Nice Try, Fanatical Cowpokers
the commune's Omar Bricks is currently interviewing secretarial applicants 

Monday, Oct. 29, 2001
God and the commune’s mail room clerk, Lefty, both know that here at the commune we get our share of bogus and life-threatening mail. Shit, I think we set some kind of Guiness Stout World Record for it in our first week. Hardly a day goes by that our building isn’t evacuated after some righteous jackass sends us a pissed off warthog in a box or a bunch of ebola-flavored Junior Mints. Several memorable incidents come to mind, like the time Lefty pried open a crate in our mailroom and sure as shit, there was a goddamned midget with a machete that came jumping out of it, just like in that Cheech and Chong movie. We were all stuck perched up on our desks for nearly two hours while that little bastard ran around and macheted everything in the office that was near to the ground. After a while he got tired and went down for a nap in the corner, so Lefty snuck over with a dolly and loaded that little mercenary nutjob back into the crate, sealed it, and put a big “RETURN TO SENDER” stamp on the side. You can rest assured that Omar Bricks had his desk raised up an extra two inches after that day, just in case the next midget was this one’s older brother.

And given the controversial nature of my views on artificial insemination, you can bet that Omar Bricks gets more than his share of the death threats and bullshit mail around here. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: they’ve yet to invent a mail bomb that’ll keep me from hiring a new secretary every time my old one gets blown out the window in a plume of swirling fire and acrid smoke, y’all. These terrorizing fancy-boys act like they’ve never heard the words “temp agency” before in their lives. And even when my secretary’s out for the day, off painting flowers or having babies or whatever, I still have a seemingly endless stream of nosy bitches who are always trying to peek at my mail to see if French Stewart sent me any more of those naked pictures, even though I keep telling them I got him to knock that shit off years ago.

Speaking of naked pictures, probably the most troubling piece of hate mail I’ve ever received was back in ’99 when some cruel bastard sent me what looked like a bad-assed set of nudie playing cards, but when I opened the pack they turned out to be—you guessed it—those infamous shots from the Golden Girls cast orgy in Cancun back in ’85. Sweet motherfucking Christ, the last time I saw something that ugly I had to flush twice. If anything has ever tested my resolve as a commune staffer, that shit was it, not some weak-assed mail bomb antics. And it turned out it was commune photographer Junior Bacon behind it all anyway, that sick fruit. You know he got a lifetime subscription to Fecal Fancy in the mail shortly after that event.

But lately a lot of talk has been going around the office about some crazy dead-cow-finding punks sending everybody and their sister anthrax in the mail, and how that’s some no-fooling-around bad shit. Well, don’t let any short-dicked Iowa boys ever tell you that Omar Bricks gets caught off guard, because ever since I heard about this freaky Mr. Science mayhem I’ve been on the lookout. And it paid off big time the other day when I stopped at McDonalds on my way to work to pick up my usual morning apple pie and coffee. I placed my order as always but kept an eye on Miss Sheri Landowski, my McServer that morning. And goddammit if she didn’t pour an ass-load of anthrax powder right into my coffee when she thought I wasn’t looking. I guess it isn’t as hard to get a job at McDonalds as it used to be, because it’s obvious their entire organization has been infiltrated by terrorists, as Sheri Landowski can surely attest. Or, should I say, Sheri bin Landowski?

I don’t think I need to tell you what happened next, but suffice it to say I was able to hop out the drive thru window before the fry cook could get at me with that broom handle, and Sheri won’t be anthraxing any more coffee-loving Americans any time soon. Incidentally, I’ve also got a shitload of apple pies back at my apartment now, so any of you interested parties out there can cross that off your “Christmas Gifts for Omar” list this year.

I wasted no time getting to my doctor’s office, since I think that during the melee I might have got some of that powder up my nose and the last thing I need is some goddamned cow disease and long waits at the vet’s office. Doc Thrusher took some tests and when he came back he looked like he’d just found the corpse of Gregory Peck in his stool. Actually, to be honest he might always look like that, I don’t think I’d been to the doctor since I was eight. Anyway, he showed me his clip board with a pie chart or some USA Today shit on it and said:

“Well Mr. Bricks, you were right to come to us. Your test results show that you’ve had anthrax fourteen times in the last five years. That has to be some kind of record.”

Doc Thrusher and I talked and he ruled out the possibility that I’d been getting it from that Asian chick who works over at the Photomat, and I ruled out the possibility that I’d been rubbing my ass all over any sick farm animals, so we decided that it was most likely those fan letters with all the white powder in them that I've been getting every other month since 1996. To tell you the truth, I thought it was kind of strange that someone chose to express their appreciation for my column by writing “YOU DIE. YOU DIE WHITE DEMON! YOU GET SICK YOU DIE!” on an index card and mailing it to me every other month, but there’s a lot of weird literate mugs out there. And I thought that fucker was sending me Tide, like some kind of wink and a nod about how I’m always having to get blood out of my work shirts. Shit, I haven’t bought detergent in five years.

Anyway, the doctor said I’d developed an immunity to anthrax over the years, and so I had nothing to worry about, except I should probably go to a different McDonalds from now on.

So all you revolutionary mama’s boys had best be advised to take your sickly cattle and impeccable penmanship and scurry on home, because it takes more than a lethal dose of deadly neurotoxins to keep Omar Bricks down. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to call the temp agency. Bricks out.