New TummyPort Surgery to Revolutionize Not Dieting

dvocates from both sides of the “Yo mama so fat/My mama just fine� debate are in up in arms this week with the announcement of Dr. Irving Kilpatrick’s controversial new TummyPort surgery, the latest medical advance to tout weight loss without the lifestyle-altering albatrosses of proper diet or self control. The revolutionary surgery, honed by Dr. Kilpatrick through years of secret testing on desperate fatties and abdominal injury victims, involves the installation of a small circular port in the patient’s abdomen, giving convenient external access to the weight watcher’s stomach for purposes of food extraction prior to digestion. Marketed as “bulimia without the barfy aftertaste,� the TummyPort technique already has a waiting list several hundred people deep at each of Dr. Kilpatrick’s seven clinics in the Houston metro area.

Decried by some medical professionals as “quackers,� others defend Kilpatrick’s procedure as a natural outgrowth of the popular stomach-stapling surgery, which was performed on a record number of Americans last year despite serious risks to the patient’s health, including hair loss, malnutrition, and instant death after blowing a staple at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Though the TummyPort does carry an increased risk of infection in the weeks immediately following the installation, it is unlikely to be life-threatening and can provide hours of Laundromat-like entertainment for family members mesmerized by the sloshing stomach contents visible behind the tempered glass of the TummyPort’s front hatch.

Speaking with the commune while performing a TummyPort installation on commune lab rat Raoul Dunkin, Dr. Kilpatrick downplayed the controversy following the announcement of his technique’s successful clinical trials.

“Any time science makes a bold leap forward, over the steaming bundle of dogshit that is popular convention, there’s bound to be either a hoopla or a to do, dependant upon the fashions of the day,� Kilpatrick mused, holding one of Dunkin’s unidentified internal organs ponderously in his left hand.

Asked what he thought of charges that the TummyPort was just the latest expensive medical gimmick to prey on consumers more willing to risk their health than to make positive lifestyle changes, Dr. Kilpatrick farted into a jar, sealed the lid and then handed it to this reporter without comment.

While many medical professionals have decried the surgery because of its increased risk of infection or the possibility that the TummyPort’s hatch could be accidentally left open at night, allowing a mouse or something to crawl in there, some doctors have objected to the technique solely on the grounds that it’s really fucking gross. Dr. Holman Dykstra of the Mayo clinic holds just such a view.

“Have you ever been over to someone’s house for dinner, and you’ve just finished enjoying a fine meal, only to have your host excuse themselves to go piss out their pork chops through a rubber attachment hose in the bathroom? It’s unsettling to say the least,� Dykstra intoned, the color suddenly draining from his face.

During a recent promotional tour to raise awareness of his procedure, Kilpatrick battled back at his detractors from the perspective of world hunger, raising the possibility that half-digested foodstuffs removed via the TummyPort could be captured in small jars and marketed as baby food.

“At the very least you could probably use it in your garden or something,� Kilpatrick suggested. “Some kind of fertilizer. I don’t know, I’m not a plant guy, but it seems like it would be good for something.�

As of this writing, commune reporter and resident douchebag Raoul Dunkin is enjoying the versatility provided by his TummyPort, but reports that fellow staffers flipping his hatch open right after lunch has become a minor problem, since he then has to go change his pants and eat lunch again.

ovember's presidential election officially became a four-man race when Sen. John Edwards, of North Carolina, announced Wednesday he had picked Sen. John Kerry to be his presidential running mate, throwing in his own hat for the vice-presidency. Edwards, the dynamic Kennedyesque Congressman who gave Kerry a real challenge in the race for the Democratic nomination, could provide enough boost to take the party into the White House this fall.

"No longer will America be divided under the current administration," Edwards declared, towering over a small podium as his bellows carried across a crowd of supporters. "We will stand united, and the people will have their way when we win back the White House!"

Edwards, the ten-foot tall former trial lawyer, had Kerry announce his decision in an email Tuesday, followed by a longer press conference on Wednesday. Rumors the two had disagreed on many key issues were dispelled when the behemoth senator hoisted Kerry up in his palm and carried him through the crowd on his shoulders.

"Edwards-Kerry in 2004!" they both shouted to the crowd.

Party insiders have speculated Kerry might decline Edwards ticket invitation, opting for a less stunning candidate, like Florida Sen. Bob Graham, Missouri Sen. What's-His-Name, or Joe Piscopo. Rumors had put Kerry at seeking Republican senator John McCain of Arizona for bipartisan ticket, but insiders say Kerry feared an assassination at the hands of Fox News and Clear Channel radio executives.

In the end, the Massachusetts senator accepted the offer to join the Edwards vice presidential ticket, putting to rest fears the junior North Carolina political superstar would overshadow… uhm… oh, shit, I just said it… you know, rhymes with Larry. Kerry! In his acceptance speech Wednesday, Edwards defied Kerry critics who accused the senator of leading an uninspired race and being an undead zombie.

