|  | 
Americans to Commemorate Sept. 11th by Bitching About Minor InconveniencesSeptember 2, 2002 |
The pre-Sept. 11th New York skyline, before phallic representations of power were forever made flaccid ext Wednesday will mark the first anniversary of the Sept. 11th attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, a day of tragedy that made Americans pause from their normal lives and rally together in support of the victims. In addition to fears of new terrorist attacks on the anniversary, most Americans are uncertain how to commemorate the event. Already, however, most are expected to resume their habits of complaining about the smallest of problems.
"I hope they give us the day off at work," said Texas cell phone salesman Bob Whiterich. "It's like a national tragedy and crap. How are people supposed to work on a day like that? And if I knew I could take a couple of vacation days Monday and Tuesday and head to the beach with the family."
Most com...
ext Wednesday will mark the first anniversary of the Sept. 11 th attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, a day of tragedy that made Americans pause from their normal lives and rally together in support of the victims. In addition to fears of new terrorist attacks on the anniversary, most Americans are uncertain how to commemorate the event. Already, however, most are expected to resume their habits of complaining about the smallest of problems.
"I hope they give us the day off at work," said Texas cell phone salesman Bob Whiterich. "It's like a national tragedy and crap. How are people supposed to work on a day like that? And if I knew I could take a couple of vacation days Monday and Tuesday and head to the beach with the family."
Most companies and government agencies have decided against imposing a holiday, feeling the anniversary would be spent better keeping businesses and services functioning as normal. Even plans for restricting air travel on Sept. 11 th have been declined, feeling the statement to the rest of the world, including Muslim extremists believed to have launched the attacks, is a stronger exclamation of solidarity and a country affected, yet not shaken in their resolve by terrorism.
Mark Turnskit, a 42-year-old UPS driver and volunteer fireman in Piermont, North Dakota, however, thinks that is bullshit.
"It's bullshit, man," said Turnskit. "We need a day to remember the importance of it all and stuff. I have a lot of friends back east, in Ohio. A cousin of one of them was married to a firefighter and I think he may have been in the World Trade Center disaster and stuff. I haven't talked to them in a long time—I don't write letters and all, you know, and I don't have their e-mail address or anything. The worst part is not knowing."
Added Turnskit, "I'm a firefighter, so I know what it's like. I could have been in that place just as easy as all the guys who were."
California telemarketer Steve Gerber has made no change in plans for Sept. 11 th. "What is that, a Wednesday? I don't imagine I'll have time to think about the loss of lives and how great it is to live in a country that is still the most secure and wealthiest on the planet. Maybe some time in the evening, after work, if there's something on the Discovery Channel talking about it or—aw, shit. West Wing is on that night, right?"
"I would take a minute or two to stop and think about life and death and all that," said Howett, Tennessee factory worker Milt Darling, "but the Dodge has been crapping out on me a lot, lately. I'll probably have to worry about getting a ride to work. Life's so fucking unfair, man."
Decatur, Georgia realtor Shari Cartier summed up the feelings of most Americans on the subject: "It will be a dark day. This has been the greatest tragedy in history of all time. Something like 6,000 people died—that's more than died in Vietnam, you know. But, c'mon, I got my own life to worry about. Those damn Peel St. properties aren't going to move themselves. And the kids can't take themselves to karate."
The most significant commemoration of the day, outside of New York and Washington, D.C., is likely to come from Perkins, Nebraska, where button collector and local crackpot Vernon Heston is planning on building a scale model of the World Trade Center towers out of Popsicle sticks. Although, according to Heston, if the price of Popsicles continues to skyrocket, the whole thing will be scrapped. the commune news would love to take a few minutes of silence for the victims of the disaster, but that goddamn Omar Bricks says the off button on his stereo is broken. Ramrod Hurley sort of reminds us of a dog that knows how to take a good beating, then turns around and takes a good dump in your shoes.
 | Lawmakers tour Guantanamo prison, Cuban strip clubs and bars
Weepy NASA: Rover ran away; not coming back
Ohio IT guy offers last jellied donut for capture of MyDoom virus author
Giant panda skeleton found; Ling-Ling sought for questioning
|
British Nearly Affected by London Terror Attacks 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.” Jackson Prosecution Produces Bloody Glove he Michael Jackson trial escalated to the seventh level of hooplah Friday as prosecutors introduced into evidence a bloody sequined gloved that had not been previously revealed publicly. The defense requested a recess, to which the witty judge replied that no one had been good enough to deserve recess, but they would take a brief break. It gave the Jackson defense, led by attorney and Warhol knock-off Thomas Mesereau, a chance to recover from the five-fingered blow. Sanjaya Unites Indian Fans, People Who Hate American Idol IRS: Excessively Needy Girlfriends Can’t Be Declared “Dependents” |
|  |
 | 
 March 18, 2002
Omar Bricks, Meet Omar BricksRecently I was navigating the vast, frozen expanse of the Internet in an attempt to find out what exactly Ma Bell knows about yours truly. I'd heard some scary shit from Griswald Dreck about how people online know everything about your life, from how much mustard you like on your pretzels to how many times you've shaved your sack. I've always been a man who protects his privacy, unless there's a free prize involved, so I was curious to find out what exactly the nosy world knows about Omar Bricks.
