hree masked bandits made off with the largest-ever collection of stolen sperm samples in a daring daylight heist of the McCullough Bank of Low-Grade Sperm in New York this week, amusing authorities and frightening one McCullough patron into premature donation.

Authorities believe they are dealing with extremely low-grade, and possibly mentally deficient, criminals, all likely the results of McCullough sperm in the first place. Common sense and eyewitness accounts point to the robbers mistaking the sperm bank for the usual money-filled kind, lured by the facility’s lax security and complete lack of the imposing 87-year-old security guards usually employed by banks in the movies. Even worse, the apparently dipshitted bandits also robbed the least desirable sperm bank in town, as McCullough has traditionally been a discount repository for the genetic material of over 5,000 winos, junkies, teenage heart-attack victims, the criminally obese and conservatives for the last 20 years.

“Yeah, this looks to be the work of some real gonads,� evaluated police captain Walter Diggs. “One of them even dropped his wallet at the scene, but since it was just full of coupons and a novelty driver’s license made out to Jesus H. Christ, this has been of little assistance in our investigation.�

The McCullough Bank of Low-Grade Sperm, known in the reproductive-assistance community as “The Island of Misfit Spank,� was created by wealthy thinker Nelson McCulloch in 1982 to counterbalance to the offensively Nazistic eugenics movement. McCullough hoped to counter the societal effects of eugenic tycoon Robert Graham’s Repository for Germinal Choice, also known as the Nobel Prize Sperm Bank, which aimed at improving society by giving more women access to high-grade spunk. The McCullough Bank went in the other direction, extending the reproductive power and reach of the very individuals who natural selection, and surely at least the Nazis, would likely have wiped out.

Authorities speculate that after McCullough’s long and proud history of creating the ugly, the short, the slothful and disinterested, the weak, the gene-poor, the flat-chested and the unlovable, the bank’s chickens may have come home to roost in the form of deficient McCullough alumni making off with millions of their potential siblings in a beige 1987 Chevy Nova with a “Big Johnson� bumper sticker.

Reproductive-assistance experts remain terrified at the thought of how the sperm samples might be used in the wrong hands, possibly as sandwich spread.

“I just wouldn’t want to be in that car when the skeet packet goes off,� chucked McCullough head Nigel Barmes, referring to the explosive packet of hot-pink dyed sperm that tellers mix in with stolen samples to foil robbers.

The McCullough incident marks the first occurrence of sperm bank violence in this country since 1991, when militant pro-choice activists blew up the Washington, D.C. Gentleben Sperm Repository in retaliation for several abortion clinic bombings nationwide.

he White House announced a daring new plan this week to address the nation's ballooning health care costs, which are crippling employers and causing otherwise sensible Americans to talk about national health care like dirty fucking socialists. By making poor health a law-enforcement issue, Washington hopes to get tough on the sick with bold mandatory sentencing for citizens convicted of harboring cancer, diabetes and heart disease.

"It's time to stamp out this national cancer," announced President Bush to a menagerie of stuffed animals standing in for reporters who thought the subject of the press conference tipped off an obvious gag invite. "And that's a convenient metaphor, or Similac, because I'm actually talking about cancer. And diabetes. Uh, heart disease… what are some of the other ones? The shits. Definitely got to stamp out the shits."

The new "War on Illness" will integrate aspects of several national programs aimed at ending GDP-draining sickness, including "Get Tough on Cancer," "Zero Tolerance for Juvenile Diabetes" and "Not in My Neighborhood: StrokeBusters." Supporters hope the new initiatives will sweep America's streets clean of the sickly and infirm, and keep future generations safe from the social decay caused by sick people.

"If you choose to get terminally ill, well, that's a mistake you're going to regret," crowed Judge Thomas Redbone in support of the plan, posing with an impressively oversized gavel. "No longer can we tolerate this blight on our neighborhoods or the threat it poses to our children."

