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Local Crackpot Lobbies For Unisex RestroomsApril 25, 2001 |
New Orleans, LA Shakie Stairs Abenheimer Sludd galvanizes passersby
"The time has come for America to lead the Europeans out of the dark ages of puritanical shithouse politics," said Sludd, wiping his brow with a rubber snake.
"In an age where your neighbor in the next stall over could be..." Sludd paused as a crow worked its way out of his coat pocket and flew away. "Anyone from Maryann Manson to Hillary Rodman Clint...
owing to take his crusade all the way to the Michigan Militia if necessary, local crackpot Abenheimer Sludd announced his plans today for a countrywide switch to unisex restrooms in all public buildings. Lavatory reformers from all points along the political spectrum were galvanized by Sludd's proposal, and his lighted trousers which flashed in sequence, apparently powered by a large car battery strapped to his hip.
"The time has come for America to lead the Europeans out of the dark ages of puritanical shithouse politics," said Sludd, wiping his brow with a rubber snake.
"In an age where your neighbor in the next stall over could be..." Sludd paused as a crow worked its way out of his coat pocket and flew away. "Anyone from Maryann Manson to Hillary Rodman Clinton, it's time to let arbitrary distinctions such as 'sex' fall by the wayside. The uncounted abundance of different sexual orientations making themselves known in society today, in addition to the unprecedented fashion sense of our young people, makes it nearly impossible for restroom segregation to fulfill its intended purpose!"
Sludd grabbed his leg like a machine gun and farted before continuing.
"In the days of our four fathers, one could be reasonably sure that the gent standing at the next urinal over wasn't contemplating asking you out on a date while casting a sly glance at your Ben Johnson. Or that the 'lass' in the next stall down wouldn't mosey on in and take a drippey-doo standing up! We live in some baffling times, and it's time to acknowledge this in the area by which any civilization is judged, its water closets. It's time to tell the world that America knows what's up! Therefore I propose simple, unisex restrooms uniformly placed across the land. Restroom construction, which hampered America's growth in the last fiscal year and caused much of the deficit, will be cut in half.
"Now I'm no restroom architect, not by far. Or at least the state licensing board doesn't think so. But I don't see how we could go wrong with a classic restroom design consisting of a simple round trough in the middle of the room, where everybody can just get it all out in the open and say 'This is who I am! Live with it!' I'd even go so far as to say this might solve some of our greater social ills, you never can tell. Vote Gypsy!" Sludd shouted as a finale, before climbing onto a tricycle with an enormous front wheel and very slowly and unsteadily riding away. Ted Ted lives in the cabinet where we keep the xerox paper and will do most anything for a Wheat Thin.
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 July 16, 2001
When's God Gonna Quit Bustin' My Balls?I'm not a bad guy, I go to church, I pay my taxes, so what I wanna know is: Hey, when's God gonna stop bustin' my balls? I swear, I get home from work and my belt sander throws a gear, my wife wants me to take her to see Ricky Martin, and my son, dat little tree yeah old fairy climbed inside a spare tire in the back yard and he won't come out for nothin'.
"Hey-oh, ay, those're my balls you're tramplin on up there, big guy! They're the ones that are all blue and swollen from bein' stepped on too much, ya big bum...". Not that I got a thing against God, mind you. Me and the big guy go way back to the third grade when I went to ask Wendy Fischer out onna date and when I sat down in the next seat over from her, some sick sonnofabitch had pissed the chair, I swear to Christ almighty, he was bustin my tiny, hairless balls even back then. I had to sit in dat chair straight through lunch and for the rest of the day until all the others kids had gone home so nobody could see that my trousers was as wet as Tony Danza's back in a raquetball match.
That's some serious stuff for a kid, too, let me tell you that. As an adult, you piss yourself and you can play it off, like "Woah! That Lowenbrau snuck up on me! I ain't been this drunk since da eighth grade graduation!" and that kinda thing. As a kid though, it's taken more as a sign that you ain't never mastered your bladder control and the cheetahs is gonna thin you out from the herd, boy.
One thing...
