earless commune drone and all-around lovable doofus Ivan Nacutchacokov was shipped off to Afghanistan in the wake of the Sept. 11th terrorist attacks, searching intently for news straight from the source in this hotly-watched speck of the globe. His first news arrives via short-wave radio: "Get me the fuck out of Afghanistan!"

"I'm not kidding in the least," said the fun-loving office cut-up. "It's extremely dangerous here. I've almost had my head blown off countless times. And the sweet sherpa Jimmy who escorted me here from the airport is now a pile of non-descript organic material."

Nacutchacokov, who described himself as wedged under a desk with a shotgun clutched to his chest like a suckling child, had no information on the whereabout of Osama bin Laden or top officials of the Taliban.

"I could give less than a shit," Nacutchacokov screamed in his consistent high-pitched whine. "If I had them here I could only carve them into some sort of bunker made of human bones and flesh, a shelter to hide inside. They mean nothing to me and I would gladly give up ever reporting on anything again to feel the safety of my own apartment in New Hampshire."

Also unknown to Nacutchacokov is whether or not the Al Qaeda, the organization believed responsible for the Sept. 11th attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, was planning retaliation for the recent U.S. wave of attacks. The Al Qaeda and its leader, Osama bin Laden, allegedly operate from within the country of Afghanistan.

"I don't know or care," Nacutchacokov said, firing two shotgun blasts for unidentified reasons. "I have one enemy: Red Bagel. Or whoever booked my flight over here and gave me this assignment. You know, next time I'll read my tickets to make sure they say 'Miami,' you sons of bitches. There is a warm place in hell reserved specifically for you, you gutless—"

Nacutchacokov's transmission was interrupted by a sound not unlike shelling from military planes, though the word, "castration" was audible over the din.

rade Center and the Pentagon, President George "Nightmare" Bush has urged for Americans to unite and create a "paranoid, trigger-happy America."

"Now, in this, our greatest moment," the President said Wednesday following the attacks, "it is important that our bloodlust reach critical levels. I'm so fucking angry I could shit a Buick. And I think all of America should follow suit."

Smoking a cigarette with an inch of ash still on the end, nervously loosening his tie and squinting through bloodshot eyes, the president promised swift and "all-out awesome" retaliation against "anybody; make that everybody. They're all going down this time."

"Some Americans have understandably tried to get on with their lives, to grieve for the victims and recapture some sense of normalcy. I urge restraint in this matter at this time. This is not the time to calmly and logically turn to religion, family, or community. Now is the time to pissing apeshit."

Bush finished his press conference by throwing up his desk and punching out a window in the Oval office.

Later, around 4:30 a.m., the president stumbled out onto the lawn with a pistol in hand, firing blindly at the sky and screaming, "I'm right here! I'm right here, you fucking monsters! Come and get it! If you dare!"

A visibly shaken, tearful President Bush was then escorted by Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld back into the White House, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

President Bush continued to encourage the nation from a small, dimly-lit room in an unreleased location three days later.

"The high demand for guns, firearms, flags, and gas has been spectacular. The call has been made for quick, thoughtless action. For rage and violence. The American people, as always, have answered the call.

"What was that?" the president asked with wide eyes darting about the dank cellar. "Did you hear that?"

He then fired several shots into a nearby secret service agent who reportedly had a "weird glint in his eye."

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.

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