ontinuing efforts to keep the peace in we-torn Iraq turned for the worse with the White House revelation Sunday that the "top card in the deck," the nefarious "Joker," was still running around free in Iraq.

"We have attempted to protect the public from the horrible truth until now," said Pentagon spokesperson Gen. Amos Halftrack. "As is often the case with corrupt fascistic governments, prettyboy figureheads—like Saddam Hussein—are made frontmen for the real enemy. In Iraq, the real power is, and has always been held by the Joker."

With no other name for the suspected Iraqi dictator, U.S. forces and Iraqi police have begun circulating cards with the only known picture of the fugitive, to be added to existing packs of Iraq's "most wanted" cards, and possibly placed in special protective packaging since they're quite collectible. According to the White House, the Joker is behind Saturday's Fallujah jailbreak and other acts of resistance following the capture of Saddam Hussein.

"It was previously believed Saddam Hussein was behind the resistance cells still waging attacks on our troops," said press secretary Scott McClellan, "but that information had been gathered by U.S. intelligence, and we all know how that goes. I'm not saying they're two steps behind or anything, but the latest information they've obtained says Ruben Stoddard is the winner of last year's American Idol."

New information about the Joker sheds a new light on the war in Iraq, the White House claims, and election strategists advise the war on terror could be severely complicated by the revelation. Efforts to find the Joker might be accelerated to locate and arrest the superstar terrorist between now and November.

Reporters lucky enough to get a front seat at the press conference, while some of us were jammed up near the exit door in the back, asked McClellan about rumors he started that the Joker and 9-11 mastermind Osama bin Laden were linked.

"Almost certainly," McClellan agreed. "We have intelligence verifying it."

Saturday brought more bad news out of Iraq, as an attack on a county jail by resistance forces killed at least 25 people, mostly Iraqi police, and wounded more than 30. The number of prisoners freed numbered in the "plenty" range, but at least a quarter of them were speculated to be town drunks and parking violators. The Saturday raid was also believed plotted by the Joker.

"We're talking about an insane criminal mastermind," the Pentagon confirmed Sunday. "Most of those who were wounded were overcome by his deadly laughing gas, while several were killed by exploding pumpkin bombs. Or something. Make no mistake, the Joker is the greatest threat to world peace since Hitler—no, no! Napoleon. Napoleon. He was a sick bastard."

Even the arrest of number 41 on the most-wanted Iraqis list brought no joy to U.S. forces. The so-called "four of spades" Mohammed Zimam Abdul Razaq was picked up in a Baghdad suburb Sunday for the misdemeanor offense of threatening a cash machine that ate up his ATM card. The Pentagon expressed mixed feelings about it.

"It's number forty-one, for crying out loud," said Gen. Halftrack. "Nobody shits their britches over the forty-first NFL draft pick."

No shit," promised American Airlines spokesperson Lindy Burger. "The pilot in question was out of his ever-loving mind. A fuckhead of galactic proportions. His inventive swearing was unfortunately mistaken for a Christian dogmatic rant."

American Airlines packaged the clarification of the incident with a passive-aggressive apology to any Christians who were stupid enough to mistake the pilot's announcements as endorsing any particular religion. Actually, the apology was about 75% aggressive and only 25% passive, judging by the wording and an elaborate passive-aggressive formula M.I.T. scientists worked out.

Burger, consenting to an interview in her office, as long as we kept the door open, explained it was American Airlines policy to allow pilots to swear in the cockpit. It was also possible she stressed such swearing is conditionally allowed providing they do not broadcast foul language over the speaker system, but this reporter was distracted by a woman saying "cockpit" and forgot to finish writing the quote.

"If it's requested," continued Burger, "American Airlines will release the fucking black box and let everybody get a whiff of Rodger's whack-ass ranting. That motherfucker can rattle them off like he has fucking Tourette's."

Burger also described the policy of hiring pilots who were former alcoholics which sometimes created uncomfortable social situations on the planes. According to Burger, alcoholic pilots with half a buzz on start calling around looking for Alcoholics Anonymous and come across American Airlines in the phonebook first, and management usually feels to sorry for them to turn them away when they show up. Plus, they think it will be funny. Pilots, once freshly on the wagon again, are shaved, showered, given a clean suit, and a job flying national and international flights.

Those who were on hand for the Feb. 7 incident accuse pilot Rodger K. Findiesen of asking the Christians on board the plane to "testify" to the power of Jesus Christ, their lord and savior. Many on the plane made claims to extreme discomfort and feeling singled out by a religious preference, while others felt it was distasteful and inappropriate.

Disagreeing with the assessment, Burger said, "Christian? Rodger? Shit, he can't even say it when he gets half a beer in him. No, more than likely what happened was he knocked back a few at home or made a stop by the drink cart on the way to the front of the plane and cut loose a little bit. Forgot his microphone was on, I bet. We had a similar incident in 1997 with him. Check it out."

Agreeing to check it out, this reporter screened a cassette tape from Burger's desk which she sometimes uses for training sessions or fun at college parties. On the tape, an apparently inebriated Findiesen talks either to the co-pilot, himself, or an invisible friend, including several verses of a song presumably titled "Lick My Salty Balls" set to the tune of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."

