n the face of wildly escalating violence in Israel and Palestine, political commentators the world over have been looking to American President George W. Bush for a sign as to the path America will take in dealing with the Mideast crisis. After making an early dismissive statement about how at least the Palestinians don't have flight schools, Bush had been conspicuously quiet on the issue. Some observers theorized that the president was carefully weighing America's options before he made a public statement, while others argued that his attentions had been split between a new model train set and the Fox prime-time drama 24. Today's announcement might have proved either side correct.

In a press conference this morning, Bush unveiled plans for a new Office of Martyr Prevention, headed by syndicated radio call-in therapist Dr. Judy Kuriansky and manned by a staff of 300 licensed suicide-prevention professionals who will be available via a toll-free telephone number 24 hours a day.

"I have created the OMP in response to the internationalary outcry for American action to address the Mideast peacelessness," Bush stated. "Suicide bombers are threatening world peace and the time has come to find a solution. These young men and women need to be shown that there are other, better ways to express their anger and frustration than blowing up a Circle K with explosive underpants.The answer is not to perpetuate terroristical attacks of an inhumanitarian nature. I understand that the people of Palestine, and other miserable places I need not mention by name, need a shoulder to cry on. Now they know that America is there for them, over thousands of miles of telephone wires. No need to come here, we'll pick up the phone bill. There's nothing to blow up here that you couldn't blow up back home, anyway. Operators are standing by."

Dr. Judy Kuriansky accepted her appointment with a brief speech on the Mideast situation. "It's time to break the cycle of violence. The time has come for Palestinian youth to understand that the dark, dead pit of bile in their chests is not the bitterness of living in a relocation slum or the dull ache of hunger, nor is it some tiny embryonic Jew implanted in their chests that's gnawing at their internal organs, regardless of what their newspapers tell them. It's the all-too-familiar ache of feelings yearning to be expressed.

"What we need here is communication. Palestine needs to stand up and say to Israel: 'It hurt my feelings when you kicked the snot out of our armed forces back in 1967.' And Israel needs to say to Palestine: 'Hey, asshole, if you hadn't attacked us then you wouldn't have lost all the land you're bitching about now. What's your freakin' problem, anyway?' And Palestine needs to say back to Israel: 'Listen, we never agreed to let you guys move in here in the first place, and now you're trying to force us all to move to Jordan. Fuck Jordan, Jordan sucks.' And then the UN needs to come over and slap them both on the back and say: 'Alright, you're all a bunch of assholes, but we need to do something about this or the rest of the world is going to run out of explosives.' Then the UN can take them both out and get them drunk and hope they have sex together and we end up with a bunch of Jewrab babies so nobody can tell who they're supposed to blow up any more. But my point is that communication is the key."

National reaction to today's announcement has been typically harsh, with many critics pointing out that there aren't any Circle K stores in the Middle East. At press time, OMP staffers had received three phone calls: two wrong numbers looking for Sears AutoCenter and a call from Iowa asking if it was possible to overdose on mini-marshmallows.

Reactions from Palestine have been even less promising, with Hamas leader Zaccaria Walid Akel promising a large cash reward for the family of the first suicide bomber to blow up OMP headquarters.

.S. Representative James Traficant vowed not to give up his Congressional seat Thursday following the announcement of his guilty verdict on charges of bribery, racketeering, falsifying tax returns, and forcing his federal aides to dress in overalls and chew straw on his Ohio farm.

Upon hearing the guilty of verdict, Traficant, who represented himself, stated, "I accept your verdict." On the steps of the courthouse, despite his attorney's counsel, Traficant vowed to appeal the verdict.

"I refuse to accept a verdict of this nature," Traficant told the commune. "This decision, indeed these charges, have all been politically motivated. I suspect everybody involved in this trial, from the prosecution to the judge to the defense attorney to the jury is out to ruin my good name. I reject this attempt to oust me from office. I'll see to it these charges are acquitted and my attorney is disbarred."

House Minority Leader Dick Gephardt (D-Missouri) called for Traficant's resignation. Upon being told Traficant was convicted of the charges, Gephardt was unswayed and still called for his resignation.

"Mr. Traficant puts a foul mark on all congressman everywhere," said Gephardt. "His conviction on bribery charges seals the deal. He cannot be trusted to represent the people of Ohio anymore. He is exactly why people hate politicians, and has been found legally guilty of doing what everyone else is only suspected of doing."

