he public fellatio of former president Ronald Reagan's dead body reached a fever pitch this week when a consortium of white-as-the-the-Klan conservatives launched a plan to have the dead man's grim visage stamped on the U.S. $10 bill. Though the actual image on the bill would likely be of the former president while he was still alive, the group has not yet determined whether or not the likeness will be one of the nostalgic collectable-plate paintings depicting Reagan devouring the poor that are commonly found in the china hutches of Republican households across America.

"The time has come to honor this great, great American," wheezed congressional peckerwood Mitch McConnell of Kentucky, uncomfortably choking back either bland white-boy tears or some kind of grossly over-sated flatulent belch. "He was like a father to me, or at least I wish he had been. Ronniiiie! Ronniiiiie!"

"Reagan would have been a cool dad," drooled local fanboy Ralph Huxley. "I mean, his own kids didn't think so, but what the hell do they know? They're probably Democrats or something. Reagan should've tossed them in the commie box with all the other pinkos back when he had the chance."

Meanwhile, Alexander Hamilton fans have staged protests in opposition to the plan, which would displace their $10 man from the popular currency note. These qualms come in spite of conservative promises that a new coin, the 2.3-cent "Hammy," would be minted to house the first Secretary of the Treasury's downgraded image. Irate callers swamped phone lines for the D.C.-area Alexander Hamilton fan call-in show Ham Radio to vent about what they considered to be an insulting proposal, roughly akin to being honored with one's face on the seldom-used twelve-and-a-half-cent stamp. Family members of the late Sonny Bono, current resident of the twelve-and-a-halfer's facial slot, could not be reached for comment. Not that we really tried all that hard.

If Hamilton's fans are successful in defending the object of their affection's place on the $10 bill, Reagan supporters (known alternately as "Reaganites," "Reaganauts," and "loud, self-important assholes" depending on whom you ask) have made it clear they will take the fight to other, less-protected faced currencies, starting with the dime. Should FDR's zombielike followers prove too tough a scrum for the Reaganinnies, the group's next choice is rumored to be the highly popular Chuck E. Cheese five-point token. Early accounts are unclear about whether Reagan would appear alone on the brassy gaming token, or in some kind of die-cut rendition of the former president locking the chain's rodent mascot in a playful bear hug or a bracing death-struggle for big rat supremacy.

Conservatives less enamored by shitty pizza and skeeball hope the game of commemorative musical chairs won't get that far, setting their hopes on at least landing the dime. Analysts suggest that it would be far easier to subvert the will of the people in the area of coinage, since changing a paper bill requires majority votes in both houses of Congress, while changes to coins only have to receive a vague, dismissive wave from the generally apathetic Treasury Secretary. In addition, conservatives feel that few liberals are likely to notice a change to the nation's coinage, since only children look at coins closely, and most are likely to mistake Reagan for one of the McDonaldland gang.

Supporters with an eye for compromise have sought to quell the controversy by suggesting that Reagan's face should instead grace the $1,000 bill, since few non-conservatives ever see those anyway.

This latest campaign reminds many of an ongoing effort during the 1990's to have Reagan's face added to Mount Rushmore, a battle that was eventually scrapped after it was discovered that the former president was afraid of heights.

hiteywood producers took a bold step in reality programming last Friday when they revealed, as part of the ABC fall schedule, one of their so-called "reality" series would be entirely asshole-free, cast only with likable personalities so unpopular in usual reality programming.

No Simon Cowels, no Donald Trumps, not even a Richard Hatch in sight, according to co-producer Bobbacrane Wilson. It's part of a risky plan to boost sagging reality ratings for those shows which haven't caught on with the public yet; while series like The Apprentice have made major waves, and American Idol holds strong, other reality series like The Restaurant have proven that reality series don't always strike gold every time out. The new "assholeless" series in development will give people bored with regular reality shows a chance to see something different.

"It's not a brand new idea," admitted co-producer of the show Harry Spalding. "Frankly, Hollywood has been trying to create a reality series without assholes since their initial burst in popularity in the early '90s, such as COPS. But once The Real World hit big, people gave up. It became apparent, at least for the time, America would much rather tune in each week and marvel at real assholes."

His partner Wilson agreed: "The big problem in creating a prick-free reality show is nobody could ever seem to do it. It became Hollywood's Gregorian knot. People tried to do reality shows based on churches and found them full of judgmental fire-and-brimstone knobs who wouldn't stop preaching. A reality show about school teachers reminded viewers of why they were in such a hurry to graduate. Someone even did a pilot about people who worked for the Salvation Army—you'd never believe what self-righteous dicks are running that place. It's enough to turn someone Republican."

Many attempts at doing reality shows in small towns, according to Wilson, failed to leave any positive impressions when every good-natured resident was outnumbered by trash-talking rednecks and closet KKK members. But this time, Spalding suggests, by returning to reality programming roots, their show has succeeded in its intent.

The show, Okay House, features six roommates, four of them from Sweden, who live together in a room paid for by the network and forced to resolve their conflicts in a polite, friendly fashion. A bonus incentive of $25,000 to whoever can keep from saying something unkind about other housemates has raised the likelihood of getting a show without jackasses.

An early version of the pilot was available for press review. In the series, the six roommates—Sven, Yorgi, Karl, Jake, Albert, and Bjorn—get into an amicable disagreement over whose turn it is to wash the dishes, as well as a polite war of words over what they can watch on TV. Of the cast, Karl, Sven, and Bjorn are non-English-speaking employees of an electrical cooperative in Sweden who were brought over by the network, Yorgi an Americanized Swedish citizen who was friends with the three in his home country, Jake is a Bible camp youth counselor from Ferngate, North Carolina, and Albert an 85-year-old man who seldom speaks.

