American Media Can Shut Up About Harry Potter Any Time Now

pokespeople for the American media-consuming culture spoke Friday, sending out the word that we hear what you're saying about this Harry Potter phenomenon and the American media can lay off for a little while already.

Besieged by reports about the success of the hugely popular Harry Potter books by British author J.K. Rowling, the American public has recently been assaulted with constant unwanted information about the film Harry Potter and the Soceror's Stone, released Nov. 16, 2001 to monstrous audiences, making it one of the most successful movies of 2001.

"What are we, five?" said spokesperson for the American public Ralph Mackie.

"Yeah, okay, just shut up about the shit already, okay?" pleaded spokesperson Nancy Shumaker. "I know all about the movie and I don't give a rat's ass. I don't have any kids or nothing, what do you want me to do? Am I really supposed to care?"

Spokesperson John Umala empathized. "I just was starting to enjoy not hearing about friggin' Survivor every five seconds, then I'm blasted at every angle by terrorism. Can't I get a minute of peace without being slammed with over-hype on anything?"

When questioned about any possible chance of shutting the fuck up about it, executives at Warner Bros. declined to comment. No guarantees to stop talking about it for at least a minute were made.

The corporate-generated media hype is possibly the largest since 1999, when nearly every facet of the American media refused to give Star Wars: The Phantom Menace a rest, will you?

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Well, the good news is that I'm sitting pretty in the car-fund department thanks to my monster windfall from the raffle, a.k.a. "The Great Downtown Bingo Fire of 2003." And even better, I've been cleared of any wrongdoing thanks to my clever use of the fake name Homer Bicks on all the official paperwork, and the fact that I wore a very distracting Bob Dole mask the whole time I was down there. It was doubly distracting since half of everybody thought it was a Raul Julia mask, and they were all arguing about if he'd died or if that was just some Hollywood publicity gimmick to help promote the next Addams Family movie, The Addams Family Vs. The Manson Family. Personally, I thought it was a damned good Bob Dole mask, but it was pretty dinged up from some bachelor party action so that may have accounted for the Raul Julia misconceptions.

The bad news is I can't find anybody reputable who wants to sell me a goddamned car. I used to not trifle with such minor details as the personal ethics or legal status of some dude trying to sell me a set of wheels, that is until I got saddled with the most recent incarnation of the Bricksmobile, that flaming piece of shit that only went fast when it was rolling down the street away from me. That thing was possessed like Christine except it was by the ghost of some lazy motherfucker who didn't want to kill anybody and just liked to sit on his front lawn with his shirt off.

I'd bought that epic shitbox from this guy named Steamboat Willie out in front of an Indian casino several years back. Yeah, I know that story sounds like bad news right from the start, no shit Sherlock, but beggars can't be choosy when they're nearly broke and too drunk to climb on top of a tour bus and scam a ride home.

I'd met Steamboat Willie several hours earlier, at a party some blind guy was throwing in his hotel room, and I immediately disliked him. Nobody at the party was supposed to be there, it was all just a bunch of guys who had figured out they could drink for free if they impersonated a celebrity voice and fooled the blind dude into thinking the whole cast of Hollywood Squares was partying in his room.

Most of the folks there were pretty cool, picking the voice of some celebrity who could actually conceivably be there, like Robin Leach or Dick Clark. I for one was doing a pretty spot-on Arsenio Hall impression, if my memory serves me correctly. But not that asshole Willie, that hotdog had to piss everybody off by doing a fucking Mickey Mouse voice, endangering the good times and free booze for all. Thankfully the blind host guy was drunk as shit and actually wanted his picture taken with Mickey, he didn't suspect a thing. Somebody clicked their pager like they were taking a picture and everybody was happy.

That didn't stop Willie from eventually finding a way to spoil the party, as he propositioned one too many girls in that squeaky voice to go fuck on the patio, on top of stupidly refusing the blind guy's offer of a giant wheel of cheese. This brought the whole house of cards tumbling down and we all got thrown out of the hotel and casino simultaneously. But that's Steamboat Willie for you. He's the kind of sick bastard who would cut a big, wet fart in a girl's face and call it "Butterscotch Kisses." I hated that guy.

