"The Truth" Goes Unrecognized at White House

ormer heavyweight champion Carl "The Truth" Williams visited the Bush White House recently, at the invitation of Secretary of State Colin Powell, and no one there seemed to have a clue as to who he actually was. "The Truth" got the grand tour, meeting with the president, the vice president and many members of their respective staffs, yet all expressed puzzlement as to who he might really be or why he was there.

White House spokesman Ari Fleischer said "The Truth" looked very much a like "a guy I once hired to put up some sheet rock in my basement, and a couple times we would go off into the little closet down there to smoke crack and give each other handjobs, but other than that, I can't place him."

The president himself was similarly disinclined to speculate on the identity of his guest. "How the hell should I know?" he asked. "All them fellas look alike to me. He's not the guy who delivers the pretzels, is he? Because if he is, I got a few words of ornerification for him."

Vice president Dick Cheney, when asked if he recognized "The Truth," responded by saying that it was possible that he did, but that it would endanger national security and the ability of future vice presidents to effectively do their job if he admitted it. He went on to say that if "The Truth" were to accompany him to an undisclosed location, perhaps they could discuss the matter further by the side of a warm fireplace full of shredded documents.

Mary Matalin, Cheney's spokesperson, came closest to recognizing "The Truth" when she admitted that, "after studying him closely, he does look very much like that guy that fisted me and my serpentine husband up the ass without Vaseline one afternoon last November, but I can't be positive without James here."

Mr. Williams said that, despite the lack of recognition, he very much enjoyed his tour of the First Residence. "Muthafuckahs be livin' large here, y'all!" he was quoted as saying when the Secret Service escorted him out by way of the South Lawn. "Word, dawg, place be almost as happenin' as George Foreman's crib. Sheee-it."

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There is a new show on the Fox television network featuring puppets acting like real people once again. This is nothing new, it beckons back to the old days of vaudeville where wood-and-cloth dolls would make innuendos about getting laid frequently when they weren't performing. Much like Andrew "Dice" Clay during his fifteen minutes of popularity, before Ford Fairlaine.

Puppets are welcome to their shows and Church performances and whatever else they want, I just want them to stop perpetuating the myth they started long ago. It's ironic, if not embryonic, that these puppets pretend to be real during the program and then so much is made of human performers manipulating the puppets and doing its voice off-camera, when the real truth is in the program.

Yes, I say what you have all long suspected when I tell you: Puppets are real.

Once again the government and a close-knit Hollywood enclave have taken the truth and wrapped an entertainment ribbon around it, then perpetuate a lie because they feel America isn't ready for the truth. You'd be shocked and fall out of your seat, bumping your ass on your well-swept floor, if you knew how many movies in Hollywood are true stories disguised as fiction. The Truman Show? True, man. Show. Fight Club? True. Armageddon? True, except for the ridiculous dialogue. Apollo 13? Hang on to your ass, folks—it's true.

More devastating to the population as a whole may be the secret that all of the Muppet movies are real. The de facto Muppet movie, The Muppet Movie is the real story of how puppets became a large workforce in Hollywood. The frog, bear, etc. traveling to Hollywood to star in pictures, encountering several celebrities working mundane jobs along the way, it's all the true story with a few jokes dropped in, as well as a lot of talk of puppet unions and contract points left out. And the most important point: The American public must never find out puppets are human beings reincarnated in felt dolls.

The details escape me, I have misplaced the cocktail napkin I wrote them on, but suffice to say puppets are a major hidden force in Hollywood. Not only do they star in movies and television shows, they also hold powerful positions on the MPAA board and work as agents. When I visited two years ago I'm reasonably sure a puppet even parked my car when I visited Spago.

I'm not denouncing puppets, mind you; if anything, I'm encouraging them. Even if they are the dead brought back to life in the hideous form of a cloth toy creation, they deserve the same rights as anyone else. I'm not sure how they reproduce without visible sex organs, but maybe if there are puppets out there who are fans of the commune, they could e-mail me and let me know because I'm extremely curious. Just informative curious, not wanting to explore or anything.