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I'm not a bad guy, I go to church, I pay my taxes, so what I wanna know is: Hey, when's God gonna stop bustin' my balls? I swear, I get home from work and my belt sander throws a gear, my wife wants me to take her to see Ricky Martin, and my son, dat little tree yeah old fairy climbed inside a spare tire in the back yard and he won't come out for nothin'. "Hey-oh, ay, those're my balls you're tramplin on up there, big guy! They're the ones that are all blue and swollen from bein' stepped on too much, ya big bum...". Not that I got a thing against God, mind you. Me and the big guy go way back to the third grade when I went to ask Wendy Fischer out onna date and when I sat down in the next seat over from her, some sick sonnofabitch had pissed the chair, I swear to Christ almighty, he was bustin my tiny, hairless balls even back then. I had to sit in dat chair straight through lunch and for the rest of the day until all the others kids had gone home so nobody could see that my trousers was as wet as Tony Danza's back in a raquetball match. That's some serious stuff for a kid, too, let me tell you that. As an adult, you piss yourself and you can play it off, like "Woah! That Lowenbrau snuck up on me! I ain't been this drunk since da eighth grade graduation!" and that kinda thing. As a kid though, it's taken more as a sign that you ain't never mastered your bladder control and the cheetahs is gonna thin you out from the herd, boy. One thing I gotta hand it to God, that guy's one hard-workin SOB! He ain't laid off bustin my balls for 34 years, and just when I think he's takin a break, my collie upchucks a canna Manwich onto my new Camaro's suede seats. You couldn't WRITE better ball-bustin' than that. Even when I was inna prime a my life, eighteen yeahs old, God was there with a bicycle seat and a faulty retaining bolt. Me and Marie, we was goin' steady, and lemmie tell you we was goin' at it. We would have sex at the drop of a hat, and believe you me there was a lotta hat-droppin goin on back den. But we was safe about it, y'know? A Carbone don't ever go into battle unarmed, if you know what I mean when I say that. I always make sure Marie used a rubber, and so I figure we ain't got nuthin to worry about, right? Wrong. Turns out the dumb broad was eatin' the damn things, one of her girlfriends said somethin about oral contraceptives and she got all confused. Next thing we know, bang-bang, we got little Ant'ny taggin along and whenever Marie's got gas it's like a little kid's birthday party around here. Now I ain't sayin I don't love Marie, and know dat I'm just talkin here just to talk so lemmie talk, but that woman's got about as much sense as a two-legged gopher tap-dancin in a microwave. Or two mountain goats screwin' on the Eiffel Tower, I dunno, somethin like that. Point is she's dumb as shit. We understand each other heah? Good, 'cause nows I can go on about God and my balls and stuff. God continued to bust my much-maligned balls trew most of the 1980's. Memorable events include da time da Anaheim Angels kicked my motherlovin ass for pukin' in their dugout, da tree months I spent in jail for exposing myself to a boyscout troop, and dat time I came home to da wrong house and ended up punching out a pony and givin' tree armed policemen wedgies after they say I ruin some little girl's birthday party. I spend the weekend in the can after that little caper, but thankfully I'd stuffed enough hot dogs down my shorts on the way out that I was eatin' like a king da whole time. But don't think that God's Carbone-ball-bustin' plans ended with the era of Regan and bolo ties and all that. Uh-uh. God kept his ping-pong paddle at the ready next to my family jewels for the whole of the new decade as well. Like the time I got caught in that pair of panty hoes with that wild boar, for instance. Or the time I was up on da roof, drunk as hell, tearin' off roof tiles with my golf cleats, and I'll be Goddamned if a stiff wind didn't pick right up and make me take a header off that roof and land on some little old lady who'd come by to sell Amway. For six hours I hadta listen to her bitchin' and moanin like "I think you broke my back! My ribs have perforated my lungs!" Jesus Christ, lady, do I look like a doctor to you? It took damn near forever for the paramedics to get there and a good four hours for them jaws of life to pull her on up outta da sidewalk. Dey almost had to drill under my foundation, the sonsa bitches. It's a rare time like that when God misses a chance to bust my balls further. He musta been off planning the Manwich thing. The 90's ball-busting that takes the cake though, has to be the time Marie ran outta them contraceptive sponges, and she thought onea them kitchen sink sponges with the green scrubber side would do the trick just as good. Did I mention that Marie's dumber than ten pounds of dirt? When it was all said an done she was pregnant with lil' Jimmy over there and I hadta wear them elasticy beach pants for two months. Jimmy! Get outta the oven, Jimmy! You're too old to play in da oven now, ya little hangnail ya. There're snakes in there, howya like that? Yeah, I thought so. I wondered all my life, when God's gonna stop breakin my balls. But ya know what? I'm tired of wonderin'. Vinnie Carbone's got a plan. See, I plan on bein extra special nice and good and all that shit my remainin' years of this life. So as I can get into heaven and all, that kinda thing. Then, when I meet God, you can bet I'm gonna give him one hell of a kick right in his hairy, omnipotent sack. I'm gonna strike a blow for the Vinnie Carbones of the world, and then I'm gonna say "Sorry God, but you was breakin' my balls, you was askin for it." And we gonna shake on it and go out for beer and pizza. It's gonna be nice.º more columns
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|  February 17, 2003
This is a Bitchin' WatchNothing can distract you from your miserable, carless existence better than a new watch. Especially a really bitchin' new watch that does shit.
