Get Your Black Butt Out of My White House Part One

No yellow legal pads at the Dollar Tree?
Microwave on the blink at the Senior (Maf-IA) Center? No coffee for the homeless, eh?
Let it rip, William.

I have written previously on AbolishTheCIA.org about how I was nearly killed many times at a job in the State of Illinois that paid a princely sum of $24,000 U.S. per annum. Given my penchant for research, I found that the psychiatrist I worked with by the name of CROUGHAN was paid close to $250,000 per year to show-up for about eight hours a week. That was while my ex-girlfriend, the third of the confirmed Air Force Spygirls, was employed by a man named CROUGHAN, and was making about double my $42,000 U.S. per annum at that time. Yes, Hughes cleans the potty, Hughes buys the Poland brand water (another "inside joke"), Hughes pays the bills, and Hughes tries to put out the natural gas line when it's on fire because the spook landlord tried to kill us all.

Adding insult to near fatalities, when the Clayton, Missouri firemen finally arrived, as we said in the Alice Cooper Billion Dollar Babies 1970's, their eyes, "Looked like stop signs." Drunk and stoned firemen? I promise not to tell, but I just did. Yes, once to the fire to find it, twice to extinguish it (or so I thought), a third time to the fire after insisting on a evacuation of the building, and a fourth time with the stoned firemen was a charm, because high or not, they knew how to put it out. Mild smoke inhalation? Would the Royal Policeman complain about a little problem like that? No, and the gift of a new fire extinguisher, after I had emptied mine, from the spygirls upstairs was treasured and resides in the Maf-IA's booty, namely all of my personal possessions, which I'd say it's about time to return, right LAPD?

You see, the girls realized, almost too late, that their "boyfriends" installed a gas dryer without a vent on purpose, so we'd ALL perish. What is it like to be a "6" among accursed spies? For one thing, when the rowdy handymen were installing said dryer, I thought, "Those jackasses don't know what they are doing. I'd better check their work." But a Hughes is always busy, I didn't get around to it, and we all almost died. Why a talent agency does not want to make 10-15 thousand U.S. Dollars a day for answering the phone while I go on the road to tell these stories, I do not know. Substantial discounts will be offered to colleges & universities, because this is how you start running for president, and I'd appreciate it if you'd all hold off on the big assassination, as in mine, until I give a speech or two, if you don't mind.

Speaking of presidents, as a homeless person, I don't have the cash to, in Watergate terms, put the tape on the office doors so the security guard will see it and catch the burglars. But, I can get on Soldier Boy's Internet, and see a flight deck photo from a nice Saab aircraft banking to the left and think to myself, "Those assholes!" Did you know Saab makes fighter jets, too, and I'm about to go shopping for some if there is no end to torture from space and extra-judicial executions in the "Homeland."

"Dudley Doright?" You bet, so first, let's go back in time to get a bit personal as to why mom almost killed dad when I was eleven years old. Her theory, I believe, was to repeat the Howard deal, where if my father had died, per Missouri law, on September 15, 1973, William would have been put in charge of the whole shootin' match. Instead, mom wen to the State Hospital, dad fibbed to the cops, he later cried when the kids showed in the ICU, and in 1973, instead of launching some satellites, I was serving as president--of my high school. They were so unhappy with the leadership & "vision thing," the aircraft company had gone bye bye in 1972. Yes, it was already gone. Student leader in college? The bossman never darkened the door of his office, but he sure did get those checked signed during 1976-77. It's a Hughes thing.

To be continued...