ope John Paul II staunchly refused to die this weekend, in spite of numerous reports to the contrary from an impatient media. Despite showing a complete lack of vital signs and near-total rigor mortis, “the tough old bastard is still hanging on for some reason,� according to Vatican doctors.

Thousands of people gathered in St. Peter’s Square at the Vatican Friday night to pray for the pope, though it was unclear whether the assembled were praying for the pope to live forever or praying that the tired old man would finally kick it. Attempts to investigate this question further led to this reporter being rudely hushed several times and hit once with a bagel.

Anxious news organizations from around the world literally hung on the pope’s every breath last week, itching to be the first to report that the revered religious figure and patron saint of child molesters had gone on to meet his employer. Several trigger-happy reporters claimed that the pope had finally died on Saturday, exhaling a visible plume of stale pope smoke before vanishing like a Jedi Knight cut in two by an evil stunt man. The Vatican even went along with the announcement, apparently tired of providing hors d’oeuvres for the thousands of assembled reporters and candle-waving, tie-died burnouts camped out in the Vatican lobby.

But the jig was finally upped when the pope requested that the “loud music be turned down� during his own funeral mass on Sunday, and the international death-watch continued for the very small band of reporters remaining from hardscrabble news outlets such as the commune, Carob Baking Monthly and the Montana Cuntsman who either had nothing better to do or had vowed to see this story through to its true, bitter end, be that now or at some time between now and when our return trip flight vouchers expire.

Some blame the media’s impatience on the unexpectedly long death wait for American hospital patient Terri Schiavo over the previous two weeks, combined with the first signs of nice spring weather, which has reporters itching to get out of the dusty old Vatican and into some loudly-colored shorts. Others point to a growing suspicion among reporters, called paranoid by some, that the pope can’t die.

While scientists not from Italy doubt the feasibility of such claims, Pope John Paul II has already achieved a sort of longevity not seen since the currently late Strom Thurmond (R-South Carolina) refused to stay dead through the second half of the 20th century. This evidence, combined with the pope’s reportedly strong knowledge of hoodoo, has some concerned that this story could drag on for years.

“Mark my words, this is going to go on like those Friday the 13th movies, man,� prophesied pope-watcher Dennis Marbury. “You can’t kill the pope with a knife, gun, or by locking him in a tool shed and dropping it out of an airplane into the Pacific Ocean. That dude’s not going anywhere until he gets his birthday cake.�

Others wonder just why the pope is hanging on so long, considering that he’s supposed to be in so good with God and everything and probably should be happy about kicking off and clicking his heels on up to the big buffet in the sky.

Meanwhile, nervous Catholics the world over await the pope’s final words with constantly renewed baited breath, fingers crossed that the religious leader’s last utterances won’t be anything along the lines of “Psych!� or “Gotcha, suckers!�

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I think we gave up on Chernobyl too easily. I say that knowing full-well that too much radiation can make your sack blow up like a beach ball and your fruit starts talking to you and shit, which could be plenty scary depending on what the fruit is saying. I know some people who would be terrified no matter what their pear was belching out at them over the breakfast table, but I for one believe you can't live on that uptight of a level. At least I wouldn't consider it living. If I'm greeted to a chorus of "Mornin', Omar" from my fruit bowl in the morning, who's the victim? As long as they don't scream when I eat them, I don't really consider talking fruit to have a downside.

I'm not a doctor, at least when I'm not hard-up for cash, but I've got to imagine the health effects of living in a raging nuclear fallout zone have been overstated. You know how doctors are, one month immense dosages of radiation will turn you into a puddle of goop, the next month they'll give you super powers and you'll live to be 150. It's like the whole red wine thing. I'm willing to take my chances, because even in the worst-case scenario, being a puddle of super-powered goop doesn't sound all bad. No way you've got to pay normal tax rates when you're filing as "goop."

And Chernobyl itself could really be an ideal place to live, when you think about it. It's like an empty readymade city, just without all the giant Barbie dolls and the plastic Thunderbird with nothing under the hood. It'd be like Oklahoma City without the hick smell. They could hold a wild land grab like back in the old west days! Give me a cattle prod and let me loose in that place, trust me; I'll come out of the deal with Bricks Towers under my arm. It may have been Bank of Ruskie before the shit went Three Mile, but now that vault's Foghat's room, Ivan. What can I say; the dog likes to feel secure when he sleeps. Plus I think he might be catching on to the fact that the "Panic Room" in the Bricks Manor is just a walk-in closet with a bunch of pennies jammed in the door frame.

