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Arafat Voted "Hunkiest Palestinian"April 15, 2002 |
Ramallah, West Bank Ansel Evans Arafat poses for an Arab Teen photo shoot
In a café here on the West Bank, 16-year-old rock-throwing enthusiast Rajouba Aswan said about Mr. Arafat, "He's the OG, man. He's to die for." Friend Jamil Barghouti, 17, chimed in, while adjusting an explosive-laden vest. "That's right, yo. Yas-Dog – I mean, Mr. Arafat – is da bomb."
Cited by West Bank teenagers as reaso...
or a record 28th year in a row, Yasser Arafat, leader of the mega-popular boy band PLO, has been voted "Hunkiest Palestinian." The award, which often leads to lucrative endorsement deals and speaking engagements, was not unexpected. Mr. Arafat had token opposition from members of PLO-spinoff bands Hamas and Hezbollah, but no one seriously expected any of them to challenge the reigning MC Mullah of the Gaza for the winner's turban this year.
In a café here on the West Bank, 16-year-old rock-throwing enthusiast Rajouba Aswan said about Mr. Arafat, "He's the OG, man. He's to die for." Friend Jamil Barghouti, 17, chimed in, while adjusting an explosive-laden vest. "That's right, yo. Yas-Dog – I mean, Mr. Arafat – is da bomb."
Cited by West Bank teenagers as reasons for voting for Mr. Arafat as the Imam of Palestinian Hunks were, among other reasons, "the way that big bottom lip of his quivers when he talks," and "his rad beard, dude." Also mentioned were his "big, sad puppy dog eyes," and his "cool sense of fashion."
Asked for comment, Mr. Arafat responded, "I am humbled to be once again chosen, praise Allah, and I would like to send my thanks and blessings to all the young G's and martyrs out there, to all my peeps and homies. May Allah smile upon you, and may your quota of 70 virgins in paradise be each one beautiful and have all of their own teeth." Here at the commune, you can rest assured that all of our virgins have their full complement of teeth. Bludney Plud, after a short stint in an unnamed rehab center, is back at his keyboard, and hardly ever thinks about all those self-esteem issues he once had anymore.
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 September 6, 2004
The RundownIt's always heartbreaking when somebody you care about goes missing. Like your kid gets eaten by gypsies or your husband falls off a boat or some shit, I don't know, all that Lifetime movie of the week noise probably blows hard. But hard as that may eat it, what really pokes a stink finger into the plum pie is when a band you're really into disappears with no explanation, without even the courtesy to go down in a spectacular plane wreck that's easy to remember when you're wondering about when their next album is going to be coming out.
Now that the story's been appropriately set-up and all, I can slap the beef on the bun: my friend Jake bet me ten bucks last week that I couldn't bring Guns N' Roses out of hiding to make another album. It was a tall order, sure, since the band is likely trapped in a series of cages somewhere, decorating the home of some Panamanian drug lord by now. But ten bucks is ten bucks, and more importantly, there was the Bricks pride on the line. The last time that happened, I ended up getting busted at customs with a mouth full of endangered condor eggs and a recipe book for omelettes in my back pocket. So you just know I wasn't going to just let this slide over some hair band that got lost on their way to a string of career-ending drug overdoses.
Before I even start to tell the story, let me make it clear that I'm not some desperate, obsessed GNR fan who was willing to risk it all because I can't sleep at night wondering...
º Last Column: Omar Bricks' Day Off
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It's always heartbreaking when somebody you care about goes missing. Like your kid gets eaten by gypsies or your husband falls off a boat or some shit, I don't know, all that Lifetime movie of the week noise probably blows hard. But hard as that may eat it, what really pokes a stink finger into the plum pie is when a band you're really into disappears with no explanation, without even the courtesy to go down in a spectacular plane wreck that's easy to remember when you're wondering about when their next album is going to be coming out.
Now that the story's been appropriately set-up and all, I can slap the beef on the bun: my friend Jake bet me ten bucks last week that I couldn't bring Guns N' Roses out of hiding to make another album. It was a tall order, sure, since the band is likely trapped in a series of cages somewhere, decorating the home of some Panamanian drug lord by now. But ten bucks is ten bucks, and more importantly, there was the Bricks pride on the line. The last time that happened, I ended up getting busted at customs with a mouth full of endangered condor eggs and a recipe book for omelettes in my back pocket. So you just know I wasn't going to just let this slide over some hair band that got lost on their way to a string of career-ending drug overdoses.
