Mr. President Obama, I am quite sure Michelle has a cloth coat, right? Let's hear it, sir. Meantime, "they" have changed the schedule again, so it's time for "computer class." This will prompt me to tell you later all about my first MARYLAND HEIGHTS, MISSOURI "coughman."
"CENTRAL INTAKE?" We'll get around to that, too.
Did I really grouse about the inevitable theft of our AT&T phone book from the senior Maf-IA Center? Yes, I did, because VERIZON is up to something, and for details you will have to check with the "Ponytail Division" of the NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY, where I applied for a job on-line in 2006, but was predictably snubbed.
Given that Soldier Boy has tracked every click of the Hughes mouse since 1997, and if you want a preview of a funny talk show worthy story, how about several spies in the aisle of my North County Loo BEST BUY in 1994, when H-man delayed the inevitable by purchasing a SMITH CORONA word processor instead of...what? WINDOWS 92! Aw, no naked ladies up on the Internet yet? See, I wait until the time is right.
What were the spies spying on? It was me, fumbling with a mouse, because I did not know how it worked yet. Why not? At that time, my computer at the job site was an "up & down button" or "enter key" affair--no mouse. I did figure out how the mouse worked, but it would be three more years and many missed Florida Hitman opportunities before the colorful WINDOWS 95 Compaq hit the makeshift computer station, otherwise known as dad's dining room table.
How about that early e-mail from "I-tel," a joke of a phone company later absorbed into QUEST? I told you I do my homework, so believe me, spies with phone companies are nothing to sneeze at when the air conditioner has broken down, and the cat died, meaning those developments can't be good, especially when, at least to me, the gov'ment spying activity is like that siren heralding the start of trout season in Missouri.
Don't tangle your lines, girls, or flub them for some greasy director allowed to make a movie, when I cannot. And, please don't connect me to a black girl at the ELECTION ASSISTANCE COMMISSION, when I called the FEDERAL ELECTION COMMISSION. (Letterman, you can relate, right? Is the Cabin Boy II script done yet?) You see, the latter .gov outfit is for candidates, and the former is for MoveOn.org dummies who do not know how to vote.
Should I tell the New Hampshire story about a dumb Soldier Boy who was in his mid 30's and did not know how to vote, but sat to my left at the official polling place folding table? Who was that girl to my right? I'll never tell, but it is notable that person's boss is 4th in line to be president in the event of extenuating circumstances. Oh pleeease, don't go running for copies of the United States Constitution as we approach the 29th anniversary of when RONALD REAGAN did not die. No, just ask my Texas buddy RON PAUL, because I hear he's got a copy in his pocket at all times.
From 03.29.10/Apparently, the censors didn't like this one.
“This week, some investors turned up their noses at three big U.S. Treasury offerings.”
-- Wall Street Journal, 03.26.10
“Congress is lifting the debt ceiling—the amount of cumulative debt the Treasury can carry—to 14.3 Trillion Dollars, roughly the size of the entire economy."
-- The Week, 02.19.10
“On August 3, Circello's parents persuaded him to surrender and drove him to Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio. But when they reached the base, nobody knew what to do with him.....On Monday morning, he boarded a bus for Fort Still and made it as far as Lawton, Oklahoma, before deciding not to turn himself in.....There was a Veterans for Peace convention in St. Louis the next week—he thought he'd head there instead."
-- Melba Newsome, Details, December, 2007
The B-70 Valkyrie flew over my head at night in 2008 upon passing by Wright Patterson, and yes, we could use some “Law-ton,” in Oklahoma. A veterans interested in peace meeting? Where was that? Just like HH and the little house in Houston, for the purpose of endless miles of marble courthouse halls ahead, I need a St. Louis address. How about 911 ST. RITA AVENUE, 63105?
By the way, peace-seeking veterans, Circello was/is spying on you for the gov'ment. The “giveaway?” His Army Man buddies called his parents inquiring about a VISA Card, when he did not have one. Get the joke? This particular olive green agent provocateur is “Everywhere you/they want him to be.”
