ensions ran high in the world court this week as prosecutors continued what will undoubtedly be the greatest trial of the century, at least for a long time: The world vs. Kris Kringle, also known as Santa Claus, also known as Father Christmas, et al. It was a trial marked by emotional outbursts and brutal accusations of crimes against humanity.

Kringle, led into the courtroom with his ankles shackled together and a series of elaborate handcuffs binding his hands, sat quiet through most of the prosecution's presentation of evidence. For the defense was world-famous Swedish lawyer Jorgen Fiord, who successfully defended Argentine dentist Emilio Rodriguez in 1996 against charges he was the infamous "Tooth Fairy."

"This man, sitting right here—though he may appear jolly, and have the very glint of holiday joy in his eyes, is at best a worldwide fraud and perpetrator of lies," presented attorney Manfred Hauser for the prosecution. "At worst, he's the greatest terrorist in the history of mankind."

Hauser was referring to the charges levied against the alleged jolly old elf: the first, pretending to provide toys and presents to all the children of the world, when in fact they're bought and delivered by the children's parents; two, attempting to set up a non-profit "holiday" religion by infringing upon the beliefs of Christianity; three, initiating and operating international pyramid schemes of "helpers" on street corners and department stores everywhere; four, cruelty to animals, i.e. specifically the training and illegal housing of endangered reindeer; and five, violating labor laws and international laws against slavery, specifically regarding the livelihood of diminutive people.

Kringle had the entire world on the edge of their seats, awaiting how he would plea, when he finally entered a statement of "not guilty" two weeks ago.

The trial has been the focus of the entire world ever since the world-famous "Santa Claus" was taken into custody last year, Sept. 19, 2012, by Russian soldiers while leading a Chechan rebels' rebellion during his so-called "off season." Tipped off by local naughty boys, soldiers found Kringle hidden beneath a collapsed chimney that he may have been using as a home for as long as six weeks. The U.N. had planned to try Claus in October of this year, but thought given the circumstances they could postpone the event until the holiday season.

The highlight of Thursday's trial included the testimony of an anonymous elf, known only to the jury as "Sprinkles," alleging Kringle used magic powers to extend the days just so he could make his elf workforce work 28-hour shifts. The testimony took a turn for the lewd as the witness alleged, through sobs and comically high-pitched crying, Santa Claus made the workplace even more uncomfortable with the use of a device called a "mistletoe belt buckle."

"Humbug!" exclaimed Kringle, standing up and shaking a green-gloved fist at the video screen. "Complete and utter humbug! And there's no use disguising your voice—I know it's you, Butterscotch! He's a liar, your honor! Check his closet and you'll see—nothing but coal!"

Kringle denounced the trial as a sham, and tried to remind the court of the reason for the season, but was warned by Judge Avril Harkrieger he would be bound and gagged if he didn't keep quiet, and maybe would anyway, if the judge wanted it bad enough.

Each day the trial has been marred by protests outside, middle- to upper-class kids demanded Santa's release, and several children living below the poverty line demanded years worth of retroactive gifts.

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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.

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Well, it seems as if another baseball season is well upon us, with the grotesquely overgrown boys of summer regaling us with their rawhide antics. This season has progressed like many others, with the Yankees and Braves keeping things safe for folks who only check the standings every couple of years, and the Mets playing a brand of baseball so ugly even the New Yorkers have noticed. I've been saying for years that trading for Mo Vaughn was a mistake, that team just hasn't been the same since he ate the middle infielders.

Last year the big controversy was steroids, when the apathetic public finally took notice after enough guys had their meat-laden arms rip out of the sockets mid-swing, drenching the field in a strange purplish blood that singed the grass. Ken Caminiti admitted to using steroids during his years as a player, which was just as shocking as Cheech and Chong dropping the bomb that they occasionally enjoyed a little toke of the reefer. Most steroid freaks only break a bat over their knee when they strike out, but Caminiti would break bats over his own throat when people pronounced his last name wrong. The league should have taken notice when he stopped wearing a cup and starting wearing a sports bra.

The big story this year is who in the hell did we send to play baseball in Detroit? I know the Red Wings are popular up there but I still say they have no business on the diamond. Get some real ballplayers up there, or at least some semi-coordinated beer-league softball guys you pulled out of a hat, like the Devil Rays did. There's just no way major league teams should be spotting each other runs or having their outfielders play on their knees to make things competitive. If the Tigers were a movie, they wouldn't be Major League, they'd be My Left Foot.

The feel-good story of the year so far is the Expos, who are doing well playing half of their games in a stadium in San Juan, whenever there aren't live chickens running across the field. Word is the locals have never heard of baseball, but turn out in droves to see the strange men wave sticks at each other. A concession is a concession, though, and Puerto Rican fans even got into the MLB spirit by hitting Carl Everett in the head with a radish last week. He wasn't even playing, I hear he was just in town for the world-class cockfighting. It's truly a strange world for the man who doesn't believe in dinosaurs.

People were even getting excited about the Royals this year, but that's only because everybody else in the league is on the disabled list. I don't know who let all these crybabies into the sport, but lately the MLB is like a dodgeball game at a fat camp.

Everybody's talking about Roger Clemens' 300th win, which is about as fun as watching an asshole win at cards. Not that I'm saying Clemens cheats, but if you were playing poker with some guy who suddenly hit you in the head with the five of diamonds, there'd be some eyebrows raised. I hear that as a token of gratitude the Yankees are going to trade him to Detroit for a Cadillac. Go Tigers.

I went to a Twins game last week and Torii Hunter caught a tee shirt they were trying to air-cannon into the stands, that guy's an asshole.

I'll keep you updated on my attempts to get on the Yankee payroll this season. I can still play a little left field, and it's not like they've ever heard the phrase "expense control." So wish me luck, and if you see Steinbrenner, tell him I go to bed every night at 7.

Thanks.

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