Bricks on the Fourth of July
the commune’s Omar Bricks loves a hit-and-miss firecracker 

I definitely need to hire out as a Fourth of July consultant. If you think you don’t need a Fourth of July consultant, you’ve never experienced a Bricks Fourth of July, end of story.

It’s about a month away, I know, but when you want to make it a memorable good time, you’ve got to plan well in advance. It’s just not smart to put a houseful of fireworks and a truckload of Miller Genuine Draft together without more than a little planning. Now usually I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy, even if the ass of the pants rips out and you get kicked out of the kid’s birthday party, but hey, it’s not like I knew the kid anyway—nothing ventured, nothing gained; but when it comes to Fourth of July, Omar Bricks turns into a rocket scientist of event planning.

It’s more than just explosions and drunken fight after drunken fight—shit, if I didn’t have that on a daily basis I’d hang up my hat and go home already. The way I see it, Fourth of July is the world’s celebration of pure, uncut freedom, and for me there’s nothing better worth celebrating. Hanging out with buddies, sipping beers, and trading swimming pool-building tips is like a fart in freedom’s face. Omar Bricks don’t fart in anyone’s face unless they personally asked for it or take out those little opera glasses in public, which is the same as the former in my book.

It takes more than a month just to save up enough money to rent the arena. Why go through the trouble and expense of renting an arena? Well, you might as well ask what’s the point in having a demolition derby—you can’t hold it in your backyard, don’t argue with that because I’ve tried. And the demolition derby is the big part of the Bricks Fourth of July gathering, and in the tight-money times I haven’t been able to rent an arena I find an unguarded farmer field is a fantastic substitute. If you check with your friends who fake crop circles on the weekends they can probably tell you which places are frequently unsupervised and have the best tire traction.

Then you have to select the special car, I like to nickname it the “doom buggy”. The best way, I’ve discovered, is to hold a little private lottery the night before—if you have one hundred ping pong balls, a giant hamster ball, and a tuxedo, have a little fun with it, it’s like a party in itself. Then whatever number wins that’s your car, since they’ll all have numbers painted on them at the derby. I would recommend keeping it something only you know. Sure, you can let everybody in on the secret, but when most people find out the car’s trunk is full of fireworks the volunteers to drive it dry up real fast.

No demolition derby is complete without a lot of beer, whether you’re a spectator or a driver. Still, with luck you’ll get flipped over by the car with the bulldozer prod welded on the front early and can get a seat right up front in time for the first explosion to hit the doom buggy. Man, that’s Fourth of July. Our founding fathers would have been proud enough to piss themselves.

That’s just my favorite part, of course. Some Bricks partygoers love shaving the heads of the derby losers. Others love the swimming pool full of Thunderbird, throwing flammable things on the bonfire, or the wrestle Lil Duncan contest. I’m not complaining, I love every part of it, even the swarming of S.W.A.T. team members to close the whole thing down gets me kind of misty-eyed. Like America, there’s a little something for everyone. Bricks out.

Polio at 50
A little bird recently asked me what it felt like to do 50. I answered that question with this question: What does it feel like to eat a bacon cheeseburger through a straw, dickface? That was right before I hit the little bird in the mouth with an encyclopedia.

You Don’t Know Dick About Tennis
You know how you can really piss off a total stranger? Insist they don’t know anything about tennis. Everyone from John McEnroe down to Tommy Chong will take offense at a statement like that. Doesn’t matter if they’ve never picked up a racquet before in their lives.

Omar Bricks:
Modest as a Motherfucker
According to a recent poll taken in the food court at the mall, the words most commonly associated with Omar Bricks in the minds of teenage girls are these: cocky good-looking son of a bitch. Actually, those were three separate entries, but I like the way they run together.

I Hate Old Movies
I don’t know who passed the law saying you’ve got to love old movies or else you’re a shithead, but I think they suck. Christ, it’s just a bunch of pasty white guys standing around saying shit like “That was the last monkey in Montenegro,” and drinking bourbon.

Way to Screw Up the Whole World with Your Religion
God bless Christianity. What kind of mixed-up, unrepressed world would we have without it? People eating pizza with chopsticks, talking dogs, upright-walking salmon for president. In a word, it would be fuckin’ great.