002 was a banner year for news. As long as the banner said, “BO-RING!�

Yes, as we reach the beginning of a brand new news year, we look back on 2002 with more than a slight Elvis sneer of derision, like a party guest finally leaving with a heavy hangover and leaving our sofa and rug stained with vomit. 2002 may go down in the history books as, “The Year of ‘…Anyway…’�

Like a half-assed sitcom following Friends and preceding ER, much of 2002 felt squashed in-between two major news periods. Following hot on the heels of the events of Sept. 11^th and the bombing of Afghanistan that heralded the War on Terror, things settled down into a dreary boredom in 2002 as Americans waited for big news events that still have yet to come—the bombing of Iraq, a resolution to the North Korea situation, and any evidence Osama bin Laden is alive or dead. All original and fascinating news is being greedily reserved by the newsmakers, as if they’re holding out for a news sweeps week.

Early 2002 was host to the Winter Olympics, the globally-conceded most boring of all Olympics, in the globally-conceded most boring state in the union, Utah. Thank whatever you call a God for the much-covered flap when ice-skating Canadians David Pelletier and Jamie Salé were robbed of their rightful gold medal by a sly-footed French judge, or your only memories of it would be a gaggle of fruitcakes slapping a puck with a stick in the atrocity called “curling.�

Much of the early news year was limited to the images of Enron’s senior staff shrugging before a Senate sub-committee with a less-than-convincing “I dunno,� followed by footage of a shrapnel-filled site in downtown Israel as the violence that made the Middle East famous escalated to ludicrous heights, until an all-out assault on Yassir Arafat’s bunker broke the boredom very briefly. There was also Ray Brent Marsh, the Georgia crematorium owner who tossed the bodies in the lake and passed the savings on to you. Thanks to Marsh, along with multiple kidslaughter defendant Andrea Yates and the hockey dad who loved local sports a bit too much, the first few months of 2002 news were occasionally livened up by local heroes.

An historical Oscar win for Best Actor and Best Actress by African-Americans Denzel Washington and Halle Berry helped draw attention away from the fact the Hollywood community now considers Opie the Best Director in its midst. Even the biggest celebrity murderer of the year was only former Little Rascal Robert Blake, leaving Court-TV to wait patiently for the shoplifting trial of Winona Ryder.

Summer gave everyone a little hope for a brighter news year when nine miners faced certain doom, trapped in a mine shaft, and no one was happier when they were retrieved alive and healthy. Then the week ended and everyone went back to bitching about terrorism and the tumbling stock market.

As the rate of insane presidential utterances concerning Iraq increased, Americans hit the peak of the news year when a series of sniper attacks across America finally put an end to superfluous Elvis coverage. However, it wasn’t enough to save a pisser as a news year, and after the sniper suspects were arrested America quieted once again. Republicans received a boost from a record low-voter turnout off-year election and Trent Lott’s ill-conceived pro-segregationist remarks embarrassed the Bush administration, something that is truly hard to do.

News pundits have a great case for 21^st century to be the most boring yet, but the commune news is quick to remind everyone 1901-1910 was a pretty crappy decade for news and the 20^th century didn’t heat up until the sinking of the Titanic and World War I. We can make this one even better, just keep working at it.

Conservative Woman Found

Fox Disappointed by Desperate Alien Prison Escape Ratings

Arizona Border Patrol Installing Landmines

Eminem, Ex-Wife Reunite to Work on New Material

Omar Bricks is in favor of legalizing all drugs, if for no other reason than it would be hilarious to see what kind of cover Kraft would put on a box of Smackaroni & Cheez. My vote is for some dumbass-looking dinosaur that's all slouched over, nodding off in front of a TV that's playing The Jetsons. That would be some hilarious irony, because what in the hell is a dinosaur doing watching The Jetsons? That shit's futuristic even for us, but for him it's like double-futuristic, it's just absurd. If I were a dinosaur I'd just fart at that kind of absurdity, it'd be too much to handle.

Mark my words, we wouldn't have to be give all these spazzy little grade school kids prescription speed if they were getting smack on crackers in their Naked Lunchables. None of those hyper little dipshits would be acting up at all, throwing scissors or singing the "diarrhea song," any of that, they'd be too busy nodding off and staring at their shoes. And I bet they'd be better at art class, too. Give those little junkies some fingerpaints and cake decorations and I bet you could sell that shit at the art fair, or at least in a head shop or something.

It would also be worth it just to see what kind of commercials they came up with for the hard-core drugs, like crack. I can just see some stressed out housewife dragging around a minivan full of screaming little shitheads, and then she gets a flat tire, then some fat hobo guy barfs on her blouse, and then it's freeze frame and she turns to the camera and says "F-this, I'm smokin' some crack!" They show her lighting up and enjoying some Entenmanns's brand crack or whatever while her kids play with the spare tire by the side of the road, and there's some tiny superimposed type about how you may experience a side effect where you become a crack whore and blow a donkey, etc.

