Ashcroft Leads Hands-On Instruction Team

ll it took was one crying 10-year-old boy spotted bolting out of a prominent federal office, wearing what appeared to be darkly-stained lederhosen, to signal a surprising new twist in the ongoing war against terrorism.

Citing a need to "keep American boys on their toes and pure from the effects of Islamic terrorists," Attorney General John Ashcroft, in an impromptu press conference yesterday, unveiled a plan to teach young men from the ages of 8 to 15 how to recognize the signs that they are being, or are about to be, recruited, seduced and/or molested by Muslim fanatics. In an unprecedented gesture of self-sacrifice, and sweating profusely as he spoke, the Attorney General said that he has taken it upon himself to personally teach "as many boys as I possibly can."

"You've got to get them young," Ashcroft said. "Otherwise, there's no telling what kind of corrupting influences they may have had that will keep them from realizing the terrible tragedy that potentially awaits them at the hands of these fundamentalist zealots. That's why I'm making it my personal mission to educate these fine, young, trim, well-proportioned… uh… boys."

"It's a known fact that these terrorists are bound and determined to infiltrate our society and subjugate our way of life by forcibly introducing our youth to the Homosexual Agenda," Ashcroft went on to say. "Why, just look at the pictures we have of them—most of them walk around every day in these long white dresses! You can't tell me these fellows aren't a little light in their loafers, or sandals, or whatever it is they wear on their feet. Maybe kicky black patent leather pumps, who knows?"

The program apparently involves hands-on demonstrations of the types of Arabic buggery that Ashcroft claims is widespread throughout the Middle East, and that poses a significant threat to the well-being of male American youth. "We show them—and I mean we show them good—just what those terrorists have in store for them if they're not careful. After all, you know what it says in that fake Bible of theirs, the Also-ran—excuse me, I mean the Ko-ran—'in sexual congress, for children, a woman. For pleasure, a boy.' It also goes on to say, 'for real pleasure, like you've never had before, an overripe melon,' but we'll leave the melons alone for the time being. Better, we think, to concentrate on the boys."

When asked about the actual methods of instruction, Ashcroft said, "We simply follow what it says in the real Bible—you know, 'Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.' We also like the passage that says 'Thou anointest me with oil.' In fact, we're ordering up dozens of cases of Crisco for this project, with the money coming out of the Homeland Security budget. I'm envisioning a number of one-on-one, or maybe a few two-on-one sessions, as many as I can fit into my schedule, with as many young, nubile, half-dressed… er… boys as we can recruit, here in my private, comfortable, tastefully-appointed office."

The Attorney General, when asked if he had a list of boys who might qualify for this training, replied that he had approximately 600 young men in mind to get the program off the ground, but that he would not reveal any names, on the grounds of national security. "You think I want to hand Osama bin Laden a ready-made list of American boys to pursue for his evil, filthy machinations? No sir. No sir. We're keeping this list private, and that's that. Just me and Ari and Karl. Not even the president has access to those names. No sir." Ashcroft then mopped the considerable sweat from his brow and called an end to the press conference, ignoring the muffled wails heard far down the corridor from his office.

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"There's nothing like a good tornado to put the fear of nature into you. The Hartwig family had their tornado experience back in the early '40s, in the days of us vs. the Germans and Japanese. You'd almost think God was a Nazi, throwing a big heapin' tornado on top of a hardworking American family.

We were doing evening living room things—us kids playing our favorite game, Flapper Smacking—while mom sewed bodybags for the boys overseas and Dad read the paper. Then, Dad looked out the window and raised his eyebrows, the warning to us all like an air raid drill.

The sky outside had turned a frightening Prince-colored purple. It had grown darker and darker by the second, a terrible foreboding like a fat man in a dark suit walking on a miniature Lego city, which I think is hilarious. I'm cracking up just thinking about it. But this storm coming on quick was no laughing matter. It was a peeing-your-pants matter.