Still not sold on the whole Chernobyl thing? How would you like to wipe your ass with the electricity bill? You'd be living that large in Chernobyl, since who needs electricity when the whole town glows in the dark? And if that shit can power a submarine, it should have no problem juicing up my Mr. Coffee. It would be like solar power, without the suck.

I got to thinking about fallout this week because of The Man's reaction to my oceanizing of the Bricksmobile III: Red Bagel Edition last month when I was down in Panama. Turns out the big Bagel had a real emotional attachment to that car, and a real dead space alien on dry ice in the trunk. That's what he says anyway, the story smelled suspiciously of hooker mishap to me. But if that's the case, he can consider that problem solved, because the only law that's getting into that trunk now is the Fish Police. And it was my understanding that they were cancelled years ago. Bagel always has been the paranoid sort, however, and I don't think he watches TV. Something about mind-control dolphin sounds in the audio mix, I didn't read the whole pamphlet.

So now I'm on the commune shit list, of Bricks List as it's being called at the moment. Quite a change from the Dunkin Detail as it had been known for years. Thanks to my loyal readership of gun nuts, truckers and the vicarious, my ratings the office chicken has been tabulating are keeping me from napping under the axe, but I'm still keeping my options open for a career move to the Far East in case shit goes bad again like last year when I ate all of Bagel's astronaut ice cream. One more mix-up like that and Omar Bricks will be the top name on the commune's Comrade Exchange Program, because I don't think those sly fuckers want Boris Utzov back. Wish me luck.

Bricks Out.

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Dear commune:

As big a fan as I am, I have to admit I'm a little disappointed with your news lately. At least as far as conspiracy angles go—Red Bagel is the only reliable source in the country, as far as I'm concerned, him and my pharmacist, and lately his columns have just been droning on about minor inconveniences. If he's going to do that, why can't Rok Finger or Stu Umbrage pick up the slack and cover the conspiracies, since Bagel's obviously doing their job.

Everything would be okay if maybe someone would make mention of all these 9-11 conspiracy theories. The French are big on the idea that America is responsible for the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks to stimulate the U.S. military budget, and I hear that and get pretty upset—Mr. Bagel, creating whacked-out stories like that is your job. Maybe I should read the French commune, hmm? They're obviously not afraid to come up with conspiracy theories. If they had a French commune, maybe called le commúne or something, I would read it. But right now it's just an empty threat.

You're lucky I enjoy reading Clarise Sickhead's Bedtime Stories to kids I don't like, otherwise I might stop reading the commune altogether. Come on, you're letting your audience down.

Emil Zender
D'Artagnan, Washington


Dear Emil:

Thanks for your literate spanking; Lil Duncan in particular enjoyed it. We have been dropping the ball here at the commune, and we'd rather be famous for our top-of-the-heap conspiracy unraveling than our dropped balls.

The truth is very few of us have seen Red Bagel in person in at least two weeks. He frequently slips his columns under the door to us in the newsroom and refuses to open the door unless we use the secret knock, which he has never shared with us. It is all proof, as far as we can guess, that Mr. Bagel is knee-deep in the darkest conspiracy yet and is simply biding his time, waiting for proof or a lack of other column material to reveal it. Dark men with large mustaches show up at odd hours and drop off brown paper bags full of documents for him, which we slide one by one under the door. The phone rings day and night and someone asks for Red Bagel, who the hell are we, and take a message, then refuses to tell us the message. It's pretty frustrating, but we respect that Mr. Bagel has never shied away from a conspiracy. More than likely whatever he is researching involves the 9-11 attacks, as well as every other major news event in the past 20 years—except for the Baby-Jessica-down-the-well thing, Mr. Bagel assures us that involved mole people and not the government.

As for the French—c'mon, Emil, they're French. If you're going to listen to the French, how are we supposed to communicate seriously with you? Maybe you should look yourself in the mirror and ask if you're not the one with the problem. Listening to the French. Pfffth. Let's not have another letter like this, Emil. We have the power to cut you off from the commune, you know—no more commune for Emil. Get your shit together, please.


the commune

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for Red Bagel. Why should we take the blame when his parents aren't going to? He has an agenda that is holy and beyond our understanding. We sure hope that's the case anyway.

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