rand spanking-new pope Benedict XVI has surprised traditionalists this week not only by having the traditional pope throne in the Vatican replaced with an overstuffed Lay-Z-Boy recliner, but more significantly by calling for "Santo Subito," or "Immediate Sainthood" for his predecessor, the reportedly-deceased John Paul II.

Such a move would be a radical break from the Vatican's traditional 5-year waiting period between a pope's death and first chance at beatification, which is not as painful as it sounds. The waiting period has traditionally served as a time for the deceased pope's life and accomplishments to be put in perspective, to prevent voters from being swayed by the media circus surrounding the pope's death and the emotions of guilty voters who owed the pope money.

"Your Holiness, though I respect your desire to honor—could someone kindly shake the pope awake, please?" argued Cardinal Vincenzo Palati to snores of disagreement from a reclined pope.

Pope John Paul II himself bent the rules by sponsoring Mother Teresa for sainthood a mere two years after her death, with the explanation that he was tired of waiting to get his hands on the collectable "Saint Mother Teresa" bobblehead doll.

Some have questioned Benedict's motives, pointing out the possibility that he hopes to accelerate the trend, eventually allowing the pope to declare himself a saint before he even dies, getting around the ever-present problem of being a saint but being too dead to enjoy it. Critics point out the many powerful incentives for pulling off such a coup, including the generous saint discount available at buffets worldwide, and the ability to commandeer civilian vehicles on demand for saintly business.

For John Paul II to be beatified, supporters will have to provide evidence of saint-like miracles performed by his former eminence during his popehood. So far, this looks to be a large hurdle.

"The pope made meatballs one time, using grade D beef," reminisced cardinal and pope friend Arturo Bennini. "It was a miracle they turned out so good."

"Well, the pope blew his nose on my shirt once," explained an awed Victor Minelli. "And the stain looked kind of like cookie monster. You know the cookie monster? So that was kind of weird. A weird miracle."

"That man was a saint," claimed a rambling Cardinal Eustace Beeter, in a 45-minute speech that none could claim had a definable point. "Just good people, that pope."

Catholic statisticians, however, question the logic behind John Paul II being inducted to the Pope Hall of Fame at all, citing the former pope's poor career stats. 4,000 conversions are traditionally considered to be the benchmark for sainthood, though John Paul II supporters argue that the former pope's 2,805 were an artificially suppressed number due to injuries and the years that the pope served in the army.

"The three most similar popes to John Paul II, according to their statistics, are Hermes the Mauve, Jonas Ricardo Popino, and 'Steamboat' McGill," explained pious nerd Walter Bumrose. "Not exactly a stellar assemblage of popehood, to be honest. Those are some real bummer popes, most of them from the dark period in the church's history when they had cash flow problems and would let anyone be pope for a day as long as they kicked in enough cash and brought their own hat."

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Quit being so goddamned selfish, people. There are folks drowning or something down wherever they're having that problem, because of rain or malfunctioning plumbing of some sort, and we're in a position to help. Wherever these people are, and I want to say "Magnolia" but I have a sneaking suspicion that's not a real state name, but wherever they are, we're their only hope. That's why we need to donate to Omarelief, like right now.

And by "we" I mean you, because it doesn't make a whole lot of sense for me to donate to my own charity, since that's like a hooker paying to play with herself or something asinine like that. But for some reason "Let's us do this!" always seems to be a better motivator than "Hey asshole, you need to solve this problem!" So like I said, "we" need to donate to Omarelief immediately.

90% of all cash donations made to Omarelief will be spent on feeding and housing any refugees from the disaster who make their way up to Flatbush, New Jersey, find the Bricks Manor in spite of the bogus directions I gave them, cross the moat I've dug around my house, defeat the security system, and then refuse to leave when asked politely. This is the real deal, people.

We also need to quit donating to Red Bagel's scam charity "Red's Cross," because it's giving him a big head and he keeps blowing all the money on weird portraits of himself in famous religious poses that are creeping the rest of us all the hell out.

But how does it work? How can Omar Bricks afford to be so good to people? I'm glad you asked.

