Gore Wouldn't Run Again For a Million, Trillion Dollars

he anemic field of Democratic candidates, described by political pundits as “what the A-team would be like if it was really gay,� has inspired many Democrats to push for another Al Gore candidacy in 2004. Perhaps not grasping the ramifications of four more years with Boy George at the helm, thus far the former vice-president has steadfastly refused.

“I wouldn’t run for president again for a million, trillion dollars,� Gore told reporters last December. “Nor for all the tea in China.�

�Not even for true love?� a reporter questioned.

“No,� answered Gore. “Not even for that.�

However, Gore did concede later that if this reporter was holding a gun to the head of an innocent newborn baby, he might consider it. Though he did seem a little weirded out by the question.

Recent polls in New Hampshire show that if Gore were to enter the race for the Democratic Party nomination, he would immediately become the front-runner in that state. These polls showed that the same also holds true for Hillary Rodham Clinton, George Clinton, and Kool-Aid Man, the gigantic pitcher of powdered beverage famous for busting through walls and responding in the affirmative. Various Democratic candidates have denounced the poll as mean, but true.

Speaking with the commune this week, Gore’s position on his potential candidacy remained unchanged.

“Would you, could you, if it rained?� this reporter asked the non-candidate.

“I would not, could not if it rained,� responded Gore. “Nor if my brain had gone insane. I meant what I said and I said what I meant: I will not run for president! Now leave me be!�

Other scenarios that would fail to entice Gore to run include learning the secrets behind various Carly Simon songs, a blimp full of naked cheerleaders landing in his backyard, or having a southern state renamed Goregia.

Several political commentators have suggested that Gore would prefer to go down in history as the man who was denied the presidency by an antiquated electoral system and corrupt election officials in Florida, rather than risk losing a second election to a man who has been amply exposed as one of the less-memorable bit characters on Dukes of Hazzard. Those who know Gore dismiss this idea as absurd, though they could totally see Bush giving the Duke boys the what-for.

Gore supporters suggest instead that the former vice-president simply doesn’t wish to subject the public to a Gore v. Bush rematch, or spend the next year of his life debating with a man who moves his lips when he reads.

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Every true conspiracy-buster like myself has one big, secret wish: A real inside source that can't stop talking.

To which I say: "Be careful what you wish for!"

Sir, I have such a source, and this guy simply can't shut up. I don't know if it's a psychological ailment or just a simple case of verbal diarrhea, but I've found the source that can't stop giving. It's like that duck that can't stop laying golden eggs, and if there isn't such a fairy tale, there should be. Honestly, I never thought there was anything worse than a source that stonewalls you, that gives you nothing (we in fact call these sources "non-sources"), but this blabbermouth has got the dirt on everybody and can't wait to share it.

It sounded like my fondest wish when a connection of mine, let's call him Scottie, because that would really offend his Scottish heritage, calls me up with what he calls "the greatest source in the world." I should have known something was wrong, because the last time I talked to this connection he was quite pissed off because I kept calling him "Scottie." But I've run cold on the trail of the Biggest Conspiracy of the World (or BCW, as us fans call it), so I was anxious for anything to start me up again.

I met with this guy, and first it was like that golden egg-laying duck, and I was like the duck's owner, and quite happy. This was last week, and with all that stuff in the media about the "real Deep Throat" going around, I thought it might be highly complimentary and something of an honor to call this guy "Deep Throat II." By the way, for those of you who don't know, that guy Mark Felt has also claimed to have flown from New York to Paris before Lindbergh and has also taken credit for carving Mount Rushmore. He's a bit of an attention hog, so don't believe the hype.

Back to my Deep Throat—this guy started talking faster than I could write it down. And as my hand cramped from taking long, life-endangering notes, I kept waiting for this guy to stop and tell me to "follow the money," or some such snappy, cryptic advice. No such luck. He had everything. He talked about Bush's involvement in the Illuminati in detail, showed me the "late" John F. Kennedy's tax records for the past 30 years, and even detailed who won last week's bi-election to select a new treasurer in the Illuminati's super-secret inner circle, which even the rest of the Illuminati doesn't know about. And I'm thinking, after a minute or two, "Shut up!" I mean, sir, do I or do I not have to have something to unravel myself?

