Terrorists Probably Too Hungover for New Year's Attack

omeland Security experts are blaming probable excessive alcohol consumption among Al-Qaeda members for the lack of an earth-shattering, soul-crushing, make-you-wish-you-were-born-dead terrorist attack expected last week over the New Year's holiday. Despite the recent elevation of the nation's security level to code orange ("Citrus-Flavored Death"), the New Year was rung in without incident, excepting the usual rash of DUI fatalities and celebratory gunshot deaths that are customary for this time of year.

Despite the lack of festive atrocities, few can blame Western governments for a lack of preparation. Security was tighter than a duck's ass at New Year's celebrations all over the United States, with precautions taken to ensure that only revelers too drunk to carry out sophisticated terrorist plots would be allowed to attend.

Security was especially tight-assed in Las Vegas, where field reports indicated security was also especially high and obnoxious. Thanks to FBI warnings that Al-Qaeda thinks Las Vegas is "tacky," security considerations for Fox's annual "America's Party" televised concert and shmoozeapalooza at the Venetian Resort Hotel/Casino bordered on the Orwellian. In an especially innovative precaution, Fox held a fake New Year's Eve celebration on Dec 30th, complete with a diversion concert to draw out terrorists unfamiliar with American traditions and the "Thirty days hath September" rule. Unfortunately, this security measure failed due to a lack of starpower so blatant even foreign nationals unfamiliar with western culture noticed. The faux-bash, headlined by 80's holdovers Dexy's Midnight Runners, failed to elicit the terrorist onslaught hoped for by Homeland Security heads and music fans everywhere.

"It wouldn't have been that hard to fool these guys into thinking it was a real New Year's countdown party," bitched reveler Danny Postum. "Hootie and the Blowfish probably would have been good enough, or the Pretenders. I'm just pissed I bought tickets to the wrong fucking concert."

"What is with this bullshit?" asked Aman Halazi of Jordan. "We get better bands than this in Jordan. I could pull a better concert out of my dick-hole."

Due to the unconvincing ruse, many of the bands and celebrities scheduled to appear at the actual New Year's celebration sent celebrity impersonators and sound-alike bands in their stead, a move that might have proved controversial if anyone had noticed. Metallica, Ashanti and Paris Hilton could not be reached for comment, but all seemed pissed that their impersonators had all parlayed their appearances into lucrative recording and television deals.

Meanwhile, aviation officials for British Airways have cancelled all flights between London and Washington D.C. since New Year's Eve amidst credible threats of a plane-based attack on the American capitol. Frustrated travelers, however, have been calling for evidence of the threat and proof that the pilots aren't just too hungover to fly.

"The threat against Britith.. British Airwings is real and evident," announced FBI spokesman Walter Hammel, wincing from a post-New Year's hangover. "Several names on the passenger manifolds for recent flights have match… oh Jesus… uh, matched those of gnome terrorists." Hammel quickly excused himself as he sprinted in the direction of the men's room.

While the names in question turned out to belong to an elderly Chinese woman, a six-year-old boy and a chain of donut shops, British defense analyst Paul Bever insisted the threat was real.

"Oh yeah, totallyabigdealok…" slurred Bever, reeking vividly of rum.

"Oh Jesus," moaned a remorseful Hammel, passing through the room in a daze. "I just took a shit they're going to write folk songs about. Get out of my way."

Meanwhile in America, the FBI sent out a bizarre bulletin on Christmas Eve, warning police departments nationwide to be on the lookout for any potential terrorists carrying almanacs, fact-filled books that could conceivably be used in planning terrorist attacks.

"The FBI cautions you to be on the lookout for suspicious characters seen in possession of almanacs, maps, Cliff's Notes or volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica," the statement read. "We also advise you to detain anyone asking for directions."

"Look, let's not get carried away here. They're not saying you should shoot to kill the first time you see somebody with an almanac," explained terrorism expert and terrible dancer Ted Heyman, in response to America's collectively arched eyebrow. "A wing-shot should be plenty to put any fact-seeking terrorist out of commission until well after the holidays."

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Some guys have all the luck. Others just get a mouth full of boot heel and bloody tooth shards on a cold October morning. I heard a song about that once.

I'll give you three guesses which category Omar Bricks falls in this week, ladies and gentlemen. And the first two don't count since if you guess wrong I get to rap on your knuckles with a ruler. Something like that, it's an old saying from the bible.

But I'm not kidding, this has been a week for the record books. Assuming somebody somewhere keeps records on bad shit that happens to good people. And I think that's a fair assumption, since if there's some geek out there keeping a log of every time Spock scratches his ass on Star Trek, and I know there is because I lost a Frisbee in his yard one time, then anything's got to be fair game.

Make no mistake about it, this has been a four-alarm, hide the virgins, call out the National Guard variety of bad week. If two more things go wrong I'm going to hit up the president for some of that disaster relief cash you're always hearing about. It doesn't seem like there have been any massive floods or boat show fires lately, so I think he can spare the dough. Hell, if he could walk a few blocks in my Reeboks I think he'd fetch the big novelty check for me personally. If you've ever had your tits kicked in by the fates, you know what I'm talking about here.

