Bush Appoints Richard Pryor to Appeals Court

lipping through the governmental system of checks and balances like a greased hog, President Bush used a recess appointment to bypass a Senate filibuster in appointing comedian Richard Pryor to the 11th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals on Friday. Bush defended the appointment by explaining that the Court of Appeals hasn't made him laugh in a good, long time.

Bush praised Pryor as "this really funny black guy" who was sure to be a hit with his fellow justices. In addition, the president expressed bewilderment that Senate Democrats would want to block yet another of his appointments, commenting that he thought everybody liked Richard Pryor. "Hey, this is fun," responded an elated Bush when given word that Pryor had been successfully installed.

The recess appointment was Bush's second since Senate Democrats mounted successful filibusters to block the president's last five appeals court nominees, including stuntman Evel Knievel, Hollywood actor Russell Crowe, Yankees shortstop Alex Rodriguez, famous child psychologist Dr. Spock and the cartoon character Fat Albert. Following his unsuccessful attempt to have the African-American animated character installed in the court, Bush used his first recess appointment to add soulful latina singer Gloria Estefan to the circuit court last month.

Senate Democrats defend their filibuster tactics as necessary to protect the President from himself, explaining that they shouldn't be viewed as a personal vendetta against a president who thinks he can appoint whoever the hell he wants to the nation's courts.

"Look I love A-Rod," confided Senate Minority Leader Tom Daschle. "That guy can hit the piss out of a baseball. But I'm just not sure he belongs on the appeals court."

"At least he exists," interrupted Sen. Charles Schumer, D-New York. "Remember back in 2001 when he wanted to appoint Gandolf and that guy who was Sylvester Stallone's trainer in Rocky? Jesus Christ."

Bush appointed the comedian and actor despite suggestions that Pryor might be physically unfit for the position, given the debilitating effects of the Multiple Sclerosis from which the comedian suffers.

"I'm sure he'll be fine," explained Bush. "He's probably just making it all up to have a good laugh at us. That guy's hilarious."

This latest appointment is expected to have a positive effect on the president, who is said to be in down spirits since the death of "Spotty," the White House dog, last week. Though the dog came with the job, Bush had become especially attached to the canine over the last three years, and hoped to pay off the dog's lease in order to take it with him when he left the White House. Though he's not sure of the exact clause involved, President Bush expressed confidence that his renter's agreement states that the White House now has to get him a new dog. He's hoping for a Pomeranian or a golden retriever that can do tricks.

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I don't remember anything from last night, I was comatoast. I'm not kidding, I fell in with this fast crowd of Olympic blood-dopers I met at GNC when I was there pricing one of those camelsack things you wear on your back so you can piss on the go. And everything's pretty much all a blur after that. It got a little weird at one point, I think I woke up in a closed library with torn-out book pages papier-mâchéd all over my naked body, but thankfully the next blackout warped me back home. So all's well that ends, like they say. I think I may have ran a marathon in there somewhere, because my feet are hella sore, but I'd still say partying with reckless Olympians isn't bad as far as hobbies go.

Especially when my other main hobby is throwing away paperclips, pretty boring. I'm not kidding, my trash can sounds like a sleigh bell whenever the janitors try to move that thing. Whenever I get something that's paperclipped together, that little metal doohag goes straight in the trash, because fuck you if you don't think I can keep my shit together without your help. I resent that, and if I wasn't making your memo into a naked origami chick, that shit would be filed right where it belongs, under the corner of my desk that's all lopsided from when I had my office outside last summer. I still laugh when I think of those wimpy little neighborhood kids dropping my desk while they were schlepping it back up the stairs. You don't know funny until you've seen six little third graders screaming and scurrying away from a desk that's cartwheeling down a stairwell like some kind of berserk wooden monster.

Speaking of the office, I guess the big news around here is that Red Bagel's dad died last week, some kind of buffalo-smoking accident. And I know exactly what you're thinking, but I already asked and apparently he ran a buffalo jerky shack in Wisconsin somewhere. Though if you ask me that sounds like an answer designed to avoid the question, and I'm still not convinced the man wasn't some kind of High-Plains pervert. I decided not to push the matter further out of respect for the dead, but you know I'm going to hit the 'Net hard to get to the bottom of these buffalo-smoking allegations.