Most people are happy to settle for watches that don't do a goddamned thing other than tell the time and look swanky on their wrists, but not Omar Bricks. I've always demanded more from a wristwatch. Over the years I've had watches that said the time out loud (to save my valuable looking time), watches that told the temperature, the direction, the altitude, my heart rate, and watches that recorded me saying some spooky ventriloquist shit that I could play back during meetings when my mouth obviously wasn't moving.
I had one watch that worked as a remote-control for the TV. This was pretty sweet, but what I really wanted on that worked as a remote-control for a remote-controlled dune buggy. That would have been the cat's ass. But I guess I was a little ahead of my time in that desire because they never made one.
As a kid, I'd generally been satisfied with lame-assed time-telling watches, until the third grade when I collected enough box tops and sent away for a watch that played the video game Frogger. Holy shit, I thought at the time, now there's a watch. My current green plastic watch was clearly in need of replacement, as the picture of Fozzie was badly flaking off. Most kids were going the Swatch route, since those things came with some gay-assed band of plastic that kept the front from...
º Last Column: Aye, She Chimmied Me Chonga
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Nothing can distract you from your miserable, carless existence better than a new watch. Especially a really bitchin' new watch that does shit.
Most people are happy to settle for watches that don't do a goddamned thing other than tell the time and look swanky on their wrists, but not Omar Bricks. I've always demanded more from a wristwatch. Over the years I've had watches that said the time out loud (to save my valuable looking time), watches that told the temperature, the direction, the altitude, my heart rate, and watches that recorded me saying some spooky ventriloquist shit that I could play back during meetings when my mouth obviously wasn't moving.
I had one watch that worked as a remote-control for the TV. This was pretty sweet, but what I really wanted on that worked as a remote-control for a remote-controlled dune buggy. That would have been the cat's ass. But I guess I was a little ahead of my time in that desire because they never made one.
As a kid, I'd generally been satisfied with lame-assed time-telling watches, until the third grade when I collected enough box tops and sent away for a watch that played the video game Frogger. Holy shit, I thought at the time, now there's a watch. My current green plastic watch was clearly in need of replacement, as the picture of Fozzie was badly flaking off. Most kids were going the Swatch route, since those things came with some gay-assed band of plastic that kept the front from getting all scratched and kept you from having to figure out that arcane hand-based system of time telling, since the protective band blocked your view of the rest of the watch anyway. A few others had thrown their lot in with the Mickey Mouse watch, but I knew that was verging into ass-beating territory in the higher grades so I steered clear of any of that happy bullshit.
Nope, the Frogger watch was the one for me. As the six to eight weeks of estimated shipping time dragged by, I daydreamed about school days spent Froggering away in the back of the class while the rest of those dopes learned fractions. And they'd never be the wiser, since it's not like I was dragging a full-sized arcade version of the game into the classroom with a coat thrown over it or anything. No way man, I was on the low-down, for all they would know I was back there trying to adjust for daylight savings time or jerking off or whatever. It was the perfect plan.
After seemingly forever, the watch finally in the mail, in a bubble-wrap envelope no less. Talk about Christmas coming twice in one day, the long-awaited watch and bubble wrap. Shit. I busted the watch out, laughed at the Taiwanese instructions, and within minutes I was in Frogger heaven. Or something. In actuality, playing the watch wasn't anything like playing Frogger, but it had some stickers of the frog from the game on it, and that was pretty cool. And if you had an active imagination, you could imagine that one of those black dots that was blinking on and off was the frog from the picture, sort of, and it was kind of like what playing the game would be like if you had severe brain damage.
And hey, it was on a watch, and pretending it was Frogger was a whole hell of a lot better than studying the Spanish Civil War. So I was on sunshine street for about three days, until one day the watch took a hit during a tetherball grudge match and that piece of shit fell apart. Then, to make matters worse, that little asshole Toby Sklar got a PacMan watch out of a box of Kix as if on cue and everybody was lining up to kiss his ass after that. Everyone could see that the actual game looked exactly like the Frogger watch game, just a bunch of black dots blinking on and off, but there was a Pac-Man sticker on the wristband and Pac-Man had always been more popular than Frogger. And it wasn't broken, he definitely had me there.