Secret Police, USA? Are you taking your medication?
Palin in a black leather jacket? I recommend a violet velvet skirt a couple of inches above the knee to go with it, but that will not make her competent as a federal dogcatcher, and certainly never for president. Doesn't the godawfully corrupt FBI have a few more questions for her?
When your name is Hughes, and you write a screenplay titled Walking the Cat, expect Morph the Cat out of Mr. Fagen-freak, and upon daring to approach Culver City, a gal who really does walk cats. Calling the security man after "Stinky" has stunk will not, however, lead to any more than H-man amusement when: 1) No contract for the lil' security car to patrol; and 2) No alarm on the public building to trip.
Nice try, but A) People do tell me things; and B) The real policeman awaits a substantial increase in his direct deposit after a future President Hughes deletes the oh so rotten CIA & FBI.
Don't panic, citizens! You will be safe in your scrubby bubble homes, and with such a "flood" of not very secret "secrets," how about an audio archive on this?
"Nine-one-one dispatch." "Good morning, this is President Hughes. I've just fired the Secret Service. Could you send over a few cars? It's 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue."
Get ready, GETTY IMAGES, because the D.C. policeman alredy has a track record of riding around laughing at me as I drive on the sidewalk.
May I make a movie now? Or, is you-know-what "just a shot away?"
Jackasses. Braying jackasses. The USA's intelligence community has a lot of them. President Hughes? Oh, no! "Mr. Bill" has changed the locks at the United States Department of Justice, and a nice Marine will direct you back to your automobile made someplace other than USA.
How did BOEING get all that work? Space Shuttle, too? No wonder they a made sonic boom over my head! Didn't happen? I guess the Air Force One tire inspection in 1999 didn't either.
Can you all get a real job? No skills? Too bad. I'm looking for one that pays $400,000 per year, and I'm fully qualified.
ANDREW SULLIVAN must surely know I subscribed to The Atlantic before the policeman asked me why my credit cards no longer work. I've even sent unsolicited work to places like The Atlantic, with no hope of publication, and that was well before I knew of the HH thing.
Sullivan claims to know for sure SARAH PALIN is running for president. I am, too, but no one will ever say, as did MICHAEL WOLFF, regarding Palin at Newser.com, that my public speaking features garbled syntax, flubbed lines, and no one will allege I lost my train of thought. The latter, I discovered long ago, is the presenter's worst nightmare i.e. "Why am I here? What is my next line?"
Yes, spies and soldiers, I can do way better than that, but the RALPH'S cart is fine for now. Did MARC AMBINDER really say, again in The Atlantic, that Palin might, "Capture the popular mood more effectively than any other Republican."
Did you know I am a registered Republican as of 2008 in New Hampshire and that the ESP some cuckoo-birds think I possess told me it might stay that way? Stranger things have happened in American politics than Sarah Palin, Tim Pawlenty, and Mitt Romney tied to the roof of my bus as if hunting for big political game.
Big game? H-man doesn't play games, except maybe Secret Service vs. Congress in softball, and I will get to play first base, not as some #1 editorial, but because I'm good at it.
How did JOHN MURTHA die? Why is GOOGLE fussing with China? Incommunicado in T.O.? Yes, sir. Hey, don't do that, because if you a**holes ever let me out of this town, I might end up serving as your next president. See the photo of Alf Landon? 523-8 in the only count that counts? Want "grandiose?" Maybe our .gov USA is so rotten, I could do better with a magic ingredient called TRUTH.
Mr. Hughes has received strong hints and Haitian seismic waves indicating it is the “real” government, not deefense contractors, drug thugs, and Mafia that have made one life and many more miserable since late 2004. As the old Cornell University boss often said, “This is not okay.”
Consequently, Mr. Hughes is ready to run in the opposite direction of a movie set and run for president, because when the inky dark tries to kill you three or so times before lunch, someone might help prevent it if the proper paperwork is filed. A new slogan, and the author believes it is a good one, is, “I don't know what I'm doing, but I know what I'm seeing out here.”
