I've got two good reasons why you should never, ever name your semi-weekly column My Friend Polio, and here they are: One, you would be seriously stepping on my toes and repercussions would be quick and deadly; and two, it's just bad karma, and let me be a brazen big-dicked example to all of you.

Things have been downright rancid lately, like I need remind you. No car, no bus or cab rides since they banned me for having a sense of humor, and if another punk kid makes fun of the basket on my bike I'm not even going to explain how it's screwed in and the screw's stripped, I'm just going to jump to the ass-beating. Then there's the lingering smell of cream of broccoli dogshit in Bricks Manor and I don't even want to mention being embarrassed by a chess-playing computer, like we live in Tron-world or something. Needless to say Omar Bricks needed some cheering up last week.

I was extremely pumped about Halloween, the one time of year you can throw rotten eggs at someone's house or dig up their septic tank and dump it into their pool and folks just laugh it off—well, most folks. Usually I eschew the costume, or have a real go at it being all philosophical and such, like one year I went as the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, but that gets dull explaining over and over. So this year dressed up as John Quincy Adams, not that I thought it was a great costume or anything, just a last minute thing—I had the outfit already to break the ice with a judge in this court thing, and it didn't really work well.

First thing that really bothered me is all these dumb questions. "Who are you supposed to be?" "Oh, cool, John Quincy Adams—and what is he famous for?" "Hey, how fuckin' old are you? What are you doing trick-or-treating?" People get all uptight when you point out you're not dressed as a historian, why don't they look John Quincy Adams up in a goddamn dictionary. At least most of them get pissy and refuse to give out candy, one old lady totally passed out. I felt a little bad, but I did call an ambulance after I loaded up on candy—don't get all righteous with me, man, she had Sweet Tarts. Nobody gives those out anymore.

The tricks didn't go over any better. Nobody out there can take it like they dish it out, I swear. Everything was pretty mellow, too, in comparison to early Bricks tricks—no more calling up relatives out of the obituaries and pretending to be the deceased, there was a general consensus that wasn't funny, despite everything I thought. But there's no way to make people laugh anymore, even on Halloween. I dressed up like Spider-Man and swung through Jeff's window during his party and all I got was, "Omar, you broke my window and you're hemorrhaging." Then after that, I passed out, but after that, with stitches, I cut the brake line on the cop's car and—well, he says it's a jailable offense, I say it's not, we're supposed to meet in court next month and work it out.

Election day was actually more fun. I don't usually vote, but that doesn't mean I can't have a little fun, right? I had a box full of lost wallets I collected when I bartended for a few years and it's a blast to see how many times you can sneak in there and write-in Jimmy "SupaFly" Snuka before they realize you're the same guy. This time it was 13, but keep in mind that's only using hats, no wigs or facial hair or anything. You got to admit it would be pretty wicked to tune in during election night coverage and hear, "A surprise upset as 30% of the vote went to retired wrestler Jimmy 'SupaFly' Snuka for city comptroller."

Maybe next year. By that time I'll have all this legal trouble sorted it out. It's hard to believe but apparently it's illegal to vote more than once in this city, even when you explain to the judge you were just fucking around.

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