American Afghans Apprehended, Interred In Camps

n a controversial move, Congress has barely passed a bill allowing the arrest and internment of thousands of American-born Afghans in "government pounds."

The Afghan, a popular breed of mid-size long-haired dog, was reportedly introduced to America several years ago by Chinese guys who brought them here originally to eat them, reported commune Research Editor Griswald Dreck. Also, horses were originally introduced to our country as indentured servants.

Dog Fancy magazine estimates the number of interred Afghans could reach 5,000 before the end of the week. Already several Afghans face additional charges of disobeying the new law by not reporting their whereabouts.

"We said, 'Sit. Stay.' And these dogs have disobeyed," said Attorney General John Ashcroft. "Bad dogs. Bad, bad dogs."

Across the United States, pet owners and sympathizers are outraged by what they call an unfounded, prejudicial law.

"These dogs are good Americans," said Nancy Martin, owner of three Afghans interred because of the new law. "Mumu, Gaia, and Kiwi were born right here in this country. They eat American food, they wear American-made sweaters and make bad on American rugs. Not Persian. Certainly not Afghanese. Bad dogs? I say, 'Bad lawmakers. Bad, bad lawmakers.'"

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You see, there were these teeny tiny people who lived in a doll Tamara bought at the mall and though they were quite peaceful and kind, when they came out to introduce themselves she thought they were fleas and sprayed the whole lot of them with an industrial de-lousing agent that really was chemically harsh and probably not something pregnant women should get within 50 yards of.

The people, who were called Unids, by the way, didn't die from the spray but rather developed a thick tolerance for the stuff, like French people with sarcasm. As the old saying goes, that which doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, but the part they left out is that it also gets you high as shit. When the Unids finally came down after a fantastic three days of psychedelic reverie and a full-body buzz, they no longer cared about uptight square concerns like whether the inside of the doll was a mess or if they had a contingency plan in place in case the vacuum cleaner came around again. They cared about one thing and one thing only: gettin' some more of that happy juice.

For a while, this was easy, since all they had to do was pop out of the doll when Tamara was around and wave their arms around. Before you could say "Louse in my house!" they were swimming in the good stuff like bennies from heaven. It was wild, I'm talking high on the hog like the '86 Mets. They'd call it the "Salad Days" if salad came with crack as a dressing option.

But the problem was, before too long, Tamara figured out that the Unids weren't fleas at all. Nor mites, nor any kind of vermin she'd ever seen before. After a few weeks the shock wore off and she started looking at the Unids a little closer, and that's when she realized that they were kind of cute. Sort of like tiny little wooden dolls with stylized, painted-on faces. Pretty happy-looking really. And once she'd figured that out, well, then there surely wasn't any reason to de-louse the poor little buggers, was there?

Big, big problem for the Unids. Their connection had dried up like an Arizona housewife hitting menopause. Their future wasn't so bright as to require the wearing of shades, but they wore them anyway, to hide their bloodshot, bugged-out eyes. The Unids were going cold turkey like a third grade class on a picnic field trip to the North Pole, and they liked it about as much as they liked Sarah McLaughlan. Which is to say, not at all.

Finally one day one of the Unids, who shall remain nameless since none of them ever had any names, so why should we start now? They didn't have telephones or fax machines or anything, so they hardly had use for names, "Hey you!" always did them fine and they hated the stuck-up little prick types of little tiny people like the Omits who insisted on everyone calling them by their absurdly long snooty full names, like Alexandarium Mananavicholious Tooterflute.

Anyway, one day one of the Unids figured out that the only way they were going to score again in this lifetime would be if they all put their heads together and came up with some really freakin' scary costumes. If they could manage to scare Tamara bad enough, she just might send some of that sweet, sweet de-lousing spray their way in a panic, and then my friends, the train would be made of gravy. That's what he said anyway, I'm not sure what the train thing supposed to mean, some kind of cultural slang thing that doesn't translate well probably.

So anyway, this is how the Unids honed their now-legendary costuming skills. First, they were dressed as fleas. Then, when Tamara got wise to that, it was skin mites. Then ticks, then moose fleas. I don't think there really is any such thing as "moose fleas," but Tamara didn't know that so I have to give them some points for creativity there. Before long, word got out that the Unids made some pretty wicked costumes, and they soon went into business for themselves and did well enough that they could buy their own delousing spray and they nodded off happily ever after.

A pretty heartwarming story, true. But if you ever get any of those little junkie pricks living in your beanbag chair, you might as well just throw the thing away, because it's just going to stink after that.

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You get asked a lot of stupid questions when you write for the commune. Like, "What is the commune?" and "Who the hell are you?" and "Sir, can you empty your pockets please? Don't cause a scene, sir." But every once in a while a non-dumbass will ask a question I think warrants an answer, and so I try to take a moment to appease that foolboy. This week I answer the question, "What does the name of your column, 'My Friend Polio,' mean?"

Your roughneck narrator has a very big and occupied world to deal with, compadres, and so I sometimes forget your world is altogether different, often smaller and more disappointing. So I forget sometimes a title like "My Friend Polio" is lost on all of you who don't hang with Mr. Bricks in person. Let me try to define the nature of "My Friend Polio" and why that title is the letterhead for this column each week.

Growing up in Waucheska, New Jersey was pretty cool. We were so close to Asbury Park that I got many a Springsteen reference all you midwest cowpunchers didn't. Then Bon Jovi came along from New Jersey and fucked up a good thing; we all tried to keep it a secret, then that Alpha Centauri-sized asshole had to go and title an album "New Jersey," making it all more than obvious. Goddamned nutsack-tugger. Anyway, forget him, getting off-track.

