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.

Lawyers for Gitmo Detainees Lobby to Stop Calling Them “Gitmo” Detainees

Fans Mourn First 30 Years of Puckett’s Life

Serial Killer’s Neighbor: “He just wouldn’t shut up about serial killing.”

R.C. Car Enthusiasts Angered by Latest Mars Mission Snub

Piss off, commune readers. Omar Bricks is here to say one thing and one thing only: leave me alone so I can get some decent shut-eye for once in my goddamned life. You can take all of your beeping handheld devices, your whistling noses and your popping knuckles and shove them right on up your creaking asses as far as I'm concerned. I've had my fill of late-night motorcycles, tuba practice and Montel for hearing impaired neighbors. I have no time for clocks that tick, toilets that run or drug deals gone bad out in the hallway. I need sleep, and I need it now.

This misadventure started out innocently enough, with a marathon of Friday the 13th movies on basic cable two nights ago. I figured I'd watch the first few movies and then call it a night, but I'll be goddamned if they didn't just keep on playing them in order, all night. And I kept telling myself I'd just watch one more to find out how they were going to off that homicidal Canadian once and for all. But no matter what, that moose-eating asshole kept coming back, kind of like Adam Sandler. The next thing I knew it was five in the morning and Jason was still dulling his meat cleaver on oversexed teenagers. I had no choice but to set the VCR to tape the rest and head off to work.

Needless to say, yesterday at work was an exercise in futility, as I spent most of the day just trying to avoid overhearing what happens at the end of Friday the 13th Part VII. Wearing a motorcycle helmet all day made it difficult to get much done while I was here, but the important part is I avoided any potential spoilers. Despite a dull headache and the early onset of sleep-deprived hallucinations, I finished the series on video last night and managed to get in a game of air hockey with a giant ground sloth before I laid down for a much-needed siesta.

Unfortunately for both he and I, a bird that sounded exactly like a car alarm had recently moved into the tree right outside of my bedroom window. And of course, he was sounding his call loudly all night last night, possibly in an attempt to attract a Lexus. Evolution had gifted him with the ability to dodge small arms fire, but left him ill-equipped to deal with the spray of a fire extinguisher, thankfully. This was good for the neighborhood, too, since then I didn't have to cut down the tree. But this whole ordeal took up the better part of the night and contributed to my current miserably sleepless situation.

To put it simply, Omar Bricks needs some serious downtime and delay is no longer an option. I don't care if you have tickets to the Knicks, the Kinks or Gladys Knight and the Pimps. I'm not interested. I don't want to see the new mudding tires you put on your truck or to preside over the baptism of your child. And I'm certain your new piercing is the best ever, but regardless I ask that you kindly blow it out your ear.

I don't know how I can state this any more clearly. The furniture I piled up in front of the door doesn't seem to be getting the message across. Nor has the car battery I wired to my doorknob. Instead, I'm kept awake by an endless procession of bandage-handed do-gooders asking if I know my doorknob is smoking. I wish I had a taser gun.

Blowdarts! Yes, I thought blowdarts were the answer too, until Red Bagel woke me up to ask if I knew anything about the pile of unconscious bodies with bandaged hands outside my office door. At least he let me borrow his taser gun.

But the thing they conveniently don't tell you about taser guns is that after you taser someone, they don't go away, they just lay there and moan loudly for hours, which is almost as bad as them asking where the copy room is.

It looks like I'm going to have to fake a medical quarantine to get any serious sleep today. Sending out for couple of rows of rhesus monkeys and some lab equipment to set up in here ought to do the trick. Then, glorious sleep! If anybody needs me for anything, kill them. Check back in a few days, and bring donuts. Bricks out.

º Last Column: Controversy, Ahoy!
º more columns

I don't like my doctor. He laughs too much when I describe my symptoms and plus he smells Greek. Also I don't think the prick knows what he's doing. You tell me how you're supposed to get a yeast infection when you don't even cook.

My main problem with doctors is that they're all dildos. Every last one of them. Except for radio personality Dr. Laura, now she's more of a heartless ubercunt. I tried to choose her as my doctor at the clinic, but they said I had to choose between Dr. Blintz or the highway, and the highway was booked up that day. That nurse thought she was pretty funny until I asked her why they didn't give us bigger sample cups to crap in for the tests, that seemed to hit some kind of nerve. She's probably had to try and squat over one of those tiny things herself.

I'm not sure if Dr. Laura even counts as a real doctor, to tell you the truth. It may be one of those honorary titles like what Dr. Seuss had.

Whenever your star vehicle is cancelled and replaced by reruns of a show about some kid who talks to his dead grandma on a toy cell phone, it kind of makes you think. Soul Searching, they call it. Though I may be thinking of that dance show with Ed McMahon. And that's not what I've been doing, though when I was a kid I did play-act like I was the host whenever that show was on TV. I didn't really like dancing, but I loved gonging the neighborhood kids when they tried to act like they had talent. I probably would have liked grade school more if they had let you wheel a gong into the talent shows like I wanted to. As it stands it was the worst two weeks of my life. Before the last two.

Whatever it's called, I've been up to my nipple rings in this thinking lately. You should try it some time, it's like a vacation for your eyes. Actually that's a bald assed lie. Thinking sucks, there's a reason it only comes up when your life has pinched a loaf. But I like to think I'm not the only one tugging on the peter of misfortune lately. Like they say, misery enjoys company picnics.

I suppose the whole doctor thing is a moot point anyway, since it looks like UPN's money tit is drying up and I won't have medical coverage after Thursday. Then it'll be back to consulting the copy of Captain Pickle's Big Book of Sick that I've had since I was five, which was probably a better idea all along. At least it has pictures and doesn't stick any silverware in your skin pantry, unlike certain doctors I could name or at least vaguely describe.

I'm not sure if the commune's advertisers have a problem with terms like "skin pantry," they seem to be a pretty mellow. All I know is the one douche commercial I did was like playing charades with a bunch of Nazis, everything was on their "no no" list. I couldn't even say "afro clam."

Until I get some offers for legit commercials (and no, I don't believe they really film commercials for having sex with a pony. Once bitten, twice shy on that one guys, but thanks for playing) I'm thinking of supplementing my income by opening an advice booth here at my desk at the commune, like the scam that Lucy girl was running in the old Peanuts comics. She seemed to do alright.

I don't really have her background in psychiatry, but I think I could do well with a Blunt Honesty booth. People would sit down, pay me first (if I learned one thing from Dr. Kevorkian's Biography, it's get the money upfront) and I'd tell them they had a face only an undertaker could love or something helpful like that. I'd probably have to charge more than a nickel because of inflation and all, I haven't really worked out the pricing structure yet. But I think it could work. One thing I know for sure, no way am I letting this thing degrade into a kissing booth like the last time I had this idea. A girl's got to look out for her reputation.

º Last Column: Hot Commercial Property
º more columns