ith their famously stoic façade put to the ultimate test, Londoners came through with flying colors this week, failing to register the slightest emotion in the face of stunning terror attacks on the city’s mass transit system that left 50 dead and over 700 wounded.

“Oh yes, it was quite a mess,� explained commuter Harold Alburn, who was aboard one of the bombed subway trains and only survived due to being caked in a human cocoon formed by the flaming remains of his fellow passengers. “That rail line’s going to be down for weeks, you have to assume.�

“This is to be expected of the British,� explained psychologist/ historian hybrid Dennis Mugrew. “I mean, what did you expect? Wild, hyperbolic shows of emotion? These people didn’t even have their pulses raised by WWII. Even when London itself was being bombed in 1940, people were still going out to the pubs and leading their lives as if there weren’t giant bomb craters in the street, and acting as if the pub itself was not on fire. Frankly, I don’t think total thermonuclear annihilation would have much of an effect on the English disposition.�

“Yes yes, bloody terrible,� mumbled carpet-layer Damon Brink semi-intelligibly, hoisting his customary 7am pint.

“This resolute façade of dour, dutiful melancholy has served the English well through eons of adversity and truly shitty weather,� explained England expert and grinder-sandwich-eating champion Maxwell Tuft. “It’s like American optimism or weird Japanese cartoon sex fetishes. You don’t mess with success.�

“It’s a bloody shame about those people,� sighed stockbroker Theodore McCartney, who lost his entire family in the blasts. “You certainly feel for their loved ones. But, you know, life must go on.�

“Nope, sorry, I’m afraid I’ve had my humanity bred out of me, perhaps eons ago,� explained tailor Nigel Ruffalo when asked about the attacks, with an upper lip so stiff he could be mistaken for a duck.

Authorities believe the attacks to be the work of a terrorist cell with the inappropriately-hilarious name of “The Secret Organization of al-Qaeda in Europe,� which, as the name describes, is thought to be both secret and organized, and reportedly allows only cell members into its tree fort. The British have saved their strongest displays of emotion for these alleged terrorists.

“That’s just not playing cricket,� complained Londoner Angie Lowell, the most enraged person in all of England. “Them bad sorts ought to be put to for what they done, had a real talking-to, you know. Can’t have this sort of thing going on, mucking about on the trains when we’ve got places to be.�

Meanwhile, the reporting of this story was complicated by confusion over interview subjects who claimed to have been on the tube at the time of the attacks, which this American reporter assumed to mean the television, leading to a mistaken belief that everyone in England gets to be on TV. This reporter’s intense jealousy, however, soon abated as soon as he learned that “the tube� is a quaint British euphemism for the toilet.

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Here's something that'll get you thinking, talk about a "Mr Rogers was a sniper in 'Nam"-level surprise. Thanks to commune editor's-brother Gay Bagel's mandate that we boost commune readership and revenue up from absolute zero Kelvin in 2004, it's been officially mandated by the powers obese that I quit writing about my epic saga to get a goddamned car. Apparently Bagay (as I like to call him in print and roadside graffiti) thinks my column may be alienating readers who are too rich to ever have to worry about not having a car, and if they don't read the site we can't siphon their accounts dry of funds electronically while they surf.

I don't know the details, if that's just advertising lingo or if we're actually hoovering out bank notes over the telephone line while those poor rich saps try to figure out what in the hell Boris Utzov is talking about or what. But either way Bagay thinks we've catered to the Salisbury steak set too much in the past, when we should be writing for dudes who order off the menu at Taco Bell and use silver spoons to eat their civet cat pudding.

Normally I'd have my ass chapped by the man giving my creative freedom a titty-twister like that, but from what I hear most of the staff received similar warnings. From the mandate that Lil Duncan start banging celebrity scumbags instead of her usual unknown variety, to the new "no accepting collect calls from international jails" rule (AKA the Ivan Nacutchacokov Accord), everyone around here is feeling the pinch. Except of course for Rok Finger, who got a slightly different haircut and left town, Truman Prudy, who makes appearances here like he was Haley's comet, and the aforementioned Boris Utzov, who from last word was riding bitch on a Harley somewhere in the Dakotas. Or, for that matter, Stu Umbrage, who's writing a gripe calendar in New Mexico, or Sampson L. Hartwig, who's either dead or a big fan of Harry Houdini. Come to think of it, where in the hell is everybody? This place is starting to look like Stuart Anderson's on Mad Cow night. What am I still doing here?

