sing state of the art poll-tracking technology, the commune has been able to predict this year’s presidential election winner two days early with a probably 98.77439% accuracy, and the result may shock or disinterest you. That’s right; Al Gore will be our nation’s 44th president.

Though Gore has not been a frontrunner in most of the supposedly-reputable national polls heading into the election’s final week, a highly scientific sampling of unregistered voters within a two-block radius of the commune offices has confirmed the reports of future correspondent Future Bob, who recently contacted the commune from the year 2006 with the news that Gore is president and that pop music had gotten really, really shitty. Also: buy stock in flavored condoms now.

Though it is unclear as of yet whether the Gore win will be the result of an unexpected groundswell of support in the election’s final days, or the emergence of thousands of 2000 absentee ballots from Post Office limbo hell, one thing is unmistakably clear. More on that later.

Perhaps even more surprising than the Gore win was the news that both presidential incumbent George W. Bush and Democratic challenger John Kerry finished well out of the money in the general election, trailing such surprise write-in candidates as The Rebel Billionaire, J.R. Ewing, and “that black guy from 24.” Also receiving strong shows of support were Candidate Zero from the NetZero Internet Service commercials, baseball commissioner Bud Selig, and the soothing, dignified voice of actor James Earl Jones.

Though the point may be moot due to the tenth-place showing of Jones’ voice, it is unclear whether the entire personage of James Earl Jones would have been inaugurated had the actor’s voice won, or if Jones would have had to stay out of sight while his voice was electronically matched, Wizard of Oz-style, to a projected image of either Darth Vader, the dad lion from The Lion King, or some kind of CGI morph of the two.

The revolutionary new poll, devised by the commune’s in-house expert expert Griswald Dreck using the latest Polish technology, also revealed some surprising news about America’s political affiliations. Long-though to be a nation composed almost equally of Democrats and Republicans, this latest poll shows a surprising 74% of citizens who list their party as “Yes!” Another 10% belong to the hard-line “Fuck Yeah!” Party, with a small but vocal minority standing behind their “Not Since We Had Kids” Party affiliation. Also of concern to the current establishment are the upstart “Where?” and “Can I Bring My Brother Dave?” Parties, which appeared to grow in size exponentially between our 10am and 4pm polls.

The demographic splits were even more surprising, with over 80% of likely white trash voters believing that gun control means using both hands. And in a minor note, a surprising 82% of Americans believe Gore is our current president, and are happy enough with the job he’s done to vote for a second term.

In other political news, 65% of likely voters expressed their strong opinion that commune reporter Lil Duncan belongs in the “Hot” category, while teen correspondent Boner Cunningham led the “Not” voting with a skyscraping 92%. Though disheartened by the news, Cunningham informed the commune that he hopes to do better in the upcoming 2008 election, by which time he expects his mustache to have fully grown in.

Venezuela Adds Itself to ‘Axis of Evil’

Orleans Refugees at Home in Disneyland’s French Quarter

Bob Barker Ceases to Exist After Retiring From Television

Tree Bark Face Turns Out to Be Likeness of Jesus Lookalike Vance Waxman

Any of you hear about this poisoned dog food scare? I don't know how long this shit's been going on, I only found out when they cut into KNTZ's rock block on Thursday night to announce that Spuds MacKenzie was dead, from an Alpo overdose. At first I was like, yeah, bullshit, that dog drank enough Budweiser to put a Kennedy in the ground, but then my neighbor Mitch said something about feeding his dogs nothing but deer meat until the epidemic blew over. He said that's why he'd spent the whole night driving drunk in the woods, hoping to hit a Bigfoot or something he could tell his dogs was deer meat. That was after he went to the zoo to shoot a deer and they turned him away because you need some kind of permit or something to hunt at the zoo. You really do learn something new every day.

Anyway, Mitch may be a lot of things, but he sure as hell doesn't follow directions, so I was pretty sure the tainted dog food noise was for real. And Foghat barfs and shits all over the place more than enough already when he's healthy, I can't afford however many of those shit-eating Roomba robots it would take to keep up with him if he caught Ass-Dropitis, or whatever this new dog plague is.

They didn't say on the radio which brands of dog food were tainted, but I wasn't taking any chances, so I threw out all the Chuck Wagon in the house immediately. I've never been comfortable with how much that name sounds like Upchuck Wagon anyway. And Iams was right out, too, because that name sounds like somebody was writing "I am sick" but dropped dead before they could finish. Too suspicious.

Science Diet was nixed as well, because I've never liked the idea of scientists experimenting on my dog. Leave that shit for the rabbits and half a cow or whatever they do. I mean, what if the experiment this week is to see what happens to dogs when they eat ground-up Nerf balls? I ain't bankrolling that shit.

