U.S. Expects Iraq to Settle Down for NBA Playoffs

espite escalating violence across Iraq, US Marines remain confident that all will be well in the country once the NBA playoffs begin this week, distracting Iraqi insurgents from their anti-occupation agenda with dazzling basketball action. However, though the mesmerizing influence of fantastic NBA drama may likely sooth the current conflict, experts warn that new tensions could arise between the San Antonio Spurs-loving Iraqi populace and the largely Laker-friendly occupation forces.

The nation's Shiite majority is comprised overwhelmingly of San Antonio Spurs supporters, led by Muqtada al-Sadr, a Shiite rebel cleric and hardcore Spurs fan who is often photographed wearing a Tim Duncan jersey along with his traditional turban during basketball season. Experts are at a loss to explain Iraq's passion for the San Antonio team, which may be caused by that region's similarity to Iraq in arid climate and close proximity to hell. Despite their underdog status, Iraqis seem convinced the Spurs will prevail against the great white dragon of the Los Angeles Lakers.

"Fallujah my noojah, bitchaz!" al-Sadr mugged for television cameras on Monday, flashing some kind of bizarre Iraqi basketball gang signs.

"The thing you have to understand is that these fanatical loyalties in Iraq go back hundreds of years," explained Iraq expert and big eater Dr. Erwin Stagg. "Or however long the NBA's been around, that long. Imagine you were a Spurs fan and a bunch of Laker fans burst into your house and started bossing you around and eating your chip dip. How would you like that? Not much, I think. Now imagine they had guns and your house was the size of Iraq. Pretty weird, eh?"

In an effort to keep the peace, troops stationed in Iraq have been admonished to keep their team biases to themselves when dealing with Iraqi civilians, though President Bush did the coalition efforts no favors when he ended his news conference last week with a fist-pumping cry of "Go Lakers!" Pundits are calling this move a ploy to boost Bush's flagging public support, a desperate change in tactics after the president realized he had milked the tit of conservative Christian dogma drier than Phyllis Diller's snatch.

Complicating matters further, considerable pockets of Detroit Piston-loving Sunni Arabs dot the Iraqi landscape, increasing chances of further tribal violence in this already war-torn land should the Spurs and Pistons meet in the NBA finals.

"Yo, San Antone gonna smack you down when you come wit dat weak-ass shit," an Iraqi youth said through a translator, seeming to address more than the upcoming NBA finals. Though when asked to elaborate, he just pantomimed slam-dunking a basketball, which may or may not reflect upon the US's long-term prospects for democratic nation building in the region.

Even terror mastermind Osama Bin Laden wants a piece of the playoff action, offering an Arab cease-fire in exchange for US and European forces putting down a dime on New Jersey for him and maybe hooking up a little courtside seat action. Negotiations with Bin Laden apparently stalled out after coalition negotiators were unwilling to budge from their best offer of a generous satellite TV package and a game-worn jock strap from Nets point guard Jason Kidd.

The NBA finals are scheduled to wind down in June, which coalition planners feel will be close enough to the June 30th hand-over date for Iraqi sovereignty to allow US forces to get the fuck out of there before anything else blows up. Though if the Spurs are eliminated from the playoffs in an early round, the US may have to choose between extending their occupation of Iraq, or teaching the Iraqis to love baseball.

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Anyone who's ever not spent a dollar long enough to look at it has noticed that there's more to American money than meets the eye. Look closely and you'll see that it's not just a green rectangle of paper; it's a green rectangle of paper with little pictures and words and crap drawn all over it. Don't panic, nobody's been screwing with your benjamins. And believe it or not, it's not counterfeit! They're supposed to look like that, and that's the way they're printed inside the ATM machines all across the country.

No doubt you've come to understand the big numbers on the bills over the years, and have a vague understanding about the old fart who's picture is printed on the front. We all know what the king looks like and you don't need to be able to tell Nixon from Nebuchadnezzar to be able to spend a ten spot. Flip it over and there's some big-ass official looking building on the back, Cher's house or whatever depending on which bill you're looking at. I hear Bill Gates' house is on the back of the $1,000 bill, and at the press of a button it transforms into a giant mechanical Wonder Woman. The house, not the bill. Or the Bill.

But American currency gets stranger the closer you look at it, kind of like Joe Pesci's face-lift. Sure, there's the king, a house and some numbers, but what about this bird doing the splits or the spooky bear with a key for a mouth? And who was the sick bastard who thought slapping on a pyramid with a giant floating eyeball on top was a good idea? That's about enough to make you go communist, or at least stop looking at money up close.

Of course, once your hysteria dies down and you come down out of the china hutch, you realize that there are logical explanations for all of this, and there are good reasons to have all of this shwag clogging up our bills.

The spread-eagled eagle is actually the Great Seal of the United States, but I'm with you if you think that dude needed a few more years in art school. I'm no mer-man or anything but that thing looks about as much like a seal as Sonny Bono. Many see this as evidence of the powerful acid available to our founding fathers, evidenced as well by the lyrics to our national anthem.