Most of the drugs would probably go the beer commercial route, showing some goateed slob getting all the skanky ladies because he's got the good blow. They'd probably have to get creative since I don't think they can show harmonica-style blowjobs on network TV, but I'm sure you can imply it pretty easy. A little dark makeup around the eyes would probably do it; everybody knows what a coke whore looks like.

I'm not even sure who would get the rights to sell blow, though of course Coke is the obvious choice. They could do some of those classic blind taste-test commercials, with some guy doing a line of coke and then a line of Draino, and as he's flopping around on the floor like a fish he gestures that he preferred the coke. I don't know about the rest of America, but I think that would be more than enough to convince Omar Bricks that coke is it.

I hear Kraft's trying to get out of the junk food business, so I think they'd be a natural to take over the junk business. Nobody's going to bitch about them making America fat anymore if all of their products make you think your food is yelling at you. I can just see their commercials marking the transition, like some guy gets busted at customs and the dude with the rubber gloves pulls a sack of Oreos out of his ass. Ha ha. Then, of course, the stuffy English customs dude shrugs at the camera and pops one in his mouth, that's the punchline. They may regret having told me that "Double Stuff It Up Your Ass" wasn't a catchy slogan when that day comes around.

The rest of the drugs would fall into line easily enough. Big Tobacco would of course get pot, and they'd find a way to make it addictive. Gatorade could handle angel dust, unless Powerade or Red Bull shivved Gatorade in the corporate shower and took over their territory. And we'd have to give Schweppes control of some bullshit drug, like ether, so they wouldn't get a whiney about the U.S. having a narcotics monopoly.

Hmm, Narcotics Monopoly! Damn! Don't look now, but Omar Bricks is getting an idea that could revolutionize the board game industry forever. Somebody get Parker Brothers on the phone, they need to file a patent for Roofie Twister, and pronto.

Bricks out.

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The time has come once again for my annual pilgrimage to Graceland—my first pilgrimage, actually, and I admit I'm randomly selecting the date rather than choosing some important date. And no, I'm not a fan of Elvis Presley, I've never even met the man. I'm a fan of Paul Simon's Afro-themed album, especially the song where he lets me call him Al.

Admittedly, I should have done this earlier, but I forgot to establish house rules during the great Rok Finger absence. This would be better done as a house meeting, say, than a column, but I had space to fill and I'm looking to beat cheeks to the airport as soon as it hits 2 p.m. here.

It boils down to one major credo: Camembert is in charge. Sorry, everybody else—meaning Lee. But somebody had to be picked, and this time it's Camembert. Maybe next time it will be you, Lee. But not likely. It will probably be Camembert then, too. And if he blows it this time, I'll just hire a sitter or something, or allow Stu Umbrage or somebody here at work be Acting Rok in my place.

The fact is, Camembert is the only one who can be trusted not to burn the house down or sell it to immigrants for crystals. In many ways, Lee is superior to Camembert—hell, in most ways. Lee is definitely more fun to hang out with, less scared to try new things, and the fact he can walk is always a plus. If I were looking for someone to take to Vegas or join the Foreign Legion with, Lee would be the only choice. But the simple fact is Lee is somewhat irresponsible, and I'm not convinced that head injury is completely healed.

I can trust Camembert to keep things boring while I'm gone, and that's what's important, right? That there is no fun while I'm gone. Without my level head around to counter Lee's brazen foolhardiness, there should be no fun. And Camembert will make sure of it. Just look at his life before we showed up—sure, he had his apartment all to himself, but he had no rock band posters on the wall, no black lights in the apartment, and it was a smoke-free environment. I'm talking all kinds of smoke, even Lee's peculiar tobacco. It's obviously a lot better with us around, no one would argue, or we'd kick him out of his wheelchair; but with me on the road going to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee, the fun needs to be reigned in just enough to make sure I don't return home and find the whole place owned by some Heaven's Gate cult or something.

This will obviously be a big boost to Camembert's ego, but that can't be helped. I'll be sure to remind him who's the real pharaoh of the temple when I get back, and allow him his little iron-fist Al-Haig rule for a few weeks. Lee seldom listens to me, so I doubt Camembert being in charge will crimp his lifestyle much. But the simple fact is Camembert is responsible and Lee is not. And the new swinging single Rok Finger may not care too much for responsibility, but when I get back and see all the damage and angrily ask, "Who's responsible for this?" I won't have to wait for the answer.

Now, Camembert, this of course does not mean I want you living in my room—your old room—and wearing my pants and/or other clothes while I'm gone. I don't want you fiddling with my things, watching my TV, looking at the naked lady magazine, or using the phone in the case of emergencies. No, you can't take the dress off while I'm gone. I'm still the big boss, as like as I'm alive.

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