No "do-over's" on the JOHN HINCKLEY thing--not allowed. Mister Hughes wants names, like everybody in the March 31, 1981 photos.

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!

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