'To the underground shelter!' shouted Dad, then ran ahead of us outside to the tornado cellar. We all followed, except Goose, who was getting out his kite and running out to meet the storm like Captain Ahab meeting his whale.

We all climbed inside and Dad barricaded the entrance with wood and nails. We told him it wasn't necessary, but he said tornadoes were sneaky enough to undo mere latches and closed doors. He also said tornadoes were taking all the American jobs and had murdered good Americans at the Alamo.

We survived the tornado, of course, but I spent years carrying confusing stereotypes about Hispanics and tornadoes around, thanks to Dad's lack of education."

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Here's something that'll get you thinking, talk about a "Mr Rogers was a sniper in 'Nam"-level surprise. Thanks to commune editor's-brother Gay Bagel's mandate that we boost commune readership and revenue up from absolute zero Kelvin in 2004, it's been officially mandated by the powers obese that I quit writing about my epic saga to get a goddamned car. Apparently Bagay (as I like to call him in print and roadside graffiti) thinks my column may be alienating readers who are too rich to ever have to worry about not having a car, and if they don't read the site we can't siphon their accounts dry of funds electronically while they surf.

I don't know the details, if that's just advertising lingo or if we're actually hoovering out bank notes over the telephone line while those poor rich saps try to figure out what in the hell Boris Utzov is talking about or what. But either way Bagay thinks we've catered to the Salisbury steak set too much in the past, when we should be writing for dudes who order off the menu at Taco Bell and use silver spoons to eat their civet cat pudding.

Normally I'd have my ass chapped by the man giving my creative freedom a titty-twister like that, but from what I hear most of the staff received similar warnings. From the mandate that Lil Duncan start banging celebrity scumbags instead of her usual unknown variety, to the new "no accepting collect calls from international jails" rule (AKA the Ivan Nacutchacokov Accord), everyone around here is feeling the pinch. Except of course for Rok Finger, who got a slightly different haircut and left town, Truman Prudy, who makes appearances here like he was Haley's comet, and the aforementioned Boris Utzov, who from last word was riding bitch on a Harley somewhere in the Dakotas. Or, for that matter, Stu Umbrage, who's writing a gripe calendar in New Mexico, or Sampson L. Hartwig, who's either dead or a big fan of Harry Houdini. Come to think of it, where in the hell is everybody? This place is starting to look like Stuart Anderson's on Mad Cow night. What am I still doing here?

Anyway, the upshot of the whole censorship deal is that I'm getting a "company car," by which they mean Red Bagel's old Camry that he won't drive anymore because he thinks it's bugged. Which I guess is a problem if you're Red Bagel and you say embarrassing shit all the time, but what do I care? The old Bricksmobile had a megaphone for karaoke purposes; this'l be like having my own radio station. Plus since it is Red Bagel we're talking about here, odds are they're not even listening-device-type bugs, the car's probably infested with robotic insects or some shit as a little "fuck you" from the CIA or the Shriners.

All in all it's an uncharacteristically sweet deal for a commune employee, I would have been less surprised to get a post-it note on my desk saying that I AM the new company car. Now I guess Bagel and I are even from the time he ate my carrier pigeon.

Not that I'm getting carried away or anything, after all, it is a Camry. Not exactly a street-illegal funnycar or anything bitchin' like that. And Bagel didn't exactly take care of it after he uncovered the SUV conspiracy and bought himself that armored duck tours truck he drives around town. As a matter of fact, Gay pulled the thing out of a line-up of "bugged" cars Red planned on monster trucking over, replacing it with Raoul Dunkin's Tercel so his brother wouldn't notice. But I don't give a shit about any of that. It's got four wheels and it rolls both downhill and up, so Omar Bricks is calling it a car. Plus I've already replaced the Camry nameplate with one I pried off a Jaguar at the airport, so the stupid 90% of the world already thinks I drive a Jag. The right seat covers and a press-on spoiler should fool the rest.

Bricks out.

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