So I did the only thing a third-grader can do in that situation, I hit Toby in the head with an apple, and when he fell down he landed on his arm and the watch broke.
And that's the problem with watches that do cool shit, those fuckers break like Korean cars. Not long after you figure out how to use all the cool features, you get shut in an elevator door or you get in a construction site fight and there goes the damn watch. You can play hockey with watches that don't do anything, they always last forever even when you don't want them to.
This is a trend that's about to come to an end, however, because I just got the bitchinest watch there is. This thing tells the time, temperature, altitude, barometric pressure, cardinal direction, GPS coordinates, how far away you are from bacon, Sig-Alert status… Hell, for all I know this thing could free South Africa. Plus it's got a nightlight that would blind Stevie Wonder, I don't even think it's night any more when I turn that thing on.
Rest assured that this is now Omar Bricks' Watch For Life, nothing's happening to this bad boy. Plus, the thing's the size of a soup can so there's no way it's going to get all banged up from being worn on my wrist like a common timepiece. I'm thinking of keeping it in the box, that thing seems pretty well padded.
Now I just need find somebody who knows what time it is. Bricks out. º Last Column: Aye, She Chimmied Me Chongaº more columns
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Quote of the Day“A man cannot serve two masters. Unless they are both kung fu masters, in which case he'd better do his damned best. At least until they kill each other in a spectacular bloody finale.”
-Rod GoddFortune 500 CookieFine, the stars won't kill you with cancer like they previously promised… big baby. Time to face facts: Those laser discs you socked away are never going to go up in value. Sorry, girlfriend, no visit from the stork for you, but you will get a postcard from a half-crazed seagull. Lucky Sean Penn films: Hurly Burly, Dead Man Walking, I Am Sam, and Supreme Blow-Jobs XXVI.
Try again later.Top Auto Crash Excuses| 1. | Distracted by Butt-Rock | | 2. | Cell Phone Tainted Brain Meat | | 3. | Marbles on Road | | 4. | AC Apparently Doesn't Mean "Autopilot Car" | | 5. | Friggin' Daihatsu | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Roland McShyster 12/10/2001 What it is, America? Entertainment Police is back and on the attack with another two-weeks' worth of tips and whatnot as to the goings-on in the Entertainment world. And what a crazy world it is these days, what with the economy on recess and everyone getting Amway in the mail and all. Look, I know you came here for the reviews, to find out what to do with that Jefferson that's been burning a hole in your pocket, so I won't delay any further. On to the movies!
In Theaters Now:
Not Another Ween Movie
Ha! Those musically irreverent Ween brothers are back in their fifth film, regardless of what the title might lead you to believe. This time they're taking on the smash hit Titanic with this...
What it is, America? Entertainment Police is back and on the attack with another two-weeks' worth of tips and whatnot as to the goings-on in the Entertainment world. And what a crazy world it is these days, what with the economy on recess and everyone getting Amway in the mail and all. Look, I know you came here for the reviews, to find out what to do with that Jefferson that's been burning a hole in your pocket, so I won't delay any further. On to the movies!
In Theaters Now:
Not Another Ween Movie
Ha! Those musically irreverent Ween brothers are back in their fifth film, regardless of what the title might lead you to believe. This time they're taking on the smash hit Titanic with this lampooning (or is it serious? or are they crazy?) musical full of memorable song-and-dance numbers like "My Heart Will Go On Sale", "Hey Iceburg (Shithead)", "Go Pull a Nickel Out Your Ass, Steve" and "Somebody Please Fish My Icy Nuts Out of the Atlantic".
Ocean's 11
The sad tale of the last remaining Phoenix brother, who was incinerated this past July in a Bar-be-cue gone bad on his eleventh birthday. Like his brother River and his sister Delta before him, he lived too fast, too young, and left a good-looking pre-pubescent corpse. This tribute is a fine send-off as he sulks his way up to the big detox in the sky.
The Royal Tennis Bums
Every king and queen's worst nightmare is to have their progeny grow up to be nothing but long-haired polycarbonalium racquet-wielding tennis bums, cruising the courts looking for the cheap thrill of a pick-up match and taking pictures with their scofflaw Rebel SLR cameras. But just that is the lot for the rulers of the conveniently-created kingdom of Bumcock, who send their kids to a strict uppity tennis camp for the summer, thinking the regimentation will sap their love of the game. Instead, the royal shits beat the tennis slobs at the camp across the lake and learn something valuable about themselves in the process: they're rich.