I had lots of friends growing up, but two best friends--one was Johnshark Remnants and the other was a guy I could never remember nor pronounce his name, so me and Johnshark called him "Polio," 'cause one leg was terrifyingly smaller than the other on him. Mind you I don't think he actually had Polio, not even sure what that shit is, Johnshark came up with the name, and I think it was cured by Dr. Spock anyway, and if you get down to brass tacks, amigo, I don't want to know what he had, but suffice to say one leg was big-fuckin'-difference smaller.

Back in the day, Johnshark, Polio, and me were big into NBC's "Voyagers." Now this ain't the crappy UPN "Star Trek" spin-off with freaks galore and a bitch captain. This is the crappy NBC time-travelling show with only one little Waldo-shirted freak and some big bitch time traveller who later shot himself by accident I hear, no joke. But anyway, the show didn't last long because the motherfuckers at NBC were always looking for some big drama like "The A-Team" and wouldn't give sci-fi a chance back in them days. Johnshark, Polio, and me specialized in collecting memorabilia from the short lived show and bragged at parties that collectively we had the largest gathering of "Voyagers" merchandising and collectibles available. Whenever we got invited to parties, 'course.

Then, boom! Along comes this rich asshole Carrington Johnson, who we hear has basically all the shit we got times two, plus the coveted "Voyagers" lunchbox complete with thermos intact—only 200 of those were made before NBC cancelled the fucking show. Naturally, dudes, we wouldn't stand for it. The guys and me planned a little midnight rendezvous to add this dweeb's memorabilia, lunchbox and all, to our own collection. Johnshark assured us that there was a constitutional ammendment testifying "that no one of doofus stature shall possess infinitely cool stuff whilst some bad motherfuckers do without." It's been a long time and I ain't ever checked that clause out, truthfully, but I gotta admit the "whilst" sounds dead on like the Constitution.

So we saddle up in pure commando gear, bad motherfuckers in the truest sense—fuckin' Doc Martens before they was cool, black turtlenecks like mothefuckin' "Mission: Impossible," except for Polio who only had a dark green one, and black knitcaps, except for Johnshark, who had this big-ass ten gallon cowboy hat, that son of a bitch knew how to carry out commando-esque action in style!

So lo and behold, the fuckin' door is left open! This shit couldn't be easier. And this mighty bastard don't even have nothing put up in cupboards with locks or something, no laser-type motion sensors or nothing, which would've been cool as fuck but hard as a virgin on prom night to bust. All this priceless treasure is packed away in boxes, and me, Polio, and hat-wearin' motherfucker Johnshark just waltz in and grab this booty, hauling off everything, Polio taking special care to grab that incredible lunchbox-thermos combo and making off like a bandit.

But shit explodes on the lawn when some gargantuan Rottweiler starts chomping down on us at full speed. That awesome Johnshark converted to pussy in record time and drops all the bonanza, zooms across the lawn, over the hedges in a single jump and I swear I didn't see that yellow motherfucker for another two years, no shit.

Me, I never learn a lesson before it happens, so I grab up as much of Johnshark's shit as possible and try to make it to the fence, convinced I could scale that badass faster than that dog can catch up with me. But Polio, prized lunchbox in hands, reaches the fence first and goddamn if his little bizarro fuckin' leg don't go right through the spokes and gets stuck.

I throw all of our ill-gotten gains over the fence in one hurle, like "whoosh!" it's over, and then try to get that little freak leg out of the fence, 'cause Omar Bricks never leaves a man behind, don't you know. But this dog is down on my ass by the time I get Polio's toothpick leg out that damn fence, and I hurl the motherfucker right over the fence, breaking my previous record for shit tossed over the fence. But as luck would have it, I break the fucker's leg, too—and wouldn't you know it, it's the big one. Goddamn if Lady Luck don't fuck me with a strap-on sometimes.

So I clear the fence like I sprouted wings on my ass just as that big dog tries to grab some Omar on the way up. I land on the other side and it's pretty clear Polio ain't going anywhere without a wheelbarrow under his ass. So I start thinking of where I can get a wheelbarrow, but wouldn't you trust that little pygmy-leg son of a bitch to take the high road and say to me, "Go, Omar! It's too late for me! Save yourself."

Omar Bricks don't need to be told nothing twice. I'm out of there before Polio can change his mind, even as I hear him scream things behind me. I think that dog might've climbed the fence and started gnawing on his leg like a rawhide chew, but I'll be damned if I'm going to turn my head and lose much-needed velocity.

That was a long time ago. I read in the paper Polio's doing hard time now. That crazy bastard never said one word about yours truly or that massive infection of cowardice Johnshark. And Lady Luck took unkindly to his ass as well—he was assigned to a minimum security prison, then became part of this prison exchange program with Guatemala. Now he's busting rock in some goddamn hellhole to finance some rich-ass king or something while some little fuckin' political prisoner tart is living the highlife in his minimum security joint.

That's the story, mates—long and ugly, like a pecker in a porno. It was after that Omar Bricks decided to turn his life around and stay away from the evil temptation of stolen TV memorabilia. Polio would've wanted it that way. Maybe still does, how should I know? I don't even remember his real goddamn name to look him up in the phone book if he was out. But I'm forever appreciative, wherever you are, you off-balance motherfucker. So everytime you all tuck in to read some shit on the commune, remember to thank Polio for me.

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