My Very First Assassination Scare

Between flat-screen monitors that turn-off mysteriously, and CPU's that reboot all by themselves in the middle of a sentence, I don't get on Soldier Boy's Internet as often as I would like. Waiting for my 15 minutes of net time before "sleepy" turns the machines off, I went out front of the senior citizen place to show off I'd smoke a half-cig "they" left in the ashtray, like any chronically homeless guy. Why? The big statement employing carcinogens came about because the longer butts were a PARLIAMENT and PALL MALL, two brands my momma smoked before "they" cut up her brain in the late 1960's, then murdered her before the "Terrorist Attacks Upon the United States." The "attacks" were in 2001. For further details, consult Wikipedia.

I always wondered why the medical records of my mother's last hours were so detailed. Now I know, and where are my copies? In the seized Penske truck, of course. So complicated, but so simple. Roswell wreckage may have provided real versions of Star Trek toys, 24th Century computer programs, and innovative ways to torture from afar, but none of that is my legacy. I'm the guy who's going to clean-up Dodge, or get my ass killed like the main character in my politico-thriller of a screenplay, now a work in progress.

Should my already famous but unproduced character RITA make a brief cameo in the last reel? Can't decide, so maybe I'll write it both ways, and let a Hollywood weasel decide. Last time I did that, in a treatment titled So Help Me God, the soldier/spies stole the Microsoft file containing the version where the good guy ends up president, and left the one where he's an old man and the heroic political odyssey was only a dream. I got the message, in that I must be a pretty important guy, and the totalitarian state in sheep's clothing has gone nuts, not me.

Maybe that's why after I crushed out my half a Parliament cig, on 09.26.09, a rather loud BANG on the roof of the senior center sent roof tar gravel spraying, and sent one witness jumping in the air, as did I. Like the spy movie you morons think my life is, I whirled around, determined where the mini-explosion had originated, sniffed for sulphur and smelled none, while the lady in red with silver spangles also out front was already "spinning cover" for plastic explosives or Soldier Boy's "gel" by saying, "That sounded like a popped balloon." Louder than a powerful firecracker, and she's saying popped balloon?

At least I had a witness, and even better, the senior center bossman came running out and asked, "What was that?" Mark, I don't know, but generally politicians don't like loud popping sounds, and if you doubt me, check into GEORGE WALLACE or RONALD REAGAN on Wikipedia. Sharper-sounding than fireworks, louder than a gunshot--indeed what was it, Department of Homeland Security explosives man? Gosh, I did not see your little tactical vans like Mr. Bush showed me out on I-5 in Kings County, but I'm not surprised. Just another dirty prank, with not so much as a 911 call, because the policeman knows my threshold for bothering him is very high.

Media people, I'm telling you, when this goes above ground, and I campaign for real, you'd better wear comfortable shoes the way this is going, if 'ya get what I mean. And again, why do I say that? Oh, maybe it's the smarmy, Syrian-looking guy with spy-mandatory shades seen staring at me minutes before the blast. Wanna play dirty? If so, I'm sure Ms. Palin strayed from her assigned bed more than once since 1996. Is it going to be a handshake and "fight fair," or more "dirty tricks." My name Hughes, and I'm struggling to decide on my favorite grandpa story that is close to factual. Taking the Spruce Goose up on it's only flight after chasing-off the reporters is just like something I'd do, and all civil authorities should not allege I'm crazy for contemplating an aerial stunt in the suppressed script titled II. Suppressed? What is this Hughes, China? No, it's worse, because you rubes think you're "free." Oh, I promise not to break a bunch of ribs like when Howard flew a stunt for his movie; I'm planning to be a one-trick pony, like the 9/11 hijacker pilots.

Yes, Sarah, they did not change my name, and it's still Hughes, so she'd better think ahead on the conduct of any three-way race for president. Dirty tricks we don't need, but that said, once my hands are on major cash, some real "fun" could begin for the already lame duck Kenyan and all GOP loudmouths. If you ask me, the better course on mud-slinging parallels yet another saying from my beloved 1970's that went, "Let's don't, and say we did."


The Rich and the Infamous

In complaining of super-rich spies slumming in my vicinity, I neglected to note a CARLYLE, which just might mean THE CARLYLE GROUP had a "plan" of some sort. Did Business Week really publish on the mortgage scam while I was lying on a damn church floor at risk of being abducted, murdered, and later eaten by coyotes. "It's like a church," said the most intellectual spy I know, referring to the CIA/DIA/NSA/DNI pile of stinking, steaming, excrement. It also constituted what I've termed the "Hughes Family One Hint Hint" of danger ahead. A word to the wise: Don't crack jokes in a chain-store cafe incorporated as yet another "inside joke" when the punch line is about overthrowing the United States Government.

Did grandpa really open-fire on Soldier Boy's NORAD satellite to scare me as engineer at my mighty 1000 watt college radio station? What a guy! And, no wonder "they" don't want me to get my mitts on any large foreign bank accounts. A pox upon the intel community, and does the Department of Homeland Security limo idle at the curb of your bagel shop? Probably not, but they are law enforcement types, so they were in front of mine--more than once. And now, in chronological order, the undercover elite.

