collective Charlie Brown-style "Auuuuugh!" sounded around the world upon the release of the newest economy figures Friday. In addition to the disappointing early returns for the Christmas season, and spending figures falling below already-low projections, initial reports suggest that one industry not suffering this year is lousy Christmas gifts.

Lousy Christmas gifts, a sub-industry all its own, is notorious for maintaining steady sales from year to year, apparently never suffering from the effects of recession. However, 2003 marks the first year, if early indicators are correct, that crappy Christmas gifts will actually be on the uprise.

"The old adage about the recession," said some hobo who claimed to have a background in economics as we fed him a can of creamed corn, "is that the fluff industries are all the first hit. Luxuries, things like that. But there are rock-like reliables in all areas of the economy, and Christmas gifts are no exception. When the country hits on hard times in the yuletide season, cool gifts are the first things to go. No one's going to shell out for costly electronics when cheap, affordable, crappy gifts are available. Most Americans are tightening the belt—which, ironically enough, is one of the first crappy gifts to see a boost in sales."

Most holiday shoppers bear those theories out.

"I would have liked to bought my son that MP3 player he's been talking up all year," said Syracuse, New York-area housewife Mabel Donner. "But with things looking so bad for the economy it doesn't look like a good time to buy some new-fangled radio. So I'm getting him that book of inspirational sayings I saw in the mall."

Books of contrived sentimentality are not the only Christmas gifts with a sharp rise in sales this year. Also seeing an increase are socks, underwear, courderoy slacks, snow pants, gay sweaters, suspenders, and T-shirts and hats certifying they were purchased by grandparents.

Outside of clothing, food is also seeing a sales boost, especially cheese and sausage gift packs and giant tins of caramel-covered popcorn. Sales of advent calendars featuring dried, nasty chocolate alone have provided a much-appreciated lift to the German economy. In addition, minor sales increases have occurred in virtually every area of the economy for crappy gifts; even crappy video games like Pokémon Pro-Skater and Mary Kate & Ashley Olsen Virtua Fighter are seeing a sales spike.

Most kids have yet to experience the nightmarish reality of Christmas morning, 2002 as of yet; but some, like Craig Sharmet of Ledervehn, Pennsylvania, have already seen early warning signs.

"Grandma gave everybody their Christmas gifts yesterday," said Sharmet. "I got a Jesus calendar. It's a calendar. And it has pictures of Jesus on it. For every day of the year. All next year. Jesus."

Alice Keeler of Tumasca, Arizona, can sympathize.

"Aunt Sandy showed up Wednesday with presents for everybody and said we could open them, and we were all flipping out 'cause we were so happy. Then we opened them. I got a glitter puff T-shirt with the American Idol logo on it. I'm not sure what's worse—that people would think I like American Idol the TV show enough to wear a T-shirt of it or that people who don't know the TV show think I'm saying I'm an American idol or something. The possibilities are terrifying. And I had to thank her for it."

On the brighter side of the story, all forecasts indicate that shopping traffic will increase significantly just after Christmas, when the stores fill with the countless consumers attempting to return Shania Twain CDs and subscriptions to Teen People.

n a tearful ceremony held in his apartment, Red Bagel accepted his fourth consecutive "You the Man of the Year" Award for all of his efforts in whatever it is that he does.

"It's a great honor, and a welcome surprise that I receive this award," said Bagel, in a speech possibly plagiarized from one of this three previous speeches. "As the creator of the Yitmotty, I understand what it truly means to everyone, especially me. And that makes it mean all the more to receive this for the fourth time."

The YTMOTY (or "Yitmotty," as has never caught on with anyone but Bagel) ceremony doubled as a going-away party for departing Editor Bagel, who goes on to do whatever a sick person with delusions of grandeur does on his sabbatical, taking possible mummy Sampson L. Hartwig with him.

Despite having done little for the advancement of anything except paranoia during 2002, Red Bagel was unanimously chosen by a distinct panel consisting of Bagel himself, to no one's surprise. In addition to publishing the commune and acting as its editor, Bagel spends too much time in bars and court, frequently drunk in both. 2002 was Bagel's biggest yet, as he introduced a semi-monthly column where he proposed such ludicrous conspiracy theories as puppets being reincarnated dead people and a character from the movie Tron kidnapping his personnel.

As a new part of the ceremony this year, commune Editor Red Bagel had everyone from the staff give a short speech explaining why they voted for their choice for Man of the Year, i.e. Bagel himself. "Because if I don't you'll fire me" was disallowed as being a part of any speech, as this reporter found out during his presentation.

