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Jackson Alleges Reverse RacismNovember 24, 2003 |
Santa Barbara, CA SANTA BARBARA COUNTY CORRECTIONS Though Michael Jackson’s image wouldn’t take on the mug shot film, Diana Ross kindly agreed to step in. estselling musician and deposed King of Pop Michael Jackson returned accusations against the Santa Barbara county D.A. Saturday, making charges of “reverse racism” to reporters through a released memo on extra-white stationary. Jackson, who was once a perfectly normal black superstar, was arrested Thursday on charges of multiple counts of something-something with a minor, or in short-hand, child molesting. The pop star faced similar accusations in 1993, shortly after turning white, but criminal charges were never filed when the father of the child in question was bought off by Jackson with a big fat check, praise whitey. Attorney for Jackson Mark Geragos, also representing white wife-killer Scott Peterson, released a statement to the press for the umpteenth time this week, Satu...
estselling musician and deposed King of Pop Michael Jackson returned accusations against the Santa Barbara county D.A. Saturday, making charges of “reverse racism” to reporters through a released memo on extra-white stationary. Jackson, who was once a perfectly normal black superstar, was arrested Thursday on charges of multiple counts of something-something with a minor, or in short-hand, child molesting. The pop star faced similar accusations in 1993, shortly after turning white, but criminal charges were never filed when the father of the child in question was bought off by Jackson with a big fat check, praise whitey. Attorney for Jackson Mark Geragos, also representing white wife-killer Scott Peterson, released a statement to the press for the umpteenth time this week, Saturday’s stating in no uncertain terms the criminal investigation was based on the fact Jackson is white. “It’s no coincidence I’m a white man who is very successful and just happen to be accused of these horrible crimes,” the statement read. “If I were a non-white child molester everyone in the California legal system would be so intimidated by cries of racism I would never even be brought in for questioning. I know how the game is played, being a California white man for more than thirteen years now.” It’s the latest call of injustice for Jackson, who earlier this week claimed the arrest warrant was uncoincidentally announced on the same day his new rehash of hits reached store shelves; shortly after, Jackson declared the district attorney’s office was holding a grudge against the entertainer simply because he was accused of molestation ten years ago and never went to trial. The district attorney, who is actually named Snedden, a big freckled white guy with no hair and a mustache, dismissed the charges. He rebuffed the accusations at his continuing 72-hour press conference party. “Mr. Jackson’s skin color, whatever it is this week, has no place in our investigation. The only requirements for charges of child molestation are—well, let me check the list,” said Sneddon, sarcastically studying an imaginary clipboard, “Oh, right—sex acts with kids. Sometimes it slips my mind. But that’s it alright. That’s what he’s accused of doing.” The modern-day fop has created more than one controversy in recent months, including dangling his infant son over a third-story balcony and unproven rumors he ate one of his children. In a British documentary clip shown excessively in the past five days, Jackson also said he likes to share his bed with children in a non-sexual way and even if he does have sex with them it doesn’t mean he likes it. Jackson also mentioned masturbating to the sight of his chimpanzee dressed up like himself, but it might have been something this reporter just made up. Also on the subject of sexual excitement, prominent members of the media said they would be following the case with interest. “Hot damn, Christmas came early this year!” exclaimed one of hundreds of white national television newspeople, not to be confused with the two non-white media representatives, Ed Bradley from 60 Minutes and Al Roker.
the commune news thinks it only fair to remind you Jackson himself announced he was bad and dangerous, on previous album titles, and you hipsters thought he was just talking slang. Shabozz Wertham is a reporter of color, and that color is often fuming red when he sees his stories relegated to low slots on the roster.
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 December 10, 2001
Your Honor, the Whole Damn Vending Machine in the Hall is Out of OrderOne night several weeks ago, I got home after a grueling day of communing to find a strange-assed envelope in my mail box, wedged between the usual offer for Sea Monkeys and a Carmen Electra poster catalog. At first I thought I might have won a Harley or maybe my report card from the third grade had finally shown up. No such luck. When I studied the return-address more closely, I realized it was from the Jury Commissioner's Office, and that could only mean one thing.
The game was on.
