80s Rock Icon Don Johnson Denies Money Laundering Allegations

he entangled world of celebrity indictments grew thicker this week with questions arising concerning an alleged money-laundering scam involving popular '80s contemporary rock star Don Johnson. Johnson, most famous for his 1986 Billboard top 5 hit "Heartbeat," denied the accusations unequivocally.

According to an unnamed German source we're calling Sigfried, Johnson was found carrying $8 billion in cash, bonds, and share certificates which sparked an investigation of money laundering by authorities. Evidence verifying or nullifying the claim has been slow to surface.

Johnson, a successful '80s pop vocalist/songwriter, called the rumors "ill-founded and farcical," though outside sources claim the actual quote was "farcical and ill-founded." According to the stylish, gravel-voiced singer, the unfounded accusations have already caused him embarrassment and irreparable career damage: Two credit card accounts have been closed for investigation and the Epic record label has dropped the artist, approximately 2 weeks to 14 years ago.

The charges seem compounded in the wake of other celebrity criminal news, including the ongoing preliminary trial of actor Robert Blake for the murder of wife Bonnie Lee Bakley, as well as the shoplifting trial of Winona Ryder and implications of extortion and mafia connections to kung fu master Steven Seagal. Statistics invented quite recently suggest the American public has grown weary of celebrity scandal and grows more inclined to believe charges, even when presented without evidence.

Johnson became a dominant force in contemporary rock with his 1986 album Heartbeat and the eponymous single, which rose high on Billboard charts and established a new soundscape for late-'80s rock. Aided by Johnson's dry golden hair and rugged, stubble-laden good looks, as well as his penchant for sockless pastel slacks and sport jackets, Johnson's strong feel for powerful synth music and evocative lyrics established him as a rising star in rock. However, a lag in returning to the studio made Johnson's work on the similar Let it Roll sound dated and familiar in 1989. The popularity of his music paved the way for Johnson's work in other projects, such as TV's detective show Miami Vice and Melanie Griffith. Johnson became reclusive after the disappointment of his follow-up album, rarely appearing movies, refusing to do interviews, and accepting a role in a Friday night CBS television series.

Hopes for a musical comeback diminish in the wake of the money-laundering allegations. Some insiders suggest Johnson, a perfectionist with his music, had been working on his follow-up album since 1992 in a secretive sound studio in Los Angeles, foregoing his well-established "Miami sound." Others say plans for a project for a Traveling Wilburys-type supergroup with Bruce Willis, David Hasselhoff, Jim McMahon, and Dogstar bassist Keanu Reeves have been indefinitely sidelined.

Several Newscasters Fired for Reporting Death of Don Ho

5 Million White House E-Mails Missing, All About Low-Cost Cialis

Sanjaya Unites Indian Fans, People Who Hate American Idol

IRS: Excessively Needy Girlfriends Can’t Be Declared “Dependents”

A recent poll of girls hanging out in the food court at the mall has yielded this unexpected result: the words most commonly associated with Omar Bricks in the minds of teenage girls are these: cocky good-looking son of a bitch. Actually, those were three separate entries, but I like the way they run together. The good-looking part actually came from a guy working at the novelty gift store; I'm not sure how he got a hold of one of the ballots. But I kept it in the mix, for scientific reasons and because I think it was probably a back-up choice in the minds of most of the food court girls. Makes sense.

Before you jump to any ludicrous conclusions, let me first off say that the "son of a bitch" part didn't bother me. As far as I'm concerned, that's between teenage girls and Mama Bricks exclusively. If any bare-midriffed mallrats have a problem with the way Mama Bricks butters her bread, they know where to find her. As she's fond of saying, I'd just recommend bringing several friends and a first aid kit, that's all.

Nope, what really set off my bullshit alarm (I recently had to have it recalibrated after watching half of the State of the Union address on TV before I realized it wasn't Sesame Street) was the "cocky" bit. I mean, what a bitch. Whichever one of them it was. Omar Bricks is a lot of things, including the masked daredevil who jumped a dirt bike over the turnstiles at the State Fair last year (I would have got away with it if it weren't for the blabbermouth working at the cotton candy booth that broke my fall), but cocky? That really takes some imagination.