"I might also add," continued Gephardt, "that Mr. Traficant has, in recent months, been supporting Rep. Dennis Hastert as speaker of the House. You know, Hastert? The Republican? You put it all together, eh?"

When confronted with Gephardt's statements, Traficant was resilient about keeping his seat.

"I have convictions I will not turn away from. And by convictions, I don't mean yesterday's convictions, I mean my original convictions that brought me to office." Traficant accepted an envelope from a dark-suited man which he quickly pocketed. "They have tried to convict me on these charges before, when I first began my political career. They failed then and I believe they ultimately will fail again. These are my deeply-held convictions. Once again, I mean my personal convictions, not criminal."

When questioned about the charges, Traficant spoke vaguely. "Mistakes were made. Let's just say that and nobody gets hurt."

"My only regret," continued Traficant, "was that I didn't hire bigger and burlier aides. Somebody with a little farm hand experience. At the end of the day I could've gotten twice as much done. Or hell, maybe even just hired a couple of guys to run the farm without having to pretend they work in the office. It's not like I'm running short on cash, with all the bribes and underreporting on the tax forms. But that's not a confession—I mean, that's not to say I—aw, forget it. Talk to my attorney."

Piss off, commune readers. Omar Bricks is here to say one thing and one thing only: leave me alone so I can get some decent shut-eye for once in my goddamned life. You can take all of your beeping handheld devices, your whistling noses and your popping knuckles and shove them right on up your creaking asses as far as I'm concerned. I've had my fill of late-night motorcycles, tuba practice and Montel for hearing impaired neighbors. I have no time for clocks that tick, toilets that run or drug deals gone bad out in the hallway. I need sleep, and I need it now.

This misadventure started out innocently enough, with a marathon of Friday the 13th movies on basic cable two nights ago. I figured I'd watch the first few movies and then call it a night, but I'll be goddamned if they didn't just keep on playing them in order, all night. And I kept telling myself I'd just watch one more to find out how they were going to off that homicidal Canadian once and for all. But no matter what, that moose-eating asshole kept coming back, kind of like Adam Sandler. The next thing I knew it was five in the morning and Jason was still dulling his meat cleaver on oversexed teenagers. I had no choice but to set the VCR to tape the rest and head off to work.

Needless to say, yesterday at work was an exercise in futility, as I spent most of the day just trying to avoid overhearing what happens at the end of Friday the 13th Part VII. Wearing a motorcycle helmet all day made it difficult to get much done while I was here, but the important part is I avoided any potential spoilers. Despite a dull headache and the early onset of sleep-deprived hallucinations, I finished the series on video last night and managed to get in a game of air hockey with a giant ground sloth before I laid down for a much-needed siesta.

Unfortunately for both he and I, a bird that sounded exactly like a car alarm had recently moved into the tree right outside of my bedroom window. And of course, he was sounding his call loudly all night last night, possibly in an attempt to attract a Lexus. Evolution had gifted him with the ability to dodge small arms fire, but left him ill-equipped to deal with the spray of a fire extinguisher, thankfully. This was good for the neighborhood, too, since then I didn't have to cut down the tree. But this whole ordeal took up the better part of the night and contributed to my current miserably sleepless situation.

To put it simply, Omar Bricks needs some serious downtime and delay is no longer an option. I don't care if you have tickets to the Knicks, the Kinks or Gladys Knight and the Pimps. I'm not interested. I don't want to see the new mudding tires you put on your truck or to preside over the baptism of your child. And I'm certain your new piercing is the best ever, but regardless I ask that you kindly blow it out your ear.

I don't know how I can state this any more clearly. The furniture I piled up in front of the door doesn't seem to be getting the message across. Nor has the car battery I wired to my doorknob. Instead, I'm kept awake by an endless procession of bandage-handed do-gooders asking if I know my doorknob is smoking. I wish I had a taser gun.

Blowdarts! Yes, I thought blowdarts were the answer too, until Red Bagel woke me up to ask if I knew anything about the pile of unconscious bodies with bandaged hands outside my office door. At least he let me borrow his taser gun.

But the thing they conveniently don't tell you about taser guns is that after you taser someone, they don't go away, they just lay there and moan loudly for hours, which is almost as bad as them asking where the copy room is.

It looks like I'm going to have to fake a medical quarantine to get any serious sleep today. Sending out for couple of rows of rhesus monkeys and some lab equipment to set up in here ought to do the trick. Then, glorious sleep! If anybody needs me for anything, kill them. Check back in a few days, and bring donuts. Bricks out.

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