My first stop was the Internet search engines, which proved fruitless as lunch at Arby's. The only match that even came up was for a building material wholesaler in Texas. To be honest I was a little disappointed, I'd been hoping for maybe a real-time webcam that showed me sitting there at the computer, looking at a real-time webcam that showed me sitting there at the computer… and on and on endlessly like that Pink Floyd album or that time in college when I put two mirrors really close together and stuck my head in-between them. But instead, nothing. No credit-card numbers, no lists of my favorite CDs, and no photos of me hang gliding naked in Mexico. I've never actually been hang gliding, but I thought someone might have spliced my face into an awesome photo of some crazy fucker freeballin' it over the desert cliffs in Cancun, you know? I could have gone for that.
After my rich fantasy basically had its underwear yanked up the asscrack, I decided to...
º Last Column: Just Say No to Rabid Dogs º more columns
Recently I was navigating the vast, frozen expanse of the Internet in an attempt to find out what exactly Ma Bell knows about yours truly. I'd heard some scary shit from Griswald Dreck about how people online know everything about your life, from how much mustard you like on your pretzels to how many times you've shaved your sack. I've always been a man who protects his privacy, unless there's a free prize involved, so I was curious to find out what exactly the nosy world knows about Omar Bricks.
My first stop was the Internet search engines, which proved fruitless as lunch at Arby's. The only match that even came up was for a building material wholesaler in Texas. To be honest I was a little disappointed, I'd been hoping for maybe a real-time webcam that showed me sitting there at the computer, looking at a real-time webcam that showed me sitting there at the computer… and on and on endlessly like that Pink Floyd album or that time in college when I put two mirrors really close together and stuck my head in-between them. But instead, nothing. No credit-card numbers, no lists of my favorite CDs, and no photos of me hang gliding naked in Mexico. I've never actually been hang gliding, but I thought someone might have spliced my face into an awesome photo of some crazy fucker freeballin' it over the desert cliffs in Cancun, you know? I could have gone for that.
After my rich fantasy basically had its underwear yanked up the asscrack, I decided to check out some alternative sources of information. Next came the online white pages. I figured maybe my home address would be up there somewhere with a link to a map and a note about the spare key that's hidden on top of my doormat. Some kind of scary invasion-of-privacy shit like that to really make the search worthwhile, you know? Well fill out that fantasy in your own heads as you so desire, because it turns out I'm not even listed. Apparently as far as the Internet is concerned, Omar Bricks isn't worth stalking or roping into a pyramid scheme. It's like I don't even exist in their eyes, which makes me feel kind of like a time traveler with no identity and it makes me wonder what I could get away with. I could probably paint my name in block capitals on the side of the bank after I walked out with my pants stuffed full of cash, and it wouldn't matter. What are the cops going to do, look me up online? Shit.
A funny thing did come up when I was searching the white pages, though. I wasn't in there, but I'll be goddamned if there wasn't another Omar Bricks listed! No lie! Some lucky bastard living out in Sudsbury, MA. What kind of bizarre mind-bending shit is that? Could we have been separated at birth? Just thinking about how I'd lived my entire life not knowing that there was another Omar Bricks running around kind of creeped me out. What if he was out there wearing a Thompson Twins tee-shirt or something and making me look like a total dink? This was a serious liability, the Omar Bricks street cred was in the hands of some guy who could be into collecting dolls for all I knew.
This needed to be investigated with a quickness, so I sent Omar a post card and before I knew it we had exchanged several letters about what it's like to live the Omar Bricks life. Turns out he was a pretty decent cat, maybe a little too into the quarters from all of the different states, but to be honest I was just happy he wasn't a famous ballet dancer or anything. Before long we made plans to meet in person and I flew out to Massachusetts for the weekend.
And it was a great trip, Omar and I hung loose and had the kind of fun that only two people with the same name can have. We went to the airport and had ourselves paged, then got into a fake karate fight at the ticket desk after a long staged argument about who was the real Omar Bricks. After security escorted us out we went home and Omar had a great idea about calling a radio call-in show. I went out to the phone in the hall and called the same show, and we spent a half an hour arguing for and against abortion with the show's host. The dude almost went out of his ass between the fact that both of his callers had the same name and were calling from the same town, and the fact that they probably don't get a lot of calls about abortion on AutoTalk.