While the producers and network claim to have high expectations for "the world's nicest reality show," critics have been less kind. Matt Roush of TV Guide called it "Paint Drying: The Series" and The New York Times predicted it would be the quickest cancellation in TV history.

According to CNN's Jeff Hinkley: "If I hear one more Swedish accent saying, 'I guess we'll agree to disagree,' I'm going to blow a hole through my TV."

In the interest of full disclosure, I'll start this story off by saying I don't know how I got to Las Vegas. These things just happen, and you either roll with the punches or you pull on a t-shirt that says "BIG, WHINY BITCH" and play the part. Since I was already wearing a pretty stellar Midnight Run tee, I decided to do Vegas like I'd gone there on purpose.

First thing's first, I've got to say the 9/11 tribute at New York, New York that you've been hearing about is a definite can't-miss. Every night at 9:11pm they fly a remote-control plane into the "twin towers" wing of the hotel and set off a shitload of fireworks and explosives, and Omar Bricks isn't ashamed to admit he got a little choked up standing on the sidewalk with all the other Vegas losers, clapping and cheering as the hydraulic towers went down and they shot some spare change and clothing fragments into the crowd and some of those Cirque du Soleil freaks did backflips off the roof. Leave it to Vegas to remind us what it's all about.

As far as the other casinos go, I still say the Mirage hasn't been the same since Roy had his nuts bit off by that tiger. Now they're advertising "Sigfried & Roy's Secret Garden and Dolphin Habitat," which sounds like about as much wild fun as a hysterectomy. I do understand the pussy move to less-threatening stage animals, but I don't think it's working out too hot since when I wandered into the show, one of the dolphins had just pulled Roy into the tank and was thrashing the shit out of him while Sigfried half-heartedly slapped at the beast with an oar. Funny shit, but probably not what Roy'd had in mind when they cracked open the full-body cast before the show.

I hear they're thinking of trying out ground sloths next, since that's one of the only animals Roy isn't afraid of now, but I'll bet you ten bucks one of those things finds its way into their hotel suite in the middle of the night and beats the shit out of Roy in slow-motion while he's sleeping. I tried to get the Mirage to give me odds on that, but they're not taking any more Roy-abuse action until he gets out of the hospital, out of respect and all that noise. But I'm thinking the Luxor might take my bet, those Egyptian hardasses have held a grudge against the Mirage ever since the Luxor-Mirage employee rumble back in 1998. I think they're understandably upset since the gaming commission ruled that they couldn't keep the Mirage employees as slaves after winning the rumble.

Speaking of the Luxor, I spent the better part of one night trying to sneak into the hotel pyramid's elevator, since I heard the crazy fuckin' thing goes sideways, down into the center of the earth. You know Omar Bricks had to see how that shit goes down. Too bad for the lame-ass truth: Turns out they guard that thing like the Pentagon men's room, you can't even get in without a room key or a much better grasp of the Vulcan neck pinch than I can take credit for. I won't lie and say it's the first pyramid Omar Bricks has been thrown out of, but at least in this one they let me out on the ground floor.

I've always thought that Vegas is basically large-scale mini-golf with beer, though they'll usually kick you off of the mini-golf course for bringing in hookers. Advantage: Vegas, there. This time I decided to test my theory and golf the strip, like in that video with the guy who sings like Elmer Fudd. You kind of have to make up your own par, since it's not posted, or if it is, the sign's been plastered over with titty posters and plans to build a new casino on the sidewalk in front of some existing casino. That's the downside of a town with no rules: the course etiquette blows.

Now nobody would claim Omar Bricks is a world-class golfer, maybe the class of the commune offices, but that's like winning a beauty pageant in a burn ward. Mainly I just swing hard and wait to laugh, if you hit the ball hard enough, something funny is almost guaranteed to happen. Especially if you're blindfolded, sounds are even funnier when you have to imagine who's making them. So I don't know where this cop got off suggesting that I was the one who hit a golf ball into the penthouse at Caesar's Palace. If I had that kind of aim, I'd be shanking that shit on ESPN. Not to mention having Nike paying the big bucks to put their logo on every piece of clothing I'm wearing and shaving it into my hair, like Tiger Woods. I don't know how golfers get away with that shit; if porn stars had those kind of commercial cajones they'd have condom brand logos tattooed on their balls.

Long story short, I had just hit a nine iron up the Eiffel Tower at the Paris when a cop asked me if I had a permit to hit golf balls into a crowded hotel. The dude scared the shit out of me since I'd just been ignoring him standing there; I thought he wanted an autograph or advice on grips. I showed him my ski pass from Vail Mountain, which usually gets the job done since most people don't like to read. But this guy was some kind of bookworm freak and he figured out the pass didn't say anything about playing the Bellagio fountain as a water hazard, so I spent the rest of the day ducking the cops and hitting the casinos in an oversized Ronald Reagan mask.

If you do go to Vegas some time soon I'd recommend checking out the Treasure Island boat show, if you can throw a baseball hard enough you can spend your Saturday night being chased by guys dressed up as pirates, which is good for at least a few months of local fame. A word to the wise though: those phony fucks don't hold themselves to any kind of real pirates' code when it comes to street fighting, and they're not above calling in some hard-hitting showgirls when the going gets rough. Bricks out.

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