he stock market took a major shit Monday, with big-shot tycoons throwing their concubines out skyscraper windows and countless pairs of silk boxers being clenched in nervous buttocks at the close of trading. Hundreds of snotty assholes lost a bundle and had to be chauffeured home to cry themselves to sleep on their pillows sewn with golden thread.

Day traders could be heard pissing and moaning loudly up and down Wall Street all day, and the world’s tiniest violin played just for them as little orphaned children brought them steaming cups of hot chicken noodle soup.

The NASDAQ closed down 53.17 points, at its lowest close since the last time those mama’s boys took it on the chin and their counterparts, the man-dressing woman traders, were kicked in the cock-socket.

Trading volume was so-so, with stuffed shirts milling around restlessly all day, slapping each other’s asses and trying to get a rally started to save their precious timeshares in the Hamptons.

After an ass-dragging start, stock prices got a momentary boost from data released early Monday that showed a great sale going on at a nearby Mercedes-Benz dealership, exciting the day traders and convincing them that this was their lucky day and they should buy anything that smelled like a stock.

But the early rally crapped out by lunchtime when traders received a dispiriting report of dour financial news, casting a shadow over the market. Tyco International Chief Executive L. Dennis Kozlowski announced that he had a paper cut, and everybody stopped trading for at least a half an hour while they made wincing faces and told stories of other times when they’d had paper cuts. It was announced that John Fort, Tyco’s CEO from 1982 to 1992, will take control of the whole shebang until Kozlowski gets out of the hospital.

Tyco’s stock price plunged while everyone was farting around and getting donuts or whatever, and other stocks began to plummet as traders who hadn’t been paying attention began a selling frenzy to make it look like they were on top of the ball. Overall stocks slumped 26.9 percent in the next hour until the heads of two investment firms got into a heated argument over whose turn it was with the remote and if it was okay to watch the 1985 Oliver Stone film Wall Street on the Big Board.

Kent Engelke, markets strategist at Burntwhistle & Limey, said the strong sell-off was due to confusion among traders about data on the nation’s economic recovery. That afternoon’s agricultural report sparked arguments over whether peanuts grow on bushes or on trees, and data from the manufacturing sector confused traders who assumed that toasters were made in the back of the toaster store. Traders also could not agree on what Mexican money was called, if it was pesos or guapos, he added.

“We were hit with some big shocks today, that’s for sure. Like, did you know they have people working in factories nowadays? Actually putting together toys and cars and what have you. It’s not all robots like you’d think. Talk about some poor bastards,� Engelke said after having the silver spoon slapped out of his mouth.

n a move labeled practical by some, good business by others, the cast members of NBC's hit Friends have saved years of fruitless optimism and professional disappointment by changing their legal names to the monikers they're known by on the popular show.

Series stars Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox-Arquette, Lisa Kudrow, Matt LeBlanc, Matthew Perry, and David Schwimmer, will here by be known in future professional projects, and their personal lives as, respectively, Rachel, Monica, Phoebe, Joey, Chandler, and Ross. The declaration by a judge made the decision legally binding Friday.

"Why waste years that could be spent getting used to your typecasting denying the inevitable outcome?" said a spokesperson of the William Morris Agency, whose name we didn't bother to get. "Kim Fields wasted valuable years before changing her name to Tootie. And most people assume Todd Bridges changed his name to Willis long ago. It just makes it easier on everybody, and you can capitalize on that fame without needing to remind people, 'Do you know who I am? I used to get a million-plus an episode!'"

"It will make it a lot easier to do the last season of Friends at any rate," said NBC executive Brian Norris. "We spent a bundle a few years ago just on the typeface to 'Courtney Cox-Arquette' alone. Now we can just say starring Rachel, Monica, Phoebe, Joey, Chandler and Ross. Now people will have more brain space to remember which one is Will and which one is Grace."

Of course, according to various reports, all members of the Friends cast are hopeful about future projects in film and other series after the show's finale next year. But seriously, with their legal names at last intricately linked to their characters, the serious money for commercials, infomercials, state fair and car show appearances, and other forms of necessary income will be much easier while searching for elusive post-Friends success.

With luck, according to some insiders, Matt LeBlanc will be free of his Friends obligation in time to secure a spot on the fifth installment of Fox's Celebrity Boxing program.

Even with the name change, some members of the cast are adamant about making the jump from television to movies.

"It's not easy, no one's saying that, but it has been done before by quite a few popular actors," said Matthew Perry in a recent interview. "George Clooney is one example. Johnny Depp, another successful film actor. And Michael J. Fox, before he returned to television with Spin City. Don't forget Tom Hanks. Although Bosom Buddies was never really a big hit or anything… hmm… Will Smith, the Fresh Prince himself. I guess, uh… Alan Alda? Shit. Why can't I think of more people?"

Some fellow actors are not applauding the Friends cast's decision.

"You can't simply give up your humanity, who you are, to what people perceive you as. In the end it's not going to improve your success, you're just grasping to retain what had once been the peak of your fame," said Mallory from Family Ties.

