t was another surprise ending for The Bachelor, though this one was a little more Crying Game and a little less America’s Sweethearts. The question had been hanging in the air like a flatulent eagle all week: Would bachelor Andrew Firestone choose spunky Kirsten, whose ass he’d been blatantly checking out since the beginning of the season and who jealous former contestants gossiped was carrying his baby? Or would it be Jen, the slightly less stunning drama queen favored by the show’s viewers and the 23 catty former contestants who lay slain on the battlefield of bogusly contrived romance? Oh shit, dog.

When the answer finally came, it was with the bang of 25 pancake-makeupped jaws hitting the floor in unison. In an unprecedented and possibly illegal move, Firestone passed up both Kirsten and Jen to give his final rose, and we guess a marriage proposal, to former Bachelor star Aaron Buerge.

Asked on-camera what he was thinking when he made such an unorthodox choice, Andrew smiled to the audience and beamed proudly.

“Are you kidding, all those bitches is crazy!�

At that point viewers at home went berserk, throwing chairs and Kleenex boxes around like disappointed apes. In the background, Jen and Kristen held each other’s hair back as they vomited in tandem into a bucket of champagne.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not gay. I just couldn’t handle hanging out with those crazy bitches any longer,� Firestone confided. “If I hear one more girl talk about what font she’d use on wedding invitations, I swear to God I’m going to go all American Psycho on everybody. Shit! Anyway, I met Aaron backstage one night when he was cruising for some rejected bachelorette skank, and we really hit it off. We talked about handguns and the Red Sox, and not once did he bring up floral arrangements. It was the best time I’ve had in months.

“That’s when I realized marrying any girl desperate enough to let a gameshow determine her mate for life would be a huge boner. Woo, dodged a bullet with that one!� Firestone exclaimed, exchanging a high-five with Buerge. “Talk about ‘Until me wrapping my lips around a shotgun barrel does us part’! Damn!�

Buerge, star of The Bachelor season two, ended up not getting married to that season’s winner Helene Eksterowicz, invalidating the gift certificate to Crate & Barrel that was provided courtesy of the show.

“Yeah, things with me and Helene didn’t work out. After the excitement of the show had worn off, I realized all the bright lights and pressure made her seem better than she was. Kind of like on the old Wheel of Fortune when the winner would have all that money to spend, and they’d get the bedroom set with the porcelain Dalmatians. It seems like a good idea at the time. But when you get home, what in the hell are you going to do with a set of life-sized porcelain Dalmatians?�

Irate viewers expecting to see one woman’s heart crushed on national television, not two, flooded ABC’s switchboards with complaints, but Firestone insists it was all for the best.

“Are you kidding me? Aaron saved my life back there. I felt like I was headed down a dark tunnel with no way to turn around. Then Aaron pulled up in a sweet convertible, or whatever the analogy is, and saved my ass. I could kiss that dude. Not literally though, just ‘cuz he wears my ring doesn’t mean nothing but we’re buds. I go strictly for the easy poontang, as the last six weeks should have made clear.�

he United States Presidential Warning System (or “Terra Box� as it is fondly known around the White House, a tongue-in-cheek reference to the president’s speech impediment) reached its highest level Tuesday, signifying a major presidential gaffe or screwjob is impending. This news immediately scrambled foreign government officials, environmental groups and talk-show writers nationwide, who entered their own highest states of readiness and/or dread.

The little-known Presidential Warning System has been in place since the 1960’s, but it quickly fell out of favor during the Nixon presidency. Aides kept finding the siren-like device hidden in desk drawers or crammed beneath sound-deadening mattresses in the Lincoln bedroom over the course of Nixon’s term, and records indicate it was later disconnected under questionable circumstances involving a bottle of tequila and a fire axe. Efforts were made to bring the system back on-line during former president Ronald Regan’s first term, but upon being turned on the device immediately let out an eardrum-shattering blurt before quickly overheating. It then caught fire and had to be put out with a shoe.

The nation operated without a Presidential Warning System during the Bush Sr. and Clinton administrations, as the device reminded George Bush Sr. too much of his childhood nemesis, the board game Operation, and President Clinton found it seriously hampered his social life.

The current siren-less incarnation of the device, consisting of a black box covered in lighted rectangles that are color-coordinated to the various levels of presidential “terra,� was brought online at the start of the latest Bush presidency. The new system was even praised by the president himself early in his term, when he said of the device: “I made it to the fourth level last night. Take that, Simon.�

Tuesday the system registered an alert status of red, which according to the device’s manual translates to “Holy Shit� written next to a picture of a little stick man with a gun in his mouth. However, officials cannot say for certain how many times Bush has “bagged a red� since being elected, since Tuesday was also the day a White House staffer discovered the device holding up a candle in the presidential bathroom and no one was certain how long it had been missing.