Anyway, the big Sixth Sense whammo surprise of the whole deal is that it turns out Bagel's dad actually owned the commune, he won it in a poker game with a mute Indian or some shit years ago, and so now it's been passed on to Red and his half-brother Gay Bagel. No shit, a surprise brother! Makes me wonder who's gonna come out of the closet when I die. Next thing we know this Gay Bagel shows up and spontaneously craps out a kidney when he realizes the commune has accidentally qualified as a non-profit organization for three years running, due to the fact that we don't make any money and Rok Finger once had a girl scout sleepover party at his house.

While they were gurneying Gay Bagel out of here and the EMTs were looking around under the desks for that kidney so they could put it on ice, he was mumbling some shit about making a ton of profit-milking changes around here so that his inheritance wasn't pissed down a river. Something like that. I don't know if that means we're going to get some new columnists with big tits or what, but I'm all for giving that a shot. Far be it from Omar Bricks to stand the way of progress, I might even have time to download JPEGs of some ideal candidates while I'm researching this buffalo-smoking story. Shit, I may even end up breaking Red Bagel's 57-month streak of "commune Employee of the Month" awards while I'm at it, hot damn.

Bricks out.

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Astute commune readers or other mythological creatures might have noticed the long sustained absence of new material over the past couple of weeks. It was the first time since 2001, the year I got my first checkbook and rented commune office space, that we've taken an extended absence from news reportage. I apologize, but it couldn't be helped, as everyone here had lost their minds.

That might be a possible exaggeration. Lefty the commune mail clerk seemed perfectly within her normal rationale, but she was particularly grumpy on the ride to the Funsational Summer Corporate Retreat and Motivational Seminar, on the commune bus, also known as the Damned Bus. Everyone was in a not so good mood, which is to say no one was in a good mood, but it was yet another of my kind concessions to brother Gay to make the commune a more profitable experience over the long haul.

Despite the silly name, Gay did NOT have fun at the Retreat. Sure, he had a ball when the clowns were doing their thing, and the white college Republican rap troupe broke it down for us, and I could see him really moved by motivational speaker Slick Hodges. But then came the group therapy session, where we attempted to learn about our own personalities in the work place, outside of the actual work place, and the hard bitter truth ran right into his sweet spots.

We tried a dandy trust exercise, where we split into groups and, blindfolded, had to put up a tent. It ended in a lot of pain for Gay, who found a tent post painfully inserted somewhere, only partially, thank God, by one or more of his teammates. Ted Ted is the angriest and most outspoken, so the obvious suspect, but he lacks the physical strength to force a tent post into the human body, while Stigmata Spent had the sheer muscle to do it—but still, someone had to hold him down. Despite the animosity toward my brother, and the fact they didn't get the tent set up, the session leader still had to admit they showed impressive teamwork in the endeavor.

As always, role-playing followed, and without going into much detail, let's just say it soon degenerated into everyone doing their Gay Bagel impersonations. My favorite was Ivana Folger-Balzac's, which consists of wagging a finger and yelling gibberish like "Habba habba habba! Habba ha!" Which is not to discredit humorless Shabozz Wertham, who puts on a pointy white hat and straightens his tie while saying, in a very Gay voice, "About time for my weekly cross-burning!" That brings down the house. Oh, and then there's—well, perhaps I should return to my earlier policy of less description. Gay wasn't very happy with this therapy, and the session leader scolded us, saying we should role-play more than one person to do it right.

To our great surprise, it did help us realize our problems—Gay. The unlicensed psychology student conducting the therapy sessions suggested we feel pressure from Gay to do well, and Gay confirmed it, interrupting the student and making her cry. Many of the staffers complained about the new weekly schedule, saying it was more work than they were used to—one story or column a week is taxing the talents of my crew, and they long for the old days of the semi-weekly schedule. Actually, they long for the days of childhood when they could eat popsicles and screw around all summer, but I'm powerless about that. But the semi-weekly thing I could do something about.

So the rift is wider and more pissed-off-filled than ever between Gay and I, since I broke our deal and put the commune back on its semi-weekly format. But anything to make my staff happier. It is important I mention that, in the end, I'm glad Gay came aboard here at the commune. Before they hated me, or Raoul Dunkin, or Ramrod Hurley, and all the back-stabbing, bad-mouthing, and vandalism really started to pull our family apart. But now I'm on the inside with it all—we've united against a common enemy, my brother. And they've got a point, of course, he really is a dick.

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