Has anyone written a song yet titled “Drinking With the Secret Service?” You have my permission to steal the idea. Here's a joke for the .mil Spooks: “I did not read The Art of War, I skimmed it.” It is another true statement, as it was when a friendly fellow came into the senior center and said, “They don't talk much around here.”
No, they don't, and so much is nonverbal, perhaps I should qualify it as a joke when I say to the “surveillance gods” I am awaiting a Chinese fighter jet on a flatbed with a big bow (you pick the color...of the bow, because I'd imagine the aircraft color is “standard,” like: STANDARD>>AMOCO>>BP>>SCREW WILLIAM).
My fellow Americans, when I saw a Class of 2002 Secret Service grad in the RALPH'S sporting an insulting “skinhead” look, the curse words flew, and the A-Team came running. Chuck knows PLACES, Willie knows FACES, and this information is not “classified,” nor do my enemies have much class, though their wallets are exceedingly fat. No surprise, as Aunt D said to watch out for midget single-digit millionaires. (I call them names that may violate the Google terms of service, so see the H-man at STARBUCKS, if you dare, for details).
The “Secret” Service hears my jokes, and maybe feels my pain, because I may never be allowed to make my own scripts into movies, yet 100% creative control over anything about me is hereby demanded. Why? “We” have proved Soldier Boy likes his heavy duffel bags (ahem, ahem), so wasn't it a sight to see the local Maf-IA get an eyeful of a sturdy female with the nice hosiery, light green right at the kneecap skirt,, and a near high heel breaking “wipe out” due to a rightward list caused by a large, bulky, duffel bag full of.....may I run for president now?
Did your family make it a point to say, "President down; go home?" "3," as in three direct descendants of HOWARD HUGHES, JR.--we shall not name names--"30" as in "terminate," "1" as with yours truly. Number kooks! No, I'm "crazy?" Would you like to see my Federal Reserve Bank Bank Note, otherwise known as a U.S. Dollar, that has a designation of "H," by the way, with an "H" Serial Number and four "8's" on it encoded with crude cryptography "number code?"
Hey, if Air Force One almost hits your car, no big deal, but you are still not me, and you will get not one red cent. Back to 1981, all the world should know dark aviator sunglasses indoors are always a decisive clue, and in a Marxist curmudgeon hangout named the University of Wisconsin Memorial Union, as was said long ago, Hughes initiated a "23 Skidoo."
Still got that early digital of me saying, "Why is Bush sitting on the tarmac? Gayle, why doesn't he take off, he's the damn president now?"
The hilarious Thousand Oaks/Westlake Village quotes keep on coming, and in the running for the best is, "Oh my God, they really are Secret Service." Yes, I've joked about the soldiers and their duffel bags full of guns, but carrying one in high heels? OUTSTANDING!
The fat asses off of GERMANTOWN ROAD are hereby notified my data is moving to LONDON, ENGLAND to put GEORGE TENET'S private intel company out of business. EXPLORATION LANE was doing bad things? We'll catch you later--at The Hague.
Army Man will have to procure his punitive designer viruses someplace else, because the Howard Hughes Medical Institute (HHMI) is closing. Thanks for the big endowment, and if the creepy scientists at HHMI created HIV and AIDS, many more are, "Goin' to jail."
All Chicago mobsters and sniveling Cubs fans take note. BOEING is moving to France, and the judge JUDY! JUDY! JUDY! jury is still out over whether SEATTLE, WASHINGTON will be nuked twice on the Cimemaplex screen because of my script titled II. St. Louis machinists, pack your bags or take generous severance pay--this is the real one, this is the great one.
And, now that "KRYSTAL" (Meth?) answers the phone at SLU Care In St. Louis, as with "CHRISTY GRAHAM" (Cocaine?) at PENSKE, maybe FATHER BIONDI is, "Goin' to jail."
I shall return to my spirited defense of TIGER WOODS and sexual intercourse later, after the essential (CA) questions:
1. Has it flopped yet?
2. Are they dead yet?
3. Have you cast RITA yet?
4. Can I go home now?
5. (BONUS) Has JACK NICHOLSON puked yet?
