uslims in Afghanistan have become uncharacteristically unhappy with America following reports that the Koran has been insulted and abused in Guantanamo Bay's Camp X-Ray, prompting some Muslims extremists to even threaten a "holy war" with the United States. President Bush, noticeably surprised and distressed to receive the news, promised him or someone like him would look into the matter immediately, in order to pacify the usually calm and understanding Afghani Muslim clerics.

Abdul Fatah Fayeq, a top Muslim official in northern Afghanistan, read a statement representing the unhappy religious men, asking that President Bush "hand the culprits over to an Islamic country for punishment," then following the request with a warning that the groups will declare a rare "jihad," or "holy war" in the Muslim tongue, on America if their demands were not met.

Fayeq did not apologize for his gruff manner or give any sign he might be exaggerating the severity of the statement. Muslim extremists, normally fun-loving and quite forgiving of cultural misunderstandings, demonstrated none of their usual appreciation for extremity of the situation with Camp X-Ray prisoners.

The outbreak of anger stems from alleged incidents in which American interrogators in Camp X-Ray derided the Muslim holy book, or "Koran" (also spelled "Quran," "Kyuran," "Coaraan," or "Krryzzxl" in American newspapers). Unusually cruel or culturally insensitive interrogators also may have put the holy book on a toilet or even flushed one. For the prisoners, who may have suffered long hungry months in the desert, starvation, being shot at, roughly apprehended, quarantined from daylight in prison cells, and possibly even beaten, this was abnormally cruel punishment.

Back home, which this reporter never left, Newark University's Norm Chauncey, Professor of Islamic Studies, tried to shed some light on this unusual turn of events.

"Although it might be a surprise to most Americans, many Islamic groups, especially the more fundamentalist types, have a long history of disagreements with America," said Professor Chauncey. "Usually with severe agreements, Islamic fundamentalists prefer to extend a certain amount of trust in American initiatives in hopes of solving disputes peaceably. However, in more severe cases, or with the rare hot-headed Muslim extremist, members of Islamic groups can turn violent against Americans lending aid in their fair countries. This is the so-called 'jihad,' or 'holy war,' which Fayeq made reference to."

Many expect President Bush will follow his usual trend of conceding to reasonable demands of foreign religious groups, but some worry the president's concession to the requests might inspire tougher demands from some of the extreme religious groups around the world.

"We all know the president's eagerness to please the requests of those who are suspicious of the United States," said Ray Herkle, the world's most sarcastic man. "But what will happen if the peace-loving Muslim clerics of Afghanistan decide they want even more from the U.S.? They might make equally reasonable demands, such as a flying unicorn with a leprechaun on its back, or a golden dragon that shits pixies. It would be a horrible thing to earn the disrespect of the Muslim community in Afghanistan."

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Hey Shorty, you remember that long-hair fella that we caught living out in Pete Steingel's barn all those years back, what was his name? The Unibrow? Univox? Some dang fruity-tooty made up thing not far from that. The one who'd been growin' them funny mushrooms that weren't no good for cookin' and whatnot?

You know the time. We was headin' out there to watch that barn cat that was eatin all that there lead paint that was flakin' offa Pete's barn, what was that cat's name? Snooker? Somethin' around them parts. Damn if that cat weren't more fun than a retarded stepson. Eatin all that paint and stumblin' round like Grandpa Sneb at bar time. Remember that time he fell outta that tree, into Pete's woodchucker? Well dang Shorty, I guess that's why we ain't seen that cat around lately. I'm thinkin' here he got himself woodchucked.

Anywhere, we was goin' out to have a laugh at that cat when we found that Unibrow out there livin in the barn like it was some Garden of Evan and his name was Evan. Only he didn't even get that part right, seeing as how he called himself Univ- Unicorn! Dang, Shorty, that's it! The Unicorn.

I remembert it now cause of what he always used to say, about how The Unicorn didn't need no job 'cept to live in the beauty of the Universe or some hoohash resemblin that. I remembert when Pete first heard him say that, Pete grabbed the hat offa The Unicorn's head and wiped his horse's ass with it, then told The Unicorn it was now his job to wear the Universe's shitty hat. Hee hee, dang iffn that Pete wasn't a quick one, ay Shorty? You'da thought he would have thought a switch off that woodchucker before he reached in there after that cat now, wouldn't ya? I sure miss Pete.

Anyhooch, The Unicorn musta took some kind of hint from that there hat-wipin' incident, because he was gone from the Steingel barn that night. I figgerd he must've shuffled on up a rainbow or some other such colorful way of leavin' town, so you understand why I ruined a good pair of drawers when I went down to my basement one night to set some bait for silverfish and found that unbathed lovechild livin' in the crawlspace behind my cooler. Sweet Moses, Shorty, I may have soiled your trousers and you wernt even there. And for that I apologize, Shorty, yessir for that I apologize.

