2. Secrets And Beef Jerky

Henry was fondling his Nobel Peace Prize in his dimly lit office. An old film projector was running black and white news clips of the bombings over Cambodia back in ’69. There was no sound, except for the spinning reels, and the occasional puff on a stogie.

His gaze drifted from the moving images on the wall when I walked in, and he threw the metal disc towards me. I brought my hands together to catch it, but before I could, it turned into a raven. The bird circled the room before settling down on Henry’s left shoulder. Henry offered it some beef jerky from an open packet on the table in front of him.

“Arnold. Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to an empty chair. “Stogie?”

“No thanks,” I said, sitting down across from him. The bird was pecking away at the beef jerky lodged between Henry’s fat fingers.

“So it is business then. Very vell. Vhat can I do for you?”

“I need to find CROM.”

“Arnold,” he said, sighing. “You do not find CROM. CROM finds you.”

“Dammit Henry! I don’t have time for your bullshit!”

“So make time. Tell me, vhat vill you do vhen you find CROM? Hm?”

“I’M GONNA RIP OUT THAT COCKSUCKER’S HEART!” Both fists slammed against the table. This startled the bird. Henry appeared unfazed. He offered the bird another piece of jerky.

“This vill upset the order of things.”

“I DON’T CARE!” I was on my feet, standing over him.

“I’m sorry Arnold. I cannot help you.” Tiny beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead. “Please. Sit down. Have a stogie.”

I lunged forward and clasped his throat with my right hand. I squeezed hard. My knees were on the table, and I used my weight to push him down in his chair.

“Arnold,” he gasped. “Vhat the fuck are you doing?!” The bird flew up into the air, and then turned back into a metal disc, which dropped to the floor with a clink.

I tightened my grip.

“Stop… please… this… is… maddness…” His voice was barely a whisper. His face was turning blue. His pleading eyes were looking right at me.

I loosened my grip, but kept my weight on him. “Tell me how to find CROM, you fat, useless piece of shit.”

He gulped for air. “Vhat vill you do if I don’t?” he sneered, between greedy breaths. “Hm? Kill me?” He started to laugh, but his glee was soon reduced to a fit of coughing.

“No,” I said. “That would be too convenient for you. I’ll expose you, you sick son of a bitch. I know all your dirty, little secrets, Heinz.”

He said nothing as he sat there in his chair, his eyes wide with horror. I got up off the table and walked around to where his Nobel Peace Prize had fallen. I picked up the metal disc, and wiped some dust off it. I held it out to Henry, just beyond his reach.

“Now, I will ask you for the last time… how do I find CROM?”

The bastard broke, and told me everything he knew, which wasn’t very much. But it was enough to keep his secrets safe for one more day. So I left him alone in his dimly lit office. The old film projector was still running black and white news clips of the bombings over Cambodia back in ’69. The only sound was the spinning reels, and the muffled sobbing of a tired, lonely man.

Somehow, I don’t think he was crying over dead Cambodians.

1. I have wept at the altar of CROM…

…and he has forsaken me. I will not be elected President of the Universe in 2012. Fuck him. If this is the will of CROM, I will destroy him. With his still-beating heart in my hand, I will sit on his throne and I will become him.

I…

WILL…

BE…

CCCRRROOOMMM!!!

Thank You

Fifty posts. Time to call it a day. As you can see, I’ve got a lot of shit to sign. Kissinger walked into the office five minutes ago and dumped this huge stack of papers onto my table. Manolo’s taken the day off, so ol’ muggins here has to sort them out. It’s been a lot of fun writing this blog, and we hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. From Manolo, Kissinger and myself: thanks for stopping by. Don’t forget to vote for me in 2012.

A Wild Coincidence

So according to the head geek at the University of San Francisco, the odds of this actually happening were one in 10 million. What can I tell you? I’m a very lucky guy, HA^TM HA^TM HA^TM! How much do you wanna be me right now, huh? Anyway, the whole thing was Manolo’s idea. He hates Tom Ammiano and the other losers in the State Assembly even more than I do. Like I’ve got nothing better to do with my time than to sit in front of my computer and write mildly amusing letters to my enemies. Seriously, I have to prepare for my inevitable ascendancy to the Presidency of the Universe in 2012! EEEYYYAAARRRGGGHHH^TM!!!

The Toxic Avenger

So I’ve got a disease, and it’s eating away at my muscular soul. It’s an obsession, getting in the way of my gubernatorial duties. Clouding my judgment. Fogging things up. Making a mess… I can’t stop thinking about her.

Her neuroses. Her incessant insecurity. Her whoring for attention. It’s fascinating. I have never before been in the presence of a creature so vile and nasty, with so little self-respect, whose sole purpose in life is to make other people notice her, no matter what the cost to herself.

There is a perverse thrill at the thought of getting tangled in her web of self-obsession, of trying to shoulder the radioactive baggage she carries around with her, of getting shipwrecked in the violent storms that rage in her fragile psyche. It’s not love. Not even close. It’s a challenge. And the thing in life I love more than tits and stogies is a good challenge.