Before I even start to tell the story, let me make it clear that I'm not some desperate, obsessed GNR fan who was willing to risk it all because I can't sleep at night wondering what could have come after The Spaghetti Incident. That's Jake to a tee, but he's got allergies that prevent him from going on any kind of band-reuniting adventure. Me? Would I piss on the band if I found them on fire? Probably. If I had to go. But I wouldn't stand there chugging apple juice just to make it happen. I thought the band was fine, and I'll admit that "Welcome to the Jungle" single-handedly made the few hockey games I've been to tolerable. But Omar Bricks prefers a bit less cock in his rock, and regardless, these last few years I've been leaning toward less-predictable musical enjoyments, like bootleg tapes of shootouts at jazz clubs or insane people playing the Autoharp. Hey, like they say, whatever floats your boat, and I'm courteous enough not to point out the fact that your boat's floating in shit.
Once the bet was made, I headed straight out the door of Jake's house, which I think weirded him out a little since we were supposed to hang out. But Omar Bricks wastes no time when it comes to winning bets. If Slash or Duff or that blonde drummer dude were tied up in the trunk of a car at that very moment as it crept across the Mexican border under the cover of night, then every second could count. Plus, Jake's kind of a dork and it was a good excuse to get out of spending the rest of the night drinking lukewarm beer and playing Cock Rock Trivial Pursuit. When that's the alternative, every second really does count.
I started my search at the most likely place: the morgue. You know you need an appointment at that place? No shit, you can't just walk in and start opening drawers like they do in the movies. Fuck that bullshit. I decided you only really need an appointment if you're too fat to wriggle in through the window in the bathroom. I guess that's a disincentive to keep out the necrophiliacs, since I don't think anybody could fit through that little window with a hard-on.
In case you were ever wondering, you can see some shit at the morgue. You ever seen that movie Stand by Me? Well fuck that, this place is like the McDonalds of dead bodies. They've got them lying all over the place. And you don't have to walk half a day or bond with any little kids to make it happen, which is a bonus.
Lesson learned on this whole adventure: I pulled a boner by trying to go the legal route the first time around, signing in and all that, and completely ruined what would have been an awesome recreation of the Nuremberg trials using cadavers dressed in outfits from the janitor's closet. Even though I'd gone to the car for a ballcap disguise before wriggling through the shithouse window (brilliant, since everyone knows Omar Bricks never wears ballcaps), the jig was up pretty quick when the security guards came in and found all those dead bodies sitting at desks in the back office and Heil-Hitlering and all that, since they recognized me from the scene at the check-in desk and it didn't matter how still I stood or if my cadaver impression was like vintage Pacino.
I did finally escape after hiding in a drawer for about an hour until the coast was clear, which was about five minutes too long since those things don't vent farts very well at all. And my flight from the pseudo-law came at a high cost: I'm pretty sure I left my prized "Nagasaki" baseball cap in that corpse drawer. I've thought about going back to check the lost and found, but I figure they're just waiting to throw a net over the first guy who shows up at the morgue asking about a lost and found. Pretty much any reasoning you'd have would be net-worthy, I'm thinking.
The other day I ran into Jake and he asked me how the hunt for GNR was going. What a dick.
Bricks out. º Last Column: Omar Bricks' Day Offº more columns
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|  October 10, 2005
It's About Time I Won SomethingUpon receiving this award, I have this prepared speech for you. Believe me, it's worth your time.
Ladies and gentleman who picked me, I have to say thank you. But I suppose I should really be thanking me. I'm the one who's put in the hard work and done everything possible just so I could be me. Do you think it's easy? For me it is. For anyone else, it could be really difficult, but for me, it comes naturally.
All I can really say upon receiving this terrific recognition is: it's about time. Other people get rewards for doing nothing, easy stuff like acting or hitting a baseball. That stuff isn't hard. I can hit a rock with a baseball bat, and I'm talking about small rocks. Baseballs are bigger than that. If I really wanted to, I suppose I could play baseball for a living and get rewards every day. It doesn't look all that hard. But I'm happy with the telemarketing job because I get Fridays off.
I'm not sure why it took you so long to get around to giving me something—I'm not doing your job, although I'm betting I could if I wanted to. I might shock you to say this, but I've never won anything in my life. Nothing. Not an award, not a medal, not a video game or game of bowling. Some people might think they lacked the ability to do something great, but I know it's just because I didn't really want it bad enough whenever I didn't win. Someone great once said, "There are no real losers; there's only people that fail to win." I said that! And...
