merica's least popular gunslingers since Young Guns 2, John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo, shocked an unshockable nation Friday, showing up in court looking like a couple of bagboys from an underperforming Food Lion in dumpy orange jumpsuits marked by a palpable lack of panache. Teased by weeks of anticipation and speculation, and frankly expecting more, America scrunched up its nose at the sight of these two decidedly un-dapper Dillingers.

"I have to admit I was a little disappointed," admitted Manassas housewife Thelma Russel. "I thought they might show up in some snazzy three-piece suits with silk handkerchiefs in the pocket, you know. Like Al Capone in that commercial for condoms. Something stylish that suggests they're above it all, you know? The kinds of guys you love to hate, but admire in spite of yourself. But these guys? Sheesh. I wouldn't even leave the house looking like that. Didn't they know they were going to be on TV? I guess it just says something about the state of our criminals these days. Pretty sad."

Muhammad, the supposed mastermind behind the duo's shooting spree, looked like he had failed to master the bathroom mirror that morning, sporting a nappy hairdo to make Kobe Bryant proud. A shaving kit had apparently also eluded him, as well as the fundamental principles of beauty rest. Too many nights spent on the lamb had left his eyes sporting more bags than a Tony Bennett concert, and this reporter suspects the county hoosegow must have been fresh out of cucumber wraps that week.

Muhammad's one "E" for effort came in the posture department, a welcome relief from his partner Malvo's parade of slouches. While Muhammad often looked like he had just sat on a fireplace poker, Malvo had more slouches on display than the 2002 Mets. This reporter had heard it said that Muhammad was able to dominate the young Malvo thanks to the latter's lack of a spine, yet I had no idea they meant it in the strictest clinical sense. This is one boy I wouldn't want to face in the Twister world championships, and not just because he'd probably shoot my ass if I won. I'm surprised they didn't have to cart him into the courtroom in a wheelbarrow.

Malvo's mauve jumpsuit was a welcome contrast to the teeth-clenching Hazmat orange of Muhammad's ensemble, but any chance the teen had of pulling off a courtroom fashion coup ala the lovely Ms. Winona Ryder was dashed by his grotesquely shambolic addition of gigantic white bunny slippers to complete the outfit. I don't know how he managed to sneak those past the prison guards, but they definitely should have put the fear of Mr. Blackwell into that young man, like they're paid to do.

Malvo seems more than happy to provide the much-needed comic relief in this trial, between his footwear choices, hilarious fake Jamaican accent and last month's slapstick falling-through-the-ceiling escape attempt, which was straight out of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Though if this trial is going to be remembered as anything more than yet another case of "Gun-Crazy Loon and His Funny Teenage Sex Slave," they're going to need to dig up another accomplice.

And preferably one who knows that Armani's not a branch of the Italian military.

stronomers at Michigan’s Northern Peninsula Basalt College went public today with observations made near the cloudy heart of the Milky Way Galaxy, which have indicated with near certainty the existence of a massive central space burrito, a theoretical Mexican entrée that had previously eluded detection.

"I was staying late in the lab one night, after everybody else had gone home," stated the lab’s head astronomer, Bruce Coltrane. "And I was getting pretty tired and hungry so I was about to shut off the telescopes and get some late-night BBQ when I caught sight of something on the screen that didn’t seem quite right."

"At first I thought somebody must’ve taped another one of those pictures cut out of a Maxim to the screen, since the guys are pretty funny about that kind of stuff. I could tell you stories about the time we thought we found Carmen Electra orbiting Chiron. What a crazy week! But this time, when I checked closer, it couldn’t be denied. We were dealing with the genuine article here. I caught my breath, looked closer, and fuck a duck, man! That thing’s a giant burrito!"

"And then I laughed, ’cause, man, what a crazy thing to say! Shiiit."

"Bruce is the man. If he said he saw a gigantic burrito 500 times the size of the sun out in the middle of the Milky Way, then that’s good enough for me," said fellow astronomer and goatee advocate Mark Fitch. "Sign me up for the Burrito Cult or whatever the deal’s going to be now. I’ll put on the velcro sneakers and drink the blue Kool-Aid when the burrito swings by the earth to pick up the true believers. Fuck it, man, whatever."

Since having its state funding cut in 1994, Northern Peninsula Basalt College’s astronomy program has led the nation in startling astronomical discoveries. Among those include Animal Planet, Orion’s Tits and the St. Bernard of Delta 7.

