he United States Department of Homeland Security has been given the difficult task of dealing with the recent spate of hurricane attacks and, after weeks of standing back and assuring the public everything would be alright, settled into the more familiar job this week of arresting non-white people, taking into custody New Jersey boxer Rubin "Hurricane" Carter. The arrest, according to Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff, is only designed to verify Carter is in no way connected with recent Hurricanes Katrina and Rita, or any other potential natural disaster threatening the country.

With a proven record of preventing catastrophes on U.S. soil, the Department of Homeland Security seemed the natural choice for protecting the populace from acts of God as well as acts of Allah, but some are already accusing the government-sanctioned Klan of overreacting with the Carter arrest. After all, according to detractors, Carter is a 5’8" middle-weight African-American man in his late ’60s, and doesn’t even have a windspeed, compared to the 150 mph windspeed of some of the recent hurricanes that have dealt damage to the Gulf Coast area.

"No one’s accusing Mr. Carter of anything," Chertoff told the press, "at least not yet. But if the safety of the American people is in question, I have no qualms about unlawfully detaining an old black man until the danger subsides. And if it means reducing the amount of disaster-related coverage cluttering up season premiere week, I believe the American people will back me up on this."

It isn’t Carter’s first famous bout with the law. The one-time contender for the middleweight boxing crown was jailed 30 years by a racist judicial system that convicted him of murder and robbery based on false testimony and a sham trial. It is, however, the first time Carter has been mistaken for a category-2 tropical storm, but these days he isn’t surprised at all by what white lawmakers will attempt to get away with.

The Department of Homeland Security refused to give a projection for how long they will hold Carter, and exactly what they hope to find out from him in regards to other weather-related assaults on the U.S., and they reminded the media that thanks to legislation passed after the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, they are no longer accountable for anything they do, so shut up or they just may come after us next.

But if there’s anyone not sitting down for Carter’s legally-questionable detainment, besides Carter, it’s America’s celebrity community, always quick to champion a very public cause of injustice. While Bob Dylan was too busy writing new songs for Victoria’s Secret commercials to come to Hurricane Carter’s aid once again, his son, Jakob Dylan, did offer to fill his dad’s monstrous shoes.

"I’m organizing a benefit concert to pay for Mr. Carter’s legal bills, and we’re pushing to get him a new trial," said the forever-in-dad’s-shadow rock singer. When reminded Carter had not yet been brought to trial once on any recent charges, Dylan conceded it was true, but they had to have something to say in between songs at next week’s benefit concert.

"We’ve got everybody coming to help out," said Dylan. "Nash is going to be there—that’s right, of Crosby, Stills & Nash fame. We couldn’t get Willie Nelson for this one, but we did get Nelson, Ricky’s boys. And I’m in talks right now to get Patrick Swayze to perform a revamped version of his hit, ’She’s Like the Wind,’ but we’re in disagreement over the busfare. Keep your fingers crossed. We’ll get you out of this, hurricane!"

And if a B-grade roster of celebrities like that doesn’t keep Hurricane Carter fighting mad at the system, nothing will. Fight the power, brother—again.

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No dice, no rice, don't think thrice—the conclusion is made, amigo. Your kung fu is weak.

I hate to put the tip on the table before the entre is served, but I gots to clear the air. I'm tired of every time I want to head out to the pub or county fair or some backroom cockfight somewhere every joker and their mother wants to try their kung fu against mine. You think that's an exaggeration? I ain't shitting you to no degree, man, a lot of fucking son-mother team-ups out there, a surprising amount. And they all talk trash about the kung fu of Omar Bricks. Until I put their sorry asses on the straight and narrow. They find out quick (kick?) enough my kung fu is no fucking joke.

Some people have stolen kung fu from ancient masters and stuff, but I assure you, commune buddies, I've done no such thing. It took me many years to develop my own kung fu independent of all these other styles, and let me tell you the real bitch is that most all of the animals are taken—that shit's fucked up. I tried one called "Anaconda" for a while, and it sounded awesome, but since a snake has no arms or legs I got my cheeks kicked many a time trying to fight with my head, tongue, and ass; I decided to pack away the Anaconda kung fu for something else.

