Raffle
the commune’s Omar Bricks has a ticket to ride 

There are a couple of different ways to go about getting yourself a new car. What most people do is they exploit the underclass until they’ve got enough greenbacks to roll up on Mr. Mercedes or Mr. Benz and slap one of them in the face with a stack of $100 bills. “Booya, bitch! Where’s my wheels?” or however the classy blueblood expression of that sentiment comes out. This doesn’t work so hot for the members of the exploited underclass, who lack the sufficient Benjamins to make for an impressive slap-stack, so most of them have to stick a gun in somebody’s face to keep from having to take the bus to church on Sundays.

As for the rest of us, the poor suckers stuck in-between who are too cheap for caviar and too soft for prison, we have to get creative.

For a while I thought I might be able to screw The Man (or at least The Man’s fine trophy wife) and increase the Omar Bricks Needs a Goddamned Car Fund by playing the stock market. Seemed easy enough, since it’s basically just like a horse racing with companies, except you don’t have to worry about any of the companies banging their funny bone on the starting gate and throwing the jockey into the stands when the buzzer goes off. I knew I never should have bet on a horse named “Buyer’s Remorse.”

Plus on the stock market they don’t give the companies misleading names like “Jailbait” that make them sound really fast but then it turns out they’re just not fully-grown. I’ve always thought the FCC should step in and require that they give the horses accurate names, like “Shithead,” “Slow as Fuck” and “Money Pit.” Some kind of truth-in-advertising type thing. I guess when they vow to protect consumers they don’t include degenerate gambling consumers under that umbrella, the self-righteous pricks. Sure, the racing form’s not going to look as cool when half the horses are named “Shitbird” and “Gonad,” but that’s a small price to pay not to have the horse you bet on get lapped in a one-lap race. It’s especially rough on the kids when they shoot a horse before the race is even over. But what in the hell are little kids doing betting on horse races, anyway? They should be off betting on cartoons or some shit.

So playing the market sounded easy enough, at least compared to betting on horse races. That was like having a license to print IOUs. But any old idiot can predict what products are going to hit or flop, or at least that’s what I thought before all my stock in the Swiss Piss powdered lemonade brand tanked. I’m just glad I didn’t invest in those chocolate logs you float in the punch bowl for when you throw a party, those things didn’t do very well at all. At least I got out from under Swiss Piss before the lawsuit hit.

I guess my broker truly lived up to his name, since I did end up broker than when I’d met him. But he said it was probably all for the best, since I didn’t stand to earn much from only owning one share of stock. And that’s what pissed me off, why even call it a “share” when you’re going to reward some rich prick for gobbling up thousands of the things then and give me the shaft for only having one? That doesn’t sound much like sharing to me, the greedy bastards.

But that was all water under the dyke when I realized that all I needed to get my car funds together was to hold a really bitchin’ raffle. People go apeshit for a raffle, and it’s better than the lottery because I don’t get any money from the lottery. So a raffle was definitely in order.

I went down to the bus station to talk to my good friend and local raffle organizer Poontang Douglas, and we got the particulars in order. The tickets sold out fast when people heard the prize was something in a “mystery box.” Raffle freaks love that shit.

What they didn’t know, and this was the brilliant part of the plan, was that it turns out the prize in the box is a shitload of tickets to the raffle. That ought to keep ‘em guessing, right?

Well, I don’t know about you, but when I’m guessing I usually sit there and scratch my head a little, maybe look up at the ceiling or something, you know? I sure as hell don’t set the bingo hall on fire. Goddamn degenerate gamblers.

Bricks out.

I Shit the Sheriff, But I Didn’t Kid the Deputy
So I’m explaining to the sheriff about how if a pizza delivery dude leaves his car running in front of your house, it’s totally kosher to sprint out and take his car for a spin for a few days or whatever, when I shit you not, that Eric Clapton song comes on the radio.

Flaming Pogs & the Partial Robotomy
So I’m down by the movie theater the other day, showing some local kids how to play a game I invented called Pogs on Fire, and you wouldn’t believe who I ran into. I won’t even make you guess, it was Alvin Reggie. Okay, maybe you might believe it since you probably don’t know who in the hell I’m talking about.

Flaming Pogs & the Partial Robotomy
So I’m down by the movie theater the other day, showing some local kids how to play a game I invented called Pogs on Fire, and you wouldn’t believe who I ran into. I won’t even make you guess, it was Alvin Reggie. Okay, maybe you might believe it since you probably don’t know who in the hell I’m talking about.

Whistler’s Motherfucker
You know what really pisses me off? People who can’t whistle but still do. Talk about begging to be beaten about the head and neck areas. Whistling isn’t even that enjoyable when it’s good. Even if you’re stuck in an elevator with the Stradivarius of whistlers, he’s still probably gonna be whistling some song you don’t like.

Even Better Than the Reality Thing
Somebody just told me the other day that the big thing these days is reality TV. Apparently there’s some show where a bunch of idiots are stuck on an island and they have to do goofy things every week to survive. I told that dope that Omar Bricks has been hip to Gilligan’s Island for years, but it turns out he was talking about a different show.