Everybody knows about my well-publicized car troubles and my citywide taxi ban. For most people, the parade of tears would end there, but for Omar Bricks they're just getting the marching band and sweater-wearing elephants out of cold storage.

I come home Friday night to find out that Foghat got into a can of Cream of Broccoli soup that I didn't even know was still in the pantry. It must have been left over from when I was selling those bottles of Turd Bird Ale, my homebrew bathtub beer, at the Fair a few years ago. There was a food drive for the homeless going on across the street, and I admit that I got into some bartering with the hobos by the end of the night. I didn't want to have to carry any heavy shit back to my car when the Fair was over and I thought some of those canned goods might come in handy if we ever got around to nuking the Russians or whatever.

Little did I know that Foghat is part Cream of Broccoli hound, and he went straight-on ape when I brought that crap home. I gave him a bowl just to get him to stop bouncing off the furniture and peeing everywhere, and sweet flaming Christ was that a mistake. If you can't imagine what happened next, give your own dog some foul-smelling cream-based soup some time. Just make sure you've got the carpet-cleaning place on speed dial.

Well, it turns out that just not giving Foghat the soup again wasn't enough, because that idiot dog figured out how to work the can opener and it was like déjà vu all over again. After the second episode I thought I'd purged the house of any trace of Cream of Broccoli soup, but Friday night I was rudely educated otherwise. Let's just end that tangent by saying that if anybody wants a couch that can blister paint at a distance of ten yards, you're welcome to come drag it off my lawn.

You don't even want to know half the rest of the heinous shit I've got going on right now. Yet another ludicrous paternity suit (like I've ever even been to Canada), the mouse I've got living in my refrigerator, the little six-year-old kid who's stealing my mail, and the list goes on and on. I'm starting to think it's some kind of conspiracy, though I haven't had time yet to work out exactly what the logistics of the whole thing might be. I'm biking over to Red Bagel's place later in the week to try and figure the whole thing out over a few beers; we'll see what comes of that.

All I know is I get the feeling like somebody's fingering Omar Bricks' asshole, and it ain't Omar Bricks. Somebody's got some explaining to do.

Bricks Out.

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In the Valley of Sali, beneath a beautiful bridge, lived an Imp named Jojo who dreamed of one day being a construction worker. His daydreams were filled with visions of hardhats and bolt-throwers and rivets shining in the noontime sun. It was a stupid dream, but nobody had the heart to tell Jojo this, since he was the fragile sort and cried at the slightest provocation. Seriously, like when it rained and the ground got all muddy or when the sun came out and the water evaporated. Anything, really. One time he cried for two days because there were an odd number of blades of grass growing under the bridge. Thank God a caterpillar came along and ate one of them, or else Jojo might never have recovered.

One day Jojo woke up and the valley was buzzing with excitement. Really, it was making this sound like a refrigerator with a bad freon coil. There was some kind of problem with the trees being out of compliance, technical stuff. But besides that, everyone was excited. An exciting stranger had come to town, and even better: he was wearing a gigantic Mexican-style hat. Few things excited the people of Sali more than a genuine Mexican-style hat.

The stranger's name was Senior Sombrero ("Touché!" Jojo thought to himself wittily) and he promised the people of Sali (and by "people" I really mean all sorts of magical creatures and different-sized folks, not the boring kinds of people you see every day) many magical wonders if they would only allow him to take off his hat. And the people of Sali were practically starved for excitement, since though they lived in a magical enchanted land, people are people and they were bored with it. So of course they said yes, by all means beautiful stranger, take off your gigantic authentic Mexican-style hat!

In retrospect that was a stupid call, but few of the people had read ahead in the story so they didn't know that as soon as Senior Sombrero took off his hat and set it on the ground, all manner of different-sized and colored snakes would come pouring out of it, flooding the land with snakes extraordinaire. Senior Sombrero laughed a relieved laugh, as he'd been trying for weeks to get rid of all of those snakes in his hat and this was really starting to look like his day. He ducked into a doorway carved into an otherwise-ordinary tree and left his snake-erupting hat and the people of Sali behind. They would never see Senior Sombrero again, except for one time at the mall but that could have just been some guy who looked like Senior Sombrero, nobody was completely sure.

For ten days and ten nights snakes poured forth from the gigantic authentic Mexican-style hat, and the valley of Sali was filled to the brim with snakes. Everywhere you turned, there were snakes. Coming up out of the sinks, raining down out of airplanes, curled up inside the basketballs, they were absolutely everywhere. It was nearly impossible to find a place to sit down and there were major problems because all of the toilets were clogged up with snakes and when it was hot you couldn't turn on a fan unless you wanted to turn your house into a snake-themed Jackson Pollack painting.

All the people of Sali lamented and wondered aloud what they could do to get rid of all of the snakes. Wasn't there some meek little creature who could rise above his fears and save them all, proving everyone wrong who had always said he was good for nothing, and lending a touching conclusion to this dark tale? They often wondered this very aloud while walking past Jojo's bridge, and they sent him faxes musing the same. And they were right. Only Jojo could save them from this dastardly predicament.

Too bad he'd ditched out of town the second all of those snakes started pouring out of the giant Mexican-style hat. Good Lord was Jojo afraid of snakes! And that's the story of the town you know as Snakehampton.

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