This issue means a lot to me, if you haven't guessed by now. In fact, after looking through some old photo albums it may be possible I myself, Red Bagel, have some puppet blood running through me. It's a troublesome prospect, especially picturing some Bagel ancestor of mine engaging in sexual intercourse with a puppet. I'm not judging, I've had sex with dolls before myself, but they've never been animated in any sense and didn't seem to enjoy it as much as I did.

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I have to admit, after my high-voltage high colonic, I almost gave up on the idea of building my own car. Actually, "almost" is too strong a word: I shitcanned the whole plan at a high rate of speed. It takes a wise man to realize his limitations, and almost being offed by a power plug gave Omar Bricks a wake-up call to his own. Sure, I still had sweet-assed visions of rolling up the block in a car shaped like a gigantic ding-dong dancing in my head like sugarplums , but more than likely there would be bigger and badder tools than a floodlight involved in making that happen. And I knew that I was looking at an unintentional bolt through the cock, minimum, before I got some kind of half-assed car together that would probably belch flame and get me arrested at the emissions testing station.

For a while I was toying with the idea of becoming a shut-in. Just piss on the whole idea of transportation all together, since that's all clearly more trouble than it's worth. In the modern world, there are only two good reasons to leave your house: if it's on fire or if you're moving into a swankier house. But the main problem with this plan, which I think is the main reason more people aren't shut-ins, is that it's damned hard to make a living without going outside. Even computer geeks have to go outside sometimes to keep their skin from going translucent and causing some kind of occupational freak-out hazard.

The world is full of mugs trying to cook up scams to allow them to work from home, because lazy sides are like opinionated assholes: everybody's got one. Or knows one, something like that. It's an old saying. Most of the work-from-home deals involve stuffing envelopes, and they're all a crock. They pay you to stuff envelopes with money and send it back to them; only you have to provide the money. So you end up going into the red on the deal, but it's a pretty sweet gig for them. I thought of starting one of those myself, but it's a pretty competitive racket and I don't have a P.O. box.

Even though I knew the odds were against me, I figured that since I was a columnist and not a bricklayer or anything getting-off-your-ass-intensive like that I might still be able to pull off the work-from-home thing. I mean, how cool would it be to wake up in the morning and already be at work? It'd be like being Rok Finger, except you wouldn't have to sleep in his office or smell like Ben Gay all the time. All I had to do was find a way to get the columns from my brain to Red Bagel's desk without using my body as the middleman.

Inspiration came quick on that one and I bought a trained carrier pigeon from a guy at the park, to handle the legwork for me. He was a little on the small side (the bird), so I had to write small and keep my columns pretty short, but he learned the route to the commune offices faster than I expected. And it's not like an ostrich would have been able to fly there, even if I could strap a whole Tolkien novel to its ass. It'd probably just walk there slow and check out all kinds of shit on the way over, and I can do that myself without paying out for birdseed every couple days.

Well, I thought I had the problem licked for a while until Red Bagel called me at home the other day and told me my bird had been eaten by an owl. I don't know how he knew all the details, and come to think of it the fucker did have some white feathers stuck in his beard when I saw him the next day, but whatever happened it was back to square one for the Homefree Bricks Project.

Some smartass at the commune offices suggested that I could just email my columns from home, which quickly earned him my coldest "shithead" look. Like I'm going to lay out my precious green for a computer and internet connection and all that at home when they're giving the shit away for free here at work? Who do I look like, Bill Gates? I don't even have a microwave, I make popcorn with a spare key I found to my neighbor's back door.

So anyway, the shut-in plan isn't exactly flying along like a greased dream. I think I'm going to have to shitcan this one, too, and look for another way to get to work. I'm hoping Santa's going to pony up for some skiis this year, we've got a decent base of snow out there right now and I think I might be able to find a route to work that's all downhill. The tough part will be finding a way home that's all downhill, too, like some kind of crazy M.C. Escher drawing or something. I'm not ruling that out, though, I think it's high time that gravity started pulling its own weight around here.

Bricks Out.

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