Ever since the I was in shortpants, watching my dad do battle with unseenfoes over the telephone line, I'd waited for this day. The time had come to do what any honest, red-blooded American would do when they got the call: to match wits with the American justice system and try like hell to get out of jury duty. This is what our fathers have fought and died for time and time again, compadres: the right to outsmart The Man and avoid having to find parking downtown.
I decided to warm up by trying my old stand-by dodge. I called the number listed on the back of the summons and, in a bone-chilling facsimile of my mother's voice, told the jury duty operator that Omar would be unable to make it, because he had the measles or some shit. Looking back now, it was probably throwing that "or some shit" on the end that sunk my subterfuge, because the operator said I'd have to reschedule for another date. I thought fast and tried adding on that I had whiskey-dick as...
º Last Column: A Three Hour Tour of Conspiracy º more columns
One night several weeks ago, I got home after a grueling day of communing to find a strange-assed envelope in my mail box, wedged between the usual offer for Sea Monkeys and a Carmen Electra poster catalog. At first I thought I might have won a Harley or maybe my report card from the third grade had finally shown up. No such luck. When I studied the return-address more closely, I realized it was from the Jury Commissioner's Office, and that could only mean one thing.
The game was on.
Ever since the I was in shortpants, watching my dad do battle with unseenfoes over the telephone line, I'd waited for this day. The time had come to do what any honest, red-blooded American would do when they got the call: to match wits with the American justice system and try like hell to get out of jury duty. This is what our fathers have fought and died for time and time again, compadres: the right to outsmart The Man and avoid having to find parking downtown.
I decided to warm up by trying my old stand-by dodge. I called the number listed on the back of the summons and, in a bone-chilling facsimile of my mother's voice, told the jury duty operator that Omar would be unable to make it, because he had the measles or some shit. Looking back now, it was probably throwing that "or some shit" on the end that sunk my subterfuge, because the operator said I'd have to reschedule for another date. I thought fast and tried adding on that I had whiskey-dick as well, but she seemed pretty unimpressed by that improvisation.
I knew then that the old stand-by wasn't going to cut it this time, not by a long-shot. It was like trying to carve a jack-o-lantern with a piece of cooked spaghetti: damn useless. I was pretty surprised, too, because the exact same ploy worked wonders that time when I had to get out of a date with the ugly-assed daughter of one of my uncle's business partners. Shit, by the time I got to the whiskey-dick part I don't even think she wanted to go on the date any more, but these jury duty mugs had far tougher nuts to crack.
Several subsequent calls to the jury duty line proved equally unsuccessful: it turns out that swearing like a motherfucker, being a Communist or having a thick Mexican accent are all honky-dory if you want to be a juror these days. Go figure.
I went to the drawing board and read the pamphlet that came with my summons, figuring I had to beat these hard-asses at their own game. According to the pamphlet, there were only three excuses that would get you out of jury duty: you don't speak word uno of English, you're so damned old you scare little kids, or you've already been on a jury in the last two years. Now I know what you're thinking, and believe me I thought of it first: between that wet pajama contest I judged locally and being in the audience for that taping of Divorce Court last year, I should be good for another four years at least. Not so, claim the Jury Nazis.
Since they had to be such assholes about the whole two-year thing, I decided to play a little hardball and spent the next two weeks answering the phone in a made-up nonsense language that was like some kind of cross between German and the ingredients of a Snapple. Once again, those clever motherfuckers got the drop on your friend Omar by calling at eight in the morning when I was dead asleep and had momentarily forgotten about the whole "No English" ruse. So much for project "Nein Sorbate Verboten."
I briefly considered making some kind of old-man suit out of croissant mix and talcum powder, but after a particularly nasty talcum mishap I got pissed off and just called those uptight pigfuckers and told them that it's my constitutional whoozumwhatzit to have them kiss my pale white ass, with whipped topping if you please, and that in the mean time I hoped they all choked on a turd. It was a bold shift in strategy, I admit, but for a while I thought it might have worked and that I'd scared them off.
