Friday, February 13, 2009

Alex Jones makes coffee (A satire?)



It was one of those Pleasant Valley Sundays: He awoke to the sound of his motion detection sensors--all of them were going off. What could it be? More precisely: who could it be, and why were they coming for him, especially on Sunday?

He knew why, he had no illusions--only certainty--and the wimmen folks eat that shit up, jack, even when one is clearly wrong. He was used to being wrong, sure, but he never told anyone and never displayed it openly. This was part of his key to success. Since he was surrounded by paranoiacs, he wore his fear on his sleeve...like a swastika. OK, in fact it was a swastika. Like everyone, he had his own secrets, buried deep in a closet. What were they?

The fact that he had a small penis--hey, nothing doing pal! That off-camera Bohemian Grove incident still stung him like the clap, it was all some Fifth columnist plot that he'd hatched on himself, so he scratched himself and shivered, nearly gagging. This was a momentous moment every morning, like mounting D-Day. Yes, it was time to get out of bed. It could become problematic: there were unnamed legions of conspiracies working against him at every moment, even while he slept...especially when he slept. He used to cover all of his windows with blinds but he started suffering from Vitamin D deprivation so they had to go.

He itched all over. It must have been something that was purposefully slipped into his eczema cream by a faceless cabal of geriatrics, this was certain, he knew it, he knew it, he goddamned well knew it. What was he thinking about earlier? This modern life was too much for him, which is why he needed someone--anyone--to blame for his inadequacies, especially nameless, faceless ones who could never be identified, who could never talk or fight back. Jews weren't going to cut it anymore, and besides, they tend to give as good as they get. No, one can never have enough fictional enemies, it's true, he decided, patting himself on the back so hard he sprained his fat, flaccid American wrist.

Oh yeah, he remembered what came next: coffee. Shit. He trembled violently. This would mean walking across the room into the line-of-sight of Black Ops snipers. The blinds were gone now. One time he tried leasing a room in the highest building in Texas but saw a Black helicopter hovering outside of a window as the suspicious realtor showed him the apartment. She was clearly a operative working for Mossad, but he needed a new place so she'd have to do.

Instead, she found him a unit that was less elevated in (and than) Austin. He could see the tower that Charles Whitman shot dozens from where he was at, finally shrugging off the erection he get at the thought of that 1966 incident. He had no questions in his mind--Whitman was a victim of MKULTRA mind control experiments, and so was he. There was nowhere to run--he knew this--and accepted that when it was his time...you know. He'd tuck his head between his legs and run like a pussy, c'mon people.

Over an hour had now elapsed since his first thought of coffee, and now he had to urinate badly. This presented other problems and conundrums. There were other windows open to the line-of-sight of other NWO snipers. How would he get to the bathroom? He had a plan...

He covered himself in an Army blanket but then worried that it might be tainted with smallpox, so he dropped it and started crawling on the floor below the windows. He was clever and wouldn't allow these forces arrayed against him to alter his life one bit, and they hadn't, no way, not even close. He'd always been like this, a paranoid. As a child, he was certain that the Boogeyman was coming to get him and had been through this drill before, he was a proactive kind of a guy. Coffee. Boogeyman. Crap. That was it: he'd have to call one of his assistants to come over, so he made a call, collect. There was no answer, dammit. Oh boy, oh Jesus Christ.

The time had come to be a man: he would walk upright into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee. This would mean putting his life on the line for millions who didn't even know his name, but he would make the sacrifice. He put one foot in front of the other, moving forward with great reluctance and spine-tingling fear. The kitchen grew nearer and his fear reached a fever pitch. He was quaking, but he had it under control and grabbed one of the NWO mugs he sold in the thousands on his website, grabbed the Guatemalan coffee from the freezer and was about to pour it into the filter when he realized he'd forgotten something crucial: the toxicology kit.

Great, now he'd have to run to the cupboard across the kitchen. He did, then got the coffee started. After twenty minutes it was ready. He felt something warm...he'd wet himself. Not again. Oh well, there would have to be another cover-up with the fans, but that was no-problemo, they'd swallow anything, even what was now running down his leg. By this point he couldn't control his laughing and abruptly stopped as he raised the cup of coffee to his mouth--he'd almost forgotten the toxicology test, how careless. It would take a few days for the results to come in, but he could stand the wait. It would be worth that good cup-o'-Joe...