvin at all. Who's still named Alvin these days, anyway? I used to think that was a name specifically partitioned off by the federal government for use by singing chipmunks and the like, kind of like those 555 telephone numbers you see in the movies. Apparently not, which sucks big wet ostrich eggs for Alvin and other chipmunk-named sad sacks out there.

The situation was a bit uncomfortable, as it usually is when you run into someone you've been subconsciously avoiding for twenty years. It probably didn't help that I never liked Alvin at all when we were kids. That guy was so uptight I bet he wiped his ass with a toothpick. I'm not even sure why I hung out with that kid, but you do a lot of strange things when you're in grade school. I didn't like that Dennis the Menace cartoon either but I still watched the lame thing every day, just because it was on. So I guess I just hung out with Alvin because he was there. Sort of like the Mt. Everest excuse.

Up until the fourth grade, that is. That's when our so-called friendship hit the skids. Alvin has held this petty grudge ever since I told him that if he stuck a GoBot up his ass he'd acquire superpowers and robot strength. And the little eight year-old moron believed me! I'm not sure how the world court would view our situation, but I count that one as almost entirely his fault.

Grade school friendships aren't exactly forged of wrought iron; they're more like tinfoil rubber-cemented to a peanut butter cookie, so this little medical episode was enough to convince Alvin that Omar Bricks was bad news. All because the little wimp had to have a robotomy, which is medical jargon for having a GoBot surgically removed from your ass. Big whoop. Most people have to go through a lot more than that before they send Omar Bricks a "BITE MY DICK" candy on Valentine's Day. I guess Alvin was just sensitive.

So you can imagine this made for a tense meeting outside the movie theater. Alvin actually recognized me first, which was strange because I've always prided myself on looking different than I did when I was eight. But he said the flaming pogs in my hand were a dead give-away. Fair enough.

I asked him if people still made fun of him for having a first name last name and a gay chipmunk first name, but apparently he's some big shot "head of pediatrics" at a hospital somewhere so people only make fun of his name when he's not around. Unlike in grade school, where they made fun of his name while peeing on his ears. He told me the kids think Reggie is his first name, since they call him "Dr. Reggie" and kids are stupid. He didn't actually say the stupid part, but some things are self-evident. He seemed to think the name thing was somehow cool, so I didn't have the heart to tell him I almost threw up when he said that. I don't think there's a kid alive who would actually call this guy "Dr. Reggie" on purpose, if for no other reason than fear that if Reggie Jackson found out they'd get their ass kicked big-time for making Mr. October's name sound gay. Or Reggie Sanders, that guy's even bigger than Reggie Jackson and less prone to do comedy movies, so he might even be meaner.

Alvin and I caught up on old times, which took about twelve seconds since we never really liked each other and the only thing we ever had in common was that we both dug Mr. Heath bars. That's enough when you're a kid, though by the time you're an adult you figure out that some real assholes like Mr. Heath bars, too. So Alvin and I went our separate ways, him traipsing off to his "children's hospital" or whatever and me showing the kids which pogs are the best for soaking up lighter fluid without getting all soggy. Which is just as well. It might've been cool if he had thanked me for piquing his interest in medicine all those years back, maybe even diverted some of that mad pediatrician cash my way as a tribute. But he probably had other things on his mind, like when that pog caught his pants leg on fire.

Kind of funny how we both ended up working with kids though. Bricks out.

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Can you believe my neighbor Dale is moving away? Shocked the hell out of me, too. You can never see these things coming. One day, his house collapses into the earth in a mysterious freak geological event, and then the next thing you know, all of a sudden he's throwing in the towel and going to stay with his aunt in Seattle.

It's not like his house was unlivable. Sure, none of the stuff was where it used to be, and most of the rooms had been re-arranged, but there were still plenty of pockets of breathable air in that place. You give me some climbing gear and one of those foil space blankets and I could have made that place livable in ten minutes. It's a good think he didn't take me up on that boast, however, since what was left of the roof caved in last Wednesday and flattened what would have been my main living-cave. Nobody ever said spelunking was without its risks.

Then I get a notice that they're going to be coming over to bulldoze what's left of the place, so could I please get my camping gear out of there. Apparently the city got its tidy whities in a real quake over what would happen if some kids went in there to play and got trapped. I tell you, some people just have to invent things to worry about. I'd already made $300 bucks charging neighborhood kids admission to the "Nuclear Test House" and hadn't had a single problem. Except for that kid that got trapped when the upstairs bathroom fell into the downstairs bathroom, but I'm sure he crawled out of there okay. Kids can fit through any opening the size of their head or bigger. It's an adult like me who was really taking a risk going in there.

Nevertheless, they took my cash cow out behind the barn and shot it last week, knocking down the few remaining parts of Dale's house that the earth hadn't swallowed up already. And I'll answer the obvious question before you have to ask it: Yes, the wreckage site did make for an awesome BMX jump course, and I made another $500 off of that before they came and hauled all the debris away.

After that it was just an empty lot with a hole in it, and I was having a hard time figuring out how to turn a buck on that. That is, until I sat down and read a copy of The Giving Tree that one of those kids left behind in the shanty after some of the live swinging electrical cables scared him off. Talk about the perfect book at the perfect time. I had The Giving House sitting right there across my side-lawn, and I was almost too big a fool to take advantage of it. That's when I put up the signs for the skate park.

Turns out the "Bricks 'n Chikz" skate park was fairly short-lived, and not just because I didn't think of the fact that none of the skate park walls were really rounded, so kids just kept slamming into the basement walls and breaking their skateboards and faces and stuff whenever they tried to do any tricks. Nope, I had to tear down the wall murals and take out the cash register early just because some Einstein-o-Trump actually bought the crumbling hole in the ground and set up plans to build a new house there. I guess it's like they say, location means everything, and there's obviously a line of suckers a mile deep just itching for a chance to live next door to Omar Bricks.

But don't take this setback to mean that your old friend Omar has failed to learn the lesson of The Giving House. Far from it. As soon as they get some of the framing and electrical up, I'm going to be giving moonlight tours of the Bricks Building Museum and Gift Shop for ten bucks a head. I'll be goddamned if the kids in my neighborhood are going to grow up without any culture.

Bricks out.

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