In the end I decided Kibbles 'n Bits was the way to go, even though I have no idea what a kibble is, but that's all Foghat will eat anyway. But how to know if the dog food was safe? I figured there was only one way to be sure: I'd have to try it myself. This isn't as gross as it sounds, after all, what do you think Cocoa Puffs are? You can make anything taste good if you add enough chocolate.

The shit really wasn't that bad, and the milk helped. But half an hour later I was feeling like Andre the Giant had crawled inside my nutsack and died. And Foghat wasn't looking too hot either, just laying there on the couch, watching World's Wildest Police Chases, barely moving. True, that's his normal state of being, but normally he hasn't just eaten an assload of possibly-tainted dog food.

So I did the only thing a responsible dog owner could do: I rushed Foghat to the emergency room. And you know what? We waited in line for three hours at that fucked-up place, like there was going to be a roller coaster or something, before somebody told me they don't treat dogs at the emergency room any more and I had to find a vet. Goddamn this luck.

Well, guess what I found out at the VFW? Yep, those motherfuckers have sworn off curing dogs as well. Isn't there anybody in this whole goddamned town with the balls to de-sick my dog?

After that I blacked out, and woke up on my couch back home. Turns out Foghat had dragged me all the way back home because he was missing Nanny 911, so I guess he got over whatever he was dying from. True, my car was still over at the VFW, and all my clothes were ruined from being dragged all the way across town by a dog with a saliva problem, but I was mostly just happy that Foghat was okay.

Then I threw up from the bottom of my balls.

Don't eat dog food, it's bullshit for people. Bricks out.

º Last Column: Driving My Life Away
º more columns

The jig is up, jig-lovers. After years of speculation, snooping, allegations, bribes, misinformation and games of inter-office dirty pool, it's time to let the cat out of the bag: I am the shadowy commune informant known as "Deep Omar."

True, this is hardly news to regular readers of my column, since I've been dropping hints to this fact for years, and even took the bagged cat out for a stroll a few years ago in my 2002 column "Deep Omar is the Chess Messiah". But as everyone knows, printing something in the commune is hardly the way to get the word out about anything, even to the commune staff themselves, and even when they're all eagerly snooping in hopes of cashing in on Red Bagel's $10,000 bounty for information about Deep Omar's identity.

But now I think it's time to get the word out to the world and let the healing begin. So in addition to writing this column, I've also added an "I'm Deep Omar, Bitch!" tag line to the end of my answering machine message. That alone has four times the word-spreading power of writing something in the commune, so I figure the word is as good as out there.

Because this world, and especially this office, has existed too long in the shadow of lies and deception. I'm tired of Ramrod Hurley claiming to be the leaker in a desperate grab for in-office street cred. And I'm bored of watching Ivan Nacutchacokov take a lie-detector test every time he comes in the office, because of Red Bagel's suspicion about his foreign-sounding name. Also, I needed that $10,000 to get the 8-track player in the Bricksmobile IV fixed since it's been playing Santana backwards for three weeks now and I get egged every time I drive past a church.

I know what you're thinking, why not go all the way and get a CD player put in? Well, you know Omar Bricks is all about that, but I think they just got 8-tracks down in Panama recently since this car isn't wired for that shit at all. The dude at Best Buy said the best he could do would be to upgrade to a record player, but I just don't think that would suit my driving style, which entails a lot of off-road shortcuts and a complete disregard for speed bumps. Plus, having my dashboard eject an LP would look a lot like some kind of weird robot giving me a black-licorice raspberry, and that's not a distraction I need while cutting through the Taco Bell drive-thru to avoid a light.

So in the interest of solidarity and personal finance, I marched into Red Bagel's office last week and spilled the beans that I was the one who had leaked the classified info about him coloring his hair. Not maliciously, of course, I always traded that info for cash or a get-out-of-jail-free card when necessary. And as I reminded Bagel, I only knew because Raoul Dunkin told everyone the same thing when he was drunk at the commune Christmas party back in '99 anyway; I was just the only one who remembered since I hadn't had any of the PCP-laced muffins from that hippie collective Bagel had hired to cater the thing. They had raisins in them, and Omar Bricks doesn't truck with raisins. Yuck.

As soon as he heard Dunkin's name, Bagel forgot he'd spent the last six years digging through the commune trash trying to find me, pushed a cashier's check across the desk and headed off in the direction of Raoul Dunkin with a cricket bat. Sorry, Assbag. But that's what you get for saying my car stinks like Doritos. Bricks out.

º Last Column: The Sad Fate of the World's Greatest Invention
º more columns