ovable loser and one-time fanatical terrorist hopeful Zacarias Moussaoui vowed to fight the death penalty and instant martyrdom for Islam in a Virginia courtroom Friday, as he entered a guilty plea on multiple terror charges.

Moussaoui's al Qaeda comrades were responsible for the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, and the attempted attack on the White House. The attacks resulted in the deaths of more than 3,000 people and spurred the War on Terror, as well as fueled the War in Iraq. In Friday's preliminary hearing, however, Moussaoui tried to distance himself from the national tragedies, and claimed he was part of another attempt to fly a plane into the White House that had nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks.

"I came to America to be part of attack on White House and use plane as weapon of mass destruction," said Moussaoui in funny broken English. "As you can tell, attack not go so well for me. Moussaoui get picked up at Minnesota flight school paying cash for lessons. Stupid Moussaoui!"

People in attendance laughed themselves silly, with comparisons to Tarzan and the Incredible Hulk going around the room. The terror suspect burst into rage, shaking his hands violently and yelling, "Quit it! Quit laughing at Moussaoui!" until he was tasered by bailiffs.

While medics attempted to revive the suspect, Moussaoui's defense team spoke to the press. They vowed, despite having pledged his life to al Qaeda's plan to martyr themselves destroying America, Moussaoui would fight the death penalty in the case after the prosecution announced they would seek capital punishment.

Moussaoui, a French fanatical Arab, was the first suspect arrested in the probe investigating the 9/11 attacks, arrested in 2001 a month before the attacks when he raised suspicion by paying $7,000 in cash for flight simulator training in Minnesota. Those who knew him in his private life described Moussaoui as a generally nice fellow, but said he did stand out from the other foreign visitors they knew.

"Well, I remember he referred to himself in the third person a lot," said neighbor Rachel Wincett. "He talked a lot about wanting to blow up George W. Bush. But it's Minnesota, you know, you can't swing a dead cat without finding someone who wants to kill the president."

Flight instructor Harold Farmer noticed peculiarities with Moussaoui as well.

"Mostly he asked a lot about parachutes," said Farmer. "He'd ask how the auto-pilot worked… if you could steer the plane for something like, say, the White House, put it on auto-pilot, and then parachute out to safety before the massive explosions ensued. I told him sure, we all dream about it, but auto-pilot technology hasn't come far enough to turn planes into self-guided missiles yet. Maybe one day."

Nathan Ledbetter, a sometime-friend of Moussaoui, recalled: "He did carry a boxcutter with him everywhere we went, and when people stepped too close to him he would whip it out in a pinch, jab it out at everyone, threaten to fly the whole plane into a government building. I'd tell him, 'Yo, Zack, we're not in a plane, man, we're at Brewski's, and it's dollar beer night.' Come to think of it, I guess you can call that 'odd' behavior. Not the oddest with my friends, but odd enough."

In a statement pledging to fight the death penalty, Moussaoui reminded the judge that technically, since he's still alive, it's proof he wasn't involved in the suicide attacks during 9/11. Moussaoui also said that thought he hopes to embrace eternal martyrdom and be blessed in the afterlife with a planeful of virgins and the kindness of Allah, he will be happy to wait a long time, like until he is 97 years old, before he martyrs himself.

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Well, I'll give you three guesses as to what Omar Bricks wants for Christmas this year, with the added bonus that I get to kick you in the ass if you're wrong. Because that means you're either stupid or haven't been reading my column for the last eight months. And even if you're just trying to be funny by saying shit like "a boob job" or "world peace," come on man, I'm giving you three guesses here.

It should come as no surprise to those of you out there who respond to external stimuli that a new car is way at the top of the Omar Bricks wish list this holiday season. Yes, even higher than a gas-powered man kite or a money-winning horse like that Seabiscuit. Sweet as those both would be, and even sweeter in combination, a new car has to be Christmas Priority #1. Besides, I didn't get either of those other things last year and I prefer to maintain exclusivity when it comes to the gifts I request: If you didn't get me what I wanted last year, you missed your chance, Bud. Sucks to be you, but I have my pride to consider.

So this year it's all about the car. And possibly car-themed accessories like a ball-ratting stereo system or some stylish naugahyde seat covers. Or some skiis. Basically, if it fits in the car somehow, I'll take it.

But the main part of the present had better be a car, because if end up with a shitload of fuzzy dice and hula girl statues and crap with no car to put them in, I'm pretty sure I'll be pissed. The smart money's on some Bricks rage in that scenario. Not to be an ungrateful giftee or anything, but come on. That's just bullshit. Half that crap has no use outside of an automobile, unless I take a sewing class so I can turn a set of naugahyde seat covers into some kind of bizarre Buffalo Bill couch cover or some disturbing shit like that. And then I'd need to redo the whole house with a Silence of the Lambs theme just to make the couch match, which sounds like a lot of work and a waste of all the carnival mirrors I bought last week.