Omar Bricks is, and presumably always will be (unless I wake up with super powers one day or something, then screw it) one modest motherfucker. I haven't taken credit for half of the amazing shit I've done and haven't called out one-third of the fronting wannabes who don't deserve to lick the sweat off my balls. And not because I lacked the vocabulary to adequately explain my innate superiority, either. Omar Bricks has made up more words to describe his bitchin'ness than most suckers have ever even heard of.

Everyone seems to forget the time years ago when I saved all those little kids from the apartment building that burnt down after my porno collection caught on fire. They wanted to put my picture in the paper with this ass-kicking article about how I had braved certain exposure to uncomfortable temperatures to throw those kids off the balcony to safety. They would have been screwed if I hadn't been there, since the stacks and stacks of XXX magazines (and enough pizza boxes to build a fort) stoked the fire into some kind of special effects inferno, and nobody had hauled away the mattress I threw out that was blocking the hallway. But when the time came for my fifteen minutes of newspaper glory, I said no way, Jose (the guy's name, I think). Omar Bricks isn't in it for the glory. Saving those kids and making out with their mom behind a fire truck was reward enough for me.

What kind of cocky son of a bitch lets a cherry story like that go untold? (Before today, anyway.) Nobody I know. Most guys would have it printed up on a shirt that said "AWESOME HERO" on the back. But not Omar Bricks, Modest Motherfucker. Besides, that shit's expensive and they charge by the letter.

Clearly there's some player-hating going on down at the mall, and that's the kind of shit for which Omar Bricks cannot stand. Next time I see those girls they can buy their own goddamned frozen yogurt.

Bricks out.

º Last Column: I Hate Old Movies
º more columns

That's the fact, jack. Given my recent falling out with Camembert and Lee's eternally-disappeared status as of late, I decided it's better to have my pride than a roof over my head. And if I can have neither, what with the extreme damage I did to the roof with my New Year's Eve fireworks show and my complete shame at being me, I'll at least not live under the roof with a card-carrying communist like Camembert. Actually, the card said Brown County Public Library, but if the free loaning of books to disabled people isn't an early sign of communism, I don't know what is.

"But Rok," you ignorantly begin, "if you're so anti-communist, why do you work for a place called the commune (lowercase intentional)?"

Christ, I never thought about it before. You confound me, wise imaginary talking-aloud reader. Oh, that's right, I have thought about it before. The rationale I came to was that I am the voice of dissent for this politically peculiar powwow of pundits. Any fool can see, as I easily do, that the commune is not strictly communist, though that Bludney Plud always seems to be going through everybody's desk like he believes in state ownership, him being the state. In practice the commune is merely a source of left-wing propaganda and seldom-reported news and fun conspiracy theories. What role does a mook like me have in a place like this? Simple. I provide the voice of the counter-culture, which is to say the Establishment, which is counter to this counter-culture, which makes me counter-culture here.

What happened? Oh, yes, I was discussing being homeless. I certainly know what those without homes are complaining about now. It is quite a scary experience for a guy like me, short, unattractive, but unquestioningly sexually alluring, to be out amongst the dregs of society without any walls separating them from me. Not to mention the experience of being pelted by water when it rains—or worse, when it doesn't.

Things are more difficult than in the past, the other times I've been unceremoniously thrown out of wherever I was living. Acting-Asshole Ramrod Hurley has instituted a ridiculous new policy of locking the doors when everyone leaves at night, so now I can't sleep in my desk anymore. I'm really, honest-to-God out on the streets again. For the first time.

Now, I'm a huge fan of Dickens like every other ancient person. But like railroad work, homelessness is only fun for spectators, not for participants. The sooner I can get into a place for living, a what do you call it, house or apartment, the better. Much like prison, I'm too delicate to survive on the streets. I would never consider something drastic like, say, prostitution, but I have been considering it lately. Still, I don't think it will come to that. No one in the world is mentally ill enough to pay me for sex.

I have asked Ramrod Hurley for an advance on my next paycheck, which is to say I've told him I need to be paid with money instead of Raleigh cigarette coupons from now on. When I have enough in the bank, the bank being my ragged slacks pockets, I will find an apartment and begin living there. It will be nice to be out on my own, inside again. No one but the desperately poor should be forced to live like this.

º Last Column: Lord of The Lord of the Rings
º more columns