Oil Empargo, 2010

Somebody in the gov'ment, per Information Week, leaked Secret Service safe house locations, Soldier Boy's "personally identifiable information," and a deefense contractor let go of electronic schematics of Marine One, but Mr. Hughes is dogged and tortured? Lawman, I'm on your ass tomorrow, because you know exactly where my worked my ass off to acquire it middle-class stolen property is. No law degree here, but that makes you an accessory, does it not?

Do I have anything at my disposal or under my command like Blackwater? Wackenhut? National Security Buffoons, LLC? No, nothing like that. How about a big high-caliber handgun? Nope. Knife? No. Nail file? No. Scissors? Oh no, "they" stole it. These are the rules: Hughes totally defenseless, with every kind of killer spy, drug thug, freelance jackal, Murder Inc. iceman, and riled-up agent of a foreign power running around in the run-up to one more Christmas where Mr. Hughes will do his best to not get murdered for "spy irony" on grandpa Howard's birthday, that being Christmas Eve.

The best Christmas stories date from 1985 and 2007. In '85, Midnight Mass was never so much fun as with an out of control Jewish spygirl in the pew. It went like this:

SPY: I want some!
HUGHES: Communion?
SPY: Yeah, what do I do?
HUGHES: Stick out your tongue.
SPY: What? They'll give one to me?
HUGHES: Sure. Why wouldn't he?
SPY: So, I just go up to there and stick out my tongue? He won't care?
HUGHES: How's he going to know you're Jewish? Just go up there and stick out your tongue, and you might want to say a damn prayer while you're at it.

(CITIZENS OF PLANET EARTH, THE CENTER PAGE SCREENPLAY FORMAT WAS ABANDONED IN FAVOR OF A COLON AND THE LINE, BECAUSE SOME HACKER WAS MAKING IT DOUBLE-SPACED NO MATTER WHAT. IF YOU CAN BELIEVE THIS, MY BEST THEORY ON ALL OF WHAT I CALL "DOUBLE-DOUBLE CHEESEBURGER" CRAP IS, SUPPOSEDLY SANE MEMBERS OF THE U.S. INTELLIGENCE COMMUNITY--THINK USAF--REALLY BELIEVE MY FEMALE SPY ACQUAINTANCES ARE FROM OUTER SPACE. THIS "THEORY" IS BASED ON ONE REAL UFO SIGHTING IN MY LIFETIME, AND THE FACT I AM CONVINCED MY GRANDFATHER CLEANED-UP ON ROSWELL IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE. STAR TREK STUFF FOR REAL? YOU BET YOUR BIPPY, AND I OWN IT. CLOSED SENATE HEARINGS? WE SURE NEED 'EM, AND I WILL BLOW E.T.-CHASERS, SKEPTICS, "HE'S CRAZY" MANTRA MORONS, AND GREEDY MORMON FOLLOWERS OF A DAMN SCHIZOPHRENIC OUT OF THE ROOM, EXACTLY AS HOWARD HUGHES DID).

Flash forward to 2007, when once more Hughes learns that when you secretly own "The Dark Side," there was a spooky law office to the east, Navy JAG's to the west, Obama-supporting, Wi-Fi sharing, and selling crack girls next door, plus the big politician to be named later who had his CIA thugs upstairs doing the ever-popular duality of regional cocaine dealing and narcing at the same time, thanks to a Federal Bureau of Investigation that makes Hoover and his tutu look good.

You naughty spies! Why, the Concord, New Hampshire policeman said, "Don't take this on alone," so I wrote to the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) not once, but twice, however, USPS spookies probably stole the letters, and then, either Maf-IA or that pesky old Soldier Boy stole the computer that has the letters on the hard drive, "they" took two flash drives that might have the letters on them, or maybe the files "disappeared."

Vanished? Really? "Vanish" was the name of my favorite toilet bowl cleaner before homelessness struck, and as to why some "reasonable and considerate" female won't house me, in exchange for some cooking and bottle-washing, I don't know. That's not to mention the potential trillions of U.S. Dollars, but she won't get any, unless of course there are skills extant that would land the exemplary candidate a job at Hughes Aerospace, which may be open by 2020 after I kill-off all of my enemies, if only I knew who they are.

Meantime, "they" keep on trying to kill me, as the policeman hits his or her F-10 key on a 17 inch screen in the patrol car, as not a goddamn tangible cops 'n robbers thing is done for me. Overthrow the government? Why bother? It is bankrupt many times over to the point I'm really worried about Social Security being there for born too late Baby Boomers such as myself, but I don't seem to be devastating Sarah Palin in a debate with my insights on the Social Security Trust Fund--not yet, anyway.

Yeah, who cares? If Soldier Boy insists on filling-up his C-130 with cocaine and Ecstasy, why should I lift a finger? Plus, the soldiers & sailors have guns, yet it's a yawn dating back to getting smart with Spanish fascist soldiers a la Hemingway, and I got away with it, even though they had the presumably loaded machine guns.

As for coked-up U.S. Soldiers around Christmas, 2007, when they grilled me on what spygirls eat for dinner (on my tab, of course), it was odd odds, like three soldiers, one Hughes, but the surveillance facts should indicate spirited jawboning and pointing of fingers took place nonetheless. In fact, it was so bad, the big Cumberland Farms clerk lad who I called "The CIA Hippie" came out, stood with his hands on his hips, and said something like, "Hey, cut it out." This was a huge compliment from a guy who collared shoplifters and broke-up fights himself rather than call the policeman, who was reported to be busy with other matters, like spraining his neck looking the other way on drug traffic.

Was that why I awoke unable to breathe on Christmas Eve, 2007? And, who was that politician who during the 2008 New Hampshire Presidential Primary said, "Don't touch the hair," as with the locks on my dead body. Oh well, as long as the Secretary of State in the nation's first presidential primary was both giggling and all-knowing on such matters in joshing with Mr. Hughes, I think the right people are "in the loop," about my having been nerve-gassed several times, the neighbor's drug dealing, and a few toys in the attic.

Is Liv Tyler still single? Never mind, but do you think my letter to OPEC will be delivered? I'm asking them to cut-off the oil that fuels Soldier Boy's War-of-the-Month Club and a terror program where we bomb commuter trains, then round-up the usual (A-rab) suspects.

Can we do an SNL opening featuring Bill Clinton and I laying around homeless? Hillary's not kicked him out yet, but stranger, yet ultimately logical things have happened. After all, she's got a gov'ment job, and he doesn't. My first line, if I'm writing, would be a two-part question and a statement: "Mr. President, how many spies are there in this country, and why did they steal my Penske truck loaded with everything I own? Sir, I miss my Deep Purple albums."