My next big venture was Hungry Brando kung fu, but I could never gain enough poundage to make it work well, although the theory is entirely feasible. Any fat guys out there want to trounce your opponent, give me a ring sometime, I'll give you the lowdown.

After that it was a one third-rate kung fu after another: Has-Been kung fu, Alley Cat kung fu, Wild Tree kung fu, Ricky Martin kung fu (the same as Has-Been kung fu, really, but just a few steps away), and Crunchberry kung fu. All were decent attempts—let's see you create a deadly form of martial arts from scratch! But then I stumbled upon the killer kung fu: Drunken In-Law kung fu.

Key points in Drunken In-Law kung fu, as designed and copyrighted by Omar Bricks, you thieving prick dogs, are: Disable your opponent with unexpected passes at his spouse/girlfriend/love interest, barring that, a family pet or mom will do. Trip toward them and strike with unexpected strength. Your lack of balance is your friend as you can stand as quickly as you can fall. Give him a supreme tongue-lashing when he isn't expecting it. Never underestimate the value of pretending you've passed out, only to recover and attack them from behind. Create an uncomfortable fighting environment with uncalled for verbal attacks and vulgarity. Strike with wide swings, as if possessing blurred vision multiplying your enemies by two. Grilling utensils can be incorporated for full effects.

Hopefully this will be good for a cease and decist to all the assholes out there who wish to challenge the Drunken In-Law kung fu of Omar Bricks. Your kung fu is weak.

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There's nothing I love more than entertaining—and there's nothing more entertaining than rap music. Not that modern nonsense with the f-word used over and over again, and calling ladies female dogs. I'm talking about true rap.

Old school rap.

So let's break it down now, shall we? Get this place all funky.

The important thing to remember is that rap is all about confidence and style. And I've got truckloads of style, folks. And confidence? Nobody's got more! I'm glad to be here and to break it down, old school! I can do it all—adaption of much-loved rhymes you're all familiar with, some of my own self-penned raps to beats pumped out by my rap collaborator DJ John Waterhouse, or even some freestyling. Just give me a subject matter, say, my friends in high school, and I will bust a rap so grand you all will have to pick up your jaws off the floor. That's how amazed you'll be.

Like all rappers, I truly slay. Everybody has certain subjects where they mine rap gold, and mine is my shoes and my superior rap abilities. Check out these fly shoes—real old school Addidas, and they rock. There was a time when shoes weren't about extra flaps, lights, and Velcro straps. That's my shoes, just there for keeping my feet comfortable—and, of course, styling. My shoes are more than shoes. They're friends. And I have a number of raps dedicated to my friends.

It's not easy being a dope rhyme-ologist. Despite having lyrical superiority over everyone I meet, and putting down the wanna-bes, it doesn't mean I'm always successful with the ladies. That's right: I've been played. And I'm not ashamed to rap about it.

One time there was a honey that strung me, drew me in like a master of gravity, acting all shy when I tried to kiss her, then said I was making time with her sister. I denied it, decried it, but it was no use fightin'; she was treating me like a tool, played me for a straight-up fool. Peace out.

That's just one of my rhymes. They sound better than they read, trust that. When I submitted my proposal for a rap act at the Taj Mahal Casino in Vegas they were doubtful as well, but once I broke it all out they were convinced I was not a perpetrator. As I said, some of the Vegas audiences don't want a tired old Lawrence Welk or Andy Williams or anything. They need something a little spicier, and I have it with my classic old school rap.

Some people say when you rap you have to "dress down," but I say that's hooey. I dress the way I feel—and I feel good! People like to see a show where the entertainer's dressed up a little bit for them, and I give the people what they want. All I ask is to cut loose and have a little fun, and maybe wave their hands in the air.

Nobody is a one man band in the world of rap, unless you do it acapella. But I'm afraid I have a lot of help to make my beats, and I would like to take a moment to thank my number one beatmaster, my scientist of bass, the one and only DJ John Waterhouse. Much love to you, old chum.

This is not only my declaration of my love for rap, of course; it's an invitation to a night out on the town for some of the best old school rap your ears have ever been blessed with. If you're going to be in the beautiful city of Las Vegas anytime all during the month of January, please come out and treat yourself at the Taj Mahal Casino. Three shows a night and all-you-can eat shrimp, and that's the personal MC Vic Daniels guarantee. Thanks, I love every one of you!

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