Anyway, the upshot of the whole censorship deal is that I'm getting a "company car," by which they mean Red Bagel's old Camry that he won't drive anymore because he thinks it's bugged. Which I guess is a problem if you're Red Bagel and you say embarrassing shit all the time, but what do I care? The old Bricksmobile had a megaphone for karaoke purposes; this'l be like having my own radio station. Plus since it is Red Bagel we're talking about here, odds are they're not even listening-device-type bugs, the car's probably infested with robotic insects or some shit as a little "fuck you" from the CIA or the Shriners.

All in all it's an uncharacteristically sweet deal for a commune employee, I would have been less surprised to get a post-it note on my desk saying that I AM the new company car. Now I guess Bagel and I are even from the time he ate my carrier pigeon.

Not that I'm getting carried away or anything, after all, it is a Camry. Not exactly a street-illegal funnycar or anything bitchin' like that. And Bagel didn't exactly take care of it after he uncovered the SUV conspiracy and bought himself that armored duck tours truck he drives around town. As a matter of fact, Gay pulled the thing out of a line-up of "bugged" cars Red planned on monster trucking over, replacing it with Raoul Dunkin's Tercel so his brother wouldn't notice. But I don't give a shit about any of that. It's got four wheels and it rolls both downhill and up, so Omar Bricks is calling it a car. Plus I've already replaced the Camry nameplate with one I pried off a Jaguar at the airport, so the stupid 90% of the world already thinks I drive a Jag. The right seat covers and a press-on spoiler should fool the rest.

Bricks out.

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Hello, communes. Boris is this. Coming on you with big news of year: Big bee is dead. Yes, is so!

Every person remember big bee, is bee thing from Boris child's hood what always give Boris time so hard. Whenever Boris is does go outsides to play with made-up friends, there is big bee waiting to chase Boris away, like Benny's Hill show except without music. Boris has to hum music for himself when does run away from big bee. Sometimes Boris does think maybe bee does hate this music and that why chase Boris, but probably bee is just asshole.

All through life big bee does follow Boris. At home, on way to school, even on inside of classroom where Boris does is in trouble for bringing pet bee to school. Boris is kick out of schools so many time because big bee will not leave alone. Teacher say is so because mother does to wash Boris hair with honey, but this teacher's excuse for all things, like why all neighbor's hood dogs does follow Boris to lick head, and why come all flies does stick to Boris in summer's time.

Even when adult person, Boris can't not get job thing because no persons does want to hire Boris who is always running from bee and waving of arms. So, Boris does come to Americas. Does big bee follow? Yes. Stick with shit.

Big bee does have hard time to keep up with Boris on roading adventure with Angels from Hell and big fast bust, but eventually does find Potato Boris even though is secret identity. Bee is not fooled. Big bee even does follow Boris to New Olean. Coming back home to Louis apartment, Boris is thinking big bee get lost or maybe decide on follow person who does smell more like honey than Boris. But other day come huge surprise for Boris who does believe this idea.

Boris is sleeping sounds on Louis couch as outside is raining cats and water. Yes, yes, Boris is suppose to sleep in closet room, but after Louis is sleep, Boris does like to sneak out to couch so not to suffocate with sleeping Boris farts. And is all good and fun, but then Boris wake up to drip on head, like pee from God. Window is leak on Boris! Boris is mad, because before this Boris does like window. So, Boris have to pull out couch thing aways from window to sleep not in rain. This hard work, until Boris think to get off couch before moving. Then? Like lifting huge feather. No problemo, like say Louis friend speaking Spanishs.

But when Boris pull out couch, what is underbeneath? You can't not know this, so Boris will tell: big bee! Yes! First Boris is very scare and does poop so hard, but then Boris see big bee is sleeping. Boris does get napking blanket for big bee, but when putting on, does see big bee very dusty like rust bunny under couch. "Holy Moley!" Boris does think in Spanishs. Big bee is dead!

Is true, so dead like Jiminey Crickets. Boris does make special coffin thing from box for matches and sings special funeral song ("Fly Like Eagles into Furniture") before does flush bee down toilets to go to afterworld. And like that, Boris is free.

Is lonely to be free. Boris hoping to find moth or ladybug wants to follow Boris at all times. Is so too much work to tie with strings.

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