But it’s more than that. It’s also about reaffirming my belief that there’s a good, happy person inside all of us, buried beneath the bullshit^TM, waiting to get out. Most of us just need a helping hand from time to time. Some need a gubernatorial bratwurst. And I am more than willing to make that personal sacrifice and serve the greater good.

If I make it back alive, all I ask is to be remembered as the man-king who fixed Ann Coulter and made the world just that little bit more pleasant for the rest of us to live in.

Politiks 101

So everybody’s favourite fire-breathing superhero is poised to become the world’s first carbon billionaire. I’m shocked. Giddy with disbelief. The walls of reality are crashing in around me. Okay, not really.

First he makes a super smash-hit box-office movie about how if we all don’t stop farting and filling the atmosphere with gas, all the polar bears are gonna die. Or some shit like that. I forget the details. Kissinger and I were baked out of our skulls when we watched it. Then he invests his money in a bunch of businesses that record and regulate how much people are farting. Then these businesses get juicy government contracts to record and regulate how much people are farting.

Let’s take Silver Spring Networks as an example. How much was their contract from the Energy Department worth? That’s right. $560 million. The government policies he supports conveniently pump millions of dollars into businesses he has invested in. Duh. His buddy Maurice Strong spends the first five minutes of every day just laughing his ass off when he wakes up because you people are so fucking easy to fleece. Honest to CROM. EEEYYYAAARRRGGGHHH^TM!!!

I’ll tell you how much Mr Gore cares about his precious polar bears: in 2006 his mansion used up 221,000 kilowatt-hours; the national average is 10,656 kilowatt-hours. And then this little fuckweed has the nerve to fly around the world telling other people to fart less. What an asshole.

EVERYBODY PANIC!

SO Z5K7, THE ACCELERATED TURBO ARMAGEDDON VIRUS^TM IS GOING TO DESTROY US ALL! MANOLO! GET KISSINGER ON THE PHONE, AND THEN GET TO THE GUBERNATORIAL CHOPPER^TM! DO IT NOW^TM! WE’RE GOING TO VEGAS, BABY!

If You Want Something Done Right

So my buddies in the media have to make a really big deal about the fact that the election in Afghanistan was rigged. It’s all a big joke, see? “Look at those silly little brown people with their beards, trying to play democracy like the big boys. Aw, they messed it up, isn’t that cute? Do it again, do it again! Seriously. We’ve got guns.”

Kissinger and his pirate crew are gambling on the fact that the retarded majority who make up the lobotomized hive mind known as ‘The West’ will swallow it up. I mean, shit like that only goes down in backward ass countries where women are chained to the kitchen and a goat can be used as legal tender, right? Nothing like that happens here. Ever.

I mean, seriously, think about it. We’re civilized. We speak English. When we go to Starbucks and order a latte, we’re not getting a cup of coffee, we’re saving the fucking Universe! That’s how kool and awesome and special we are. Kickbacks? Double-dealing? Korruption? Not a chance. Well, maybe on your television, or in the movies. In real life, your government loves you. Trust me^TM.

Here’s the thing: what really pissed everyone off to the point that they had to make such a big deal of it isn’t the fact that the election was rigged, but that it was rigged so badly that even your average man and woman living in a cave in the middle of the fucking desert managed to find out it was rigged. They made the mistake of thinking that stupid Afghanis would be just as stupid and easy to bamboozle as stupid Amerikans. They were wrong. No one in the Universe is as stupid as stupid Amerikans.

We still need a puppet ruler in that country, and we’re gonna get one. Simply for that fact that we’ve pumped too much money into the whole operation to let it slide. The next election will also be rigged, but this time it’ll be done sneaky. Properly. The way it’s done here. And our boys are gonna be there with their guns, just to make sure no one gets too upset or makes too much of a fuss about it. ‘Cuz that’s how we’ve been rolling since the ’50s.

Manolo! Where’s my stogie?

Smokin’

So Rosario, honey, call me, okay? We need to make a movie together. I loved you in Alexander. Great performance. Really hit the spot. I don’t know who Farrell had to sleep with to get the title role. Probably Spacey. I suppose it was a movie about Greeks, HA^TM HA^TM!

There’s Gonna Be A New Circus In Town

So let me ask you a question: why do you people put your lives in the hands of politicians? Are they smarter than you? Better looking maybe? I’m smarter and better looking than you of course, and richer, more charismatic, more successful, but that’s not the point right now. The point is this: all they do is talk.

They talk, and they have meetings, and they sign things, and they make promises… and all this time, they do absolutely nothing. They’re not good at anything! I mean, think about it: that’s why they became politicians in the first place! They meddle in your lives, telling you how to live, sponging off you every chance they get and telling you that it’s for your own good and that you’ll thank them later. Otherwise it’ll be the end of the world as we know it, blah blah blah. Same old bullshit^TM. They’re leeches, parasites, and you people are all just a bunch of masochists with a severe case of Stockholm syndrome. It’s sad. So much potential, wasted.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: most of you need someone to tell you what to do. Left to your own devices, most of you would just break. You need to be lied to, bamboozled, bitch-slapped from time to time. You need it because you’re weak. Deep down inside, you’re all frightened little children. Passive, docile, easily distracted by one carefully orchestrated media circus after another. Well, let me tell you something: this circus is just getting started.