Then one day I received a notice in the mail saying that if I didn't show up for jury duty, I'd be held in contempt of court and fined $121. Woah. Now, I don't know how they arrived at that figure, I suspect they were peeking into the old Bricks Checking Account again, but suffice it to say they were now officially speaking my language. These were some stone-cold bastards.
After a rousing rental of "A Few Good Men", I decided that jury duty probably wouldn't be that bad, and that maybe I'd luck out and get some kind of case that involved a dude being smothered by fake boobs or something. Really, any case that involved topless testimony would've been cool by me, I'm flexible.
And to tell you the truth, in the end, I actually had a good time. And man was I glad that I'd thought to wear my judge costume from last Halloween, because they treat those regular jurors like assholes. I got a much better seat and even got to give some dude the chair for eating his neighbor's horse in some kind of funny-assed cultural misunderstanding. The rest of the day probably would have been a blast too if the real judge hadn't shown up and had me re-assigned to some boring damned murder trial. Since when does it take a whole friggin' week to figure out that the dude with the chain-saw did it? I'd planned on two hours tops, with maybe a break for a romantic interlude in the middle. Some fussy sacks of juror-scat might argue that it would have been over sooner if I hadn't been playing the "Do you have a verdict?/Your honor, we have a dickfour" game with the judge, but that only added twenty minutes, tops.
And the memories, as they say, will last a lifetime. I think the taser scars probably will too. º Last Column: A Three Hour Tour of Conspiracyº more columns
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|  September 30, 2002
Sub-Transportational Carsick BluesBy now everybody in the tri-state area knows about the fiery death of the Bricksmobile, that's old news. And really, big deal. It's something that happens to everybody at least once in their life, having their car blow up and tear the garage doors off of three of their neighbors' houses, and getting sued and all that. Just one of those trials of life things like having to waddle into the emergency room with a coke bottle stuck up your ass. No fun, for sure, but it's not like it's your own personal torment that nobody else can relate to. Just part of living la vida loca, like that Taco Bell commercial says.
But this latest wrinkle in the saga is just plain different. First, as I'm sure you've heard, I get banned from every taxi company in the city. Every one! Even the ones that don't speak English. Don't even ask me how that happens; the logistics of it are mind-blowing. I did learn a valuable lesson from this experience, though. If you're going to reenact the "throwing the flaming jack-o-lantern at the dude's head" scene from Sleepy Hollow to surprise one of your friends while he's on a blind date, don't do it from a taxi. Rent a car or something, I don't know. Because a lifetime citywide taxi ban is one hard motherfucking pill to swallow, that's all that can be said about that.
So now I've got no way of getting around, except for this shitty old Schwinn I found in the garage that only works in the highest gear. Believe me, I tried some...
º Last Column: Just Leave Me a Clone º more columns
By now everybody in the tri-state area knows about the fiery death of the Bricksmobile, that's old news. And really, big deal. It's something that happens to everybody at least once in their life, having their car blow up and tear the garage doors off of three of their neighbors' houses, and getting sued and all that. Just one of those trials of life things like having to waddle into the emergency room with a coke bottle stuck up your ass. No fun, for sure, but it's not like it's your own personal torment that nobody else can relate to. Just part of living la vida loca, like that Taco Bell commercial says.
But this latest wrinkle in the saga is just plain different. First, as I'm sure you've heard, I get banned from every taxi company in the city. Every one! Even the ones that don't speak English. Don't even ask me how that happens; the logistics of it are mind-blowing. I did learn a valuable lesson from this experience, though. If you're going to reenact the "throwing the flaming jack-o-lantern at the dude's head" scene from Sleepy Hollow to surprise one of your friends while he's on a blind date, don't do it from a taxi. Rent a car or something, I don't know. Because a lifetime citywide taxi ban is one hard motherfucking pill to swallow, that's all that can be said about that.
So now I've got no way of getting around, except for this shitty old Schwinn I found in the garage that only works in the highest gear. Believe me, I tried some pretty creative schemes to get out of having to ride that goddamned thing. Like ordering a pizza to be delivered, then riding back to Dominos with the delivery guy, then calling on their phone to order a pizza from another place closer to where I wanted to get to, and so on and so forth. Turns out that gets pretty expensive around the third or fourth leg of the trip, in retrospect I probably should have laid off ordering the hot wings and the extra 2-liters of Coke and whatnot. Not to mention that some of those guys get downright weird about you riding in their car with them back to the pizza place, trying to pull away when you're just grabbing the door handle and all kinds of rude shit like that.
