hursday's meeting of the minds between the ten prominent candidates for the Democratic presidential nomination at Manhattan's Pace University may not have provided a clear front-runner, but it did haul in a net full of fresh catchphrases. All candidates involved tried to sum up the complicated problems of the U.S. and international affairs into humorous phrases or puns, jabbing incessantly at each other's records and universally condemning President Bush as a major jerkoff.

The lead attraction for the afternoon, besides the boyish good looks of Sen. John Edwards, was the debut of retired Army Gen. Wesley Clark. The former NATO commander lobbed the first polite volley of the day with his backhanded compliment in opening remarks: "I'm happy to join such an esteemed group of Democratic colleagues. I can't believe you're all trailing Bush in the polls."

Clark also dealt one of the earliest catchphrases in the debate in slamming the Bush administration. "We elected a president we thought was a compassionate conservative. Instead, we got neither conservatism or compassion." A solid good start to political soundbytes, though Clark erred in claiming Bush had been elected.

Pace University Political Science professor Ingrid Northam explained the importance of a political catchphrase in an election, to sum up the heart of one's platform to Americans surfing the TV and too busy to actually seek information on candidates. But more importantly, for a field of Democrats all failing to stimulate voter interest, catchphrases can be a make-or-break way of establishing a personality the voters can appreciate. It allows them to differentiate between candidates, and the right catchphrase could put a failing candidacy right back on track. It was extremely interesting stuff and well-spoken, and this reporter regrets not having written any of it down.

After initial platforms were summarized, the catchphrase cannonade really began. Massachusetts Sen. John Kerry knocked Bush tax cuts, claiming, "President Bush calls cutting taxes for the richest Americans, 'tax relief.' Well, you know how I spell relief, Mr. President? J-O-B-S." The audience hooted and hollered as if free beer were served, and afterward nothing could stem the flow of nifty slogans.

Rep. Dick Gephardt's strategy was to attack frontrunner Howard Dean. "Dean called Medicare the 'worst Federal program ever.' He sided with Newt Gingrich on a $270 billion cut in Medicare. Governor, for a man with the name Dean, you got no class."

Dean angrily retorted, "What kind of name is Gephardt? The dumb kind, you ask me." But most irksome to the major contender was the comparison to Newt Gingrich, which Dean vehemently denied, saying, "Nobody up here deserves to be compared to Newt Gingrich." the commune contacted Newt Gingrich for a response, but upon being told he was Newt Gingrich the former Speaker of the House flew into a rage and threatened to sue us if we printed such slander.

The debate proved most successful for those already leading the pack, analysts said. Trailing candidates failed to make much headway, and some contribute it to coming to the debate ill-prepared for catchphrases. Sen. John Edwards declared, "I keep coming back like the clap," to no effect on the audience. Carol Mosley Braun failed to gain much ground with her new slogan, "Who am I? Let's find out together!" However, Al Sharpton reportedly managed to add a few points to his demographics with the rattling shout of, "Who's up for ribs?" It was newcomer Clark, however, who made the most initial impact from his first debate appearance, closing his part in the debate, "Tanks for your nomination."

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Life is funny sometimes.

I was out prowling around and whatnot the other day when I ducked into a store in the mall that had this huge life-size statue of Xena in the window. Now, Omar Bricks isn't a huge Xena fan or anything pathetic like that, but he knows a key piece of interior decorating décor for the Bricks Manor when he sees it.

I was hoisting the Xena statue onto my back when the pre-pubescent store manager asked me if I needed help with anything, like he was going to crap out a disc helping me carry this thing out to my bike. I asked him if he had could get me a dickfour, which I figured would keep him busy for a while. But he was unphased, this cat was all business. We shot the shit for a while, and I was disappointed to find out that this backwoods store doesn't accept SuperAmerica calling cards as a form of payment. No shit! In America no less. It was probably for the best though, since $10,000 for the statue probably would have gone over the minutes I had remaining on my card. I'm not sure, but there's a pretty good chance. Thus began a fruitless bartering session that went nowhere but gave us both a good excuse to yell in public.

I sent the dude to go check with his regional manager to make sure they didn't need a used Nordic Track for the store, and while I was waiting, some salivating dweeb trapped me into a conversation like a sparrow caught in flypaper. He had his retainer all in a twist about some computer program that had just given the King Geek chess guy a wedgie or whatever. Something about chess, anyway. I said I knew what he was talking about, just because the reflection of my face in his glasses was starting to wig me out and also I wanted him to stop talking.

