Prishing =

Not held incommunicado in T.O.? Didn't know JOHN MURTHA had died until I tried to write to him.

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?