Blow Whole

First off, we need to get it right out in the open that I had nothing to do with that huge whale that blew up in Taiwan last week. Yes, I've received all the congratulatory post cards, phone messages, and boxes of chocolate everyone has been sending, and I thank you all for those. But I'm sorry to say the "Way to go, dude!" is not rightfully mine this time around. I wasn't even in Taiwan last week, and before you start going on about remote controlled detonators and the like, let me also add that I didn't blow up any large mammals last week that I'm aware of either. I'm sure there are still some Omar Bricks fans out there searching for some loophole where whales aren't really mammals or they're related to the platypus or some bizarre shit like that, or maybe I was sleep-pranking again, but trust me on this one guys. Just let it go. Somebody else Bricksed that whale, I spent all last week in line at the DMV getting my death certificate revoked. More on that later.

Make no mistake, I'm completely flattered that when a giant dead whale explodes in the middle of a busy Taiwanese street half a world away, showering pedestrians and shopkeepers in smoky whale gore like some kind of fucked up dead fish piñata, the name Omar Bricks springs immediately to mind. It makes me feel like a lifetime spent in the pursuit of excellence has really paid off. Good to know I'm on the "Who the fuck??" A-list.

But anyone who reads this column closely should know that ever since I blew up that dead horse at the fair a few years back, I haven't been able to get my hands on anything more explosive than a packet of Pop Rocks, scout's honor. Whoever said that reputation is the motherfucker of investigation knew what he was talking about, it's like I'm a walking background check or something. I don't know who blew up that whale, if it was a member of my Taiwan fan club or some long-lost chinky relative who always blended in at the family reunions, but you've got to admire his slanty-eyed spunk. Most people would have stopped at stuffing a stick of dynamite up a carp's ass, but this guy was thinking big. Really big, I hear this was some kind of freakish Shaq whale with a five-foot dork, no kidding. I heard that most of the people who were hurt by flying whale meat didn't duck because they were too busy yelling "Look at that whale cock!" to their friends when it blew.

The official report, of course, is that some kind of nasty gasses built up inside the whale carcass while they were transporting it from the morgue over to the whale graveyard, causing the thing to blow Orca dramatically all over Tainan street right at rush hour. Right, and swamp gas reflected off a unicorn's ass explains the Kennedy assassination. The government guys who are in charge of making that shit up are the same dudes who wrote Ishtar. I trust them about as far as I can throw up. Which is pretty far, but still.

According to commune fact machine Griswald Dreck, whales don't even get gas, thanks to a diet that's heavy on soup and light on Tostada Bel Grandes, if you know what I mean. And when you think about it, the way Griswald has, it really starts to make sense. Can you even imagine what the world would be like if whales had gas? Those fucking things are huge. You'd be reading about ocean liners being capsized by fart bubbles every day in the paper. It'd be just like Titanic, except it would smell even more like rotten eggs.

Well, shit if we're not out of space already, looks like we'll have to wait until next time to explore the issue of why the DMV won't issue a driver's license to somebody who's legally dead. Turns out that "officially" being killed in a car explosion a year and a half ago has a down-side to go with the tax advantages. Go figure.

Bricks out.

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