º Last Column: All I'm Looking for is the Perfect Gangbang
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Upon receiving this award, I have this prepared speech for you. Believe me, it's worth your time. Ladies and gentleman who picked me, I have to say thank you. But I suppose I should really be thanking me. I'm the one who's put in the hard work and done everything possible just so I could be me. Do you think it's easy? For me it is. For anyone else, it could be really difficult, but for me, it comes naturally. All I can really say upon receiving this terrific recognition is: it's about time. Other people get rewards for doing nothing, easy stuff like acting or hitting a baseball. That stuff isn't hard. I can hit a rock with a baseball bat, and I'm talking about small rocks. Baseballs are bigger than that. If I really wanted to, I suppose I could play baseball for a living and get rewards every day. It doesn't look all that hard. But I'm happy with the telemarketing job because I get Fridays off. I'm not sure why it took you so long to get around to giving me something—I'm not doing your job, although I'm betting I could if I wanted to. I might shock you to say this, but I've never won anything in my life. Nothing. Not an award, not a medal, not a video game or game of bowling. Some people might think they lacked the ability to do something great, but I know it's just because I didn't really want it bad enough whenever I didn't win. Someone great once said, "There are no real losers; there's only people that fail to win." I said that! And it's true. Believe me, I could have won a hundred things like these by now, if I needed that kind of validation enough to break a sweat 24 hours a day. But I don't—I'm too confident to work for somebody else's approval. Whether it's some faceless committee that picks names out of hats or some tight-ass boss who yells at you on Monday morning because you're not supposed to have Fridays off on your job, I don't need anyone else's approval. There's only one person I need to thank for bringing me into this world—me. I worked at it, dug and claw my way out of mom's womb, until I was out on my own, and I haven't needed anybody else since. Because I have confidence. Still, I suppose thanks are in order for this great thing I've finally won. Thank you, me, for getting me to this point. I'm glad someone somewhere finally said, "That Awol Jackson, he's a right guy. He's the kind of guy who needs a fucking award." I imagine that's how it went. With less swearing, maybe. Or more. Who knows. But that guy or lady was right. Don't think I'm going to go all soft or anything now that I have won something. I'm still going to keep trying—trying as much as I want to try, and no more. I don't need to impress anybody else to make Awol Jackson happy. I don't need to impress anybody. And I don't. I do what I know I should, and I just get by being me. I'm not going to turn all phony overnight and start working just to win awards. I'm not going to put on a suit and work day and night and smile for all the assholes in the world just so I can get more awards to put on my shelf. I don't even have a shelf, and I'm not about to build one. Maybe if I won one I'd take it, but I'm not going to change for no one. If that's what you expect, you can take back your 1000 free hours of Internet service. I don't need awards that badly. I don't even have a computer anyway, so I'm sure not going to miss it. If I won it on my own merit, I'll keep it. If you did it to buy my soul, take it back, you faceless committee. º Last Column: All I'm Looking for is the Perfect Gangbangº more columns
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Milestones1853: The snorkel is invented, leading indirectly to the conception of commune reporter Lil Duncan several years later. STD specialists from the CDC would eventually send a robot back in time in an attempt to prevent this chain of events from occurring, but tragically this move caused the Short Circuit franchise of films in the 1980's instead.Now HiringMidwife Crisis. Not entirely sure what this is, but the guys thought it would be funny. So… Hmm. Uh… well, if you have experience delivering babies in a dramatic and dangerous fashion, then I suppose you should dust off your résumé. No freaks please.Top 5 commune Features This Week| 1. | Why the Bangles Hate Mondays So Much | | 2. | The Death of Archie: From the Comic to the Big Screen | | 3. | Uncle Macho's Homemade Horse Chow | | 4. | Get Out of That Tent and Back into Your Fat Pants in 1 Month | | 5. | Critic's Corner: National Treasure—No Nation's Treasure | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Orson Welch 11/18/2011 I will not let that scourge Zender mar my column with an explanation. Suffice to say I have taken to writing professionally, though I am as yet unpaid in that endeavor, I think I give tough but fair critiques of all the latest in lingerie, and it’s far more enjoyable than reviewing worthless films. Aside from that I maintain my Assistant Manager’s position at Hardee’s for income. When the self-proclaimed resurrector of the commune invited me back to review films for another edition of Entertainment Police, I was resistant, but as that well-named McShyster was not on hand to crowd my thunder, I determined it was a good way to get my name out there and stoke interest in my feminine sleepwear reviews. So let’s get the ball rolling in the most venomous way I know how: Shaming you for...
