n a move that surprised the slow and feeble-minded alike, President Bush appointed diplomat John Negroponte as America’s first Director of National Intelligence this week, in an attempt to shore up the nation’s failing mental defenses.

“Now this may be a case of the pig callin’ the posy pink,� folkified Bush, our national leader and self-described folk hero. “But y’all is dumb as shit.�

Surprised and appalled by his own re-election, sources report Bush quickly decided something needed to be done about national intelligence, and the lucid and well-coordinated Negroponte was the obvious answer. Speaking in complete sentences and rarely attending to bodily itches with his house keys are said to be the strong suits that brought Negroponte to the president’s attention.

Negroponte, dressed in matching colors and with all button-holes and buttons lined up correctly on his vest, accepted the new position of Intelligence Czar graciously.

“It’s about time you dumbasses got your shit together,� announced the charitable-yet-firm Negroponte. “Though the fact that you all did something this smart frankly worries me. Is there a bucket of crap dangling over my head or something?�

According to the strangely-named Negroponte, whose last name does not mean “Black Dude� in Spanish or Italian, national intelligence has been going downhill for almost fifty years, pretty much ever since The Andy Griffith Show debuted in 1960. As a corrective measure, the new Intelligence Czar has called for the immediate canceling of all reality TV, switching all broadcasts of the Spice Channel to PBS, and outlawing country music. Whether these early remedies will be successful, however, remains to be seen since slack-jawed apathy remains so firmly rooted in the national character. Word on the street indicates that Negroponte may have his work cut out for him.

“What Russian royalty have to say about intelligence is a mystery to me,� sniped freelance quote-whore Dennis Murphy. “He should put on his big fuzzy hat and go back to Eskimoland.�

A surprising number of men on the street (and two dumb-looking women) seemed to confuse the concept of an Intelligence Czar and the famous Russian leaders of antiquity. Several half-educated men were convinced all the Czars had been murdered by the Bullshitiks in the Industrial Revolution. As a result, the commune has decided to refrain from using colorful or figurative language in the future, to avoid further misunderstanding and possible bloodshed.

Oppressed Bullshitiks, however, can find Negroponte at the White House during his office hours.

ran, the Middle East's "other Ira," fought back with lethal verbal force on Friday, responding to U.S. warnings to "straighten up and fly right" with a dangerous barrage of sarcasm and pretend fright. Iranian President Mohammad "Salami" Khatami unleashed an attack of insincerity the likes of which few countries have ever seen.

"We are so scared of you," said Khatami, while numerous friends cracked up behind him. "Please, do not send your thousands of groundtroops and air craft carriers and stealth bombers to demolish our ancient culture with an invasion—an invasion, I point out, which would be so justified."

The mockery comes following recent announcements by the White House and U.S. President George W. Bush, warning Iran that pursuing a nuclear program would lead to sanctions or other measures against the country.

Thursday, Bush added, "And don't say, 'What nuclear weapons?' That ain't gonna fly."

Instead, Khatami reacted with deadly sarcasm, holding a rally in Tehran Friday to goad the U.S. and entertain his countrymen.

"Oh, Allah be praised, you caught me!" said Khatami, patting himself down. "I've been hiding nuclear armaments for years, right here on my robe. Wait—nope, nope. Those are just my cigarettes. Well, shit. Maybe I left them in my garage, next to the car I don't have either. But I will be checking this out right away, Mr. U.S. President, who completely and surely has jurisdiction to root through the couch cushions of my country looking for things."

It was a far different tact than Saddam Hussein in 2003, when President Bush then ordered the Iraqi leader to disarm, and Hussein replied, "Make me."

Bush immediately went on the offensive then, informing the Iraqi president he didn't make monkeys, only trained them. The U.S. president further warned, "If a clash is necessary between our two armies, there will be two hits—ours hitting yours, then yours hitting the ground. Understand?"

As of press time, the White House has yet to respond to Iran's taunts, though Press Secretary Scott McClellan said the administration would wait for the Iranian president's rally to stop, then would "burn" them with a clever retort like you wouldn't believe. The rally, begun Friday, has lasted for three days without clear sign of finishing, as the anti-American mob urges Khatami to continue his unstoppable assault of wit.

