Terrorists Probably Too Hungover for New Year's Attack

omeland Security experts are blaming probable excessive alcohol consumption among Al-Qaeda members for the lack of an earth-shattering, soul-crushing, make-you-wish-you-were-born-dead terrorist attack expected last week over the New Year's holiday. Despite the recent elevation of the nation's security level to code orange ("Citrus-Flavored Death"), the New Year was rung in without incident, excepting the usual rash of DUI fatalities and celebratory gunshot deaths that are customary for this time of year.

Despite the lack of festive atrocities, few can blame Western governments for a lack of preparation. Security was tighter than a duck's ass at New Year's celebrations all over the United States, with precautions taken to ensure that only revelers too drunk to carry out sophisticated terrorist plots would be allowed to attend.

Security was especially tight-assed in Las Vegas, where field reports indicated security was also especially high and obnoxious. Thanks to FBI warnings that Al-Qaeda thinks Las Vegas is "tacky," security considerations for Fox's annual "America's Party" televised concert and shmoozeapalooza at the Venetian Resort Hotel/Casino bordered on the Orwellian. In an especially innovative precaution, Fox held a fake New Year's Eve celebration on Dec 30th, complete with a diversion concert to draw out terrorists unfamiliar with American traditions and the "Thirty days hath September" rule. Unfortunately, this security measure failed due to a lack of starpower so blatant even foreign nationals unfamiliar with western culture noticed. The faux-bash, headlined by 80's holdovers Dexy's Midnight Runners, failed to elicit the terrorist onslaught hoped for by Homeland Security heads and music fans everywhere.

"It wouldn't have been that hard to fool these guys into thinking it was a real New Year's countdown party," bitched reveler Danny Postum. "Hootie and the Blowfish probably would have been good enough, or the Pretenders. I'm just pissed I bought tickets to the wrong fucking concert."

"What is with this bullshit?" asked Aman Halazi of Jordan. "We get better bands than this in Jordan. I could pull a better concert out of my dick-hole."

Due to the unconvincing ruse, many of the bands and celebrities scheduled to appear at the actual New Year's celebration sent celebrity impersonators and sound-alike bands in their stead, a move that might have proved controversial if anyone had noticed. Metallica, Ashanti and Paris Hilton could not be reached for comment, but all seemed pissed that their impersonators had all parlayed their appearances into lucrative recording and television deals.

Meanwhile, aviation officials for British Airways have cancelled all flights between London and Washington D.C. since New Year's Eve amidst credible threats of a plane-based attack on the American capitol. Frustrated travelers, however, have been calling for evidence of the threat and proof that the pilots aren't just too hungover to fly.

"The threat against Britith.. British Airwings is real and evident," announced FBI spokesman Walter Hammel, wincing from a post-New Year's hangover. "Several names on the passenger manifolds for recent flights have match… oh Jesus… uh, matched those of gnome terrorists." Hammel quickly excused himself as he sprinted in the direction of the men's room.

While the names in question turned out to belong to an elderly Chinese woman, a six-year-old boy and a chain of donut shops, British defense analyst Paul Bever insisted the threat was real.

"Oh yeah, totallyabigdealok…" slurred Bever, reeking vividly of rum.

"Oh Jesus," moaned a remorseful Hammel, passing through the room in a daze. "I just took a shit they're going to write folk songs about. Get out of my way."

Meanwhile in America, the FBI sent out a bizarre bulletin on Christmas Eve, warning police departments nationwide to be on the lookout for any potential terrorists carrying almanacs, fact-filled books that could conceivably be used in planning terrorist attacks.

"The FBI cautions you to be on the lookout for suspicious characters seen in possession of almanacs, maps, Cliff's Notes or volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica," the statement read. "We also advise you to detain anyone asking for directions."

"Look, let's not get carried away here. They're not saying you should shoot to kill the first time you see somebody with an almanac," explained terrorism expert and terrible dancer Ted Heyman, in response to America's collectively arched eyebrow. "A wing-shot should be plenty to put any fact-seeking terrorist out of commission until well after the holidays."

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Deidrebane, Deidrebane, Deidrebane. My sweet, dear paranoid Deidrebane. I don't know through which orifice crawled in these latest musings that torture your fevered imagination, but I assure you, beyond the wispiest shadow of a doubt, that the Feds are most certainly not on to us.

No, my Deidrebane, not The Fuzz either. Not the pigs, the rookers, Johnny Law, The Man, or the Blue Meanies. None of them, Deidrebane. Not one. The flower delivery man yesterday? Just delivering flowers. No secret camera in his oversized belt-buckle, my dear. I think the young man was just from Texas. I understand that kind of thing is a point of pride down there. I don't know, my dear, perhaps he won a rodeo. Or some kind of pro wrestling title. Regardless, he was not initiating a sophisticated electronic scan of our home's interior, for the purpose of compiling a detailed 3-D holographic model of our home to aid the S.W.A.T. team or armed DEA agents in a raid of our mansion. No, not the ATF either. And I don't think the CTU is a real organization, my dear.

Yes, my dearest Deidrebane, that really was the cable guy. And I don't know why he had that cast on his arm. Perhaps he fell out of a tree. Yes they do, adults fall out of trees all the time. Remember when I fell out of that Sequoia on our vacation last year? I did not think I could fly, Deidrebane, I thought we'd already dispelled that ugly rumor. Fine, I suppose you've never woken up hungry for an owl-egg omelet. Lucky you, my dear.