“While this may seem like an opportune time to panic, it is important to point out that the red bulb on the device appears to be nearly burnt out,� explained system designer Elwood Bond. “This is a good sign that we’ve been on red alert for most of the last two years, so this is more a ‘business-as-usual’ kind of doom than anything.�

Asked if the system might be calibrated too sensitively, given that highest level of impending doom was continuously lit, Bond answered that the system really wasn’t designed with a Bush-caliber president in mind.

“I set up the system so it would go red only in dire circumstances, like when Bush Sr. approved the CDC sending samples of anthrax, botulism and West Nile to Iraq in the early 90’s, or when we gave them the helicopters they used to gas the Kurds in 1988. Or really any time after the Shah fell in Iran and we were providing Saddam and the Iraqis with arms, intelligence and free money to help them invade Iran. All those are red-level events. Maybe orange. But Bush Jr. goes red just taking a piss.�

But is there any way to tweak the system so that Bush isn’t consistently in the red?

“I dunno,� replied Bond, scratching his head. “It does have an ‘off’ switch.�

I don't tell this to many people, unless they ask, but it's long been my dream to be part of some kind of rock-band family, like the Partridges. Or Fleetwood Mac. I mean, how much ass would that kick? Most kids are sitting at home, eating porkchops or some bullshit in front of the TV while mom and dad barely tolerate each other and daydream divorce scenarios in their heads, The Love Boat reflecting off their glassy eyes. But you, the rock-family kid? No way, you're on tour and television and crap. Your family's got groupies and your dad's doing monster lines of coke all the time. Damn.

Before you go and get me all wrong, and think Omar Bricks has gone full-blown gay on y'all, remember that I'm not talking about Hanson or anything here. I'm not talking about clones or Siamese twins or whatever the hell they are. I fully support their right to just go somewhere and die, like everybody does. I'm talking about a real full-on family. Only not all shitty like the Partridges, I'm thinking more a family that could kick some ass. Like if Glen Danzig was your dad and Freddie Mercury was your mom. That kind of family.

I called up a record executive I know from jury duty to run this idea by him, see if it climbed naked up the flagpole and dropped trou, as the saying goes. He said he didn't know I had kids. Which should have been obvious, as anyone who knows me can tell I don't want to die all the time. I told him not to worry about the family part of it, I was sure I could scare up some orphans or some shit, or even some faux-parents if the demographic was to skew that way. I don't think the Mamas and the Papas have been up to anything lately, they're so far behind the music they can see up its ass like a cat. Still, even at that, he wasn't sure if the idea had wings. We argued back and forth for a few minutes about whether Wings rocked or not, then I think my phone card ran out because I don't remember saying goodbye.

The one thing he said that did stick with me though was that if the idea were going to work, it would have to have some spin on it. Like if it was an Asian family. People can't get enough of Asian shit these days; it's like having a cartoon without having to pay some greedy art school snobs to draw it for you. Plus they're always saying hilarious shit like "I rove you rong time!" like Scooby Doo and people eat it up.

I figured this was probably some pretty solid advice, since Dave knew his shit when we were on jury duty, like you're not supposed to answer the questions the lawyers ask out loud. It's different from being in an infomercial audience that way, but they don't explain all that when you're sitting down in the bleachers and then they act like you're the only asshole who didn't read the jury duty book or whatever. You can get those guys back though, you just tell 'em L.A. Law sucked and the look on their faces is priceless.

So I decided to go the Asian route with my Rock Family. It all has to start with me, of course, so I had to change my name to something believably Asian. My stage name, anyway. And even more than that, it would have to be Asian as shit to overcome the fact that I look whiter than Eminem crossed with the bailiff from Night Court. So people would see me on TV and be like "Naw!" but then my Asian name would flash up on the screen and they'd feel like stupid asses for doubting and hope nobody heard them.

I ran through a few different options, most of which turned out to be copyrighted by dirty joke books, but before long I settled on the winner: Woon Fat Leung. Shit yeah. I liked how it was undeniably Asian, yet at the same time implied I probably knew some serious karate or else had a gun that never ran out of bullets. Plus it sounded cool. That's a lot of work for one name to do, so it definitely beats a normal slack-ass name like Omar Bricks, which is badass and all, but by itself only implies that I don't have tits.

So now the hard work is done, all that remains is finding some adorable little Asian kids who can play the drums, guitar, bass, keyboards and sing… but I've got the tambourine nailed down. If one of those little kids turns out to be a tambourine virtuoso he's going to have to be my understudy or else ready himself for one serious "Devil Went Down to Georgia"-style tambourine battle, since I'll likely be twice his size and I play dirty.

If you happen to know any interested Asian kids, or come to think of it, a Bricks-aged Asian chick who could pass for the mom and doesn't play the tambourine, send them around the commune offices. Only tell them to stay away from Ramrod Hurley's office, I think that guy's having some kind of Vietnam flashback in there and all he needs are some little people in pointy hats coming around to totally fuck his mind for good.

Bricks out.

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