Twin Towers

CORNELL v. NORTH DAKOTA, eh? Is the ITHACA JOURNAL still there? Good, because the WORLD TRADE CENTER is not.

How many rumors can the Defense Dept. dingbats of our MILITARY-CORPORATE-INTELLIGENCE COMPLEX spread about one guy? Mr. Hughes can feel them through his pores, and the latest Dx (diagnosis) of Rosacea is not life-threatening, but it could be disfiguring, and it had better stop. 5351 Delmar, Saint Louis, Missouri is where I knew a patient who had it bad, then he went on to be the tillmaster of Social Security income for CIA sociopaths, so of course he called me as a civil commitment investigator and asked that they be locked-up.

I was not assigned that case, as MS. BROWN had me pegged for all "pretty depressed girl," "drugged-out but kindhearted prostitute," "politician's relative," "spouse vs. spouse," "mental iconoclast in the deepest ghetto," and, of course, the "house full of guns" cases. Did I have a newsletter put in front of me about Rosacea? Yes, I did. Mayo Clinic or Harvard Letter? Blond-headed girlie, please check it out. And a week later, I've got a case of it?

Hmmm...the Mayo Clinic cast a 2-1 tie-breaker holding I did not contract Hepatitis C from a CIA whore, so if she really didn't have it passed to her by her previous tennis-playing, presumably wealthy, bisexual boyfriend, maybe we could get together for a non-alcoholic beer or two. Or, is she too busy by now with her duties as a spyin' soccer mom in a DODGE CARAVAN they are not going to make anymore in Fenton, Missouri, or anywhere else.

Should I buy the RAMS and hire a "football man" to run the team? Then, I'd be in position to snipe at the Cuckoo Birds from Cincinnati who dare to own my baseball Cardinals. The St. Louis Blues ownership? Unspeakably bad! And, if I am wrong, why was I sitting right behind KEN WILSON and BERNIE FEDERKO at the game under previous management? So the latest USAF snitch and I could be seen together by many?

Illegal military-affiliated snitches are, in Hughesese, "Goin' to jail!," as are smart assed ARMY & NAVY JAGS. Tim McVeigh's? I think we've got some more coming along to make their debut in the legal system, and if I ever get to you-know-where, I'll arrange to turn them off on Christmas Eve (it's a private joke, son). Ladies and gentlemen of the largest rogue terror state, why do you think I've written a thank-you letter to, of all people, MARTHA STEWART? Seems the trash to treasure queen, as I tend to say, "Knows many things." So, somehow the guy who tossed her in the clink for questionable stock trading got mildly embarrassed over trainloads of whores.

What does this have to do with me? It is a fact that MOTEL 6 housekeepers have nearly trampled me on the way to snatch a strand of the H-man's hair off the sink, and likely sell it to someone for the DNA. Given the state of not-so-secret technologies, I have to wonder if some Hollywood people with too many babies have a few of mine. Legal nightmare? WOODY HARRELSON starred in a "Zombie flick," while I live in a real-life one. Therefore, it is time to go home and rescue the Rams, and don't dare tell me I can't.

In case you are wondering what some of the video will be in the previously described campaign commercial that starts with me at the tippy-tip of the F-15K, some of it will be sports moments I happened to be watching live, like the Rams only Super Bowl victory that came down to the last play and tick of the clock. It's all about clock management, right Mr. Vermeil? On the more unpleasant side, how about my satellite going ZZZZZZit...ZZZZZpop, and then, "I think we've just had an earthquake," said the sportscaster, in that most brutal year of 1989, before they cut away, scared I suppose that the stadium was about to fall down. How many dead in Haiti? Never mind. What time was on my watch for the Hughes boy's only California earthquake thus far? Never mind, 2x. (Sitting outside the METHODIST CHURCH, for the record).

Hey gang, how about "we" go back in time and ask why the NASW Journal "Key Words" for 1985 around the ranch at 420 were "TOWERS" and "WILLOW." Let's tackle "Willow" first. It is the older of two no longer so secret prisons in Alaska, funded in 1973, suspiciously after I had been elected president of something, and ready for me to be abducted and taken there by the time the first of what I have come to call "Vandenberg Crap" lifted-off in about 1983, but it never happened. "They" tried again in 1989, but I beat them again and paid a high, twice near-death price to prevail in what I've termed "The Great Psy-Op of 1988-89." It was the nastiest of all, though not of Marathon Man length like the present one, which is lumbering into an unbelievable sixth year.