Vanilla Sky
Only a lumpy-skulled nut-tugger like Vanilla Ice would have the grotesquely swollen balls to write himself into the history of the space program in this supposedly autobiographical picture about his childhood dream of launching a rocket and his later top-level work for NASA. Not to mention that the theme song is just Elton John's "Rocket Man" with a tambourine line added. Almost as disgusting as his last two films: "A Dream With Wings: The Orville and Vanilla Wright Story" and "Yo, I Wrote the Star-Spangled Banner".
Now on Video:
Karen Carpenter's Ghosts of Mars
If you thought last season of Allie McBeal was scary, wait until you witness this harrowing tale of anorexia, bulimia and gas-station candy bar sales. Beat to the punch by "The Karen Carpenter Story" a few years back, but I hear this one has vampires and shit, so it's probably a better popcorn anorexia movie.
Maid
That meaty dude you loved so much for Swingers and Deep Throat, Jon Favorite, is back in this hilarious lark about a hapless palooka who has to go to New York and dress up as a sexy French maid to win the girl of his dreams. It turns out that impersonating the maid at his belle-to-be's mansion is harder than it looks, and many explosively comedic situations result. Probably my favorite scene is the New Year's Eve party where no less than a half-dozen male guests try to take Jon back to the servants' quarters for some deep cleaning, and he discovers that the maid who he knocked out and put on a bus to Florida had been shining more than a few knobs around the mansion.
Pearl Harbor
Finally a WWII film that tells the real story of how we took on the Japanese at Pearl Harbor and kicked their skinny little tails, heaving bombs up into the trunks of their planes when they weren't looking. Man, I would have loved to see the looks on their faces when those bombs went off. Some irresponsible networks actually played the film footage of the attack backwards, leading many Americans to believe that Japan actually tried to bomb us on that fateful day. Right, like they'd try to bomb us! Think about it people: they're just a tiny little island. We could just go over there and blow over all their little rice paper houses with a big fan or something. Don't be so naĂŻve.
Television:
Woolf Lake (CBS)
As always, CBS takes the high road in its effort to keep its audience (average age 92) thrilled with the most boring programming available. This particular time, you've got to respect their literary credentials. Each week members of the Woolf Lake book club get together and discuss how much they enjoyed their latest reading assignment. No stars, per se, unless you count Virginia Woolf (the show's namesake), Henry James, Mark Twain, or Agatha Christie. And of course, nobody does.
The Agency (CBS)
The black eye network continues to make its 21st century comeback with this hot new sitcom adapted from that infomercial about the ad agency with the new IBM computers. Who can blame them? Few television network shows had such well-developed characters as the fat guy from accounting and that old guy who was afraid of getting on the internet. Some advice from Roland M: Drop that boring soccer mom who keeps whining about sending out e-mail memos, that pony won't play ball more than one episode.
Maybe it's Me (WB)
Give up now, Survivor! The ultimate reality show is here, and who would have thought the WB would have it? Six horrible hack stand-up comedians are put onto a set where each week they throw out the script and try to ad-lib each other out of the spotlight! The gag: They've all been told they're starring in a new sitcom, while the truth is that when it's over, only one of them can go on to star in a third-rate WB sitcom with lousy writing next season! Unless the other five get put into their own ABC shows or something.
Video Games:
The Sims Hot Date (PC)
Call me a whacko with no sense of humor, but paying $30 just to get a box with a rubber glove and Jergens lotion in it doesn't sit well with me, folks at Electronic Arts. I bet you assholes are the ones who unscrew the salt shaker at KFC whenever I'm dining in. Fuckers.
Metallica Solitude (PS2)
Everyone who knows games (and I do) has been waiting forever for this huge arrival for the Playstation 2, and it finally arrives, about ten years too late. I've never been a big fan of Metallica or their lead singer Snake, so maybe it's my fault this computerized version of their biggest video is a let down. Not bad, but playing as a crumpled old man digging your way out of some futuristic prison while morbid arpeggio music plays in the background isn't my idea of high-speed gaming.
Alone in the Dark 4 (DC)
Those fuckers at Electronic Arts are making "games" for Dreamcast now. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I come after you with a goddamn shotgun, you butt-humping jerkwipes. May you rot in hell. In the meantime, I've got a nice set of dish gloves and more Jergens lotion than anybody needs. Electronic Arts can lick my salty parts.
Well, I hope that all turned your world upside-down, I know it did mine. We'll be back in six days short of a fortnight to rain entertainment manna down on your unsuspecting heads one more time. Watch for it.   |
