Future Archaeologists Have No Clue About 9/11

he torn-off front cover of a Newsweek magazine dating back to March of 2004, discovered by archaeologists at a dig outside Prozac City examining the remains of a 21st century McDonald’s child care facility, has sparked heated speculation as to the meaning of the magazine’s headline: “Inside the 9/11 Investigation.�

Since all records of the early 21st century were destroyed in the Great Silicon Wipe of 2009, modern-day scientists can only wonder about the troubles of 21st century man, not to mention what a 9/11 is and why it might need to be investigated. Archaeologists are split as to the possible interpretations.

“This clearly has to do with air pollution,� asserts present archaeologist and former Past Bob VI roommate Paul Silvestri, pointing out what appear to be industrial smokestacks in the background of the cover photo. “Look at all that smoke, that must be a coal refinery or something. Nasty. I don’t know who the white guy is on the cover; the part where his name should be is caked in 100-year-old mustard that’s become part of the paper. But he was probably a coal baron or something.�

“Get your cock out of that crock,� disagreed fellow archaeologist Alan Hayes. “What does nine divided by eleven have to do with air pollution? This clearly involves the controversial integration of New Math. They were probably all up in shit about 9/11 equaling four, like that was too advanced for their Cro-Magnon brains. That’s probably why this guy is raising his hand, like he doesn’t get it because the teacher’s going too fast.�

“I don’t know,� interrupted Silvestri. “If that’s true, then what’s this stuff about ‘Your Government Failed You... And I Failed You’? Who is this guy? He’s obviously poor, look at how bald he is. So he’s clearly not a government official.�

“Maybe he’s a robot,� offered Hayes. “Maybe his arm’s up like that because he’s doing the robot dance.�

“Hmmm,� Silvestri thought about it for a moment. “No, that’s not it. Look, he’s got a napkin tucked into his collar, like he’s eating dinner. And why would you build a robot that needs glasses?�

“Maybe he’s a glasses-testing robot,� offered Hayes.

“You’re an idiot,� countered Silvestri.

Laymen on the street have been even more confused, asking why the man on the cover is wearing those round eye shields and why ancient man only set aside one week a year for news. Will the truth ever again be known? No one can know for sure, but if they ever do figure it out, Future Bob IV will be there, carrying on the fine Bob family tradition by reporting to the commune offices via my high-tech pastwave radio implant, bringing you the latest future news on what, in this case, you already know. Good day.

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According to my idiot neighbor Dale, a watched pot never calls the kettle black, or rust never sleeps, or something. The point of it being (I think) that you have to take the initiative if you don't want some weird German dude with no body hair eating your lunch. Because it's a dog eat dogfood world out there. And I have to admit that his confusing point really hit home for yours truly, and it gave me indigestion. It's clear that Omar Bricks has rested on his laurels far too long. It's time to build an underground city.

According to this issue of Omni magazine, which my neighbor Dale got a subscription to because for some reason he thought it was going to be full of cheesecake pics of the girls from those Robert Palmer videos back in the 80's, but it's actually all about science and bullshit future predictions, but according to Omni we're all going to be living in underground tunnels in, like, five years. That's because you can only fit so much shit on an acre of land, but if you tunnel down to the center of the earth, that's like five acres or something. Way more room. So it's basically free land, the kind of thing this country hasn't seen since the Gold Rush or back in the day when people would run around grabbing trees and lakes and crabs, yelling "Mine!"

Now you know Omar Bricks is going to jump the gun on that inevitability, sure as futuristic shit. So I immediately drew up plans to add an extension to my house—straight down. I figured it would be bitchin' to make another mirror image of my entire house underground, just the kind of thing to freak people out and make for some righteous "Dancin' on the Ceiling" video re-creation hijinks and whatnot. But then I realized that even if I pulled that off, I still wouldn't have a pool, so I decided to tunnel under my neighbor Dale's house as well, since that lazy fucker hadn't even read his own magazine. His loss is my real-estate gain. And from there, who knows? We could have a real Omarpolis on our hands in no time.

The more I thought about it, it became clear that I should probably start Project Dig under Dale's house, since it was his magazine and everything. All I needed to start was some kind of crazy-ass digging machine, since Omar Bricks has never been good with a shovel or backbreaking physical labor. I was drawing up plans for a complex Bricksmobile modification involving a gigantic diamond-tipped drilling cone piloted by test monkeys (just for the shit of it) while I waited in the drive-thru lane at Arby's, when the divine inspiration hit. Why waste precious Bricks-hours and other people's diamonds building a Digmobile that was just going to sit in the garage and collect dust when I was done, when I could just hire the crew of this Arby's to do the same thing for a day's wages? They all looked like strong, able-bodied men and boys, with hardly a green card between them. It was brilliant.

The sell took some doing, since I don't speak any Spanish, and one guy kept trying to give me curly fries, but within minutes I had Arby's entire workforce in my trunk, heading back to the Bricks Manor to make suburban history. Did I feel a little guilty about the whole thing? Of course. That guy behind me in the drive-thru lane probably sat there for hours before he realized nobody was coming to take his order. But you don't make history without some sacrifices.