GETTY: A sultry bombshell for 17 year-old William to behold. Why, a woman in her early 20's seemed ancient at the time, but despite a short waitress skirt and bad attitude, don't get all salacious--she was taken by the guy with the opium I did not go into business selling. This petrol peach was immortalized in my script titled Fooled Again as the Porsche-driving golddigger, before I got smart, DNA-wise.

CARLYLE: A blond-headed college girl with a Porsche 914 and a tush that many touched, but not me. I did, however, interrupt my roommate mid-coitus with this particular scion, and was very polite about it. Why no tail for me? Truth be told, I just wanted to drive the Porsche.

HILTON: This is one of the stories that will cost you $100,000 a night soon, but here, it's free. The newly-released film Ghostbusters was big back then with my check-clearing crew at the bank, as recently married William found himself alone in the elevator with the drop-dead gorgeous "Hippie Goddess Janitor Girl" too many times. How many of you can reference Aerosmith and Bill Clinton at the same time by stating for the record, "I did not hit the Stop Button with that woman." Here's the gag repeated more than once:

Hilton, are you related to the hotel people?

No, what would I be doing working here?

Hughes, are you related to Howard?

What? Are you nuts?

I rest my case, and ready the rimshot, because I have indeed said, "At Hilton's rack rates, Paris should be included in the deal."
FORD: You're broke? Driving a black Lincoln? Don't give Hughes any hints, like your maiden name in the same breath as complaining about malfunctioning power windows. This Ford continued a tradition of spy boss outrageous stories. Hers were so good, I looked at my lovely assistant after the boss departed and said, "Did she really say that?," to which the blond-headed girlie replied, "Yep. She really said that."
I'm a bit busy, but look for a piece soon on how when I said, "They've flown everything else over my head, so where's the Space Shuttle?" And...BOOM! There it was. Maybe California's not so bad, after all. Does this stuff happen to you snakebellied intel rustlers? No, it does not.

POTUS Rx = Brain Transplant?

The central goal of any "psychological operation" is to make the real unreal, turn everything on its head, and champion illogic, until the "target" is begging for a hospital admission or stealing tacos right in front of the security cam -- another way of saying, "Take me away." In this context, I wonder if I can believe anything I read in the newspaper, but given the old Watergate Spooks left me a copy of the 09.26.09 Los Angeles Times, I will accept it as fact the Donkey Kongs in power are going to FORCE us all to buy health insurance.

In response, the California Lieutenant Governor, who must have more I.Q. to call upon than Arnold, said "the sharks are circling." Given how health care is a "hot button" issue, and the domestic policy on which Mr. Hughes knows all of the dogma, drivel, diversion, and unwarranted damnation, it must be time for the big press conference, right? Maybe wrong, but I'll meet you by the sewer creek along with my pack of tree rats. Please, let's quit playing and refer back to what the real CIA said about me in 1986. It was, verbatim, "Bill, we like the way you cut through the bullshit."

In politics, there can be no greater compliment, but at the time I thought it was a fancy dinner included job interview with a big publishing house. Wrong again, William! It was yet another of those interviews where I don't get that job, but ended up with a better one. Now, wait a minute...the U.S. presidency is such a crappy job, it looks like the old rules don't apply. Sometimes, I feel like I'm in an old Three Stooges short, with stereotypically costumed spies and soldiers pointing at me and saying, "We want you!," but like Moe Howard, I'm looking over my shoulder to communicate, "Surely you don't mean me."

Why not look at fashion-plate contender Sarah Palin, who after recuperating rapidly from having gone bonkers, is now causing the Pakistani president to swoon. And, Sarah knows charts & graphs, too, having delivered a big economic address in Asia. Trouble is, Sarah, I've got all the money, you ditched the Alaska governorship because the CIA's "black site" prisons are located there, and I'm not in either Willow or Talkeetna, I'm trapped in T.O. (Thousand Oaks, California to all "transplants").

My fellow Americans, it seems like long ago I published an earthshakingly simple solution to the USA's health care blues on AbolishTheCIA.org. But now, a la Hillarycare, we have rumblings of insurance "exchanges," the worthy of reviving Harry & Louise "public option," and say what? A LAW requiring us to buy health insurance? Can you spell it? TOTALITARIANISM, that is. I'm convinced I sleep with rats because I'm trying to toss out your "left & right," and "red & white," and "blue & gray," and "orange & green," and just do what makes sense.

Hopeless it is, maybe, because both of the major American political parties have stopped making sense. God provides, however, as with the national health insurance row. Have you ever tried to get medicine for a Medicaid patient when they are short the co-pay? I have. Have you ever tried to get dental care for a pack of Medicaid patients? I have. Have you ever tried to get eyeglasses for a Medicaid patient who would lose or break every pair? I have. Have you ever sat and read Medicaid rules & regulations for entertainment value? I have. Have you ever grilled your private insurer on why they do things the way they do? Maybe you have, and it is one of the more stressful tasks in America, especially when you are already sick. Ever hassle with them when you are sick? Kudos to coverage on California's collapse from our local newspaper, The Ventura Star, because there are many middle-class fiefdoms imploding over incessant scamming by the U.S. health insurance industry.

