Don’t even start with the nonsense about this all being Omar Bricks’ fault. Because I won’t stand, sit, or recline for it.

In case you’ve been living on Planet Asshole in the Out-of-Touch Nebula for the last month, you probably noticed that the commune’s been running third-string filler for the last month. And maybe you’re the curious kind of son of a bitch who wondered why. Good for you, kissass.

First, the facts: No one is sure how all those weasels got into the commune’s offices, where they came from, or what they were eating in there for a month, besides Ivana Folger-Balzac’s expired birth control pills and possibly Gay Bagel. But whatever the reason, the last month at the commune has been like some insane cross between War of the Worlds and Gremlins. I also want to throw Cheech and Chong’s Up in Smoke into the mix, for no other reason than that I really like that movie.

Having 1,200 weasels suddenly descend upon the office at 7:15 one morning did surprisingly little to interrupt business at usual at the commune for the first few days. We just had to turn up the talk radio a little louder to hear over the sounds of all those weasels fucking and killing each other. But then the rapidly-reproducing weasel population spread to our downstairs neighbors Crochet! magazine through the heating ducts and those candyasses had to learn how to use a flamethrower, which threatened to throw off the balance of the commune-Crochet! arms race, so Bagel decided to call in an exterminator, a safari guide and an exorcist to handle the problem.

This somehow gave the exterminator the wrong idea, since he joined forces with the weasels and killed both the safari guide and the exorcist before being double-crossed by those devious weasels, who were then all the more dangerous for being armed with chemicals and mousetraps.

Naturally, once the shit had completely hit the fan, they called on Omar Bricks to solve the problem. Or, more accurately, we all got locked out of the building after the weasels declared it an independent state and I had to call home for Foghat to come bail us all out, because I had left my car keys in my pants pocket up in my office and there was no fuckin’ way I was walking all the way home.

Twenty minutes later Foghat showed up wearing his favorite trucker hat, went upstairs, and took a shit so nasty the weasels cleared out like an afterbar party when Truman Capote shows up, or at least the ones did that didn’t turn to stone instantly upon contact with that toxic dog-funk.

But then it turned out we’d only traded one problem for another, since after Foghat dropped the ass fantastic nobody could figure out how to get that Chernobyl crap out of the office without sacrificing anyone smart enough to operate the elevator. Finally Bagel called the police, but the bomb squad refused to go in, so they had to send in their remote-controlled bomb robot, which kept rebooting every time it got within twelve feet of that epic turd.

Eventually they just decided to set the building on fire, or else that may have been the result of one of the flaming arrows I’d been shooting in the windows in hopes of taking out Ramrod Hurley or some other weasel, I’m not sure which it was. But the building definitely caught on fire and through some weird alchemy Foghat’s ass-baby turned into a gnarly, turd-shaped cubic zirconium, which I’m now using as a paperweight on my desk.

commune fans or PETA freaks might remember a similar incident three years ago, when the commune offices were overrun by a staff of monkeys hired by Red Bagel to help the commune appeal to a more upscale readership. Similarities to that incident aside, this was definitely the worst time the commune has been overrun by small animals. Except of course for the great bass attack of 2003, but that goes without saying. Bricks out.