Is there still a cabal on the Fourth Floor of DOJ that wants to alter digital audio files and say I'm a: A) Terrorist; B) Drug Dealer; C) Spy; D) Serial Killer; E) Pedophile; F) Slow Freeway Driver; G) Once a month flosser; H) Howard's Grandson; I) Internet Porn Fanatic; J) Joint Strike Fighter "black" money spender; K) Microsoft Update kilobyte rejecter; L) "L," as in headed to London, England; or M) The Mafia Man, ordering "hits" in my lime green notebook?
Is anyone hurt? How many fingers am I holding up? Yeah, just one, and it indicates f-you to all mobsters, politicians, defense industry spooks, Hollywood bullshit-slingers, spygirl sluts, Apple Computer hackers who mess with the Windows OS, and all those off their medication who really need it. So, grandpa and Cary Grant were gay, or most assuredly bisexual, because they shared a hotel room while on a tail-chasing road trip? That makes about as much sense as my two UFO sightings over 53 years meaning I'm bareback riding craft navigated by green reptilian critters.
Yes, the "black river" of sludge stops at nothing to defame, when this is really a stepping stone and domino process. Stepping stone in that the sale of a book manuscript, or better yet, screenplay, leads to a few hundred grand (after taxes), which leads to my billions in the "piggybank," which leads to my trillions in oil, real estate, silicon valley, DOD soldier boy toys, CIA "cutouts," etc. etc. etc.
Dominoes? I actually like their pizza, if it's hot, and we're not talking insipid "spy code" here. Back in the budget hotel days, before being freed to wander Ventura County homeless, I could never remember to order the Tuesday Night One-Topping Special for $7.99, but not knowing what day it is is a uniquely Hughesian thing. As Charlie Guest, one of Howard's aides once said, "Howard Hughes never knows what time it is, and he never cares what time it is. People do what he wants, when he wants it."
Nobody knows what it is like to be me but me, so if I want everybody I've ever known except my ex-wife tossed in prison, that's my business. So, if I tend to holler "War!" instead of wear a crown of thorns and shoulder your cross, don't dare call the local police, because they don't care. Don't call the sheriff, because they know I'm not crazy. Don't call the CHP, or they'll just roll-up and say, "Are you alright?" and I will reply, "I'm fine," and they will drive away (We've done THAT enough times). Don't call the FBI, or we'll have to discuss the "Ruby Ridge Protocol," and the fact that as a politician, one of my austere goals is wiping them off the federal flow chart. And finally, don't call the Secret Service, because I'm confident we know each other too well for them to give a hoot about anything I do or say.
Back in the days when Bill Clinton was governing, and I too was pudgier, I used to attend cheapie-show movies by my lonesome. Were there any "extras" in the house for my screening of In the Line of Fire? Not sure, but as for Casino, I saw 'ya, and yes, I did enjoy the stock footage of my hotels falling down, but as for the WTC crumbling again and again during 2005 in the Chestnut Health Systems living room, Granite City, Illinois, that's another story. COUGH COUGH, SNIFFLE SNIFFLE, HARRUMPH HARRUMPH all you want, because I might live a long time, or at least long enough to make the following in-flight announcement on approach to Las Vegas.
"This is Captain Hughes. It has come to my attention the aircraft is flying upside-down. Rest assured, I will do everything in my power to correct this deplorable situation."
I envision this terse statement as followed by a nose down, loop-de-loop, corkscrewing adventure you will all tell your grandchildren about. I promise not to shut down any engines like grandpa, but as for cracking noises from the airframe and sickly-sounding hydraulics, I'll merely be getting even with the TWA jackasses who, by their own admission, flew me through some "really bad wind shear" and into Able Danger. If you barf up your chicken sandwich, we'll clean it up at my airport they've renamed McCarran International. KLAS, are you ready for a fax from the boss? Probably not, so I think I'll waste some more time, as this is what the U.S. Government is truly skilled at.