So, let's get this straight. The political party that has essentially nationalized the banking and automobile industries is now going to toss us into a pit of hungry alligators because they've been somehow frightened away from any "public" option? I'm not repeating my simple proposal to provide healthcare for all, because every word I write, say, e-mail, or post is stolen before the intended recipient sees it. So, why bother until I get to make like Sarah Palin, instead of hang with Hollywood homeless.

While I detest those spygirls, I'll never forget getting off the phone with one of them and thinking, "Why did she say I already know how to make a movie?" Now I know why. Fly the airplane? Already know how, I suppose. Run for president? Done that thousands of times, in the planning stage, of course. Stuck up in there for four years? Frankly, I'd rather be a janitor, but SEIU has yet to conjure-up my "living wage." Are they already drafting a bill to prohibit me from flying Air Force One myself if I ever get there? That's how they are, and let me tell you, this has been so bizarre, after every public appearance, look for Jed's "Hillbilly wave" and "Thanks for coming to the show! Drive carefully!"


Police State = Impotent Police

"Who runs this nation? Civilians!" Sorry, Maf-IA lawyers and E.T.-Chasers, answering my own question does not make me "crazy." Nudging the Hughes boy into a mental health profession was sheer brilliance, maybe instigated from a dark alley in Warsaw, or foggy boulevard in Prague. That has allowed all manner of psychobabbling trash talk to roll off the duck's back. And, unlike Ronnie in 1981, this guy's prepared to duck.

"You're all crazy and I'm not!"is another battle cry, because certainly by the roll-out of the DSM-IV in 1994, mental health had gone to a near total behavioral scheme for sorting out the ones who are locked-up, and as Navy grandma would say, the distressing number still "out there running around."

Bipolar Disorder
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Today's mobster doesn't even know what these illnesses are. However, just like the ever-popular political "ist" words, they are easy to toss around, are they not? Has Senator McCain's medication been adjusted satisfactorily? I sure hope so. Ah, the compartmentalization of intelligence. Do all of you yahoos out there know Frederick Godwin & Kay Jamison had already let me know there's nothing wrong with me by the end of 1991?

On a related topic, how is it so many European financial institutions have a "91" in their phone and fax numbers. Just "coincidence?" I suppose, or maybe that's when the FOURTH Great Train Robbery occurred and once more the loot was kept from poor William. Previously, 1972 produced the "Adios" from Hughes Aircraft Company, 1979 got me out of the hometown, where there is at least one beer-bellied Hoosier on the South Side who does not know I'm Howard's grandson. Had I stayed, to paraphrase the pothead son of a St. Louis criminal prosecutor, remarking on John Dean, the beans would have been spilled.

For the third stickup, we go real-life spy novel during 1985-86, when bad A-rabs wanted the Jewgirl and Papal Boy bumped-off. It was also a time, regarding that gal's friend, I mused to myself, "If she's a Soviet spy, so what? That has nothing to do with me." Those were the days, when I only thought about the Federal Reserve and not the European Central Bank as well. ECB let the Fed squirm a bit over all of the funky chicken mortgages? Gosh, I'm so glad I worked in banks, and passed my two semester U. of Wisconsin Macroeconomics class. On the latter point, I remember well how the Teaching Assistants surrounded me. I said, "Charts, graphs, formulas, and algebraic type things. Fellahs, I don't think I can pass this class." No way out of that jam, as they said in unison, "Hughes, you WILL pass this class." A slew of "B's" later, I still like that Keynesian remark about how, "In the long run we're all dead."

I guess that makes me a liberal, but look who's giving out free medicine to the unemployed--Pfizer. You never know what those fat corporate Baby Boomers will do next. How about some big-shots tell the policeman to recover all of my stolen stuff? Hasn't happened yet, so lately I alternate between mild-mannered Socratic method and claiming "Hughes is asking the questions around here." One politico irony I'm ever more curious about is how law enforcement agencies can be so seemingly powerless in "The Homeland." Big CIA station in Kabul? The digital archive in the sky must surely know this man said repeatedly in 2002 you need 200,000 or so soldier boys to keep the Taliban at bay, but maybe lots of CIA boys and girls with expensive taste can secure a few square blocks in the Afghan capital for the war lords & drug lord's political bedfellows.

Family expressions. I got a trillion of them, and one was, "Lie down with dogs, and you get up with fleas." When did McGruff the Crime Dog get CIA fleas? I said 1981, with Executive Order 12333 in my book, and next thing I knew, I've got a disappeared M.D. in Thousand Oaks who I was all revved-up to tell why I've got NO GLASSES, NO OFFICE SUPPLIES, NO MR. COFFEE, NO CLOTHES, NO CAR, NO 1400 LP'S, NO 600 CD'S, NO ROOM FULL OF BOOKS ON POLITICS AND BEHAVIORAL HEALTH.

But, the Old Watergate Spooks provide, as with a copy of David Ogelvy's Confessions of an Advertising Man, which I am reading to devise better attack ads upon Republican and Democrats. Third party? Really, it was the sixty-something-ish political party in the USA, but what my ex and I called the "omnipresent they" sure took it seriously, if only "in the black." All I can say to old-school Nazis and liberal fascists is, they sure liked me in Maine, and failed to kill me outside Kennebunkport, so given dues paid in New Hampshire, the strategy will be to march from Bangor down the Atlantic Coast until reaching Florida, because I believe it was December, 2000 when the big CIA girl who is even worse than all that asked me, "Don't you know ALL of our elections in Florida are rigged?"

