“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?
They did not write "Gimme Shelter?" By the way, "Prishing" is when the old spookies fake an entire press run of a magazine. Oh, they don't? This is the real Hughes, and as ALICE COOPER once sang, "Welcome to My Nightmare."
Let's "flicker" the lights, as with the McDonalds in Thousand Oaks at 11:00 p.m., to let the wretched homeless know it is, as FZ sang, "Time to go home," back to Planet Earth.
PARIS HILTON in a pink dress? Key under the door? 7,000 square feet? My imaginary spokesperson has no comment.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.”
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.”
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).
Howard nuts? DeHavilland said so, but did he go? (To the loony bin, that is). Of course not, and all comers trying to lay this allegation on the fourth generation fail. Prove your sanity every day? Did you cast RITA yet? Can I go home now?
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.
