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...

Blag-o-mania! (a fuckin' satire)

"He [Lincoln] entered political life in one of those eras of delusive prosperity which so often precede great financial convulsions... . It was too much to expect of the Illinois Legislature that it should understand that the best thing it could do to forward this prosperous tendency of things was to do nothing.'' --Lincoln biographers John M. Hay and John G. Nicolay


"Fucking fuck is fucked! Fuck 'em, fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck!" yelled the Governor of Illinois at the Lieutenant Governor and his svelte Chicago wife, Patti. He was jumping up-and-down on a stuffed-canine, a bizarre scene soon to be available on DVD and Blu-Ray™ with added bonus features. Fuck. His Azar's™ Big Boy look was showing today and he was sporting a pompadour that could double for a beaver-pelt coming in for reentry.

"Look, fucker," stated the governor, "Either fuckin' get those fuckin' assholes off of the Tribune's editorial board, or fuck it, fucker. And no, I don't wear a fucking wig you asshole." He was being more restrained than usual. Patti had no druthers spelling shit out, fuck me for stating it.

"Fuck this shit, I'm the fucker who wears the pants in this family...'hold up that fucking Cubs shit, fuck 'em!' Gimme the fuckin' phone Rod," she shrieked, grabbing it like an IRS agent collecting on a delinquent tax bill from a casino owner. Her gun was drawn as well and she nervously pressed the .45-automatic to her sweat-covered temple repeatedly as she yelled into the receiver.

Machievelli never saw "la chienne" coming...

"Nuthin', and I mean nuthin' goes on in this fuckin' one horse town of Chicago without my fuckin' say-so, y'hear asswipes?! No more "Mrs. O'Leary's cow jokes either--and when do we get the bathroom retiled?!" Even the governor was shuddering over that last part of her remark. Fuck. Meanwhile, Assistant U.S. Attorney [NAME REDACTED] was listening-in with his wife and kids after a prolonged porno...you don't want to know.

"Heh-heh, I'm going to have to take this off of speaker-phone guys--uh, hold on! Er, shit, um, ahhh fuck!" muttered the government prosectuor. "OK guys, outta here, me and your mother need to listen-in on some very intimate conversations. The Governor of Illinois and his wife are talking out-their-asses again, bye-bye, chop-chop!" He clapped his hands together vigorously as he said it, and the kids left--resigned--but not without leaving a listening device of their own in the room so that they could monitor things in their bedrooms.

"Mom and dad are fucked, [NAME REDACTED] it's that simple," said the pie-faced teenager as they walked down the hall.

"Fuckin'-A-straight," said his sister. "Why can't we listen-in on private conversations too? Why do they get to have all the fucking fun?" Fucking adults...are there any of them left these days?

U.S. Attorney Patrick J. Fitzgerald and his new bride were sitting down to a cup-o'-joe that morning: "Gosh-and-golly, darling, you have no idea how much emotional damage listening these wiretaps has done to my fragile eggshell mind--the language of these people. We never tawked like this in Flatbush--never!!!" He was becoming overexcited by it all, huffing and puffing away, a real sight, a bourgeois hoot, but that's the effect of Jesuit education for ya'.

"Now-now, dear," said his celeb-chasing law groupie wife, "The blood-pressure, remember, remember, oh my, oh my. You know this isn't going to help you with the 'personal problem' we've both been experiencing lately," she sighed, exhaling a very long time. An imp of the perverse snickered within the walls of their home, but got a little electrical-shock from the wiring.

"What the fuck was that sound?! ...'People now know that if you're part of a corrupt conduct, where one hand is taking care of the other and contracts are going to people, you don't have to say the word 'bribe' out loud... . And I think people need to understand we won't be afraid to take strong circumstantial cases into court,' " he exclaimed loudly at the breakfast table. He could feel his own sense of outrage in his now-swollen testicles. His wife wisely interved again.

"Patrick--listen to me: this is like that I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby prosecution, dear. Disclosure on it was, erm...premature." She warmly grasped his hand as she told him this, but it was the last thing she needed to say this morning. Timing is everything, especially when applying the "rhythm method." The Fitzgerald clan had a long history of premature ejaculation, the main reason the U.S. Attorney was sitting there arguing with his new wife at all. Hey, Irish doormen need a little piece occasionally, Jesus Christ.

"The conduct would make Lincoln roll over in his grave!" screamed the U.S. Attorney. This marital row wasn't going to blow over anytime soon. The nuclear option was considered and adopted by both sides that morning.

Wife Jennifer retorted, "Lincoln was questionable too--he was the most successful railroad lawyer of his day. He even owned land near Council Bluffs, Iowa, then pushed to create the Transcontinental Railroad through emergency legislation that he proposed to Congress, he wasn't so clean. Besides, he used to tell dirty jokes to visitors at the White House, and often!" She was becoming aroused, with that flushed look that's the same shade of a baboon's...you get the picture.

He was going to have to hit the books for a reply to that one, but he was qualified, determined, and dedicated to this job. He would spend long nights at the Chicago Public Library and the office as he always did. He would not suffer from premature ejaculation any longer, even though his self-confidence was currently flagging, if not looking a little droopy. He began reading his Kipling, just like Governor Blagojevich: No "If[s]" for this prosecutor, he was a man, my son.

"Fuck," said a mafia soldier listening-in on the Fitzgerald breakfast.

Later that day, the Fitzgeralds ate out at a local mob-owned bistro in Oak Park and bumped into the Blagos. The grub was good, although the U.S. Attorney swore (not literally, and not under oath) that he heard someone beating-the-shit out a busboy in the washroom. Fitzgerald looked across the room and saw a familiar face. The Governor of Illinois waved and the U.S. Attorney did likewise. "Fuck it," they all thought to themselves. Appearances are everything in Chicago, after all.

The ghost of Mike Royko grinned from his crevice in Chicago's Watertower, a structure once derided by no lesss a figure than Oscar Wilde.

"See, we can all get along, dear--we don't have to use such coarse language with people, and we can all act civilized in each other's presence even though he's investigating me, imperiling my very existence, and not just politically. I have more control than you, lady Macbeth." His wife seethed, and began eyeing the small, white phallic-shaped object jutting from her purse. "Yeah, I know dear--heh-heh--I know all-too-well." It was going to be a cold day in hell before...you know (starts with an "F").

[Ed., 01.04.2009--This reads like an episode of "Deadwood." I should have added the appellation, "cocksucker" and it would have fit.]