As Carson often said, "I did not know that," but once so informed, it was a natural progression to demanding presidents land in jail. This is not Howard out here homeless, and this is not Watergate. It is worse. Far worse, with nary a clean cop in sight. So far, anyway.
Let's all belly up to the bar at Banco de Obama, as with Kansas City, Missouri's CERNER, a firm that has already, per Business Week, pulled down 1.7 Billion U.S. Dollars digitalizing your medical records. Thank God they also reported 95% of American prescriptions are still written on paper.

Yes, William C. Hughes knows Medco.

Yes, William C. Hughes really knows Express Scripts.

And, Caremark must surely be the same deal. Huge databases with your diagnosis or diagnoses, insurance information, medications, and personal data. Yes, Big Pharma knows where you live, but good luck to the elderly in finding a pharmacy that will deliver to your door. Disabled? Psychiatrically disabled? Forget it, you need to take more anti-anxiety medication and get in the car. Or, maybe your health plan forces you to request a 90 day supply by mail. Don't know computers, old-timer? You're out of luck, so you'd better get on that 800 number. Hello? It's a computer on the other end, right? Press the right button or speak clearly. The computer hung-up on you? Too bad, no medicine, but now you can spend the co-payment on high fat food at the dollar store.

Oh, you know how to use the computer? USPS will surely screw-up, "they" will have taken $10, $20, $30, or more out of your checking account--maybe automatically--and.....NO MEDICINE. At least CVS realized you can't buy Pampers or Huggies from Medco, can you? So, they bought Caremark. Express Scripts? Their HQ is in St. Louis, Missouri, so I shall defer all caustic comments, but I do remember the Clinton era fondly, including a big Express Scripts run-around on my analog Motorola mental health authority issued cell phone.

Moving to the Austro-Hungarian chopping block, here are the facts on the confidentiality of your medical records when it comes to things Hughes and-or CIA:

1960's = BREAK-IN
2010's = HUGHES WIRELESS INTRUSION (A proprietary technology I've nicknamed "The Data Sucker")

Did I really help crank the sausage grinder on HIPAA implementation? Committees. Don't you love them, do-nothing bureaucrats? I quit mine, because no one listens to this Hughes, especially when I say things like the reason my ex worked at a psychiatric medical practice was to engage in cartage, without all of that Daniel Ellsberg-like fuss.

You'd think I'd get the "message" when I turned-on the six o'clock news and saw the spouse putting gas in the Fiat. The story had something to do with high prices for gasoline, as I recall. Damn, she looked good--and pissed-off. Where's that videotape? And, why is Fiat conquering the automobile industry and I'm homeless?

If Boris Yeltsin were still alive, I'd borrow a tank.


Funny Money vs. Hard Currency

Can I believe what I read in The Economist, Weekly Standard, and Business Week? Don't know, but I'm sure, a few years back, I read someplace the Lawrence Livermore Lab in Berkeley, California was a major spy haven, and that's where Energy Secretary Chu was plucked from by Obama? Okay, denial is next to godliness for the spy, but what about Chu "spending like a drunken sailor when he chooses," per the business scribes writing for The Economist?

Cutting through mountains of U.S. Gov'ment crap, I believe that money is mine, or at least it is backing our Demodog socioeconomic experimentation. My money is hard currency, while the Fed's is [self-censored due to many years of being denied legal counsel in the totalitarian USA]. Have faith William, for the paranormal cuckoo's "number code" is sufficiently crude for high school graduate juries to understand. Here are four Chu examples to chew on:

Did I really have a boss with a pre-marriage name of "Ford?" Yes I did, and her complaints about the new Lincoln were noted. Did I also work with a "Hilton?" Yes. A "Getty Girl?" Affirmative. "Mr. Hughes, you may step down." Repeat a few hundred times and we're all "finished."

Was William driving a White Nissan?
Charles was driving a Navy Blue Nissan?
Truth, and you Democrat pack donkey crooks hate it, don't you? The number "2." What does it mean to spies? A mystery "helper diamond" out there somewhere? Don't know, don't care.

Right here in vile California is Tesla, and again I self-censor on all of that Tesla business.
3 = The three direct descendants of HH.
6 = Spooky powers, or so holds the pandemic of mental illness sweeping the east and west coasts of our USA.
5 = An old conspiracy. Don't ask me what it is.

3 = Again, the number of Howie's grandkids.
9 = A) Plan Nine From Outer Space.
B) Revolution #9.
C) None of the above.
D) A and B.

Take your sorry multiple choice pick, but keep in mind, William C. Hughes is free of "mental disorder," or in the old statutory language, "mental disease or defect." Fruit and Nutland could not be zanier if they had a dumbass foreign-born actor as governor. They already do? Can CHP give me a ride to the Nevada border?


Run, Run, Run

From the diary:
"The Economist writes in the 07.04.09 issue, "Mr. Putin was the first world leader to call Mr. Bush after the terrorist attacks of 2001." Q: WHEN DID HE CALL?

