Hollywood Cries Poor: Hughes Cries Mafia!!!

Number kooks? Oh yeah, as the #1 "eight" got christened in 1985. The Hughes Solution: Get a job. Do not spy. Save 5% of your income. Buy a Japanese car made in Tennessee. Change the oil every 3,000 miles. You will be happy.

How about quarter-inch thick sunglasses on a heavily overcast morning? Yes, "they" have observed where I set down my homeless baggage, so they can rush up on the Hughes boy, invade any reasonable concept of personal space, look highly spooky to the anti-spy, and then, of course, complain that there is some bite behind my bark. Maybe there is, but that is not the issue. What is at issue is technological toys that are worse than anything described in Brave New World or 1984.

They are real, and thank God I spent 20 years becoming what I am calling a "behavioral specialist" or mental health professional--take your pick. The short way I often say it is, "You're crazy, I'm not." My fellow Americans, no person with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder drinks out of a dirty cup, even given homeless necessity. No one with Bipolar Affective Disorder sleeps 8 hours when "manic," as this is contradictory on its face. And, no schizophrenic writes policy "White Papers," all by himself that make sense, but I understand Ms. Palin needs a ghostwriter, making it far easier for Mr. Hughes to make her a political ghostie if I ever get my Leave it to Beaver allowance and a bus of my own.

Books? Screenplays? Let's don't talk about it. Or, maybe we will after I have my favorite donut--cake dough with chocolate icing--now served at the Mafia Center in honor of my new promise to round them all up in 48 hours if anybody takes the time and trouble to vote for me. Does anybody else go to this place in American politics? No, so I now hope General Patreus tosses his hat in the ring so I can stomp on it, hand it right back, and put another (R) or (D) carcass on top of the bus.

Ah, but talk is cheap when you have to admit the spies I call "worthless bags of protoplasm" are actually planning edge of the parking lot "stunts" where they have the option of:

1. Tossing my mighty HP C-300 computer in the 12 m.p.g. SUV and taking off.
2. Executing the toss and then saying, as spies would, "Computer, what computer?" Then, I shout, they call the "look the other way on cocaine" policeman, and I go to jail for...precisely what?
3. Engaging in jawboning and conducting a mini-mental status evaluation done by the guy who trims the trees. Let me tell you, I did not study psychoanalytic theory, Family System Therapy, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, and all relevant psychotropic drugs your M.D dispenses as the Big Pharma rep distributes many perks, only to be expected to prove my sanity every day.

May I question the sanity of all citizens residing in Thousand Oaks and Westlake Village, California? I am, because it is legal and necessary when you all act so damn crazy over having the real Hughes homeless in your vile community. Now, can we get to the "good stuff?" Let's begin by asking, "How bad is it?" One gene pool said, "Stop the world, I want to get off," well before computers and sinister little devices. The other gene stockade recommended "contemporaneous notes," and in true Flint movie fashion, this has been exploited by enemies such that Mr. Hughes spends way too much time documenting crimes the policeman simply does not care about at all, and events I've come to refer to as "Flyin' Monkeys."

On the former point, since I have a sound track record of getting along well with the policeman, I can go Dr. Phil on you and state I feel his ambivalence regarding this circus, but on the monkey-related events, something must be done--fast. Why? You may agree or disagree, because this is still hollowly said to be a "free country," but when a suspected teen Disney movie star dances over your true grit, no charade, chewed-up by real rats as big as beagle puppies homeless baggage, America, someone from the Disney Corp. must be read the rights I've never enjoyed, handcuffed, and as is regularly said on many a TV cop show, taken "downtown."

More astounding than the actual event, dozens of the local spookocracy were watching in the Starbuck's parking lot, as if my degradation and humiliation is free entertainment. Take heart, fans of representative government, as a new policy arose immediately from the "Lemons to Lemonade" Division of Hughes Network, whereby instead of bitching about unauthorized transmissions of Hughes-as-OZ images, I sat down with a lovely 23 year-old woman, camera phone set to "ON" and in hand, plus exchanged pleasantries with her "accomplice," who was (gosh by golly) a film school graduate, along the way to dissecting the whole Nazi-Holly-Decadent event.

Glorious it was, and then the ladies said, "We gotta go...long drive ahead." Well, that figured, because the old school contingent would not put such video bits on Soldier Boy's Internet. What makes this even tastier is a letter among my "stolen" worldly possessions from the Disney Corp. that said:

1. We did not see your screenplay.
2. We know absolutely nothing of your screenplay.
3. Don't allege we know anything about your screenplay.
4. If you make such allegations, Maf-IA lawyers will potentially take action by lowering your credit score, or worse.

Does Disney have a "burn bag?"
Was it warm today?
Just wondering.