So anyway, a couple hundred bucks later Omar Bricks is back to busting his ass on the goddamned garage sale bike. And let me tell you, if you ever want to work up a healthy hatred of your fellow man, try riding a bike to work. People expect you to ride over in the gutter like some kind of taxi-banned wino on his way to the wine factory or wherever the hell it is winos work. And they get all bent out of shape when you get off your bike to push it up a hill, like they've got somewhere to be all of a sudden. Christ, I wouldn't even be shlepping it up these hills at all if anybody respected the bike lane on the freeway like they're supposed to.
All I know is that this bike thing can't last long. It's all fine and good if you're eight and you don't know any better, but what in the world do they make adult-sized bikes for? I guess to give drivers something to laugh at on their morning commune, cut down on road rage or something. Sounds reasonable. But Omar Bricks is done being the rush-hour punch line; I'm clearly ready for a new set of wheels. Maybe a scooter or something, do they still make those? Those Devo guys sure seemed happy cruising around on those things. Not that I'm going to wear the lampshade hat or anything, I just want some kind of vehicle that does the peddling for me. If I've learned one thing from this whole ordeal, it's that peddling is for suckers.
That, and don't set your car on fire based on an infomercial. So two things. Maybe three, if you count the taxi ban. Shit, maybe I should look into getting some college credits out of this thing. Turning the whole situation on its head, to my advantage and all.
Now that's what they call finding the Kraut's silver linens.
Bricks Out. º Last Column: Just Leave Me a Cloneº more columns
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Quote of the Day“There ain't no cure for the summertime blues. Or HIV. Boy, AIDS, that must suck. This has been a Public Service Announcement from Eddie Cochran.”
-Eddie CochranFortune 500 CookieLook to the stars for guidance: preferably someone who's been in a big movie in the last five years. You will go to the bathroom this week. Don't be fooled by your lack of progress in life: things can still get much worse. This week's lucky gelatin desserts: Jell-O Jigglers, Jell-O Epileptics, Limp Hicks, Greased Piggie Bites, Spineless Weasels, Slime Dogs.
Try again later.Top More Things to Do With a Severed Finger| 1. | Donate it to shop teachers in need | | 2. | Really get your waiter's attention | | 3. | Confuse the hell out of C.S.I. | | 4. | Pick your friends and your nose | | 5. | Dip it in gold; make yourself an "I'm # 1" award | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY E.L. Pout 11/12/2001 ShunsWho has been flushing your worldly possessions?
Replacing your wardrobe with out-of-date fashions?
Making your schnauzer do Nixon impressions?
Squeezing your neighbors for seedy confessions?
Coating your lips with pre-cancerious lesions?
Showing you slides of infected abrasions?
Accusing your mother of being a Russian?
Filling your mind with intemperate passions?
Splitting your food into practical rations?
Loading your pickup with refugee Haitians?
Mocking your cock in some lewd animations?
Cutting your paycheck by raising inflation?
Wrecking your travel with tropical depressions?
Selling your free time as one-hour sessions?
Telling your family about past transgressions?
Tilling your tulips and...
Who has been flushing your worldly possessions?
Replacing your wardrobe with out-of-date fashions?
Making your schnauzer do Nixon impressions?
Squeezing your neighbors for seedy confessions?
Coating your lips with pre-cancerious lesions?
Showing you slides of infected abrasions?
Accusing your mother of being a Russian?
Filling your mind with intemperate passions?
Splitting your food into practical rations?
Loading your pickup with refugee Haitians?
Mocking your cock in some lewd animations?
Cutting your paycheck by raising inflation?
Wrecking your travel with tropical depressions?
Selling your free time as one-hour sessions?
Telling your family about past transgressions?
Tilling your tulips and planting impatiens?
Shipping your panties to greedy Alsatians?
Sorry, I'm busy with my own regressions.   |