After that we were pretty strapped for ideas until Omar realized we could really raise some hell by trading lives for a month and acting like nothing had happened. I thought it was a great idea, but Omar's girlfriend got all uptight about the whole thing and we had to settle for setting Omar up with double food stamps at the local welfare office. Not quite the grand caper we had envisioned originally, but still pretty handy when you need some baby formula or a rack of lamb or something.
After the weekend was over I had to come home, I think to the relief of Omar's girlfriend. I returned to a world that felt a little smaller and a little less Omar Bricksish. But although there's only one Omar to carry the load in these parts, it gives me peace to know that there's another O.B. out there, somewhere, keeping it Bricks. Not to mention that I started a couple of credit cards in his name while I was out there. Voice-activated deck chairs, here I come! Bricks out. º Last Column: Just Say No to Rabid Dogsº more columns
| 
|  October 18, 2004
Queers Vote KerryMy opponent, Raoul Dunkin, makes a good case. That case is herpes. On the subject of politics, the old adage on children applies to him: Both should be seen beaten to a bloody pulp.
The liberal left is scared guiltless by the powerful agenda put forth by an assumably well-hung president. Still, the best they could offer is Senator John Kerry. John Kerry, who is from Massachusetts and doesn't even sound a bit like Cliff Clavin. Just where is Kerry really from? I'm not naming names, but let it be known that I, Ted Ted, was the first one to notice how French he looked. I'm pretty sure he wears lifts in his shoes to rise above his usual height of 5'1". I have it on good authority.
Kerry comes from the oldest tradition of tax-and-spend liberals. But taxes don't necessarily bother me—okay, they do. They bother me in the worst way. But his lesser qualities are what really scare me about Kerry. All these promises to provide increased medical insurance and bring more jobs to the country. Sure, they'll probably be service industry jobs, but I still say fuck that. The fact that we have four guys vying for one job right now, in some areas, is all that insures me I'm going to get a Whopper without hair in it. Take some fucking care with that sandwich, pizza face, 'cause there's three other greasy teen-agers and a Mexican with a fake green card who are ready to do it my way. Unless Kerry has his way.
Not to mention all the flip flops. I don't...
º Last Column: The Rotten Stink of Valentines º more columns
My opponent, Raoul Dunkin, makes a good case. That case is herpes. On the subject of politics, the old adage on children applies to him: Both should be seen beaten to a bloody pulp.
The liberal left is scared guiltless by the powerful agenda put forth by an assumably well-hung president. Still, the best they could offer is Senator John Kerry. John Kerry, who is from Massachusetts and doesn't even sound a bit like Cliff Clavin. Just where is Kerry really from? I'm not naming names, but let it be known that I, Ted Ted, was the first one to notice how French he looked. I'm pretty sure he wears lifts in his shoes to rise above his usual height of 5'1". I have it on good authority.
Kerry comes from the oldest tradition of tax-and-spend liberals. But taxes don't necessarily bother me—okay, they do. They bother me in the worst way. But his lesser qualities are what really scare me about Kerry. All these promises to provide increased medical insurance and bring more jobs to the country. Sure, they'll probably be service industry jobs, but I still say fuck that. The fact that we have four guys vying for one job right now, in some areas, is all that insures me I'm going to get a Whopper without hair in it. Take some fucking care with that sandwich, pizza face, 'cause there's three other greasy teen-agers and a Mexican with a fake green card who are ready to do it my way. Unless Kerry has his way.
Not to mention all the flip flops. I don't want to see my president wearing flip flops. My corneas are still scarred from the sight of Clinton in his jogging shorts—pardon me while I projectile vomit. Presidents should only wear flannel shirts, jeans, and cowboy hats when on vacation, or at the occasional funeral for a world leader. The Democrats have proven they can't be trusted to pick their own off-hours wardrobe. I would like to make it to my death without having seen the president of the United States wearing a hoodie and parachute pants, thank you.
Oh, and he's indecisive on issues. Or not really, perhaps, maybe he's too decisive. He believes in everything everyone else does. He makes fond use of the polls, don't he? Like how he comforts the gay nation and the rest of us at the same time with his assuring mantra: "I support the right for people to do whatever they want, and endorse your heterosexual insecurities, while at the same time embracing the more minor agenda of the homosexual community. I will not allow what you do, nor will I reject America's interference into your private lives." He sidesteps the serious issues like that neighbor of mine whose feet I shoot at every weekend.
Plus, his wife's the ketchup lady. Electing him means being forced to sit through a thousand product placements for Heinz during national speeches, State of the Union addresses, and photo opportunities.
Worse than all of it, if we elect stringbean, he's going to start curbing back the military. Jesus H. Christ on a hobby horse, we're supposed to quit the one thing our country still does best? During three short years we've occupied two enemy countries, made threats and allegations against several others, and pissed off any possible allies we used to have. We rock! Give us one more term, I swear we'll annex Poland and get the French to apologize for getting us into Vietnam.