Highlights of the ceremony included Lil Duncan's pregnancy test results (sparking a relieved sigh from the entire room), Rok Finger's diatribe against wheat pennies, Boner Cunningham's lively re-enactment of the famous Flashdance sequence, and Omar Bricks' surprise fireworks display that sent three to the hospital, though at least one was most likely faking just to get out of the party early.

After the procession of obligatory praise, and after he himself had downed two bottles of Makers' Mark, Red Bagel took the stage for his long-awaited speech, which considering he's had three chances now to do it should have been better.

"Some men are followers and some men are leaders," said Bagel, earning a laugh when the slurred "followers" came out sounding like "flowers." "It's clear by now that I am the leader. I have tried to do something new and different with the commune, and new and different is what I've done." This reporter stressed the word "good" was appropriately absent from that description and was forced to finish listening to the speech bound and gagged.

"This year was a banner year for the commune. We've kept the quality of the commune news and reporting consistent from January to December," continued Bagel, once again distinctly avoiding the word "good." "From its humble beginnings the commune has crawled out of the mud with you parasites on its back, and we're headed to the top. We're no longer publishing on the back of previously-published pamphlets; that was getting a little expensive anyway. The internet has allowed us to move unreigned, unchecked, and I'm announcing here and now that 2004 will be the best year for the commune yet."

Bagel then conveniently passed out and broke his Hawaiian tiki coffee table, leaving us to wonder whether he meant to suggest the correct year of 2003 or if we're suffering through another lame year like 2002 until 2004 rolls around.

Goddammit! I'm tired of America taking away my rights.

Add "cooking" to the ever-increasing list of things you're not allowed to do in this country anymore. I was having another fun weekend night off from my job, and had everything all planned out: A lot of drinking, some cruel prank phone calls, and smoke-cooking whatever I could find leftover in the freezer. Well, you can see where this is going, even if you graduated from public schools. The cops knock on my door, mine, and tell me I can't cook.

I don't think it was meant as a critique, once minutes of arguing straightened it out. Apparently, now get this, it's illegal for you to cook in your own house. This is bullshit of colossal proportions.

Don't get me wrong, all y'all. I'm not some bleeding heart queer doing it pro bono for the ACLU, or as I like to call them, Domestic Al-Qaeda. I voted for the Patriot Act, and since I wasn't a congressman it took a lot of deception on my part and I eventually got out of it with a fine, but that should tell you how committed I am to upholding law and order. Except for those dreadful spin-offs. I figured I was white and voted Republican, there was no way my rights would be infringed upon.

But, Oh Contrary. That's the French saying for bullshit, and those French are on to something. If the government wants to know what books I buy, I'm perfectly okay with that—I like to write to Dennis Miller himself sometimes just to let him know I'm putting money in his pocket. If the government wants to know what websites I go to, fine, I don't care; as long as they know occasionally Ramon Nootles borrows my computer to surf for some really freaky weird sex shit—I'm the one surfing turkey-hunting sites and entertainment news. I've let the government so far in they can tell me if I've got bowel obstructions. But here's where I draw the line.

A man's home is his castle. It doesn't matter if his castle looks like a trailer on the outside or not. Keep fucking with me, I'll stow every one of you all in the dungeon. I'm not shitting around here, guys. I'm small, but I'm spry. Just test me. I'm a good American, I always vote, I pay most of my taxes, and now I want to be left alone so I can do whatever the hell I want behind closed doors. If that means I want to start a bonfire and blacken fish in the privacy of my living room, there's not a damn thing you can do about it. In a fair and just America. The America I grew up with.

What do you expect me to do? I've given this country all I can, short of military service or volunteer work. I'm a hard worker, I make my opinion known, sometimes three blocks over in the dead of night, and I salute that goddamn flag every time you run it up the pole. You want my blood, too? Or do you want me to turn informant? Rat out all my red-loving friends at the commune just so I can cook anytime of the day or night, despite EPA emissions standards, and be left in peace and quiet? Because in spite of our differences, these people at the commune are my friends. That's what America is about, in my book: Freaks and normal people, no matter how different, can put aside their differences to be friends, and really rake in the dough.

Not that I'm saying I won't do it, mind you. Some of these whack-jobs can stand to have the fear of G.W. put into them. I think Lil Duncan has committed an obscene act with every object on or in her desk. And Bludney Pludd, I don't think the DSM-IV even has names for the kind of perversions he's capable of. Call me up. We'll chat. You dish your dirt and I'll dish mine. But don't send anymore uniforms to my door—I certainly rate higher than that.

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