he economic hit taken by the US in the wake of Sept 11th has largely been wiped away by huge growth in the absurd collectables market, according to Harvey Rosenblum, president of the National Association for Business Economics.

"While the market for more traditional items, like home computers or appliances, is still weak, new markets for products like misprinted dog food bags and celebrity nerf ball fuzz have been driving the economy for months. A nation shaken by terrorism has been economically buoyed by its passion for truly useless shit," commented Rosenblum on Monday.

Useless collectables have long been a factor in the national economy, with a strong demand for Thomas Kincade paintings, beanie babies and dot-com stocks helping to pull America through the recession in the early 90's. But the recent surge has been unlike anything this country has seen before.

"Americans have realized that any new computer they buy is just going to seem as slow at their old one in two months, and a new Chevy's going to break down just as often as their old one, but original mint-condition promotional materials from the short-lived Wintergreen Nerds candy line are going to be something they can pass on to their grandchildren," said Frank Nettle, editor of Trendy Obsession magazine.

In spite of numerous public statements from the Franklin Mint reminding the public that if it's not hand-numbered and cast in pewter, it's not a collectable, the current collecting trend has moved beyond the traditional "bullshit painted on plates" market, branching out beyond porcelain figurines and glass elephants into the unknown realm beyond. The latest frontier of collecting is as varied as the American people themselves, whose collections range from the intensely personal to the just plain bizarre.

Asked why he began collecting caps from different brands of ranch dressing over fifteen years ago, Arlo Turtle of Angel Falls, TX replied: "it seemed as good as the next thing." Angie DuBank of Peoria, IL collects pictures of places where Annette Benning has had her hair cut, while Ted Middlebaum owns over 35 ticket stubs from the original screening of Porky's in Las Vegas. Beatrice Fraumbalt, who collects address labels from old TV guides, explains: "It's not about what something means to you, or where it came from. Or even what it costs. Or if your grandchildren look forward to inheriting your collection when you die. It's about keeping the Space Invaders from finding out where you live and laying eggs in your preserves."

Modern collectors range from a budget-conscious gatherer of little green army figures like Tank Reynolds ("I've got a soldier in every position except the one where the guy's tip-toeing, presumably into a Hamburg cat show, which is thought to be a crawling figure who was miscast in the molding process during the factory fire in 1971") to a high-roller like Chelton McNesh, who owns an extensive collection of Visa cards with low account numbers. Though the collection is his pride and joy, McNesh still peppers every conversation with bitter references to "the Honus Wagner of all Visa collectables, card number 4500-0000-0000-0001" thought to be owned by a Saudi collector. Though just how many Saudis the man owns can only be guessed at this time.

"A person's collection reflects a bit of who they are and where their passions lie," said Lillith Barnes, owner of the world's largest collection of things that have been pulled out of Ted Kennedy's ass. "Obviously I'm a political junkie at heart," explained Barnes, gesturing toward a display case containing an electric toothbrush, one improbably large shoehorn, a Holly Hobby Doll, a bicycle inner tube and a set of three matching Happy Apples.

Oftentimes terrible miscues by major manufacturers are offset by the profits gleaned from marketing aborted runs of products as limited-edition collectables. "Sure, I know they make a lot of jokes about New Coke and how it flopped. But what nobody ever tells you is that we're still making the stuff and selling it on eBay," confided Bernard Manhouse, head of Research and Development for Coca-Cola. That same collector's mentality has allowed Chevrolet to turn a profit on the ill-fated Looney Tunes Corvette, and helped cut the losses related to the similarly misguided Muppets-endorsed Wok-a-Wok-a-Wok from Kitchenade.

The collecting trend which has gripped the nation has spread even to the commune offices, where repeated attempts have been made to steal Rok Finger's shoes, the same pair he has been wearing nonstop since 1953.

recent discovery of ancient heiroglyphics in Egypt describing a military victory by the legendary Scorpion King, and believed to be the oldest on record at approximately 5,250 years, has been relegated to runner-up status by a team of archaeologists working for the last four years in this southwest Asian spot where the Tigris joins the Euphrates. The team revealed yesterday that they have uncovered an ancient wall inscribed with primitive cuneiform marks that date back nearly 6000 years, or from about the year 4000 BC.

"We're very excited about this," said team leader Dr. Robert R. "Bob Bob" Clemons. "We've said all along that this is the cradle of modern, recorded civilization, right here, not that wasteland along the Nile. Those Egyptologist bitches can kiss my dusty brown ass, along with the dusty brown asses of every single one of my fellow researchers!"

The marks that had Dr. Clemons crowing like a jaybird and dancing about so excitedly appeared to be no more than a series of triangles and inverted vees, but their significance was made clear by the buzz that rippled through the international press corps that gathered to report the news.

