"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!
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