Well, needless to say, Mr Unicorn received a swift education about the finer details of Kentucky ash in next to no time, and when he left town it was with a Looville Slugger logo tattooed backwards on his back door, as they're fond of sayin' over in Lewhampton. And to tell you the truth, Shorty, I didn't give a thought to him again for many a year after that, excepting the time I went down to my basement to spray for silverfish and found that mannequin that Harlon Rinkleather left in my house after he got juiced up and broke into Sears that one night. Needless to say, another pair of drawers met their maker that night, and when I flung them oft into the woods I remembered The Unicorn.

Anywaste, Shorty, the reason I bring it up is that fella was on the news the other night, or so I hear. Turns out he was a fumigate from justice, livin' over in Europe somewherest for all these years. They said he was some kinda radical somethin-other, I dunno. Maybe like a commugymnist or some such business.

Just think about it, Shorty! A real-live free-radical livin right betwixt our noses, and behind our coolers. Kinda scary, aint it? All this has got me thinkin that when I spray for silverfish this year, I might stop at that Po' Boy Market and pick up some free-radical spray while I'm at it. Never can be too careful, Shorty.

Yessir. Never can be too careful.

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Anyone who hasn't been living under a rock for the last twenty years doesn't need to be told this, but just in case I have any hermit crabs among my readership, let me state this loud and clear: Omar Bricks is not afraid of a controversial tee-shirt.

And if there really are hermit crabs among my readership, I encourage you to drop an email and let me know what the hell is up with that. I'm serious, that's some crazy beer commercial shit there.

But speaking of tee-shirts: I don't mean the generic, run-of-the-mill "controversial" tee-shirts that you see every fifteen year-old wiseass with thirty bucks and a smirk wearing at the mall. This column has no time for Big Johnson, Osama Bin Hidin', or any of that immature teenage shwag. And if your shirt's asking a question, it sure as hell had better not be about how the daschunds got in the pool, or however the song goes.

Nor am I specifically addressing the clever subversion of corporate logos that say Fuct instead of Ford or McDahmer instead of McDonalds or the many clever variants on Pepsi, though I do think those are pretty sharp. And believe me, Omar Bricks is all about those corporate scumbags getting their just desserts via a clever tee-shirt.

What I'm talking about here is the holy hell I recently had dished to me after I started wearing my new shirt that has a picture of a Chips Ahoy bag on the front, but it says Tits Ahoy instead. And before you start in with your weekly "Omar is a sexist smear of dick-drizzle" letters and your lightly perfumed feminist mail bombs and your diatribes about how I wasn't breastfed, let it be known that this particular shirt was a gift from my own mother, the venerable Mama Bricks herself. If you want to take up your sexism campaign with her, I say go right ahead, but be warned that she's highly paranoid and quick with a pair of nunchucks.

Now, I'm sure some would argue that I was just looking for trouble when I wore that shirt into the NOW convention last week, but anybody who's read the police report knows that I stumbled in there looking for a place to pee. A string of words to the wise and heavily inebriated: don't stagger into a feminist convention with your little benny hanging out unless you're wearing a Lillith Fair tee-shirt or have a Little Orphan Ani Difranco tattoo on your forehead to make everything balance out. You'll thank me for that one later.

But the thing that this ballroom full of garden-shear-wielding feminists didn't understand (besides the fact that screaming "Holy Shit, it's Axl Rose!" before you run away is the oldest trick in the book) was that they're barking up the wrong tree when they get their estrogen up over a simple celebration of femininity like a classy Tits Ahoy tee-shirt. What really should have worried them would be if I had staggered into that ballroom wearing an Oklahoma! tee-shirt and a hoop earring or something, because that would mean their mating pool just got one guy smaller. And if I were a lady I'd be watching what I said very carefully, lest I pushed the male sex over the line and found myself home alone on Saturday nights while all of the guys were out at a Freddie Prinz Jr. movie, if you know what I'm saying.

But some people just don't get it, and they're going to drone on about how my shirt's degrading to women, and blah blah blah. Reality check: what's really degrading are those Tom Cruise haircuts, ladies. Have you looked in the mirror lately? You look like a bunch of junior-high kids on a debate field trip. And those business suits should be the next to go. Nobody in this reality wants to make time with a lady dressed like Lee Iacocca, and you're going to liberate yourself right into a personals ad.

In the end, this is just a long way of saying that the emperor's new clothes are here to stay, at least until this shirt picks up a chili stain or two. Of course, both my secretary and the commune's mail clerk quit the first day I wore it to work, though not for the stick-up-the-ass reasons that you're thinking. I guess that last mail bomb just scared them more than they let on at the time. Needless to say, I think I'm going to have to put the temp agency on speed-dial. Bricks out.

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