illions of Americans failed to mourn this week at the death of Baltimore-area rug salesman and unknown modern American philosopher Phillip Flaggart, originator of numerous lite-philosophical sayings such as "A picture's worth a thousand words," and "Why buy milk when you have a cow at home?"

"A picture's worth a thousand words," repeated sayings fan Dennis Tudd, shaking his head in wonderment. "That kind of says it all, though a picture would say it all even better. You know."

Even within the sayings-geek community, Flaggart remained the enduring subject of controversy, with factions split between those who believed the man a humble genius, and those convinced Flaggart was a lucky moron. Flaggart himself fanned the flames in a 1987 interview, explaining that he was drunk at the time he first said "A picture's worth a thousand words" and didn't know what he was talking about.

"Phil had a real talent for being misunderstood as more profound than he really was," explained Flaggart's late wife, Lucious. "I remember that night, and what Phil said was 'That picture's worth a thousand bucks,' referring to a blurry Polaroid he carried around that was supposedly a picture of Farrah Fawcet's left tit."

Flaggart fans remain undeterred, however.

"Don't even talk to his wife," sneered Tudd. "She's never been a pro-Flaggart."

Lucious Flaggart retells a similar story about another famous saying attributed to her late husband, "In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes."

"He was standing in line for a movie in New York, and Andy Warhol overheard him say what he thought was 'In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes,' a line which Warhol then stole for himself. Luckily for Andy, he didn't hear what Phil actually said: that in about fifteen years, miniature furniture was going to be really popular. Phil never knew what he was talking about. He was drinking a lot back then, too."

Whether Flaggart was a genius or a boob, he's definitely dead now, a fact upon which even the pro-Flaggarts and the Flaggart-doubters can agree.

"Dead, misunderstood genius," summarized Tudd.

"Dead moron," disagreed a solemn Eugene Frits, a leading Flaggart-doubter and roommate to Dennis Tudd.

"Maybe he was autistic, you ever think of that?" retorted Tudd, just before the interview grew ugly.

"Maybe you should kiss my ass and do your own dishes for once, buttfuzz," explained an agitated Frits, moments before this reporter ducked out the fire escape to the sound of breaking dishes, heeding the Flaggartism about getting the fuck out while the getting the fuck out is good.

he nation's African-American community had to bear another injustice over the weekend as it was revealed the sales on their own personal super-saving shopping event, "Black Friday," were moderate at best. Undoubtedly, the responsibility for the lower-than-projected sales will fall squarely on the shoulders of the black community.

"Sales were not as high as initially expected," announced economical tool and white person spokesperson Neil Van Hurst of Columbia University's School of Business. "This is owed mostly to continuing downward spending trends in recent holiday seasons." And its all the fault of black people, Van Hurst all but said.

"Black Friday," as it was named to instigate a race war, is the day-after-Thanksgiving sales event where prices at cheap retail outlets like Wal-Mart and K-Mart are dropped dramatically, inspiring fistfights among crowds of unruly shoppers, frequently African-American, according to news footage aired afterward. The sales are held extremely early in the morning before the sun comes up, when black people are found to be scarier to whites.

Total sales figures for the racially insensitive second busiest shopping day of the year, after White Christmas Eve, were estimated at $8 billion, down .9% from last year's sales and considered a disappointment by white moneymen who hoped to shake just a few more million dollars out of the pockets of black Americans.

Only Wal-Mart, a staple of the white cornbread community, reported sales that exceeded initial projections, sending the subtle damaging message that white people as a community are pulling their weight in our consumer-based society, while black people have failed to do their part to boost sales for white-owned corporations.

Overshadowing the mostly apathetic sales were several videotaped incidents of people in crowds, usually black or partially black populations, vandalizing stores, pushing, shoving, and being rude, and generally acting like dicks. Conspiracy theorists and other sane-thinking individuals have even proposed the priceless videotaped propaganda is the real reason "Black Friday" sales are held at all.