Why would this factoid be of interest to Hughes? How about spyin' coworkers in the aftermath of 9/11 accusing Bush of "running" the day of the attacks. I defended his actions on 09.11.2001 in an office that was no doubt "bugged" and here I am on my eighth month of homelessness, with all personal property stolen.

Go figure, if you can stomach it.


The 8 Sins of Intellectual Property

Long ago in another dimension, when I fell asleep in the shadow of Martin Marietta, I awoke Ford Focus refreshed under the watchful gaze of the workman-hitman, who was eating an EGG McMUFFIN, coffee steaming in the dawn's early light. Now that the F-22 is "terminated," will grandma get her Medicaid nursing home bed? Not so fast, William, with the F-35 black hole opening wider. They took a "mock-up" to an airshow? I would never do such a thing, especially after mucho billions have been spent.

When are my pals, GENERAL BLOCKHEAD and ADMIRAL ASSBACKWARDS going to allow me to have what is mine? Undoing a slo-mo military coup? And I don't have a job? GET REAL! Every Hughes dollar is going out of the USA. Out! Out! Can you hear me hollering by the Potomac? Are they rockin' in Rockville, Maryland? "I shall return," said a general who defied a president with bad results. Two criminal coddling presidents in a row, two antiquated, bloated, and bellicose political parties, three years, two months of torture run on the Hughes boy for trying to offer an alternative, and they can't get out from under it.

No more exploding truck tires, please, but a Mobil oil truck does explode in my civil war 2.0 screenplay epic. You may wonder just how fast Star Trek quality psy-op dirty tricks can be run, so here's a fact. About ONE HOUR after I wrote a scene in my new one doing business as Poll Numbers, where a politician's aide impersonates a rioter to facilitate the candidate's getaway, they were, as the late Mr. Lennon sang, playing "mind games." How? In the freshly written scene, the aide acts as an agent provocateuer by tossing a rock through the back window of a black BMW. So, what went by on Newbury Road after the T.O. bus driver had intentionally passed me up? A black BMW driven by a "body-double" of a spyin' someone I love to loathe.

Is there law in the USA? Well, when intoxicated, don't pee on the policeman's leg, if ├Ża get what I mean. Yet as far as the cluttered band of geostational junk goes, don't doubt what I call the "retinal tap" is real. When did that English band sing "I can read your mind" (from an eye in the sky)? I believe it was 1979. And, what was one of the many reasons I did not sell drugs for fun and profit in 1979? When there are narcs next door, Hughes knows what they are. Yep, this is not Leonardo DiCaprio sitting at the card table, it's the one and only.


The Space Scow: Pre-Edwards 09.11.09

The Space Scow spyonauts report one of eight cables just wouldn't connect to the International Torture Platform, and they all took a turn at it--kind of like with soldier boys and today's "black op" spygirl. When I was toiling on Gangster Nation, my book that I shall publish by swimming to Taiwan, a retired "C" ("M" in Bond movies), took the highly unusual step of emerging from the UK fog and saying there is too much sex in spying. He said no better intelligence is gained by testing Cosmo's latest sexual suggestions, and while I did not think the statement had anything to do with me in 2004, maybe it did.

Using myself as a case study of one, spygirls who were "friends" with me know MORE about me than those who claimed they may no longer be ambulatory unless we concluded the festivities; yet more evidence, absent DNA test tampering, that I am who I am. Yet please, do not run your scantily-clad, inadequately supervised teenage daughters around Mr. Hughes, as you very obviously: A) Are an old pervert; or B) Have an inaccurate psychological profile. Please, continue to squeal your brakes and go "sniff, sniff" (whatever that means) and I will never fail to holler out by the horse-hockey park that Mafia gets not one red cent.

Reds? Why did AIG give me a bunch of crap during 2003-2007, then folded like a cheap circus tent? Or, let's put it this way. Who owns "Banco de Obama?" YOU ALL DO!

Now, please send me a complimentary subscription to Barron's promptly at my simpleton's address:

William C. Hughes
General Delivery
Thousand Oaks, CA 91362
Got e-hate mail? Let it rip! And, keep those electrons flowing to: realdealscooper2@gmail.com .


Tin Men

Let's talk crazy, like Californians. Mexicans and Central Americans who hoard aluminium foil are only half-right. A generous amount of foil on your head or in your hat can indeed prevent the present Hughes Regime from putting cockamamie dreams in your skull. I recommend a hefty rubber band for all anti-totalitarian Centurions, because the cabal I call the "Gravity Boys" can, and will, knock your tinfoil off your head from Earth orbit while you sleep.

In the corrupt depths of the mental health professions, they call this "thought insertion," may well label you as "schizophrenic," and give you medicine that might kill you, wreck your nervous system, or with the "new, improved" kind, merely give you diabetes. A class-action suit a day keeps cures away, or so it seems.

As for mind reading, I'm sorry to say my investigation of my own evil technology tells me this cannot be prevented with mere aluminium. William knows his plugs and jacks, so I do not doubt there is a way to stop space-based mind reading, but at the present time, I can't afford a trip to the electronics surplus stores I enjoyed patronizing in my well-spent youth.

ZZZZAP! No more mind reading from the Space Scow or International Spying Platform. Can I sell kits and make a fortune? Oh, that's right, I already have 5 or 6 trillion bucks, and who could ask for more? How am I sure I'm reading the mind reading right? Lots of reasons, and here's the "list."