Thanks for the mint condition copy of Flying that came from a newsstand dated March, 2005. I tore-up several reader response cards as scrap paper to mark all of the pages of interest. I've already "bagged" another magazine featuring a C-130 with my beautiful Newbury Park motel room number on the instrument panel (3 digit readout--what are the odds?), and now, 726 on the "dashboard" of the Gulfstream 450? Much more later; for now, I'll eat my Scully hat if the pilot's hands turn out to be someone I know.
In the ancient history department, the Martin P5M-2 Marlin and Grumman S2F-1 have spawned a new saying in addition to, "Girls, Mr. Hughes knows what's in your purse." How about, "Navy, Mr. Hughes knows what's in your nosecone."
Did BUZZ ALDRIN really ignite the LEM engine by putting a felt tip marker in the rocker switch? As a kid in The Loo I was outraged by the ROCKWELL deal in California, and now I'm outraged about California. Where are the old Apollo guys? They're just like the Thousand Oaks cops—never around when you need them.
Given all of the tinkers, tailors, soldiers, spies, and scummy deefense contractors staying at the Maf-IA La Quinta [I just went outside to holler at military helicopters—why all of the noise?] are just sitting around waiting for a Neo-Nazi's black German built car to hit me, let's hit below the RICHARD HELMS BURNBAG belt as I seek 72 hours of detention on the real cuckoos—kind of like poor O.J.'s “real killers.”
Once upon a time, a man was on a bus. He sat in a seat facing the front of the bus. On a seat facing toward the center aisle of the bus sat a pretty young woman with a few pimples on her face and a gap in her teeth like David Letterman's. The man knew this because the girl smiled right away. Cornell kids of the 1980's called this “facetime.” “Good morning,” said the man in response to a rare for Thousand Oaks smile. “I was going to cash the cans in,” said the girl, “but they aren't open yet.” “You can just ride the bus around, I like to do that,” said the man. Then a strange thing happened. When the man thought, “I wonder if she is spying on me, and the can collecting bit is because of the character in my short story I sent to Harper Collins.” With that thought, the girl turned and smiled.
The man thought, “That's strange, it's like she knows what I'm thinking without the delay of the devices.” The man then looked up at the mind reading devices on the ceiling of the bus. This caused the girl to giggle a bit. “Oh my God, can this one read my mind without the devices?,” the man wondered. The girl turned and smiled. After some chitchat with the bus driver, the man thought, “Okay let's test this...girl, you can flat-out read my mind, can't you?” And yes, she turned, and smiled again.
“Wow! Don't do anything bad with that skill,” thought the man. At that moment she smiled another near-angelic smile and giggled once more. At the Trans Center, the bus driver got off, and predictably sleazy guys were everywhere. The man thought, “Oh great, this is where he goes in the office and gets his little signal on whether I die or not for figuring out what this girl can do. During the wait, the man and girl said nothing, as if awaiting the outcome of a contest.
The man could not help sourly reviewing the fact that the mind reading devices and satellites they bounce data off of are made with technologies he owns, and may have gathered all of his thoughts and those of the young woman, so this “stranger” was no longer a stranger, since, as is said in the world of sports, they were “On the bubble” together. While the man couldn't read minds, he was sure the woman felt the same way.
When the driver returned, he passed the “code” by simply asking the girl, “Where do you want to go?” “To the high school,” she said. To spies, “high school” is some sort of code. And I don't have a job? No, not yet, but I am the man in the story, and I am running for president.
Let celibate Hughes get this straight; he hits the golf ball straight, while she sits at home and does you-know-what with the cable guy? Now that females are patrolling with AK-47's looking for me, wait until I unveil my proposal to kick them out of the U.S. Military.
Drama! Drama! This I holler often in Thousand Oaks, so since "computer class" has been cancelled this week, I shall finish trying to get my butt sued tomorrow. Anything to achieve judicial process and get out of this "prison."
Anything--that is not a crime on my part, that is.