Now Omar Bricks knows a thing or two about chess. For one, there's a dude that looks like a horse, but he's not called a horse. Don't ask me why. I think it's stupid too, but I didn't make up the game. And the other thing is, don't try to mix and match checkers pieces while you're playing, because nothing pisses off chess geeks more than bringing up the subject of checkers.

Since the manager still hadn't come back yet, I was stuck in a socially awkward situation that only wholly unexpected display of breakdancing ability would get me out of smoothly, and I wasn't wearing the right kind of pants for that. So I was trapped like a gimp as the chess guy showed me over to a computer where there was a herd of nerds crowding around, all taking their shot at beating this Deep Fritz genius chess program that had so recently bookslammed the Grand Dragon of the socially stunted chess world. Of course, they were all getting smoked like cloves at a junior high school party and giving each other wet willies for losing and all kinds of retarded shit I don't even want to go into.

Since I was kind of stuck there anyway, I decided to make it interesting and I announced that Omar Bricks had come to kick Deep Fritz in his chess-loving taint, once and for all. The dorks were dubious, but when I stated flatly that Omar Bricks had never lost a game, they were impressed. Or non-responsive, whatever. But technically it was a true statement, thanks to the patented Bricks end move where you "Ah, shit!" accidentally flip the board over with your knee when defeat starts to look imminent. It works in pretty much any kind of board game, though if you're going to pull that during a game of Scrabble, you might want to duck out the door while everyone is confused because that's one mess you don't want to help clean up.

So in the end I knew I had that ace up my sleeve, and I doubted the computer had anything like that to fall back on. Generally computers don't have sleeves to hide things in at all. That would require computers wearing dress shirts and nobody not recently off crack wants that, since at any time you could turn around and find big bird-headed lamps pecking at you and scary pants come dancing out of the closet and then you realize you're in some kind of Herbie Hancock video nightmare and oh shit.

The match started well, with me moving some horses and the computer moving some big dick-shaped things around for a while. I think my concentration may have lapsed because I was wondering if this computer had that naked golf game on it when one of the nerds yelled in my ear "Omart! He's got you in check!"

Now I don't claim to speak chess, but I figured this was probably bad. One of the other geeks pointed out the computer's little castle and how it was lined up to put the smackdown on my bedpost. Shit. NOW they tell me you can move the castle. What the hell kind of unrealistic game is this? No matter, either way I had to move fast. I told the dorks not to worry. Then, when the computer was about to put the "Castle of Death" whammy on me, I jumped up like I had just seen an underdressed high school girl out in the food court and in the process banged my shin like a motherfucker on the computer table. That sent the whole thing down like a pup tent on a Special Ed camping trip, no lie. The effect was basically what I had been after, though with more shin banging than I cared for.

Of course, that's just when the manager shows back up, when there's broken crap everywhere and I'm hopping around, holding my shin and cursing out Bill Gates. The nerds were long gone, off checking the food court for cleavage. The manager kid was going on and on about the broken computer and this and that, and I thought I was going to have to windmill my way out of there after all, but he changed his tune after I threatened to sue the whole mall over their defective computer tables. For a second I thought I might be riding home with that Xena statue strapped to my back thanks to my lawsuit ruse, but finally I had to settle for this little pewter statue of some kind of fat gremlin thing.

Tell you the truth, I don't even know what the hell it's supposed to be. But it sure makes a badass hood ornament for my bike.

Bricks out.

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Dear commune:

Aren’t you just tired of all this bullshit?

Reggie Shaw
Dove Plains, GA


Dear Reggie:

We know exactly what you’re talking about. Those fussy pricks downstairs at Crochet! magazine need to be put in their goddamned place. First they have the gall to involve the police in our staff’s hallowed Annual Pogo Stick Race semifinals. We here at the commune may be a passionate bunch, given to boisterous arguments and cataclysmic displays of machismo, but we’ve never been unable to resolve our own pogo race photo finish disputes among ourselves. Sure, small-arms fire is sometimes involved, but cooler heads and Russian Roulette always prevail.

And speaking of meddling, who are they to say who can and who can’t keep livestock in the building’s common areas? They automatically assume it’s the commune’s goats that have been shitting in the elevator. As if their staff is above suspicion. The pricks.

Anyway, thanks for understanding. Sometimes the commune just needs to vent.

the commune

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Editor’s Note: the commune is not responsible for those embarrassing Capri pants all the girls are wearing these days. We’re guessing a sauna mishap was responsible for those ridiculous things. But we do look forward to making snide remarks when we’re looking at photo albums ten years from now, just for the record.

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