"I've known this man for at least a few weeks. I think we've met before that, but I'm not that sure," said Edwards, gesturing to a man sitting two seats down from Kerry, before being corrected by an assistant. "This one, this one's John Kerry, and he's going to be our next president. He's got years of experience in Congress, and an outstanding record of service for our country. And I'm sure he's done other stuff. And I'll be happy to make him my partner as I pursue the vice-presidency!"

Concluded the Herculean young senator: "Change is coming, Washington, and that change will be called… aw, shit. I just said it! I just said it…"

The Bush campaign shook off any worries about the threat of an Edwards-Kerry ticket.

"People respond to the vice-president," said campaign spokesperson Wanda Waywitten. "Some people say he's a mean son of a bitch, a cruel, cruel little man, but I don't believe it. People only call him Dick because it's his name, despite what all those rumors suggest. He's not scared of death, his tiny heart has stopped so many times, so he's certainly not scared of a ten-foot Democrat. Is it really true he carved Mount Rushmore?"

Edwards has inspired many hopes Democrats in search of fiery, presidential leaders. Though his political career has lasted only a short duration, Edwards previously spent years as a trial lawyer, and his life inspired the John Grisham novel The Rainmaker. Before passing the bar, some say Edwards stomped through North America and created the Great Lakes, once brewed the world's best beer, and invented the first radio. Legend also has it he designed all the album covers for Yes and lassoed the moon, all before his 25th birthday.

You ever get a nagging feeling, like you left the gas on or forgot to piss out the campfire? Like you're forgetting something but you have no idea what it could be? That's the way the last week was for me until I realized I've spent the last ten years forgetting to get life insurance. Now, I know what you're thinking, that Omar Bricks and life insurance go together like a peanut butter and asscrack sandwich. That this is exactly the kind of dainty bullshit that points to my evil twin being the one who emerged from the smoking hull of that dogsled wreck years ago. That this is Exhibit A proving that Omar Bricks has gone soft like a hard-on during The Crying Game. And those concerns are understandable. Fuck you still, but they're understandable.

But even if it chaps your nads to do so, follow my logic here. Who really needs life insurance? Some milk-fed weenie in a three-piece suit? Some middle manager from Kansas City whose idea of a good time is folding the Wall Street Journal into a sailor hat and prancing around the house while the kids are at bocce ball practice? Shit no, those guys are throwing money down a hole that they're never going to see again, it's like investing in a record company that gives a shit about quality. The only people who stand to make a little money in the life insurance business are the ones who face death on a weekly basis, either due to their vocation or a propensity for taunting the psychotic, that kind of shit. And since my vocation is official representative for the Omar Bricks Nation, it's my job to represent, and represent everything Omar Bricks stands for. Which often involves almost getting my ass killed.

So this week I decided to stop playing it like a chump and see what I could do about lining myself up for a sweet payday upon the eventuality that I take a samurai sword to the noggin or get hit in the nuts by a bus. Most of the places I called specialized in boring policies, paying off if I got my ass kicked by cancer or packed enough pig lard into my heart for that to become a problem. Talk about a snooze-fest, I fell asleep on the phone twice talking to these guys. But that was before I found Moe Sherwood, who's just about the only insurance guy out there with a little imagination or hair on his balls.

Moe specializes in policies that read like the script for a summer blockbuster, packed with incentives for kicking the bucket in exciting and edge-of-your-seat kind of ways. Like the policy I got, the "Motherfucker," it pays off double if I'm ever fucked to death by a great white shark. You may laugh, but strange shit can happen when you're skinny dipping in the ocean, especially if you're smart enough to rub a pork chop all over your body first to guarantee that you get to see some cool fish.

I swear, this thing is practically written with Omar Bricks in mind. It pays off big time if I'm ever hit by a car while hang-gliding. That shit almost happened to me last week! Or if you're ever mistaken for a deer, shot by hunters and mounted over some dude's fireplace, you're going to be one rich dead motherfucker. Electrocuted while burrowing into a sub-Saharan anthill in the middle of the night? Break out the best coffin they make, dude, because you can afford it. Hell, you can have them install a flat-screen TV inside or cover the outside with LEDs like that sidewalk in Vegas where it looks like there are jets flying over your head. Your funeral's going to be more entertaining than the last three Harry Potter movies.

Now I know what you're thinking, unless you're fantasizing about Lindsay Lohan or something, in that case I guessed wrong, but I bet most of you are wondering what good all that money's going to do me if I'm dead. And you're right on that, though I'm sure Foghat would greatly enjoy his role as the policy's benefactor, he still doesn't know how to operate the can opener and would eventually have to forage for food after he'd eaten the rest of the couch. So that whole scenario would suck butt for Omar Bricks. But you have to admit it would be pretty sweet for Navarro Bricks, the dashing Cuban ex-patriot cousin who lives in my house and is exactly like me in every way except for the convincing Cuban accent.

Hey, anything to help out a family member. Bricks out.

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