And just so I can cover all my bases this year, let me make it clear that I consider the gag gifting of any kind of little matchbox or other toy car to be grounds for serious retaliation, as that shit's neither funny nor useful, and that's seventy-five cents you could have put toward some very small fraction of a car I could actually drive. Use your brains here, people: pool your resources. Hold a walkathon or something, I don't give a shit. I'll even submit a decent photo to have printed up on the t-shirts, that's how far I'm willing to go to make this happen. I don't imagine there are many charitable mugs out there who could look at a picture of Omar Bricks throwing eggs at the president and deny that this man needs a car. Me, not the president. I'm not sure if the president owns his own car or not, but he seems to get around okay. You never see him pushing a little kid off his bike when he's late to work in the morning, that's all I'm saying.

As for what kind of car, be creative. Unless your idea of "creative" means cheap and shitty, in that case don't be creative. Forget I said that. Think of it as if you were buying yourself a car, only imagine that you like yourself more than you do, and money's no object. That should work. And if you like Volvos, fuck off. You shouldn't be involved in this process at all; I don't want you skewing my car gift with your bad taste and questionable judgment.

You can get me a radar detector or something. Pretty hard to fuck that up. Thanks.

Bricks out.

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My sympathy goes out to the girl who tried to fake her kidnapping last week—hey, I've been there, sister. Whether you're just trying to get attention or making a serious bid for money, it doesn't matter, they always catch you. All these successful kidnapping movies you see just make you think you can get away with it—Ransom, Silence of the Lambs… actually, they didn't get away with it, so maybe the movies are innocent on this one.

I never got away with any of my fake kidnappings. I had enough real ones to establish some credibility that someone actually thought I was steal-worthy, but I wasn't very good at pulling off hoaxes. I like fresh air too much, I suppose, which is probably what the Wisconsin girl's problem was. She was seen parading around town, buying hoax supplies like hoax rope and joke knives and shit. I only hung out in neighborhoods, I never went on shopping sprees or anything. That's one for Clarissa.

Come to think of it, I was usually between 9 and 13 when I faked my kidnappings. What was her excuse? By college age I sure had enough brains to b.s. my way to a convincing kidnapping. Something really believable, like there were two kidnappers, one looked like Danny Terio but a little Horschacky in the face, and the other one had a big beard and looked like Grizzly Adams, but despite his menacing appearance, he was the one who was kind to me—brought me cold sodas and let me watch TV on a portable black-and-white set. Occasionally they would get nervous when they thought cops might be closing in, so they hid me in a closet in a burlap bag but the big one gave me a flashlight because I was scared of the dark. I could hear them through the door, arguing about whether or not they should just kill me and forget the money, but the big guy resisted, given his sweet nature. Eventually the nervous Danny Terio-Horschacky guy lost his cool and tried to ice me with a knife, but the big guy wrestled him away and had to snap his neck to stop him, but not before Danny Terio-Horschacky stabbed him in the belly. Regretful, he freed me from the closet and drove me to a bus station where I could contact my parents, and I asked him if he would be alright, and he said he would, but he was bleeding too bad and messing up the interior of his 1982 Pontiac Firebird. I got out and waved good-bye, knowing I'd never see him again, and that's how I managed to get away, but I don't know the way back.

Damn, that was good. I almost convinced myself I really was kidnapped. I suppose it's possible it's another real kidnapping from my TV days and I just repressed it or something, but I don't think so.

No matter what your reason, though, or how excellent and even poignant the story you make up is, fake kidnappings aren't worth the time. I should do a public service announcement like that. If you want money, hell, there's tons of easier ways to do it. Dealing drugs in minority neighborhoods is one way to make a fortune without ever drawing the attention of cops, but you have to be careful, because if you're a 20-year-old white girl selling heroin you might not be able to defend your turf well against local drug kingpins. But then again, maybe they'll appreciate your spunk. Make you a mascot for their drug trade or something.

And if you want attention, trust me, join a cult. It's like a legitimate kidnapping, drives the folks batshit and they give you a place to sleep and robes to wear. It's like a little vacation at a mind-control resort. Parents will even pay to have people kidnap you back, it's crazy cool. That's how we got my brother Poot back the first couple of cults he joined. Dad didn't pay the kidnapper, but he cooked some great steaks and we had a fun barbecue. The kidnapper was Freddy Mercury, but don't even get me started on that. I'm just trying to let all the kids know, if you're hard up for money or attention, sleeping in the woods and causing a national media frenzy is not always the answer. Sometimes. But not always.

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