No more of this pacifistic, sanctions-filled bullshit of a Democratic regime. September 11 gave us a license to kill, and by god, it's only good for a limited time. Let's re-elect the president, reinstate the draft, and start inheriting the earth again. º Last Column: The Rotten Stink of Valentinesº more columns
|

|  |
Quote of the Day“Love, love will tear us apart again. So quit telling those jocks we both like it in the butt.”
-Joy DivinskiFortune 500 CookieYou will spend so much time with your foot in your mouth this week, people will mistake it for performance art. Beat the living shit out of the first person who calls you "buddy" today—best to nip that shit in the bud. Your only remaining shot at true happiness now is joining a cult or getting hooked on heroin: your call. This week's lucky midgets: "Stretch" Svorsded, Suitcase Mike, Jimmy "Dogslapper" McVaughn, Upskirt Kilgore, Ross "The Toss" Ramstein.
Try again later.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Abe Lincoln: Tall Motherfucker | | 2. | Michael Jackson's Dating Tips | | 3. | The Dog Did It: A Dummy's Guide to Solar Wind | | 4. | Uncle Macho's Pepperoni Puree | | 5. | A Tedious Summation of All Your Flaws: Past, Present and Future | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Fritz Random 2/18/2002 A Normal Family (Sarcasm Voice)Bernard hated going home for the holidays. Flag Day was no exception. Flag Day always brought out the worst in the family—Dad's drinking, Mom's neurosis, brother Bob's verbal abuse, sister Val's being dead. Bernard was the only normal one, as normal as anybody could ask for, and all he asked for was one Flag Day that was truly special.
He wouldn't get it this year. That was obvious from the minute he walked in the door. Mom had hung up the picture of Jesus right over the fireplace again. She said it was Tommy Chong, but Bernard knew it was Jesus and it was just there to spite him. Bernard was always the outcast of the family, being Jewish and successful while his family was Christian and white trash. It was always a point of dispute around Flag Day.
"Happy Flag...
Bernard hated going home for the holidays. Flag Day was no exception. Flag Day always brought out the worst in the family—Dad's drinking, Mom's neurosis, brother Bob's verbal abuse, sister Val's being dead. Bernard was the only normal one, as normal as anybody could ask for, and all he asked for was one Flag Day that was truly special.
He wouldn't get it this year. That was obvious from the minute he walked in the door. Mom had hung up the picture of Jesus right over the fireplace again. She said it was Tommy Chong, but Bernard knew it was Jesus and it was just there to spite him. Bernard was always the outcast of the family, being Jewish and successful while his family was Christian and white trash. It was always a point of dispute around Flag Day.
"Happy Flag Day, Bernard!" shouted Mom, in a voice louder than her talking voice.
"Don't start already, Mom," chided Bernard. "I know it's Flag Day. The entire world knows it's Flag Day. There's nothing special about it."
Mom was quiet. It turned out she was choking, and Bob had to give her the Heimlich before she could speak again.
"We were just about to have dinner!" she exclaimed.
"I'm not hungry," Bernard stated simply, kicking the family dog across the floor when it came to greet him.
"Why? Did you eat?"
"Christ, you're starting already!" snapped Bernard. "'Jew eat'! Very funny."
"I said, 'Did you eat?'" repeated Mom.
"Don't lie to me! I'm Jewish, Mom. Get over it. What's the matter?" laughed Bernard callously, "Does it make you unpopular with the P.T.A. to have a son who's a big Jew?"
"No, son, you know that," said Mom. "All the girls have big Jew sons. And I haven't been to the P.T.A. since I got thrown out for making those sex tapes."
"You don't have to make me feel better, Mom," growled Bernard, barking and peeing on the rug. "I know you're ashamed of your big Jew son. Could be worse, right? At least I'm not a flaming homo!"
"Bernard! Don't talk like that!" screamed Mom. "You know your father is a closet homosexual, hence all the depressive drinking."
"I didn't know Dad was a homosexual," said Bob. "Why didn't you tell me, you fat cunt?"
"Again with the verbal abuse!" shouted Bernard at Bob.
"He's just playing, it's just Bob's way," said Mom. "Bob, you know Dad's been as gay as a Spanish soap opera since right after we had sex the first time. In fact, both you kids were conceived in fits of gayness. I was pretending to be Joe Namath and your father—"
"Christ!" wailed Bernard, though he was Jewish and didn't believe in Him, "can't we just have a normal Flag Day for once in our lives!" He sobbed weakly, then more powerfully, then incredibly powerfully. "Things haven't been the same since sister Val died."
Mom and Bob shared a glance, Bob getting the bigger piece.
"It's time you knew, Bernard," said Mom. "Val wasn't really your sister. It was Bob in drag."   |