The Great Seal appears on all U.S. currency, so if you can't find it there's a good chance you're looking at Coney Island Bucks. The seal holds an olive branch in its left paw, a concession by the Continental Congress to the olive-growers' lobby. In its right paw it is clutching thirteen spears of asparagus, symbolic of the thirteen original colonies and yet another concession, this time to the asparagus-growers' lobby. From the seal's mouth trails a wide strand of dental floss, which reads "E Pluribus Unum," which is Latin for "Eat at Pizzeria Uno." Keep in mind that the Continental Congress was about as reputable as the American Gladiators, and most members were just looking to get laid or to see who could land the biggest bribe. Kind of like the NYPD.

Since everybody thought the seal was an eagle anyway, the Continental Congress chose the eagle as our national symbol in the 1782. Ben Franklin suggested that the turkey be made the national symbol, since eagles taste like microwaved ass. Regardless, the eagle was chosen and the rest of the Continental Congress suggested that Franklin waddle his fat ass into a weight-loss spa before they had to haze him with bars of soap rolled up in hand towels.

The crazy bear with the executioner's mask on is the symbol of the U.S. Treasury, and a viable warning not to screw with those badasses. The key in its mouth is like a dare, saying "You can screw around trying to print up fake money, and you can also have your intestines slurped out your ass like goddamned spaghetti, understand?" Call me gullible, but I took my scanner back to Best Buy after I saw that shit. Damn, Sam.

The pyramid on the back is a harder nut to crack altogether. Nobody really knows what it means or how it got there. The Continental Congress and the Treasury each blamed the other for slipping the pyramid in there, and nobody's ever taken credit for it, not even the Freemasons. The consensus is that the floating pyramid-eye rules us all from a bunker deep within Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado. Perhaps this amuses you. If so, chew on this: at the base of the pyramid, 1776 appears in roman numerals. Precisely the number of Americans currently in prison for asking too many questions about the floating pyramid-eye. Creepy, eh? Research editor or no research editor, I know just about all I want to know about Mr. Giant Floating Pyramid-Eye. Nose around more if you want, but don't send me any letters scribbled on toilet paper from prison later asking what a cornhole is, 'kay?

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I think we gave up on Chernobyl too easily. I say that knowing full-well that too much radiation can make your sack blow up like a beach ball and your fruit starts talking to you and shit, which could be plenty scary depending on what the fruit is saying. I know some people who would be terrified no matter what their pear was belching out at them over the breakfast table, but I for one believe you can't live on that uptight of a level. At least I wouldn't consider it living. If I'm greeted to a chorus of "Mornin', Omar" from my fruit bowl in the morning, who's the victim? As long as they don't scream when I eat them, I don't really consider talking fruit to have a downside.

I'm not a doctor, at least when I'm not hard-up for cash, but I've got to imagine the health effects of living in a raging nuclear fallout zone have been overstated. You know how doctors are, one month immense dosages of radiation will turn you into a puddle of goop, the next month they'll give you super powers and you'll live to be 150. It's like the whole red wine thing. I'm willing to take my chances, because even in the worst-case scenario, being a puddle of super-powered goop doesn't sound all bad. No way you've got to pay normal tax rates when you're filing as "goop."

And Chernobyl itself could really be an ideal place to live, when you think about it. It's like an empty readymade city, just without all the giant Barbie dolls and the plastic Thunderbird with nothing under the hood. It'd be like Oklahoma City without the hick smell. They could hold a wild land grab like back in the old west days! Give me a cattle prod and let me loose in that place, trust me; I'll come out of the deal with Bricks Towers under my arm. It may have been Bank of Ruskie before the shit went Three Mile, but now that vault's Foghat's room, Ivan. What can I say; the dog likes to feel secure when he sleeps. Plus I think he might be catching on to the fact that the "Panic Room" in the Bricks Manor is just a walk-in closet with a bunch of pennies jammed in the door frame.

Still not sold on the whole Chernobyl thing? How would you like to wipe your ass with the electricity bill? You'd be living that large in Chernobyl, since who needs electricity when the whole town glows in the dark? And if that shit can power a submarine, it should have no problem juicing up my Mr. Coffee. It would be like solar power, without the suck.

I got to thinking about fallout this week because of The Man's reaction to my oceanizing of the Bricksmobile III: Red Bagel Edition last month when I was down in Panama. Turns out the big Bagel had a real emotional attachment to that car, and a real dead space alien on dry ice in the trunk. That's what he says anyway, the story smelled suspiciously of hooker mishap to me. But if that's the case, he can consider that problem solved, because the only law that's getting into that trunk now is the Fish Police. And it was my understanding that they were cancelled years ago. Bagel always has been the paranoid sort, however, and I don't think he watches TV. Something about mind-control dolphin sounds in the audio mix, I didn't read the whole pamphlet.

So now I'm on the commune shit list, of Bricks List as it's being called at the moment. Quite a change from the Dunkin Detail as it had been known for years. Thanks to my loyal readership of gun nuts, truckers and the vicarious, my ratings the office chicken has been tabulating are keeping me from napping under the axe, but I'm still keeping my options open for a career move to the Far East in case shit goes bad again like last year when I ate all of Bagel's astronaut ice cream. One more mix-up like that and Omar Bricks will be the top name on the commune's Comrade Exchange Program, because I don't think those sly fuckers want Boris Utzov back. Wish me luck.

Bricks Out.

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