I will not let that scourge Zender mar my column with an explanation. Suffice to say I have taken to writing professionally, though I am as yet unpaid in that endeavor, I think I give tough but fair critiques of all the latest in lingerie, and it’s far more enjoyable than reviewing worthless films. Aside from that I maintain my Assistant Manager’s position at Hardee’s for income. When the self-proclaimed resurrector of the commune invited me back to review films for another edition of Entertainment Police, I was resistant, but as that well-named McShyster was not on hand to crowd my thunder, I determined it was a good way to get my name out there and stoke interest in my feminine sleepwear reviews. So let’s get the ball rolling in the most venomous way I know how: Shaming you for all the movies you made hits in the years since I last wrote.
Transformers (2007)
In the words of the great John F. Kennedy: Come on, America. We can do better than this. The Hollywood blockbuster has been boiled down to its basics, and its shiny robots, automatons, beating the shit out of each other in the middle of a city. Director of Godzilla, Roland Emmerich, reportedly watched this film and apologized to the world. There is not a single human anywhere on screen in this entire film. That Megan Fox Real Doll is not even convincing, though yes, I would strangle the fleshy giraffe watching her bend and writhe around a hot rod, if only I could stomach cars and my movie-viewing room at work had a lock on it. The only thing more nauseating than the dialogue is seeing an animatronic Pirate of the Caribbean feature that looks uncannily like talented actor John Turturro speaking it. I don’t know what he got paid to license his image to this cinematic holocaust, but I’m sure dignity cannot be bought with the fee. Did I mention they made two more of them? If my will was law, everyone leaving the theater would have been sterilized and the films would have at least done some good to the world.
The Dark Knight (2008)
After Batman Began, he decided to start talking like the world’s worst Fat Albert impression. Christian "Bail Me Out, You Fucking Bitch, Mom" stars as the titular hero, who either has throat cancer or has trouble speaking plainly with tight leather wrapped around his throat. If I remember correctly, Heath Ledger acted so well in this film it killed him, but most of it amounts to wisecracks and doing a McLovin voice all the way through the film. The plot is convoluted and involves more characters than a season of Deadwood, and the action sequences would have been far more enjoyable if they had decided to light them. But in the end, the film makes a great statement: Sequels work best when they raise expectations to unrealistic degrees, making the third film an inevitable stinkbomb.
Avatar (2009)
I don’t go to see 3D films. I’m less worried about the damage to the eyes or the high cost of tickets and more frightened that it’s all a ruse to take pictures of an audience full of idiots sitting in the dark and watching a $12 movie while wearing sunglasses. Has the wonder of 3D ever lasted past the 20-minute mark? I wouldn’t know. Thankfully, Titanic auteur James Cameron squeezed every drop of wonder out of this film in the script stage. A paralyzed Kevin Costner finds a tribe of very tall Smurfs and becomes one of them, and though he’s pulled by conflicting loyalties for a solid three minutes of screen time, he sides with the primitive but lovable Land Gungans and Wesa all happy by the end of this tired yarn. Cameron thought about removing all the people in this one, they didn’t quite look real next to the CGI animation, but he remembered the last time a director did that they called it Transformers, and the critics burned it to send it to hell. This one was a bigger success, despite its lack of sinking ships and a dastardly lifeboat-stealing Billy Zane. Spoiler alert: Everybody wins and is happy in the end. Oops, gave away the ending.
Inception (2010)
Based on the novel Huh? by WTF. Batmastermind Christopher Nolan takes on the world of dreams in a fast-paced mind-blowing adventure epic that wowed critics and audiences alike. The only problem is it seems Nolan has never had a dream and never bothered to write a plot anyone could understand. What might have been a daring, big-budget exploration of dreamscapes and the psyche boils down to a bunch of car chases and people getting shot. I have always prided myself on telling when the Emperor has no clothes, and this one’s sack is dangling in the wind, people. Dreams are not as depicted in the movie, these vast landscapes where you’re chased by organized subconscious thoughts and doing gravity-free Kung Fu on other badasses. If Nolan had been honest, the plot would have been Di Caprio driving a Hyundai around inside a Home Depot looking for a place that’s open to buy French fries, and then they stop at a P.F. Chiang’s, which doesn’t normally serve French fries but for some reason they have them, only the French fries turn into hush puppies halfway through eating them, and Avery Brooks is a sukiyaki chef, then before he’s finished cooking Di Caprio finds they’re all on Deep Space 9 and the Crest Cavity Creeps are attacking. Then he wakes up. That would have gotten you the Oscar, Mr. Nolan, instead of losing to some stuttering fey king.
Those were the biggest moneymakers since I last wrote. Don’t blame me, America—blame yourselves. If you don’t apologize before I write again, I may decide to take on your Oscar winners. I dare you to give me a shot at Slumdog Millionaire. I dare you.   |