1. In researching my first still unpublished book, Shame of the Sane, I read-up on brain imaging techniques that purported to be in search of a "cure" or at least better drug for Schizophrenia and Bipolar Disorder. I now realize these studies are crude, ineffective "cover" for a complete mapping of the human brain and the wireless conversion of the electrical impulses in the frontal lobes to recordable data. Would you like text or a computer voice saying what you're thinking? At Hughes companies, they've got it, and when the rightful owner gets it, namely me, the technology will be destroyed.

2. William knows power supplies--the old transformer-heavy kind, and the "Philadelphia Experiment" variety. Everything I've ever read on the electrical activity in the human brain stated the electrical impulses are weak. I submit, fair readers, maybe they are not, so the energy field put around your head from space by my toys does not need much power, it needs sensitivity. On the other hand, to insert bullcrap in your head, more power is required, and the tinfoil can create difficulties. To put it another way, the energy emitted by your brain goes through the foil and can be detected, whereas the energy my little gnomes want to insert to control you is insufficient if you take the risk of being thought of as "nuts" for sleeping with a foil-lined helmet on. Maybe cartoonist Gary Trudeau knows things, given he's drawn an interesting character for decades who is depicted wearing a football helmet.

3. How can I possibly think something again and again, share it with no one, then hear people yapping about it in the loonyland of California? Too many times, pilgrims,. It's happened too many times.

4. How about that T.O. Transit? I think something, and the passengers react to it. How can they do that? One word: ROSWELL, plus 62 years of Bell Labs style research in the dark. When did all of you California cuckoo birds know all about Vandenberg? Oh, maybe by the time of the Bush 41 "Great Psy-Op of 1989" directed at me. I beat 'ya, Pappy Bush, but "they" still made me a "secret shopper" at Malcolm's place. Now it's time for my investigators and lawyers to review all of the records and put people in prison.

Do you know fiber optic capacity is like any other commodity? Seems the Clinton Administration and Big Telecom were so excited about it they overbuilt, so we've got plenty of bandwidth and no content worth a bucket of tepid spit. Maybe ET's have a better interstellar entertainment industry, because nobody invented fiber optic cable in 1947, my grandpa stole it, and no bug-eyed, gray-green little critter has shown up to litigate it, so on with the show, like a press conference to inform the world where all of your itty bitty devices came from, or am I supposed to put a fish on my car and forget about it?

No gonna happen, and by the way, how much does Time Warner cost?


How nice of the old Watergate Spooks to keep me ever up to date on the interior modifications possible on my Boeing Yellow Taxis--excuse me, a 737-800. Yap on amateur radio mid-flight? Why, I would never do such a thing that might compromise your safety or my snoozing. The photo I've clipped does allow me to dream of hitting that "PA" button and then making rubes in the rear sorry they were ever born. I don't make things up except when I write screenplays, and even then I've come to realize my imagination crossed swords with the chieftains of windowless buildings in the aerospace industry each and every time with no prior DNA/RNA knowledge.

Shazam! Well, at least Thousand Oaks/Westlake Village shows no signs of economic slowdown, as billions of "black" bucks have been poured-in by the curious worldwide in search of one goal, and that is to know what William Charles Hughes is doing every goddamn second of the day. It's 1950 all over again, and for all I know, Howard's old cronies come in to the senior center and peer over the Thousand Oaks Acorn at me. Returning to the flight deck, it's no surprise to see a metal guard over the flight recorder, but what was LOL worthy is the layout of the oxygen monitor. For "CREW OXYGEN" there is a colorful meter that reads increments of one up to twenty. For "PASS OXYGEN," and I assume "pass" means "passenger," the indicator merely says "ON" and "NORMAL," leading me to wonder why it does not say "ALIVE"/"DEAD."

Yes, they are very particular about the composition of the oxygen on the flight deck, but back with the cattle, it's either "Normal" or not, and in the latter event, I'd bet the near-bankrupt airline does not care. Smokey? Stinky? Gag-reflex cologne in the next aisle? Too bad, and don't dare complain, or the liberal totalitarian state's "Sky Marshal" will ring you up as the next Shoe Bomber.


Job gone? Don't complain.

Gasoline up? Don't complain.

Savings gone? Don't complain.

Common stock uncommonly low? Don't complain.

UAW funeral scheduled? Don't complain.

Credit ruined? Don't complain.

House gone? Don't complain.

Camper unlicensed? Don't move it.

Campground closed? Sleep in the bushes.

Bush's indicted? Sleep soundly.


The Rich & Rick Show

Today's musings are dedicated to two of my black bosses. No, they're not African-Americans, they are the kind of bosses who run Homeland terror events and try to get me "deleted" from this Earth. Don't get in my face to insist I quiet down, soldier, you've heard no yelling like that of a trillionaire who thinks like a British Labor Party guy but stands ready to harangue an NRA convention about how "they" really are going to take your guns away if you're not careful.

What does it mean when your president addresses schoolkids directly? Didn't you read the scary works of fiction in high school about the day when your kids turn snitch and get you abducted and killed? Those days are now, and don't blame Hughes. Try looking up RICH MCDANIEL, the guy who could not shoot straight in the CIA's old CTC (Center for Counterterrorism). He was my boss at Cornell University, and his two classic lines were:

1. "Bill, it's all a matter of perception."