But, you know, I needed a ride home after we got tossed out and $50 sounded like a pretty good deal for a car that wasn't missing any doors or anything major like the floor. If I'd been slightly less trashed I might have considered the high emotional cost the Bricksmobile would eventually toll, but at that point I was just happy to have a comfortable place to sit down. Actually, it wasn't called the Bricksmobile back then, I'm not even sure what kind of car it was. In retrospect, it probably should have set off some alarms upstairs that the name of the car had been filed off, but like I said I was half in the bag and thought it was just an "unmarked car," like some kind of cool FBI shit.

Needless to say, Omar Bricks learned his lesson there, and this time around I'm not buying a car from anybody who talks in a cartoon voice or refers to himself in the third person. Call me prejudiced, but I've got to look out for my own best interests on this one. I can't afford to buy another car that has the "Armageddon" light come on in the dash after I've only been driving it for ten miles.

Maybe I should check and see if Consumer Reports has a rating for that shit. I need a car that rates a full moon or whatever their symbol is for "bitchin'".

Bricks out.

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There are a couple of different ways to go about getting yourself a new car. What most people do is they exploit the underclass until they've got enough greenbacks to roll up on Mr. Mercedes or Mr. Benz and slap one of them in the face with a stack of $100 bills. "Booya, bitch! Where's my wheels?" or however the classy blueblood expression of that sentiment comes out. This doesn't work so hot for the members of the exploited underclass, who lack the sufficient Benjamins to make for an impressive slap-stack, so most of them have to stick a gun in somebody's face to keep from having to take the bus to church on Sundays.

As for the rest of us, the poor suckers stuck in-between who are too cheap for caviar and too soft for prison, we have to get creative.

For a while I thought I might be able to screw The Man (or at least The Man's fine trophy wife) and increase the Omar Bricks Needs a Goddamned Car Fund by playing the stock market. Seemed easy enough, since it's basically just like a horse racing with companies, except you don't have to worry about any of the companies banging their funny bone on the starting gate and throwing the jockey into the stands when the buzzer goes off. I knew I never should have bet on a horse named "Buyer's Remorse."

Plus on the stock market they don't give the companies misleading names like "Jailbait" that make them sound really fast but then it turns out they're just not fully-grown. I've always thought the FCC should step in and require that they give the horses accurate names, like "Shithead," "Slow as Fuck" and "Money Pit." Some kind of truth-in-advertising type thing. I guess when they vow to protect consumers they don't include degenerate gambling consumers under that umbrella, the self-righteous pricks. Sure, the racing form's not going to look as cool when half the horses are named "Shitbird" and "Gonad," but that's a small price to pay not to have the horse you bet on get lapped in a one-lap race. It's especially rough on the kids when they shoot a horse before the race is even over. But what in the hell are little kids doing betting on horse races, anyway? They should be off betting on cartoons or some shit.

So playing the market sounded easy enough, at least compared to betting on horse races. That was like having a license to print IOUs. But any old idiot can predict what products are going to hit or flop, or at least that's what I thought before all my stock in the Swiss Piss powdered lemonade brand tanked. I'm just glad I didn't invest in those chocolate logs you float in the punch bowl for when you throw a party, those things didn't do very well at all. At least I got out from under Swiss Piss before the lawsuit hit.

I guess my broker truly lived up to his name, since I did end up broker than when I'd met him. But he said it was probably all for the best, since I didn't stand to earn much from only owning one share of stock. And that's what pissed me off, why even call it a "share" when you're going to reward some rich prick for gobbling up thousands of the things then and give me the shaft for only having one? That doesn't sound much like sharing to me, the greedy bastards.

But that was all water under the dyke when I realized that all I needed to get my car funds together was to hold a really bitchin' raffle. People go apeshit for a raffle, and it's better than the lottery because I don't get any money from the lottery. So a raffle was definitely in order.

I went down to the bus station to talk to my good friend and local raffle organizer Poontang Douglas, and we got the particulars in order. The tickets sold out fast when people heard the prize was something in a "mystery box." Raffle freaks love that shit.

What they didn't know, and this was the brilliant part of the plan, was that it turns out the prize in the box is a shitload of tickets to the raffle. That ought to keep 'em guessing, right?

Well, I don't know about you, but when I'm guessing I usually sit there and scratch my head a little, maybe look up at the ceiling or something, you know? I sure as hell don't set the bingo hall on fire. Goddamn degenerate gamblers.

Bricks out.

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