"You can see right here," Dr. Clemons pointed out, gesturing to a series of isoceles triangles, "that there was definite gang activity going on in the area back in those ancient times. This line, for example, reads 'Sargon II is down with Nebuchadnezzer.' And over here, we have a reference to the 'Euphrates Mob,' a rival gang to the prominent 'Hanging Garden Boys' that dominated the banks of the Tigris."

Other cuneiform scratchings were translated as being gang slogans such as "Zoroastrians rule," "Medes are skanky bitches" and "Sumer Power – we the best, fuck the rest." There were also long listings of gang members' names, such as "Smiley," "Johnny Boxer," "Li'l Puppet," "Droopy," "Seymour" and "Jehosaphat."

When asked t o comment further on the translations and their significance, Dr. Clemons simply said, "Maybe some other time period, honey. Ha! That's an archaeological joke. No, but seriously, I've got a bottle of newly-unearthed 3000 year old wine waiting for me back at my tent. I'd hate to see it spoil." Though the remaining members of the press clamored for more information, all they got was a glimpse of Dr. Clemons' dusty brown ass disappearing into a complex of dark linen stretched between poles on the edge of the dig. He was seen carrying a large wheel of cheese, an earthen jar and some dates, and was leading a goat on a rope.

Regular readers of this column know me to be neither rash nor impulsive. So when I say that we need to bring back the eighteenth amendment (or whatever it was) and once again prohibit the sale of alcohol to minors in this country, you know that I've given the shit some serious thought.

Plain and simple, something has to be done about these slack-ass teenagers who drink until all hours of the night and then pass out on my doorstep. They buy lousy booze and almost always finish the bottle, and half the time they get into fights with my friends who have also passed out drunk in the doorway. And I don't think I need to tell you, commune reader, that when you wake up at the crack of eleven with a hangover the size of Elvis Presley's sweaty liver and shit all the way up the back of your shirt, the last thing in the world you want to see is Regis Philbin French-kissing a sheep. Egads, right?

But after that, the second-to-last things you want to see are a couple of fifteen year-olds arguing about who would win in a fight between Korn and the Doors. Because even though you know the answer is obviously the Doors, those dumbass kids don't listen to reason and they don't realize that Ray Manzarek knew judo. But that's their own problem and hopefully for them they'll never get caught talking smack during a book signing for Light My Fire at Borders or something and have to learn the hard, ass-flattening oriental smackdown way.

Now don't get all carried away popping words in my mouth that I didn't cough up first myself, I'm not saying I want a return to the rum-running, big-fat-gangster days of the twenties. From what I've heard those guys were serious assholes who would kill a man for farting out an open window. Or something, they had some kind of bizarre code of ethics that nobody understood. Bottom line is people got tommy-gunned and baseball-batted left and right and it was just generally an ugly scene all around.

Nobody today needs that, especially not over a couple of fuzzy-faced high school geeks getting cranked on a case of expired Zimas. But can't we do something about all of these kids riding their bikes around with a case of beer balanced on the handlebars? That's got to be some kind of public-safety hazard or at least bad for Budweiser's image. Whatever happened to teenagers sniffing glue or whiteout or huffing furniture polish, anyway? Since when is that not good enough for them? Now we've got to put up with all of these twist-n-win contests for Britney Spears tickets printed on bottle caps of Red Dog, not to mention having to wade through rack after rack of different packs of Pokemon cigarettes to find some Marlboros. That's some serious bullshit and we're fresh out of shinola.

Aren't teenagers supposed to be out cramming for their SATs or getting knocked up or something? Alcohol should be reserved for adults, or at least all of the good stuff. If they want to sell their overstock of Lucky Duck Ale or Sgt. Zippertongue's to kids who are too dumb to know better then that's their business, I guess. But good alcohol should be reserved for adults who know how to drink responsibly, and how to line up your thumbs on the steering wheel with the lane markings so you don't drive into a ditch or a condo. The last time I checked they don't teach that shit in Driver's Ed, and kids have to drive into a few IHOPs in the dead of night or take out a Taco Bell Drive-Thru before they figure that trick out and make the transition into responsible adult drinker-drivers.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the rights of kids and all of that happy-assed bullshit myself, and it's not like I want mandatory explosive tracking collars like in that Schwarzenegger movie. Nobody under the age of 40 wants that. Though that would make going to the mall more fun, especially if by some fuck-up they ran on the same frequency as those car door keychain clickers. Damn! But the simple truth of the matter is that there are just some experiences that come with age that can't be bypassed. Rites of passage like backing your car at fifty miles an hour through a carwash at two in the morning because your buddy didn't believe you'd do it, and then you realize he was passed out so you have to smack him awake and do it again. Experiences like that build character, and character should be rewarded with the right to drink and discount rates on auto-body repair.

So, before we're all reduced to drinking our beer from a little foil pouch with a straw, let's take a minute and write to our Senators, demanding that they reinstate the eighteenth amendment. Or whatever it was. Bricks out.

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