Under the guidelines of the new plan, a first offense for harboring cancer, diabetes, pneumonia or other Class 5 controlled illnesses will trigger a mandatory five-year sentence, with repeat offenders coming out of cancer remission to receive life without the possibility of parole. The death penalty remains a possibility should the disease be diagnosed as fatal. Even more controversial is the plan's call for strict "Three Strikes and You're Out" sentencing for perpetrators of mental illness, to deal with wayward individuals lacking the willpower or strength of character to stay sane.

While predictably receiving criticism from the sick and terminally liberal, Bush's plan is already garnering widespread support from Americans tired of worrying about their kids falling victim to this societal scourge, and those who worry they themselves could one day be robbed by a sick person desperate for health care.

"It's a tough law, but fair," conceded June Striber, a former cancer sufferer now in remission. June hopes that with God's help, she'll remain on the right side of the law.

Critics question how Bush intends to implement the plan without addressing the problem of our nation's already overcrowded prisons. The president quelled these concerns with news that the incarceration overflow will be handled by converting schools closed due to recent education cutbacks into prisons, as well as GM factories shuttered due to overseas outsourcing and museums no one was visiting anyway. According to the president, even further room for sickly inmates can easily be found in abandoned K-Marts and in failed dot-com office space nationwide.

Omar Bricks has never believed in oil changes. I've always been one to say "Get it right the first time, jackass." Why waste time and money filling your car with shitty oil you're going to regret 3,000 miles down the road? Do the homework now and you won't have to pay some grease monkey rip-off wages to siphon out your shitty oil and spit it in a bucket a few months from now.

There's a whole industry that preys on this kind of short-sighted thinking. Lightning Lube, The Oil Slick, Carp. That last one has some letters missing from the sign, I'm not about to guess what the full name is supposed to be. Because if it turns out to be Carpenis or something great like that I'm going to be embarrassed that I've been calling it Carpals all along. And then there's The Change, which I thought was a clinic for pre-op transsexuals until I went in there to buy Ramrod Hurley a birthday present last year and they tried to lube my chassis.

But Omar Bricks isn't fooled, at least not by the oil-change places that aren't named like sexual reassignment chop shops. I'm not about to waste my hard-earned cash swapping out perfectly good oil, so I buy the good stuff up front. From Wal-Mart, I'm not sure what the brand is called. It's got a bunny on it.

And this all worked fine and good for years until last week, when I had to take the Bricksmobile IV into the shop because it was belching flames again and this was getting me written up for a ticket every time I'd drive past an elementary school and some kids would coincidentally catch on fire. The cops never had a shred of proof, of course, but if you're a lazy cop and you've got some dude driving an unpainted foreign car with a flamethrower for a tailpipe through the same neighborhood where you've got kids on fire, it doesn't take long to figure out who to pin the frame on.

So I took the Bricksmobile IV down to Ricky's, one of the only shops in town I trust, after the only other place I trust, Bill's, burnt to the ground in a freak accident while I was idling outside the day before. Quervo, the guy who owns Ricky's, dropped the bomb and told me I'd been putting Nestle's Qwik in my engine instead of oil, and as a result the whole thing was fucked, in a delicious-smelling kind of way. Turns out I'd never owned a car long enough for the disadvantages of using chocolate syrup to lubricate your engine parts to become evident; I'd always managed to blow the car up or drive it into a swimming pool before the chocolate folly caught up with me.

So, although it went against everything I believe in, I told him to go ahead and change the oil just this once. Put in the good stuff, you know, but don't break the bank. Anything with an animal on the bottle was cool.

At first I thought Quervo might give me some shit about asking him to work on some weird-ass Panamanian brand of car with license plates from an ATV, but he was cool about it. Or at least he seemed cool, he talked a lot but it's not like I speak Spanish. That reminds me, I really need to find an English-speaking auto shop some time soon. Preferably one built with a lot of asbestos.

Bricks out.

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