Yes, 2012 voters, half of this man's life has been spent in Soldier Boy/Spygirl "psychological operations," wherein "they" act as crazy as loons, commit crimes with good old Central/South American "impunity," then amid CIA/DNI corpses, "blah, blah, blah," like DUDLEY DORIGHT is the one in trouble. Oh yeah? If the boring and difficult to get along with Alaska tour guide was who I think it was, the joke is on you extremists, because the "secret" prison is not for me and my sister, IT IS FOR YOU, DUMBASS. Plus, I think I can get elected and put you there, because unlike the GITMO 14, people are not ready for that kind of bizarre in open federal court. Not yet.

It will be a nice little apartment, with no Waterboarding allowed, because some of what this man's intel community does is so much for ROD SERLING's ghost and not popular consumption, I'm not sure USA and the rest of the world can handle it. How to handle paranormal lawlessness probably depends on what the real General & Admiral Boys tell me when I really get a briefing on the Cuckoo Birds. Want a "legendary" president? Look for a black powder pistol on the wall, and should military types get all defiant and tell me things I do not want to hear, after three years with no doctor, a lifetime with no honorable legal representation, no "security" guy," unless E.T.'s are really running about, and a near-solid year homeless and on the street, when the pistol comes off the wall, you'd better run, and the Secret Service can remain at ease, because I will put a ball-shaped slug in your .mil ass, then send you to Walter Reed, where they will laugh and say, "The President shot you in the butt! Ha, ha!"

TRUMAN - MACARTHUR EVERY DAY is my early campaign promise, because leave it to another defense thinker to realize somebody wants an "Above Interpol" outfit to "disappear" people; he thought it would be "bad guys," and I'm still here to tell you both that this "system" is the 1947 National Security Act system we've already long had in the USA, and "they" can't tell the black hats from white, because like the expression, "One man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist," these "tracker duds" are high school drop-outs, not the cream of the crop from a long ago CIA Ivy League crew of decidedly bad boys.

MICHAEL TOWERS died too early in March of 1985. Thanks to the French guy who wrecked the clutch on my mighty orange AUDI 100LS, so I couldn't be accused of knocking the poor guy on the head. Over what? DRUGS, DRUGS, DRUGS that I was not using at the time, and never sold. Bad smelling drug intelligence under Reagan's Executive Order 12333 is what was going on around me, and I can remember that catchy E.O. number even after three and a half years of psy-op torture. Why did MITT ROMNEY quit with a lot of delegates in 2008 while I was enjoying a cup of CINNABON coffee at a rest stop off I-95 on the way to a place called Washington, DC? You can't be president unless you wink at illegal drugs or sell them, Maf-IA style? We'll see about that.

Is that sort of shenanigans why PENSKE TRUCK LEASING thinks they can keep my $10,000, now probably more like $11,000 in government bonds, and MELLON/BANK OF NEW YORK wants to go "back to the future" with old HUGHES TOOL COMPANY money squabbles? Howard had the "shorts" for 707 engines? Shame on you, Howard! Are you really going to keep playing FINKEL/FEINSTIEN games with my stock account? Poor planning had the Constellation usurped by jets, but "we" caught up fast with stuff like this, and I shall catch up with thieves as well. (Pardon me, as I am not sufficiently sociopathic to catch-on quick):

"The first flight unit had been literally tested to death. It was worn-out; we were not sure it would hold together through...a landing bounce in the low gravity of the moon. Yet every critical maneuver during the 250,000 mile voyage to the moon was flawlessly carried out. Touchdown was announced by telemetered signals...After a seemingly endless wait of only a few minutes, a picture began to form on a monitor. The camera was initially directed at one leg and foot of the tripod frame. It showed them clearly, with the foot making a couple of inches penetration into the moon dust. The shouting and applause in the audience and the control room released all tension."

That's an account from Mr. Hyland, the guy who really ran Hughes Aircraft while Howard was busy being James Bond. All that I am not, but if you want Howard's imagination and Hyland's business sense, as yet another campaign slogan will go, "Don't let the long hair fool 'ya!" Yes, I am the real Hughes, and I think you are all nuts. Yes, "Two can play that game," as momma used to say. Was ELLIOT SPITZER really going to try and plant my DNA in a "cold-case" Michael Towers evidence bag?

Don't they hate it when I'm on the FAA website? Time is the enemy of a Hughes, so let's make this another two-parter, shall we? HOWARD DEAN will just love my icon of the big blue broom, won't he? Pick on Republicans? Heavens to Betsey, we already know they are no damn good; I'm after those ass-kissers who got my vote every two years from 1976-2006, because in 2008, .mil spooks were so thick in Newbury Park, a suburb of beautiful Thousand Oaks, California, and shucks, all's I had was out-of-state ID, I had to skip the Obama coronation. It was kind of like a Central American/Sub Sahara Africa scene, so if JIMMY CARTER wants to get nosy about elections, he'd best stay home, where the real terrorists are.

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