When asked what he thinks of the astronomy community’s opinion of the Northern Peninsula Basalt astronomy department, Fitch was philsophical. "Eh, fuck ’em. What do they know, with their giant telescopes and their fancy degrees and all that noise? Without street smarts, all that shit is useless anyway."

"As far as I know, this is the first time someone’s found anything like this," offered Coltrane. "I mean, they’ve probably found Mexican food out in space before, but this big? Tacquitos, maybe. And what if they found one like a million years ago, before anybody knew what a burrito was? What would they call it? A space tube? And back then they didn’t have big-assed telescopes like we’ve got now. They might have mistaken it for a Chimichanga. Maybe? Make that probably."

"It might be difficult for the layman to understand how such a thing could exist. But trust me when I say that the universe is full of all kinds of strange and mysterious shwag," continued Coltrane, backed by a poster of Copernicus smoking the moon in a water bong.

Fitch and Coltrane were wary of careless speculation, but both agreed that a manned mission to explore the burrito was practically inevitable.

"Who knows what mysteries could be wrapped up in that tortilla?" pondered Coltrane. "Like, how many layers has that thing got? And does it have guacamole? I hate guacamole. But who made it, and why haven’t they eaten it yet? That’s one to blow your mind. But even just on the practical level, we’ve got to get some guys up there. We’re talking beans the size of foreign cars. Poor people could live in those things, and then eat their houses."

Fitch agreed, as he licked his lips and distractedly eyed the heavens.

I've got two good reasons why you should never, ever name your semi-weekly column My Friend Polio, and here they are: One, you would be seriously stepping on my toes and repercussions would be quick and deadly; and two, it's just bad karma, and let me be a brazen big-dicked example to all of you.

Things have been downright rancid lately, like I need remind you. No car, no bus or cab rides since they banned me for having a sense of humor, and if another punk kid makes fun of the basket on my bike I'm not even going to explain how it's screwed in and the screw's stripped, I'm just going to jump to the ass-beating. Then there's the lingering smell of cream of broccoli dogshit in Bricks Manor and I don't even want to mention being embarrassed by a chess-playing computer, like we live in Tron-world or something. Needless to say Omar Bricks needed some cheering up last week.

I was extremely pumped about Halloween, the one time of year you can throw rotten eggs at someone's house or dig up their septic tank and dump it into their pool and folks just laugh it off—well, most folks. Usually I eschew the costume, or have a real go at it being all philosophical and such, like one year I went as the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, but that gets dull explaining over and over. So this year dressed up as John Quincy Adams, not that I thought it was a great costume or anything, just a last minute thing—I had the outfit already to break the ice with a judge in this court thing, and it didn't really work well.

First thing that really bothered me is all these dumb questions. "Who are you supposed to be?" "Oh, cool, John Quincy Adams—and what is he famous for?" "Hey, how fuckin' old are you? What are you doing trick-or-treating?" People get all uptight when you point out you're not dressed as a historian, why don't they look John Quincy Adams up in a goddamn dictionary. At least most of them get pissy and refuse to give out candy, one old lady totally passed out. I felt a little bad, but I did call an ambulance after I loaded up on candy—don't get all righteous with me, man, she had Sweet Tarts. Nobody gives those out anymore.

The tricks didn't go over any better. Nobody out there can take it like they dish it out, I swear. Everything was pretty mellow, too, in comparison to early Bricks tricks—no more calling up relatives out of the obituaries and pretending to be the deceased, there was a general consensus that wasn't funny, despite everything I thought. But there's no way to make people laugh anymore, even on Halloween. I dressed up like Spider-Man and swung through Jeff's window during his party and all I got was, "Omar, you broke my window and you're hemorrhaging." Then after that, I passed out, but after that, with stitches, I cut the brake line on the cop's car and—well, he says it's a jailable offense, I say it's not, we're supposed to meet in court next month and work it out.

Election day was actually more fun. I don't usually vote, but that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun, right? I had a box full of lost wallets I collected when I bartended for a few years and it's a blast to see how many times you can sneak in there and write-in Jimmy "SupaFly" Snuka before they realize you're the same guy. This time it was 13, but keep in mind that's only using hats, no wigs or facial hair or anything. You got to admit it would be pretty wicked to tune in during election night coverage and hear, "A surprise upset as 30% of the vote went to retired wrestler Jimmy 'SupaFly' Snuka for city comptroller."

Maybe next year. By that time I'll have all this legal trouble sorted it out. It's hard to believe but apparently it's illegal to vote more than once in this city, even when you explain to the judge you were just fucking around.

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