The brilliant part of the charity is that I don't have to spend a dime of the donations on anyone who's not smart enough to find the Bricks Manor, which includes pretty much everyone on earth because Mapquest made a cock out of its directions to my house. I'm serious; I tried using them once myself and I ended up in Newfoundland, no shit. These are the directions I give to bill collectors, girls wanting paternity tests, and the pissed-off boyfriends of girls wanting paternity tests. They're like paper gold for a million uses, unless you're actually trying to find my house.

But don't you imagine for a second that I'll be unprepared if any sad sack motherfuckers actually make it into my house. I've got those bases covered as well, and Omar Bricks isn't one to welch on his charity commitments. We've got plenty of room here in Bricks Manor, and several sets of rubber bedsheets. And there will be plenty of mustard sandwiches to go around. Anyone who's not too put off by the fact that Foghat wets the bed can bunk with him. Otherwise you're going to be sleeping on the toilet. Don't think that's as bad as it sounds—I do it all the time, it's fine. I'd offer to let you sleep in the bathtub, a more traditional bathroom-sleeping arrangement, but the fact of the matter is I can't have some homeless lug sleeping in the tub when I need to take a shower or bathe or make some beer. Some homesteader camping out on the crapper I can handle, but it's not like you can just stick your Johnson out the window and take a shower. That's just the reality of the world, folks.

Any charity-case overflow will be housed on my neighbor Hamms' lawn, and when he's not home, in his house. So don't worry that our donations are only going to help one guy sleeping on Omar Bricks' toilet. This charity is for everybody. Everybody who was effected by the thing and who made their way all the way up here and tracked me down like a goddamned bloodhound from hell. So let's us open our wallets and give, until we've made Red Bagel's bullshit charity look like the second-rate bullshit charity it really is. Because that's what giving is all about, people. Bricks out.

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I don't want to step on commune conspiracy-factory Red Bagel's toes at all here, but word on the street is that Prince Charles conspired with the British M5 to have Diana and Dodi Fayed killed, to prevent Di from dropping the bombshell secret that Charles is actually a really dull guy. Something about popcorn nazis on mopeds shooting out the car's tires, I don't know. I didn't say the word on the street wasn't stupid.

Looks like Michael Jackson pleaded "Not Guilty" to those charges of child molestation the other day, then ran out of the courtroom and jerked off onto a crowd of adoring fans. It really makes you wonder. Who are these goddamned fans? It's one thing to go on TV to publicly show your naive support for a child molester slash possible X-files case. But Christ in a boat, you're still buying this guy's albums? That's something you might want to keep to yourselves, kids. Some facts just aren't made for the public arena. This is when you're supposed to turn your back on the guy and tell your friends you only pretended to like Thriller because you wanted to support recently-black entertainers.

But there's just no hope for some people. These are the folks who still believe Nichole Simpson and Ron Goldman killed each other, forget about it. Sometimes I think these celebrity goons pick up fans every time they decapitate an ex-wife or blow a pelican, people just love conspiracy theories. Personally I think it would've been funny if the judge had held Jackson in contempt of bullshit for pleading "Not Guilty," though I guess until all the evidence is in it's not perjury unless he pleads "Not Creepy."

It's actually kind of sad when a former celebrity does something awful and there aren't enough insane fans left over to insist he's not guilty. Like Robert Blake, it must suck to be that guy. Sure, Bob, you ran back in that Denny's real quick after realizing you left your gun on the table (I've been there!) and wouldn't you know it? Some fucker picks that exact moment to shoot the batshit mooch of a conwoman you got stuck marrying. Happens to the best of us, Bobby, sorry to hear it was you this time around. Can't believe the cops even had the balls to trouble you with that nonsense.

Actually I wish I were a better liar because I'd love to be the guy on TV crying "Barretta would never do a thing like that!" They could play that at my wake, it'd be awesome.

Come to think of it, I might be able to turn this into a kind of second career, or eighth if you're counting at home. I could rent myself out to nearly forgotten celebrities who get themselves into legal trouble as a true believer kind of fan, sort of a PR thing for stars who didn't have the good sense to pull off their felonious hijinks while they were still popular. You laugh now, but what about when you turn on your TV next month and see Homer VanSlyke in front of the courthouse for the Phil Spector trial, yelling "No! 'Be My Baby!' Say it ain't so!"?

You'll be laughing a different tune then.

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