"Damn, G, that shit's the hardcore truth," said House, a friend of this reporter who supplies all the unfounded rumors for our circle of friends. "It's all part of the master plan—the same one they've been using on us for 400 years. We only just starting to get to the heart of the conspiracy. AIDS—they did that shit to us, for real. All the new money they started passing out, it takes our finger prints and keeps them imprinted in the special material. Then the C.S.I. motherfuckers in Washington have all our prints on record. Makes it easier to keep track of us. We through the looking glass, G. It's a mystery wrapped up in a riddle, all covered with enigma cheese in a taco shell."

Providing a more optimistic outlook for the black community is African-american community leader and the greatest living man today, Reverend Shell Halbert.

"We must strive to overcome the negativity perpetuated by the media and real life black people. We can act in our community, speaking directly to our leaders. We can act in Washington, to tell the politicians we vote and we are active and involved in our world. We can work with the media, to change the negative images bombarding us. And all of us, white and black alike, can calm the hell down when you're in an angry sale crowd. If you want a $29 digital camera, for God's sake, wait patiently for it, don't smack the woman in front of you in the head like a damn fool."

It's the end of an era, good people. Note the lowercase nature of the letters; it's not the end of a proposed Equal Rights Amendment. No, this is even greater, and something Christians would even approve of. My loyal roommate Camembert has gotten married.

No one was more misty-eyed than me, except all the women and the lesser men, when my good friend of many years, and distant relationship through my miserable second marriage, Camembert, married his girlfriend, Girl Elvis. Sometimes I doubted it would ever happen, but on Dec. 3 they were officially announced Mr. and Mrs. Camembert. Actually, I don't know the real names, but you get my gist. You can't rightly go around calling them Girl and Boy Elvis—there's already a Boy Elvis. The original Elvis, friends.

The ceremony was held in Las Vegas, and like any wedding involving an Elvis impersonator, it was officiated by a Col. Tom Parker lookalike, Reverend Slingblade. Camembert described it as "gaudy," but it looked perfectly devoid of god to me. Just Camembert, in the best tuxedo I've ever seen a handicapped man wearing, and Girl Elvis, in the sequined jumpsuit her mother wore at her wedding. Ginger and a Carl Perkins impersonator were the bridesmaids, Lee and I were the best men. But I was by far the better best man. I got to plan the bachelor party and carry the ring. What did you get, Lee? Jack shit, that's what. Let's not kid ourselves.

It was an emotional ceremony. Camembert and Girl Elvis wrote their own vows, but I replaced them at the last minute. She was halfway through hers before she realized it. If you ask me, "I promise you sweet lovin' and all the ass you can work" may not get you bawling, but it's just plain funny. Real audience-pleaser stuff. So I won't be invited to their house for a while, so what? They'll get over it when they remember Rok Finger's always been their best friend.

For the big finale, 12 svelte flamingos were released into the air to symbolize their love, that and I've always wanted to recreate the opening to Miami Vice. Now that it's out on DVD everyone will finally get the reference without me having to remind them of it. Camembert and his new wife took off into the sunset for their honeymoon in Salt Lake City, riding a motorcycle. Sidecar for Camember, natch. I think the new look suits him. He should seriously consider ditching the chair for a permanent sidecar accessory.

All of this has left me feeling a little bit inadequate. Truth be told, I've been thinking about finding someone else to marry—weddings always make me sentimental that way. I haven't told my wife, of course, since I'm also sentimental for keeping my ass intact. If I did marry another woman, it would probably just be for a spare wife. I have had trouble keeping just one, you know, and it wouldn't be a bad idea to have another one socked away for a rainy day.

The biggest way this has effected my life, other than taking up a Saturday I would have used for building the world's largest tandem bicycle, is that I lost my best friend and roommate. I would like to say I've not lost my best friend, but gained a best friend-in-law, but that's total bullshit. He's moving out and she's going with him. So I lost two best friends. But Ginger's happy about it—she's already started talking about getting Lee out on his own so we can start the babymaking.

Which is a little premature, of course, since I already told her I wouldn't start to work on building the world's largest wooden baby until I finished that damned tandem bike. The thing has been a nightmare.

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