If there's one thing the whole world hates, it's a whiner. That's why I've got no patience for these jokers who stand on the street corner and yell in a big whiney voice about Jesus coming and the sinners had better repent now or have one hell of a long wait while operators are standing by. Blah blah blah, on and on, always whining about something. The end is near, society is in decline, and mister, you can't park your car on the sidewalk. It's always something with these guys. Dressed up in their little outfits with the "kick my ass, please" hats and their little ticket books. Everybody wants a minute of my time to hand me a bible or a violation for backing over a park bench, whatever the racket is this week.

The other day I came out of the African drum store to find a whole smorgasbord of tickets under my windshield wipers. A couple were for sex shows, but most of them were parking tickets for some bogus rap about blocking the exit to a drive-thru. Like Wendy's is going to have a big lunch rush or something. I carried a stack of them over to some guy on the corner who was yelling about accepting collect calls from Jesus, some damn thing, and demanded that he waive the tickets since there were no signs posted about not parking in the drive-thru lane.

He played it off real cool like he didn't know what I was talking about and tried to give me a bible, the smug prick. But I got him back. I made like I was all excited about the bible and the big J and whatnot and started to walk away, then I turned around real fast and was like "Oh! Wait, I forgot! I can't read!" and handed it back to him just to mess with his head. Then, out of nowhere, he whips out this pop-up bible that's all pictures and no words, like he was just waiting for me to say that! Talk about a smooth operator. I hadn't planned out a comeback for that situation so I just took the pop-up bible and went back to my car.

Since I already had as many tickets as would stick under my wipers, I decided I might as well leave the car there and catch a movie up the street at the Value View.

Trust me, wait for it on cable.

After the movie was over I went out to my car, careful to walk around the opposite side and get in the passenger-side door to avoid Mr. Bible Boyscout. And that's when I saw it. Straight along the passenger-side door like an ass-crease in a vinyl seat: that motherfucker had keyed my car! I grabbed a rolled-up newspaper I keep in the glove compartment and hopped out, ready to swat some ass. But you know how these stories go, by then he was long gone.

I spent an hour or two checking out the scratch from all angles and looking for evidence around the crime scene. I thought maybe the bastard might have dropped his keys in a rush to jack up my car and get out of there, and then I could walk around town and try the keys in all the cars until I found the right one. Then I could key the shit out of it with his own keys. That's what the Greek called poetic justice. But no such luck, he didn't even drop his wallet or any telltale personal affects like a matchbook with a phone number in it or a glass eye or anything. Like I said, this cat was smooth.

After a few days of brainstorming brilliant detective techniques and reading a Hardy Boys novel, I gave up on the idea of finding Mr. Bible Boyscout and decided to concentrate on getting my car back into presentable condition. Some might question what exactly counts as presentable condition for a sky-blue 1972 Dodge Dart, and to be honest I'm a little in the dark on that one myself, but whatever it is it sure as hell includes getting rid of that gigantic ugly-assed scratch running up the side of the door.

I checked around at a number of reputable local auto-detailing places, but they all wanted at least 200 clams to repaint the whole damn car, and Omar Bricks isn't made of money. That's practically new car money right there. I was starting to get a little worried when one night, while I was watching TV, a commercial came on that solved the conundrum for me. I picked up the phone and dialed.

Four to six weeks later my order of Miracle in a Bottle arrived, postage paid, for a cool $23.95. According to the infomercial, you could wipe this shit on any old junkyard duster and within seconds you'd be blinded by the sun glinting off the finish. Or by the fumes, something, the yokels in the infomercial were blinded by something. Even better, this stuff ate up paint scratches like dingoes on an Aussie toddler. Shit yeah. But the kicker was this: Miracle in a Bottle is so bad-assed, after you put it on you could set your car on fire and it didn't make any difference. You could drive around with your car on fire all the time, just for effect, and it wouldn't harm the paint at all. Consider me sold, you know?

Five minutes later I was out in the driveway, going at the Dart with a little wax-on, wax-off action. Before long the entire car was covered in a milky white residue. I didn't remember this from the infomercial and I was worried for a second, but then I remembered that I did get up to take a leak about halfway through, so I must have missed the residue part. I decided to cut the crap and jump straight to the fire test.

I figured one flick of the barbecue lighter should be enough, and I was right. The next thing I knew I was waking up in the bushes in front of my neighbor's house. Talk about a headache! The Dart was gone. Not in the sense of having disappeared, but in the sense of now being a burnt-out husk collapsed on my driveway. The firemen told me I was lucky to be alive, and that it's not safe to be driving around without a gas cap on your car.

A what cap? What'll they think of next, boat cars?

Anyway, it all just goes to show you can't trust guys who spend all their time yelling about Jesus and whatnot, or guys who hang out in the junkyard setting things on fire. Mark my words though, if anyone scratches my bus pass, there's going to be hell to pay. Bricks out.

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