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I'm sure when you ask little kids what they want to be when they grow up, a lot of them say "dildo model." And who could blame them? But the sad truth is that, thanks to unrealistic expectations built up by the movies and popular songs, there are also plenty who would answer "Internet columnist" instead. Well kids, I'm here to tell you that it's not all it's cracked up to be. Internet columnisting, that is, I'm sure being a dildo model is pretty awesome.

The dirty little secret of the industry, the thing they don't tell you until it's too late and you've already picked your career, is that Internet columnisting involves a lot of writing. And not just all at once at the beginning, I'm talking about every week, whether you feel like it or not. Sometimes twice a week if Red Bagel has his computer confiscated by the Feds, which happens just as often as you'd expect. And you know, the job's not all just about hitting home runs and dating supermodels, either, like the Internet columnists on TV. You have to get your hands dirty. One time a scary-assed rat tried to make off with the disk I'd saved that week's column on and I had to club the damn thing with a telephone receiver until it gave up the goods. And if you think that's bad, try explaining to Ramon Nootles why you used his phone to kill a rat. As if I want rat shrapnel all over my own phone.

So, if Internet columnisting is a fool's utopia, what should kids today aspire to be? I've given it some serious thought over the years I've spent working at the commune, while looking through the want ads and building a potato gun in my spare time. And I have to say that if you think you can pull it off, go for being the Pope.

What in the hell did the Pope ever do to nail down a gig so sweet? I mean, there are a lot of famous guys out there with pretty cushy careers, from Ed McMahon to the Gerber baby and whatnot. But even the president has to walk around and wave and sign shit every once in a while. What does the Pope do? Wear a hat? Omar Bricks is all about getting paid to wear a fucked-up hat, people. Give me a break.

Not that Pope is the only cushy job out there. I have to imagine being a professional downhill skier would be pretty hard to beat; after all, gravity is doing all the work for you. Nice job if you can get it. And where was I when the TV bozos walked up to Robin Leach on the street and asked him if he wanted to host Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous? Exactly what kind of qualifications do you need to walk around and point at shit, like "Hey, nice drapes!" or "Holy shit, you've got six cars!"?

And you just know he's crashing at all of these fancy pads when the owners are out of town. Sometimes when they have shots panning across the house to show all of the swanky shit these rich folks have lying around, you can see Robin in the background, looking for a spare key under the doormat. Not that I blame him, if I was there I'd pick one of those big-assed houses and just move from room to room every day. It's not like those people can keep track of what's going on in each of their eight thousand rooms all the time. And if they were that worried about it, they'd put keycard scanners or something on the doors like hotels did after they got wise to my scam.

So, to sum up, if you're staring down the barrel of a chance to be the Pope, I say shit yeah, go for it. But if you're like me and the church has filed some bullshit restraining order against you, you could do worse than being a TV host or operating the projector at a porno house or something along those lines. There are a lot of options out there. And by the way, if some talk-show guy like Leno or Chevy Chase or whoever comes up to you on the street and hits you up like "Hey man, I could use a sidekick to laugh at my jokes on TV, what are you doing tonight?" I say jump on that gravy train and hang on for dear life. I'll give you great odds that you never regret that career move when you're raking in the dough for sitting on your ass, chuckling and pulling the occasional finger. Only an idiot would turn that down, and God knows Omar Bricks won't make that same mistake twice.

Bricks out.

º Last Column: Thanks For the Memories, and the Seafood Medley
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Once upon a time
Or so goes the line
I heard tell a notion
Of a gold magic potion
Its power mysterious,
A bouquet quite delirious
It filled all who drink
With the charm of a king
The strength of ten oxen
For lifting or boxing,
The smell of a flower
And ten times the power,
Eyes that would dazzle
And a wit that would frazzle
The smartest of Greeks,
Send them crying for weeks.

It came in a vial
Gold like a sun's smile,
And gave off an odor
More than peculiar
And all who came near
Fled quickly in fear
And assumed without stirring
The vial contained urine

One day was a man
Who wandered this land
With no sense of smell
And then no way to tell
What lurked in the beaker
That lay near his sneakers
Despite better judgment,
He drank deeply of it,
And found all the gifts
From the previous list
Bestowed upon him
Much to his chagrin

Yet no one believed
And quickly took leave
Despite all his pleas
They said he drank pee

º Last Column: The Man in the Baloney Suit
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