2. "I can type fast, too."

Old Rich made the mistake of naming the Osama-chasing unit after his firstborn, then "lost" some of the 9/11 hijackers in Malaysia, when in fact the Malaysian spooks knew right where they were, and where they went in Thailand. No wonder I had to gobble my Big Mac fast and depart a DC area hotel after Malaysians warned me I'd be a "goner" if I stayed, but I swear I left no Special Sauce behind during my few minutes of hotel occupancy. ZOOM--there went the gov'ment plane over my head in the darkened parking lot, and say hey! There was the Mossad girl in black walking by with good tidings and a stern look. Does this stuff happen to you? Probably not.

And how about that RICK GOWDY, Oakie boy and liar extraordinaire who had the Kamikaze drivers after me on I-44 in Tulsa. CLICK...let's put in an 8-Track tape of Leon Russell singing "Goin' back to Tulsa one more time..." CLANK/CRUNCH. Wow! I can hear Mr. Rick's prison door shutting already.

Hey Nixon! No, not dearly departed Dick, the Governor of Missouri. Have you secured the Mental Health Coordinator files? You'd better, because my investigators are "going to town" with that material, so all can see my collection of "helpless pretty girl" cases, "spouse vs. spouse" cases, "I've got a weapon and won't come out" cases, "ghetto no-show/drug thug" cases, and of course, the "house full of guns" cases. Trying to get me killed, eh?

Well, America may take a liking to my People for the Real Deal party when they find it is true that Sherlock Hughes came within a whisker of busting-up the 9/11 attacks BEFOREHAND, and the documents to prove it are resting under the dome at 5400 Arsenal Street, St. Louis, MO 63139. Don't touch that dial! Or, those documents! No wonder my coworkers got rides back from lunch on firetrucks in 2002, and I'm sure Shirley the Secretary won't lie under oath. It's just too bad it took this dull boy another couple of years to solve the 9/11 crime. Islamic terrorists? Sorry, there's not that many Hamas or Hezbollah in Arizona and Florida, so why don't you ask the Director of National Intelligence what to call them? "Sociopathic killers" is my term. Yes, it's a big bipartisan Homeland barbecue, and you're all invited!



Hell hath no fury like a Finkel exposed and reviled.


Just What I Needed

I did not need to be threatened by more local soldier boys today on another Southern California "death march." How about a cool breeze as the clouds boil, lightning cracks rip nearby, and a nice black squall line maybe produces a tornado? You blissfully married gay folks and somehow impaired legal pot smokers can keep California, but you can't keep my property.

Why did I have to read the pipsqueak whining about going to Mars in the 07.31.09 issue of The Week? And, am I to believe NASA really erased master video tapes of the moon landing? Hmm..they really don't like this Hughes, do they? When is Congress cutting-off the "International Space Station," an ill-disguised, space-based, torture center? Better yet, when is the whole family that has my audio and video of the moon landing going to land in the slammer? I feel a need for speed on this, and how about a snippet from the old handwritten diary?

"I now have no doubt the REAL fuss here is over the "edge" Hughes-related enterprises have in technology, thanks to Roswell. Howard Hughes was "missing" twice during 1947. The second period coincides exactly with the UFO non-event. Then, he "hid out" with a determination that was unprecedented, even by his standards. Why was the FBI, U.S. Marshal, and War Department, not to mention the U.S. Senate, looking for him so intensely? Makes no sense, but HOW DO YOU CATCH SPIES? Look for illogical behavior. If the government wanted to "get" Howard, it would have been easy to ignore him, indict him for not showing up at the hearing, (or "trump-up" something), but that is not what they did. Why did grandpa almost sleep through the hearing? He must have been awfully tired from cleaning-up another "black" mess, like a crashed UFO.
Why did "they" take all of this, not tell me a damn thing, then give me all of the hints I needed to know where it all is? I'm no lawyer, nor do I play one on TV, but I think it's perfectly okay to recover all of this and compensate whoever has it (except the Penske people, who are going to prison), and PUT THE STUFF IN MUSEUMS. Want to play hardball? Mr. Hughes will be in the front row for your lethal injection, which reminds me, where's "Karla?"


U.S. Male

Let's get started running for president saving both words and time. Welcome to "BILL'S BEEFS."


Yes, it's true, and "they" started breaking me in on this one in the 1990's by assigning me mental health clients with automobiles filled with mail. Later, in the 2005-2006 reign of Genghis W. Bush, people in front of me at the post office were often discussing postal difficulties that made the breakup of Ma Bell sound easy. I listened to their agonized cries, and per usual thought it had nothing to do with me. Then, in New Hampshire during the 2008 primary, the aria of "I want my mail" sounded melodious--not at all like my griping to the Concord Postmaster, who always had two or three extra people in the room to my one. (It's a Maf-IA/spy agency flourish, so everyone besides poor William can change their stories as needed).

Ah, but the postman can ring twice, or engage in double-agentry, as when in response to my hollering about spook houses, drug houses, and extra-judicial execution houses, if your name is HUGHES, the friendly mailman will inevitably place the neighbor/terrorist's mail in the "Hughes" slot, so at least I've got their aliases for future reference.