After liberating a half-dozen shovels and a wheelbarrow from my other neighbor Mitch's garage, Project Dig started smooth like a shaved baby's ass. Those guys could tunnel like the Vietnamese, only without the distracting hats. Though it turned out Dale was a little smarter than I gave him credit for, since he rigged the land under his house with all kinds of crazy booby traps and shit, trick pipes blocking the way that spray ice cold water when you try to hack into them with an axe, electric cable shock traps, and a huge underground tank of shit I don't even want to know where he bought.

But rest assured that Omar Bricks and Team Dig went all Tomb Raider on that bullshit, and the dig went silky smooth until we got to the other side of Dale's house, when that unreliable fucker's foundation collapsed, caving in the tunnel back to the base camp behind us. Luckily for us, those Mexicans dig faster than I can breathe, and we came aground in Dale's neighbor's garden like some kind of gopher from hell. I don't even know who lives in that house, since the only time I'd ever been over there was the time Foghat came home drunk one night and passed out in the wrong doghouse, and some asshole woke me from a dead sleep like he was absolutely certain it was my dog that barfed on his garage. Some people.

So in the end, a valuable lesson was learned. You have to tunnel more than six feet deep if you plan on digging under a house that's full of heavy shit. Wiser and dirtier, I paid off the Mexicans and bought their silence with the promise of a ride back to Arby's.

True, the cause of underground living was set back a bit that day, but future underground-living generations will no doubt benefit from the knowledge gained. They won't have to suffer though having their neighbors' houses collapse into the earth, sending shockwaves through the ground that knock over their favorite Darts Champion trophy back home, cracking the top corner a little. But all the pioneers have to suffer; it's a fact of life. If that's what it takes to be remembered forever, then Omar Bricks says "Hey, fuck it."

Bricks out.

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Good people, I have had one of those experiences that only happens to other people. I have been abducted! And not by aliens, as you might first suspect, and even hope. I was abducted by beatniks!

It starts like any other story of abduction. I found my car stalled, by myself out on a rural road, away from the bright lights of the city—even the stars themselves seemed dim that far out. I tried to start my car once again and only got that whiny "enh-enh" sound going. Immediately, I got out and began walking, naturally fearing a UFO would show up and give me a super-suit to fight crime with. I don't have that kind of time, bossy Neptunians. But something more incredible happened!

Beatniks, tooling around in their convertible jalopy, motored alongside me like something out of a Ginsberg dream. They chatted me up and asked me if I wanted a ride. Of course, I never take a ride with beatniks, like mama Finger always said. But they wouldn't take no for an answer. I found myself soon bound and gagged, tossed into the back of the jalopy like a sack of potatoes.

I couldn't imagine what they wanted with me. For a short time, I even imagined they were aliens disguised as beatniks, in order to draw slightly less attention to themselves—but that made no sense. I invited them to probe me, and though one of them mulled it over for a long time, none of them took me up on it. They instead seemed to concentrate on writing poems about me, asking me what my bag was, and then reading said poetry to me while they charged me a lot for a simple cup of coffee. No mistake; these were beatniks.

Why me? No one can say. But they did say—apparently I'm one major-domo angry cat. Or, as Pie-Daddy said, "Yo, normally we ain't down with the anger thing. Some bad-mood Charlie starts his mantra on us, we all like, 'Chill, Franklin.' But your rage, man, it's like a thing of pure beauty. That kind of rage glows forever, like a firepit in a down-and-out steel mill that burns in hopes of one day…" And at this point I stopped listening. What he clearly said, as far as I can tell, is that my anger is better than everyone else's. The rest was superfluous.

I figured I would stick around with them, for just a short while, and give back something to the artistic community—especially since we've tried to remain good friends, the community and I, ever since that truce we signed back in 1971. If I can take a few hours out of my busy schedule and inspire a whole new generation of beatniks, it's the least I can do. But no more than a few hours, I told them, because I have shit that isn't going to do itself, frankly.

But these cats (check me out; I'm catching on already!) weren't content to just let me sit around and be a muse. They kept asking me questions, like how I grew up, what my relationship with my mother was like, and what made me so damned disappointed with life that I had to go around in a constant rage. I could only tell them I'm just lucky, I guess. But they still pressed me. Answer this, answer that! Only they had actual questions instead of "this" and "that," which actually aren't. I got bored of all that fast. I have angry columns to write and X-M radio distributors to boycott, I can't waste all of my time answering questions. Sitting around not answering questions, much less of a drain on my time. The questions had to go.

We couldn't come to an amicable agreement, the beatniks and I, so I crafted an elaborate escape plan. I carved an exact duplicate of myself out of soap (the nose was particularly hard to get right) and then, once I had it all tucked into my bed, announced I was going to the local grocery store to get enough soap to do models of them as well. It worked brilliantly, and I, of course, never returned.

I feel a little bad, abandoning a life as inspiration to the poets of tomorrow. But Rok Finger's always been a doer, good people. Not a doee. Nor a doe—ignore any type-O's suggesting that.

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