"Ack. Fuck the pissin' president. God, am I shit-hammered. Stretched all up on a fuckin' (inaudible)… that's the way. Take a fuckin' parachute and let this sumbitch crash right into a fuckin' mountain. D.B. Cooper woulda done it… (inaudible wailing)… Ah, Shelly, you fuckin' bitch, Jesus hanging on a crucifix, you done me wrong, bitch. I love you. Still love you, baby. Glory, glory, halle-fuckin'-lujah, still love you, baby… Man, I'd love to get a (inaudible) with a cow sometime. That's got to be…"

Stopping the tape, Burger assured that Findiesen would receive treatment for any possible problem with alcohol, and that he had indeed found someone after Shelly.

Thankfully for you, the eager readers, nobody blew up any giant mammals on the international scene this week and we can finally get down to the nitty gritty dirt band on Omar Bricks' adventures through the afterlife. For those of you interested in the full sensory experience, I'd recommend putting Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" on infinite repeat while you read the column. If you read it at the correct rate of speed I think you'll find things syncing up in some pretty mind-blowing ways. If you're a slow reader or retarded or something, I can't promise it won't make you dizzy or colossally sick, so sync at your own risk here people.

Longtime Bricks fans, or newer fans with the cajones to dig deep into the archives, will no doubt remember back in 2002 when the Bricksmobile went all Casino on me and engulfed half of my neighborhood in flames, blowing yours truly into my neighbor Dale's azaleas. Thanks to the intense charring within the blast radius, some cocky son of a bitch from the fire department decided nobody could have lived through the explosion, and after I loudly agreed the police took that as gospel and Omar Bricks was legally dead. At the time I thought it would just be a funny lark and a cool way to mess with pizza delivery guys, but it turned out to be a real godsend when all my neighbors tried to sue the recently-departed Omar Bricks for fucking up their houses. Wouldn't you know it was their shitty luck that Omar's twin cousin from Cuba who was watching the house indefinitely hadn't inherited any of the vast Bricks fortune.

This was all fine and dandy for months until all my appearance of hard work at the commune finally paid off in the form of a company car, which turned out to be a cop magnet even when Red Bagel wasn't driving it. I hadn't been behind the wheel more than three minutes when a cop pulled me over while I was taking a short cut through the park and told me my license had expired. I guess that's one of the down-sides of being legally dead that they don't tell you about when you're bluffing the fire department. There should be a law, but what are you going to do?

The next day I go down to the DMV to perform the seemingly-simple task of proving I'm still alive so I won't have to walk out in the cold every time I want to go down to the DQ for a scoop. I figured this would be fairly easy, considering that me even showing up at the DMV proves to all but the biggest of idiots that I am, in fact, alive. Being the stand-up supporter of democracy that I am, I decided to make things even easier on the powers that be by standing up on the counter at the DMV, holding up my death certificate, and announcing "Omar Bricks is Dead, Long Live Omar Bricks!" to the huddled masses assembled on the DMV killing floor. Most of the idiots there didn't know what the hell was going on, though one dude did clap for a while. I figured my point had been made, and I was on my way to go home and ring in the new Omar Bricks with a toast of Miller High Life when some closeted DMV dude stopped me at the door and told me I'd have to wait in line like all the others shmoes slouching their way toward the guillotine.

I guess I wasn't the only one there who had been mistaken for dead, though from the looks of most of those guys I should've guessed it. So I wait in line like a peasant, hoping the chick up front will spot me in line, remember me from my column or a police line-up somewhere and wave me away like "Dude, you're obviously alive! Get the fuck out of here!" and I'll be all thumbs-up and ass out the door. Well, any of you who've ever been to the DMV know that kind of magic just doesn't go down, and I was in that line for three fuckin' days. You may think I'm exaggerating that figure somewhat for hilarious effect, but I'm shitting you not, three days. Every time I got out of line to take a piss I was stuck at the back again, if I'd known that was going to be the case I wouldn't have loaded up on Hawaiian Punch and pop rocks on the way over, that shit makes you piss like a Hawaiian grandma or something, every ten minutes like a goddamned glockenspiel.

At some point on day three, weak bladders got the best of all the dorks in front of me in line and I finally won a round of DMV Survivor. I grooved my way up to the counter and laid the smooth on the three-headed DMV beast manning that station, who reached deep into her bag of pain and pulled out some bullshit about how I had to go to the city courthouse and get my death certificate revoked and blah blah blah before I could even talk about getting my license renewed. I briefly considered cracking open a big can of profanity on the whole scene, but a cooler part of my head prevailed and I seamlessly transitioned to Plan B.

You'd be surprised how far a good Scarface accent and a black market birth certificate can get you these days. It was enough to get Omar Bricks' mysterious "Coovan" cousin a driver's license, anyway. So remember Polio fans, if you see me behind the wheel of a car or you're talking to the highway patrol, remember one simple slogan: Omar Bricks is Dead, Long Live Navarro Bricks!

Bricks out.

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