ast-minute attempts at peaceful resolutions having likely failed, the United States presumably entered into war with Iraq again Monday, March 17 at some undisclosed time in the day. Though the information has yet to be verified, it is supported by popular opinion, with degrees of variation on the exact time and date, March 17 being the earliest estimation and March 19 the latest.

The hypothetical war came after months of accusations from the Bush administration that Iraqi president Saddam Hussein was harboring biological weapons and had the potential to create weapons of mass destruction. The debate deteriorated in recent months into press bytes back and forth between the countries as Bush attempted to curry favor with the U.N. and receive backing for military action in accordance with resolutions Iraq signed after cessation of the Gulf War, also known as "Bush Vs. Iraq: Round 1" among funnier members of the staff.

The preceding week brought the tension to full as Bush, responding to the irritation of the American people, announced a March 17 deadline for Iraq to disarm its real or imaginary weapons and the administration haggled with opposing members of the U.N. security counsel for approval to the deadline. As Saddam Hussein had yet to meet the ambiguous guidelines of the deadline date, it is 99.9% probable that the United States felt no recourse but to begin war with Iraq on March 17.

All signs point to elongated periods of carpet bombings of marked Iraqi weapons sites, with claims of civilian casualties by Iraq already supposedly rising as the U.S. undoubtedly insisted all targets are verified as weapons facilities. If all goes according to military plans established months ago, bombing most likely will cease around March 19 as troops move in for implied ground war.

Though U.S. opinion will be mixed, the majority of Americans will most likely support the war with the assumption its unpatriotic to disagree in a time of war. After weeks of continued warfare with reassurance from the president U.S. troops are making progress in their goals, the larger population will tire of the war news and urge the president to resolve the whole mess quicker, sparking claims that while Saddam Hussein has presumably not been removed from power, objectives to locate and disarm weapons as a greater goal have been successful, and Saddam Hussein can be hobbled permanently by sanctions and treaties.

Without a doubt, the price tag for the war will have dug the United States deeper into debt and made the outlook for the economy bleaker, which the Democratic candidates for the presidency will jump on despite their expressions of approval for the war during its time. As jobs disappear and wages continue to drop, the approval rating for the Bush administration will reach all-time lows, despite achieving near-record highs during late 2001 to early 2003. All attempts to turn attention to domestic issues will come too late and Americans will join in bitter debates with each other as the country probably grows even more divisive, yet in an extremely close presidential election in 2004 the as-yet-unnamed Democratic candidate will win the electoral college vote by a significant margin, while the disparity in the popular vote, while still in his or her favor, will be much closer.

Theoretical details of long-term side-effects of American soldiers exposed to the irradiated munitions of their weapons could not be hypothesized at press time. Further information will come as clearer patterns of repetition emerge.

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Pansies everywhere agree: Feminism is important. At least that's what I hear every time my TV gets stuck on the women's channel, OBG or whatever it is. The Bricks TV does that sometimes, flips randomly through channels, which I guess is to be expected since the nerve center of the Bricks Manor entertainment center is a 1957 Tesla from Eastern Europe, which "came with the house" since it's too heavy to move out the front door. It's not even supposed to get cable, but I fixed that quick with a hand-hatchet and some wire I dug up out of the yard. Now the TV works fine, except Foghat barks at the thing like crazy whenever it's raining, and no plants will grow in that room.

But regardless, Omar Bricks has always had a great respect for women's issues. Seriously. It might surprise some to be informed that Omar Bricks is considered by many to be one of the great feminist thinkers of the 21st century. By whom? There's got to be somebody out there. Prove me wrong.

Now that that death-threat dodge is out of the way, we can get to the meat and beans of the column. I was sitting out on the roof the other day, engaging in the hallowed spring ritual of throwing Easter eggs at Mitch's dogs when I had my stroke of genius: What was stopping me from setting up my own mobile mammography business?

I'm not sure where the idea came from, but I didn't want to question that too deeply in case it turned out to be voodoo or something I saw on M.A.S.H. last week. Instead I launched into action, borrowing my neighbor Hamms' Winnebago and hitting the road with a coat-hanger still sticking out of the door lock. Thinking smart from the start, I figured that a traveling cross-country mobile mammography business stood a better chance for success than one that was just parked in the parking lot of a Circle K.

That's a lesson I learned when I was driving a bookmobile before coming to work at the commune. Before you get your chinos in a bunch, let me clarify that I wasn't working for the library or whatever pack of nerds it is that unleashes the bookmobile from deep in the bowels of the Book Cave early every morning. No, I was just driving one, because they left it running and I needed a ride to the commune. But that day I learned just how valuable location can be. That bookmobile was parked outside the commune offices for three days and only two people took out books: Rok Finger checked out The Small Man's Guide to Talking Big and Bagel snaked Charlotte's Web because he thought it was about a Byzantine international conspiracy. That thing needed to be parked in front of a book store or something, not right outside this idiot-hole. Location, location, location.

For the first few states things were taking off pretty slow, I admit, and it occurred to me that the "NO FATTIES" bumpersticker I had put on the door was probably driving away business. But in this business, that's business Omar Bricks can afford to lose.

Business continued to puff a dong until I got to Pennsylvania, when I ran into a dude who wanted a boob job, which meant I had to alter the "BOOB JOBS: $5" sign I had mounted on the Winnebago's windshield. This dude was an especially impressive knob since I had written the sign backwards, so I could read it from inside the Winni, but I guess this guy was really determined to get his boobs jobbed.

So I had to make a new sign that said "WOMEN'S BOOBS JOBBED" instead. I wasn't sure about the technical terminology for mammography, or even exactly what it entailed beyond a feel-up, but either way "mammography" was way too long a word to fit on my sign without buying a smaller sharpie. And my business expenses were already way into the red from buying two slurpies and the posterboard back in Jersey. But there was no way around those basic expenses, otherwise I never would have been able to make that life-saving "TEST YOUR GAS FOR PHLOBYNOL" sign with the arrow pointing to the Winni's gas tank. Do you have any idea how expensive gas is nowadays? And do you have any idea how gullible people can be when you make up a word like Phlobynol?

Anyway, according to commune head chunk Gay Bagel I can't take seventeen pages to tell my column stories any more, no matter how badly this compromises the truth or the juicy details. Suffice it to say that Winnebagos can't float, even if they do look exactly like house boats, and a good mobile mammographer has to be able to get a bra off faster than it takes a mobile home to sink to the bottom of the Potomac. On the bright side, I'm already way ahead of last year's pace for losing other people's vehicles in large bodies of water, with over seven full months still to go. That's the other key to successful mobile mammography: Staying positive. 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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