Without question, "I want my mail" could rise to a Network movie-like crescendo if we're not careful, given the USPS has functioned, since its inception, as a Nixonian spy outfit. And, don't call your Congressperson, because the "post office" is "private," just like Hughes Network Systems, LLC. Don't know about you until I get out campaigning, but I'd rather pay more and not be illegally spied upon.


Got hatemail? Please write some directed to me at:

People for the Real Deal
William C. Hughes
General Delivery
Thousand Oaks, CA 91362


For Want of a Postage Stamp

It's not for want of a nail, it's a lack of 44 cents. E-mail? What's that? Google was down yesterday? Please, don't blame Hughes. Rather, in the coming days, allow me to dig through the mailbag and entertain you. But first, could we have a more germane topic for a first edition of BILL'S BEEFS than the United States Postal Service, an outfit where, on the positive side, a black man can get a decent job, if he wants one, but in keeping with my discussion with dazed Californians earlier in the year out in front of the Newbury Park branch, the USPS does whatever it wants, much like the DNI and CIA.

Close early? Surely, if Hughes is on the way. Close on Saturday with Saturday hours on the wall? Yes indeed, if Hughes is staying at a nearby Motel 6. Was that really members of the Hendrix family standing there with me dumbfounded in the post office lot? My fellow Americans, acid reflux is a bad thing, as is giving LSD to unwilling participants in a whorehouse.

Gee willkers, Beav, if ya'll had wrecked my Ford Focus in New Hampshire, I'd be on the train and have had my nose in those remaining MKULTRA files by now. Invoices, eh? Well, the joke might be on Richard Helms' ghost, but through rain, sleet, snow, and the dark of night, nothing stops the mail, except a lack of 44 cents domestic/98 cents international. Or, maybe when the president is an oily warrior or closet socialist, the mail can be illegally diverted.

Stay tuned, as we go on to the mailbag!


The Old Mailbag

I scour the Free World for a tasty epigraph, but sometimes the best ones originate in my sorry life as I seek to recover HH's 1.5 billion forty years later. Here's a favorite:

"Your mail isn't going anywhere, buddy."
- SS
Or, how about one from the 10.13.08 issue of Fortune:
"Your regulator is sitting right there, and you're going to get a call tomorrow telling you you're undercapitalized and that you won't be able to raise money in the private markets."
- Hank "The Enforcer" Paulson
Is the royalty per barrel, or per refined gallon? We all care about the price of gasoline, but some [CELESTIAL JUDGES IN WHITE ROBES HAVE RULED THE USE OF "OBSESSIVE" TO BE FOUL PLAY]. No matter, because I can read, and this activity tells me grandpa Howard spent a lot of time on the drill bit before moving on to airplanes, movies, movie stars, satellites, little dish antennas, and dishing whatever made big spooks of that era happy. They call me "William" around here, and I'm starting to like it, so maybe my "The buck stops with Bill" slogan will have to go by the boards.
However, in a new effort to simplify politics, look for the debut of "BILL'S BEEFS," a drive-through lane attempt at policy analysis, because who has time for writing "White Papers" on the listing Titanic we've become, thanks to Obamanomics? Yes, a lot has to change with me, you, and the USA, unless you'd like all of the glaciers to melt, see the World Bank pressed into service as a homeless shelter, or perhaps it will be a Hummer for every Chinese citizen after California falls into the sea.
I have to admit I've put off reading more George Kennan, because a brawl with soldiers guarding the library will surely land me in jail, and no one will call on me. No Katie Couric, no Oprah, no Paris Hilton. No wonder people worry about me sometiomes, because in 1977 I really did walk up to soldiers in Spain with their fingers on the triggers of machine guns loaded with presumably live ammo, and in really lousy Spanish tried to say, "What are you guys doing out here?" Job? What are you talking about? Between reading about Howard Hughes, Conrad Hilton, and J.P. Getty, I've got my "spare time" covered.
Blogging? Again?
Hughes, are you nuts?
No, quite sane, and determined to start a new political party that will do better than Mr. Perot (remember him?) and keep me occupied following reemployment in the public sector for four years only. Got serotonin? I do, despite innovative torture programs, so the family sayings just keep coming to mind, like "Rome wasn't built in a day." No, it wasn't, but we could blow-up the world in one day, yet not so fast, partner.
If I'm right about grandpa Howard shooting a primitive laser at soldier boy's Model T early warning satellite so I could rip an Associated Press "IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD" message off an ancient teletype machine, meaning a close scrape with Mutally Assured Destruction (MAD) was his idea of "fun," no wonder they never told me about the money, because we think alike. Just read my first screenplay, The Rainbow Rebellion, and you'll understand completely. Better yet, let's make it into a film I guarantee will do better than a remake of McGyver, or any purported entertainment launguishing in that stinky dog pound over at Universal Pictures.
Meantime, I've got to figure out how to be a mainstream politician. How about a card table in front of Ralph's with my Federal Election Commission file and a big handgun for a paper weight? Oh, never mind. At least I've realized the 2008-2009 theiving isn't new. Where is my AP copy from 1974? Where's my love letters to and from that Israeli spygirl? Aw, who cares? At least the Mossad likes me. Allahu Akbar!