And no, Deidrebane, it is not possible to bug a toilet. I don't even know where you got that idea. And even if you could, why would you want to? Yes, I suppose it would be an impressive engineering feat. That still doesn't answer my question. I don't think the Federal government does things like that just to prove that they can. Look, I can't stop you from using our neighbor's restroom, but I can't guarantee they're going to be thrilled about the idea. Ever since I ran over the Chunderbuns' doghouse, those people have had a serious case of the holier-than-thous. Yes, Deidrebane, I realize it was full of dogs at the time. I don't remember shouting anything about how the wood was barking. That sounds exactly like the kind of thing you would make up after a few cocktails.

Have you been watching the movies again? I suspect you have, you always get like this after one of your movie nights. Remember back when you saw E.T. and became convinced there was an alien locked in our pantry? I don't think our son ever really recovered from that broom attack, my dear. And he was practically diabetic after you'd pushed all those Reese's pieces underneath the door. No, I don't remember his name either. I think he played tennis. Perhaps shuffleboard. He definitely did something outdoors. Might have been a fireman.

And no, I don't think it's a good idea to get rid of my drug stash in case the feds come bursting through the windows in rappelling equipment, firing German shepherds in from the lawn by catapult. Do you have any idea what that would entail, my dear? I suspect that part of this house may have been constructed from illegal narcotics; I can't vouch for my state of mind at the time that I was drawing up the plans. That reminds me; if the house ever catches on fire, stay away from the upstairs bathroom. I don't think a single human being was ever meant to smoke an entire bathtub made from tar heroin.

No my dear, when the S.W.A.T. team comes, they won't ring the doorbell, and they won't be disguised as gardeners or insurance salesmen or ninjas. I don't think they have a budget commensurate to those Mission Impossible films you love so. Okay, they might have a battering ram. Would that make you happy? I swear, Deidrebane, you're starting to alarm the children. Send them outside to play with the gardeners before you give these children a complex. Yes, my dear, the gardeners have always had walkie-talkies. I swear, Deidrebane, sometimes you're like the Joan of Arc of paranoia.

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Like any God-fearing man, Omar Bricks is careful to make a New Year's Resolution every year. Not that I'm all that religious, at least not since being banned from church for impersonating the Pope at a bake sale years ago. But the way I see it, it's best to stay on God's good side, in case he exists. So every year I resolve something.

One year it was to make a shitload of money. The next year it was to quit gambling and get out of debt, not to mention getting the mob off my back. Another year I resolved to be a Big Brother to some underprivileged kid, until I found out that was a different thing than living in a house with a bunch of hot bimbos and everything you do is on TV. One year I resolved to only eat things I like, but a few days later I accidentally ate at a White Castle when I was piss drunk, so that didn't last too long. Most of the resolutions don't turn out so well, to be perfectly honest, except for the year I resolved to quit smoking. I'd never smoked before, but I still went the whole year without starting up the habit. So I think that counts.

This year I've resolved to spend more time naked. This may seem similar to last year's resolution, which was to see Salma Hayek naked, but I figure it's different enough to qualify. After you die, they stuff you in some ridiculous monkey suit in a box for all of eternity; so really, you have to take advantage of your available naked time while you can. The way I look at it, I've already wasted too many of my prime naked years. Conservative parents, misguided high school teachers and small-minded local cops have kept this bod under wraps for far too long.

I realize this is a big resolution, bigger than most, so I've been making some dry runs at it these last few weeks that have been going pretty well. People are generally pretty cool about you being naked at the health club, though I did get some dirty looks on the treadmill. Most likely jealously, since most people can't run that fast when they're naked. It's a little trick I picked up while I was on vacation in Norway one year. I was taking a shower on the plane and the fuckers landed and cleared out all the luggage while I was in the bathroom. Granted, I was in there a while, but I'm not the one that designed those things so crazy, putting a toilet and trash can and all that shit in the shower. The least they could do would be to put a showerhead in there that's higher than nutsack level, it's not like that many midgets fly coach.

So I get out of the shower and all my bags with my clothes in them are gone, and there's just some cleaning lady on the plane who looks at me like she's never seen that much naked man before. As a matter of fact, I don't think the city of Oslo had ever seen that much naked man before, but I managed to sprint to a clothes store without too much incident and it was pretty cool to feel like I was in the movie Terminator with the Norwegian audio track on.

Other places are not so cool with you being naked, or at least they're able to make their disapproval heard in English. Toys 'R Us is downright fascist about not having any naked guys running around in their stores. I could understand them not wanting any naked little kids running around who don't know a Gamecube from a training toilet, but it's not like nudity is contagious. All they need is some cardboard sign of a naked giraffe saying you've got to be this tall to be naked in the store, problem solved.

Most restaurants are pretty weird about nudity, too. Maybe it's because they don't think you'll be able to pay if you don't have any obvious place to carry a wallet, I don't know. They might have been worried I was going to ass up the booth but if that's all it was I would have been more than happy to sit on a napkin or one of those toilet-seat horseshoes or something. Let that be a lesson, people, sometimes it pays just to ask.

To me, the weirdest nudity policy has got to be at the community swimming pool. It's like these people don't think the water is going to find a way to sneak around their bathing suits and touch all their junk anyway, they want to string me up for cutting out the middleman. I'm not sure why swimming and hypocrisy go hand in hand, but they do.

I think the success of my 2003 resolution is going to depend mainly on finding naked-friendly places and spending lots of time there. Thankfully the commune offices revoked their dress code long ago, after Ramrod Hurley sued over Lil Duncan not being able to wear things from the slutty end of her wardrobe. Which if you ask me is both ends and the middle, but that's not my business. Right now my business revolves squarely around finding some kind of fuzzy ass-friendly cover for this office chair, because this vinyl clings like a motherfucker.

Wish me luck, and warm weather. Bricks Out.

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