"If it helps, Mr. President, I'm sure your penis is quite massive," Khatami continued on Saturday, cheered on by hoots and hollers of the crowd. "You are welcome to invade Iran, if it pleases you, but I am sure your penis can get no bigger than it currently is. You are indeed a man, as you have proven with all the threats and multiple country invasions and everything. I'm sure Allah smiles down on you, and will in no way send you to hell to smoke your ass for eternity once you are dead. Forget about all death warrants on your dad and yourself—I'm sure everything is all better now. If I see you in the street, in front of my non-existent car, I am sure to brake so I don't hit you and splatter your devil's guts all over the road."

In spite of a response not yet coming from the White House, inside sources predict Bush may yield the floor to Vice President Dick Cheney to reply with one of his devastating "Your momma so fat" comebacks.

Is it crazy to travel all the way to South America, by car no less, to finally find out what an old Van Halen song is about? If your answer is yes, then stop reading this column immediately. I don't want any of my readers thinking I'm crazy. Go read Rok Finger or something, I'm sure he's got a Metamucil story that won't challenge your notions of acceptably sane behavior.

As for Omar Bricks, I've spent the last two weeks On the Road. I capitalicize that because apparently some insane bastard in the 50's did the same thing as me and wrote a book about it, since I guess he couldn't pare his recollections down to column length. An indictment of his editing skills I'm sure, though no doubt those book sales paid him more in the end than the can of lima beans and sack of assorted shirt buttons I'm likely to earn for writing this column.

But regardless of what I earned, or what it cost in damage to other people's property, the trip was a major success. Omar Bricks got out of the cold-ass weather for two weeks and finally learned that the Van Halen song "Panama" has nothing at all to do with the tiny little Latin American nation, and that David Lee Roth was probably just fucking some girl named Panama, or her name was Pam Anna and Dave just wasn't paying much attention. But Panama itself is a bitchin' little country where they do things the Bricks way 24/7. Or at least I did things the Bricks way 24/7 when I was down there, and nobody seemed to mind too much. They didn't complain in any language I could understand, anyway.

Now I'm sure a few of my more anal-retentive readers are wondering how it's possible to drive down the Panama, enjoy some time there, and drive back all in two weeks time, since it's something like 4,000 miles round-trip. All I can say is that those fussy motherfucks have obviously never heard of sleep-driving. It's a pretty straight shot most of the way down to Panama, so as long as you tie your steering wheel to something solid in the car, you can snooze your way through most of the commute.

Not that I spent the whole drive dreaming about Salma Hayek and cheap Jose Cuervo. There was still plenty of time for mayhem on the ride down, including a stop at a parade staging grounds outside Mexico City to cover the Bricksmobile in flowers and papier-mâché, so there rest of the way down it looked like I was driving a giant floral bull, scary as all get out. You can bet no matadors crossed the street in front of me for the rest of that trip. Though I did run into an incident in Costa Rica where half the town thought I was driving a giant piñata and I had to haul ass to limit the bat damage to my car.

The Bricksmobile III—Red Bagel Edition stayed in South America, needless to say, after I drove it into the Pacific Ocean. Some asshole told me that Ecuador borders Peru, but he didn't tell me on which side. Yep, you guessed it: the other side. The side I drove off was all ocean, baby. Onlookers said I only survived because my car hit the water going so fast that it hydroplaned for about a hundred yards, giving me time to bail out like some kind of water-skiing action stud. Keep that in mind the next time some loudmouth down at the bar starts mouthing off about the virtues of anti-lock brakes.

Thankfully for the sake of my return journey, later that afternoon I happened upon a car left running outside a bank in San Lorenzo. Normally my capers stop just short of Grand Theft Auto, but I didn't think the dudes inside waving the guns all around would really mind, when I waved the dude inside waved back like "No problem." It's a whole different mindset down there, hard to explain. I'm not even sure they have that crime down there; it's more like Grand Auto Borrow.

The down-side is that I have no idea what kind of car it is, where it was made, or what kind of units all the instruments are in. It's fast for sure, but whatever 300 I got to on the way back, I don't think they were miles an hour. Unless I really floored that bitch while I was napping. The guy at the border said I'd never get that thing registered to drive in America, but that's what he gets for thinking I register my cars. You're just asking for trouble by attaching your name to an unpredictable machine that can cause more property damage than a cruise missile.

So I guess in the end we came out even, the world south of the U.S. taught me something about Van Halen, and I taught them something about automobile ownership. I guess that NAFTA shit is working after all. Bricks out.

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