enis knifing suspect Catherine Kieu Becker, a Southern California woman suspected of slicing off her husband’s penis with a knife and throwing it into the… oh God, I’m gonna be sick. Jesus Christ, she really threw it in the garbage disposal? That’s fucking horrible. Anyway, sorry, I’m better now. Catherine Kieu Becker was released from prison this week in hopes that the dismissal of her case will be the last time anyone in America has to hear the phrase "penis knifing" ever again, or the gory details of just how utterly knifed Becker’s husband’s penis truly was.

"We thought this would be best for everyone," Orange County Superior Court Judge Roy Hanson explained, wincing as he crossed his legs in an unconscious cringing reaction to the very concept of having his penis knifed.

The 48 year-old Becker had been charged with torture and aggravated mayhem after she allegedly drugged her 51-year-old husband’s tofu soup dinner, then tied his arms and legs to their bed frame, pulled down his pants and—I’m sorry, but this is what happened—slowly worked her way through his penis with a dull paring knife, pausing several times to saw through particularly tough cock sinews and to dig at uncooperative bits with a rusty spoon. After finally freeing the penis from its host, Becker allegedly carried it into the kitchen, where she tossed it into the garbage disposal and, wait for it, turned the disposal on. Guys, trust me, try not to imagine what that sounded like.

When officers reported to the scene, they found the victim "bleeding profusely" from the groin (sorry, non-ladies, I know it’s a painful image) and in-between spells of retching, managed to fish pieces of the victim’s penis out of the garbage disposal and transport them with the victim in a sandwich bag to the University of California at Irvine Medical Center, where an emergency cocktoplasty was performed. According to unaccredited medical texts, a coctoplasty involves fitting all of the remaining hunks of a penis into a penis-shaped mold, pouring in roofing caulk and honey, and baking for one hour at 375 degrees.

"At first we weren’t sure what was hunks of penis and what was hunks of pot pie that someone had thrown in the garbage disposal earlier that day," explained responding officer Lt. Randy Fletch. "There were some chunks and stringy bits I was sure were pork or tofu or something, but I showed ’em to Dan (fellow officer Daniel Strobridge) and he smelled ’em and was like Nah dude, that’s cock and I was like Yeah, I guess that does kind of look like cock. Anyway, I’m sorry these are horribly disgusting quotes."

Early reports indicated that the penis knifing was inspired by an argument over—God, does it even matter? Is there anything that can ever really justify a penis knifing? the commune news thinks not.

Judge Hanson is on record as having decided to dismiss the case after half of the jury pool passed out during meetings with the prosecution. According to reports, nine of the ten fainting jurors were men, and the other was a big, strapping lass with a deep voice like RuPaul.

"It’s time for America to move on from this penis knifing case," Judge Hanson explained. "And from all future penis knifing cases. I’m serious, we don’t want to hear about ’em. Work that shit out on your own, I don’t want it in my courtroom. If I ever hear the words ’penis knifing’ again, no matter when, it will be too soon for me to hear the words ’penis knifing’ again. Oh God, why can’t I stop saying ’penis knifing’?"

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Omar Bricks has never been afraid to get his hands dirty. On the contrary, more often than not it looks like I've been playing patty-cake with a tar baby. I consider it a badge of honor that I've always been willing to roll up my sleeves and get into shit others considered best left untouched, and have always walked on my hands where others feared to tread. But this gyro sauce is a different matter altogether. This shit makes Lava soap seem about as useless as an eight-year-old wet nap. I need some napalm, and I need it with aloe.

You truly can't understand the horrors of discrimination until you've gone through a day with your hands smelling like a Greek man's testicle cheese. People won't look you in the eye, the glove store locks their doors when they see you coming, and dogs faint when you enter the room. This is also the first time I've understood the meaning of that "People are Strange" song by the Doors, I'd always thought that guy was singing about visiting Oklahoma. Turns out his hands just smelled like the inside of a bulimic Yeti's yak bowl. No wonder that dude did enough drugs to kill a roadie.

This whole misadventure started out innocently enough, last week when I was throwing water balloons full of piss at some Mormon missionaries who made the mistake of trying to infiltrate the commune offices. Don't get me wrong, it's not the usual Omar Bricks style to be so free with the bodily fluids, but we were all out of water. The city shut our building off following Red Bagel's TV appearance when he told everyone the government was adding tooth whitener to the city's water supply. So it was either going to be piss-balloons or blood-balloons, and unfortunately for the Mormons, my bladder wasn't bursting with blood at the time.

It turned out the missionaries had been working at the commune for weeks, hatching a terrorist plan to lead us all to Heavenly Father's love. In retrospect, it should have been obvious, since they were the only two guys in the office dressed like they worked in an office, and they were the only people who didn't refer to Bagel as "Sir Fucks-It-Up."