There's a fine art to being a whistleblower. You give the whistle a low toot, a short, yet sweet and satisfying quick breath's worth. You don't keep blowing until everyone's eardrums are shattered and you've worn out your welcome. I tried, again and again, to subtly suggest to this guy maybe his life was in danger by giving me so much information at once, but he probably couldn't hear me over his outlining of the under-the-table deal with the U.N. to hand over the West Coast to the Serbian Empire. Fuck this, I thought, I can only take so much juicy information.

I told Deep Throat II I'd get back with him, and since then I've just tried to stay away from my phone. Does me no good—he keeps leaving bits about the New World Order on my answering machine. I'm like, take the hint, jackass! No wonder the real rulers of this world want him dead. He probably ruined every secret conspiracy he was ever invited into.

As for me, I think I'm just going to tear up all the notes I took from him and start back at square one. It might take me a lot longer, but at least there's some real game involved. Nobody likes having it all handed to you, am I right?

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Some guys have all the luck. Others just get a mouth full of boot heel and bloody tooth shards on a cold October morning. I heard a song about that once.

I'll give you three guesses which category Omar Bricks falls in this week, ladies and gentlemen. And the first two don't count since if you guess wrong I get to rap on your knuckles with a ruler. Something like that, it's an old saying from the bible.

But I'm not kidding, this has been a week for the record books. Assuming somebody somewhere keeps records on bad shit that happens to good people. And I think that's a fair assumption, since if there's some geek out there keeping a log of every time Spock scratches his ass on Star Trek, and I know there is because I lost a Frisbee in his yard one time, then anything's got to be fair game.

Make no mistake about it, this has been a four-alarm, hide the virgins, call out the National Guard variety of bad week. If two more things go wrong I'm going to hit up the president for some of that disaster relief cash you're always hearing about. It doesn't seem like there have been any massive floods or boat show fires lately, so I think he can spare the dough. Hell, if he could walk a few blocks in my Reeboks I think he'd fetch the big novelty check for me personally. If you've ever had your tits kicked in by the fates, you know what I'm talking about here.

Everybody knows about my well-publicized car troubles and my citywide taxi ban. For most people, the parade of tears would end there, but for Omar Bricks they're just getting the marching band and sweater-wearing elephants out of cold storage.

I come home Friday night to find out that Foghat got into a can of Cream of Broccoli soup that I didn't even know was still in the pantry. It must have been left over from when I was selling those bottles of Turd Bird Ale, my homebrew bathtub beer, at the Fair a few years ago. There was a food drive for the homeless going on across the street, and I admit that I got into some bartering with the hobos by the end of the night. I didn't want to have to carry any heavy shit back to my car when the Fair was over and I thought some of those canned goods might come in handy if we ever got around to nuking the Russians or whatever.

Little did I know that Foghat is part Cream of Broccoli hound, and he went straight-on ape when I brought that crap home. I gave him a bowl just to get him to stop bouncing off the furniture and peeing everywhere, and sweet flaming Christ was that a mistake. If you can't imagine what happened next, give your own dog some foul-smelling cream-based soup some time. Just make sure you've got the carpet-cleaning place on speed dial.

Well, it turns out that just not giving Foghat the soup again wasn't enough, because that idiot dog figured out how to work the can opener and it was like déjà vu all over again. After the second episode I thought I'd purged the house of any trace of Cream of Broccoli soup, but Friday night I was rudely educated otherwise. Let's just end that tangent by saying that if anybody wants a couch that can blister paint at a distance of ten yards, you're welcome to come drag it off my lawn.

You don't even want to know half the rest of the heinous shit I've got going on right now. Yet another ludicrous paternity suit (like I've ever even been to Canada), the mouse I've got living in my refrigerator, the little six-year-old kid who's stealing my mail, and the list goes on and on. I'm starting to think it's some kind of conspiracy, though I haven't had time yet to work out exactly what the logistics of the whole thing might be. I'm biking over to Red Bagel's place later in the week to try and figure the whole thing out over a few beers; we'll see what comes of that.

All I know is I get the feeling like somebody's fingering Omar Bricks' asshole, and it ain't Omar Bricks. Somebody's got some explaining to do.

Bricks Out.

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