espite the protests of investors who fear for their own financial safety, Federal authorities tagged and released Housewifing guru Martha Stewart into the wild last Friday, returning the mogul to her natural environment in hopes of learning from her behavior outside captivity.

Federal marshals were on high alert this weekend as the news broke that the TV personality and famously nice lady had been released. Early reports that Stewart had escaped from her West Virginia prison, bribing her captors with microwave caramel apples and slipping out through a shit drain in the fashionably late hours Thursday night, later proved to be erroneous. Stewart, thought to be either foraging in the wild or sitting with her feet up in her Bedford, New York home, eating lightly salted edamane soy beans, is considered fashionably dressed and not particularly dangerous.

“Aaagh!� screamed part-time stock investor Harold Oldman, perhaps overreacting to the news. “We’re all going to die!�

Recent retiree and investment dabbler Maya Coolidge expressed a similar sentiment from a crack between the several wooden pallets she had stacked in front of her front door for protection. “I don’t feel safe in my own home!� shouted Coolidge through the muffle of plywood. Either that or “Adam feet saving moan hole!� which this reporter preferred, but the copy desk found less likely.

Coolidge might also have yelled “Radon eels chafe gin eyes! Phone Rome!� or “Idle fleece have fins, mayo gnome!� regardless of what those commune knobs, who weren’t even there, have to say about it.

Many loudmouthed observers believe that Stewart served too short a prison sentence for doing some kind of naughty stocky thing that few understand. But wildlife experts disagree, citing the scientific benefits of West Virginia’s “catch and release� program.

“We’re not learning anything from Martha being in prison,� explained science redneck Tick Douglas. “Except that she doesn’t like Jell-o, but will eat it if force-fed by giant lesbians. But in the wild, in her natural habitat…� Douglas’ eyes glazed over in a drifting, far-away stare. “Humanity could benefit forever from what we learn.�

Snippy observers have christened Stewart’s new earlobe tracking tag “tack-zilla, girlfriend� but Stewart herself has been silent about the seemingly-undignified accessory. Many believe this is because Stewart plans to start a new fashion craze by selling knock-off ear tags as part of her Martha Stewart Everyday line available at K-Mart stores, and the elementary schools that were until a few months ago K-Mart stores, nationwide.

oming hot on the heels of February’s “Black History Month� bacchanalia, the U.S. government threw a surprising ceremony last week commemorating March as “Black Histrionics Month,� celebrating the overly dramatic and frenetic behavior famous to the black stereotype. American actor Cuba Gooding Jr. was tapped to inaugurate the memorial month, in a nod to his lifelong efforts to keep the stereotype alive.

“You know you want to hear it! Show me the money! Show ME the MO-NEY!� Gooding screamed to the assembled crown, before turning three consecutive backflips and tearing off his shirt. Gooding thrilled whites everywhere with his comfortably overblown black antics.

Before he could be shouted off the stage by self-respecting blacks who for some reason decided to attend the ceremony/travesty, Gooding Jr. ran through a terrifying recap of the last 50 years of black movie stereo types, leaving the audience either horrified or hilarified, depending on the color of their skin.

“Lordse, we got to have a doctor! I don’t know nothin ‘bout birthin’ babies!� clowned Gooding, simultaneously over the top and under the bottom. “Bitch! I will kick the bulimia outta yo’ ass!�

The well-publicized ceremony has also drawn unwanted attention from Latinos, the country’s largest minority group, who are upset that they don’t have their own month. When asked about this discrepancy during a recent interview, President Bush was clever.

“No Latino History Month?� asked Bush thoughtfully. “Why, that’s because every month is Latino History Month!� The president smiled slyly, impressed by his own deft maneuvering.

Prominent Latino leaders, however, find such statements to be caca.

“We want our own history month,� explained Latino community leader Hector Villanova. “And not some bullshit that’s all about the Alamo, either. We’re not falling for that again.�

The attention drawn to the new black month two-for-one has caused America’s racial shit to hit the fan at a high rate of speed as a dizzying array of other races have demanded their own months. Early reports indicate that some pushy races have even demanded two months, in order to even the playing field in the impending race race. Asians, Norwegians, East Indians and even the Irish have all chimed in with their hunger to make sure the black man doesn’t have anything special for himself.

Native American groups, on the other hand, have taken the high road, explaining that they’d rather take a pass on reliving their history and would be satisfied with having the whole of Las Vegas declared a multi-tribal reservation.

I think we gave up on Chernobyl too easily. I say that knowing full-well that too much radiation can make your sack blow up like a beach ball and your fruit starts talking to you and shit, which could be plenty scary depending on what the fruit is saying. I know some people who would be terrified no matter what their pear was belching out at them over the breakfast table, but I for one believe you can't live on that uptight of a level. At least I wouldn't consider it living. If I'm greeted to a chorus of "Mornin', Omar" from my fruit bowl in the morning, who's the victim? As long as they don't scream when I eat them, I don't really consider talking fruit to have a downside.

I'm not a doctor, at least when I'm not hard-up for cash, but I've got to imagine the health effects of living in a raging nuclear fallout zone have been overstated. You know how doctors are, one month immense dosages of radiation will turn you into a puddle of goop, the next month they'll give you super powers and you'll live to be 150. It's like the whole red wine thing. I'm willing to take my chances, because even in the worst-case scenario, being a puddle of super-powered goop doesn't sound all bad. No way you've got to pay normal tax rates when you're filing as "goop."

And Chernobyl itself could really be an ideal place to live, when you think about it. It's like an empty readymade city, just without all the giant Barbie dolls and the plastic Thunderbird with nothing under the hood. It'd be like Oklahoma City without the hick smell. They could hold a wild land grab like back in the old west days! Give me a cattle prod and let me loose in that place, trust me; I'll come out of the deal with Bricks Towers under my arm. It may have been Bank of Ruskie before the shit went Three Mile, but now that vault's Foghat's room, Ivan. What can I say; the dog likes to feel secure when he sleeps. Plus I think he might be catching on to the fact that the "Panic Room" in the Bricks Manor is just a walk-in closet with a bunch of pennies jammed in the door frame.

Still not sold on the whole Chernobyl thing? How would you like to wipe your ass with the electricity bill? You'd be living that large in Chernobyl, since who needs electricity when the whole town glows in the dark? And if that shit can power a submarine, it should have no problem juicing up my Mr. Coffee. It would be like solar power, without the suck.

I got to thinking about fallout this week because of The Man's reaction to my oceanizing of the Bricksmobile III: Red Bagel Edition last month when I was down in Panama. Turns out the big Bagel had a real emotional attachment to that car, and a real dead space alien on dry ice in the trunk. That's what he says anyway, the story smelled suspiciously of hooker mishap to me. But if that's the case, he can consider that problem solved, because the only law that's getting into that trunk now is the Fish Police. And it was my understanding that they were cancelled years ago. Bagel always has been the paranoid sort, however, and I don't think he watches TV. Something about mind-control dolphin sounds in the audio mix, I didn't read the whole pamphlet.

So now I'm on the commune shit list, of Bricks List as it's being called at the moment. Quite a change from the Dunkin Detail as it had been known for years. Thanks to my loyal readership of gun nuts, truckers and the vicarious, my ratings the office chicken has been tabulating are keeping me from napping under the axe, but I'm still keeping my options open for a career move to the Far East in case shit goes bad again like last year when I ate all of Bagel's astronaut ice cream. One more mix-up like that and Omar Bricks will be the top name on the commune's Comrade Exchange Program, because I don't think those sly fuckers want Boris Utzov back. Wish me luck.

Bricks Out.

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