But all in all, everybody here was too busy avoiding all awareness of work reality to pay much attention to the missionaries, that is until the tall one made the mistake of trying to convert Ivana Folger-Balzac and she hit him with the fire axe we keep in the kitchen for opening cans of food foraged from Crochet!'s food drive bin downstairs. This started some kind of unholy Mormon-on-commune rumble, which ended well for the missionary who fell out the window at first sign of trouble but poorly for the one who was left to try and Jackie Chan his way out of the office. Luckily for him, Ramrod Hurley took the brunt of the violence, and most of the piss balloons, because he made the mistake of wearing a tie into the office that day and no one likes him. At some point the missionary got away, or else was stomped into a copy machine or some dark corner of the office from where he has yet to emerge.

Either way, all the rumbling worked up a powerful appetite within yours truly, and I decided to celebrate by trying out lunch at the new Greek place down the street. I figured gyros sounded good, since I like food that spins, but unfortunately the one I got was broken. What it did do, however, was stink up my hands like goat shit in a cucumber patch. I tried washing my hands with soap, lye and banana custard, but none of it did a damn bit of good. And when I got back to the commune offices, everyone kept calling me Boris. I couldn't tell if they were being sarcastic, or were just blinded by the Boris Utzov-like frunk emanating from my own raunchy-ass hands and thought Boris had returned from wherever the hell he's been since our bus trip.

After a few days of this indignity, however, this morning I happened upon a solution that killed two birds with one stone, solving both my stank-hands problem and my I've-never-run-through-an-office-building-with-my-hands-on-fire problem in one beautiful blur of lost time. To be honest, I don't remember exactly what happened myself, but do an internet video search for "Flaming Office Mime" and you can judge for yourself.

Bricks out.

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In all ladylike honesty, this is bullshit! I had a hit TV show, I've done some pretty notable movies like Return to Skank Mountain, and my pictures as a kid look so much like Little Debbie they officially have to pay me royalties. Why the hell can't I get a credit card?

I would say it's racism, but I'm pretty sure all the credit card companies are mostly run by white people. And I basically pass for a white person, nobody really cares about if my granddad is Puerto Rican and my step-mom is Navajo. I can't really say it's genderism, or whatever that word is either, since my official birth name is Charles Coleman since my mother couldn't spell "Clarissa." Unless they have in my credit report that I somewhere attempted to buy large quantities of tampons or a girl's bike or something they wouldn't know I'm a woman.

Which leads me to the obvious conclusion I'm dealing with star-ism. Someone at the credit card deciding branch, the place where they pick who gets and doesn't get a credit card, they figured out I'm Clarissa Coleman the B-grade or higher actress and refused me the dignity of a credit card. My reputation is torn to pieces like so much duck-feeding bread and they humiliate me on paper because they hate celebrities.

It's ridiculous discrimination. I wonder if Tom Cruise goes through this sort of thing. Goes in to get a gas card so he can stop at the BP when he doesn't have any cash and they give him a big fat "No!" stamp. He's like, "I'm Tom Cruise! I have bundles of cash! Thousands of dollars!" They're all shaking their heads, smirking their middle-class heads off, and they get to go home thinking they really stuck it to Rain Man's brother today. Screw that!

I thought this was the land of the freebie and all that. Where's my credit card? I slogged through countless hours of trying to remember my lines and fixing my own make-up when the idiot lady couldn't cover up the bags under my eyes after an all-nighter, and this is the thanks I get? I don't think America appreciates its celebrities. I fought hard for this country, you know—in the pages of Entertainment Weekly and on the cut celluloid of Police Academy VIII: Back in Blue Again. Where's my parade? Hell, forget the parade, where's my Master Card?

All I want to do is buy some lousy vest worn by Robert Plant on the latest Plant-Page tour on eBay, is that beyond my scope? I make a decent penny from my acting and the commune pays for the gas to auditions and stuff. I can afford a $300 Robert Plant vest, you know. I shouldn't have to beg and scrape and go to the Shell station for a money order when I've worked this hard. I deserve a credit card. We all deserve credit cards.

That's right, I'm speaking for everybody out there. The Sean Connerys, the Jennifer Anistons, the Baldwin Brotherses—even the Screeches. Can't Screech catch a break? And what about me? Let's not forget me. In fact, let's focus on me. Let Screech and Jennifer Aniston write their own commune columns.

You know, it occurs to me that it may not be celebrity-related at all. I listed my positions and salaries as an actress and commune columnist—is that it? Is it because I write for the commune I can't catch a credit card break? A clear-cut case of commune-ism.

The more I think about it, the more I'm sure that's what it is. Nobody at the commune has a credit card. Not that I could blame the Visa people. I wouldn't trust them to pay me back enough for a local phone call.

Hey, Visa, if you ever want more detailed financial information on these dildos, let me know. You slide a little $600-limit action my way and I can be an endless source of info about these deadbeats. One lousy little credit card, that's all I ask.

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