Republicans, led by Wisconsin Rep. Paul Ryan, unveiled a bold new plan to cut the nation’s deficit by eliminating the military and replacing it with a voucher system for ordinary citizens to purchase weaponry.
“Instead of spending billions and billions of taxpayer dollars every year on our nation’s defense, Americans will receive $15,000 coupons which they can use to purchase everything they need to protect the country themselves, from guns and bullets to bazookas, tanks and even fighter jets,” Ryan said in an appearance on NBC’s Meet the Press.
Pointing to an array of pie charts and graphs, Ryan outlined his plan to save the country billions in defense spending and funnel the money to the wealthy in the form of tax cuts.
“These cut-out coupons will come to citizens through the mail, similar to those offered by pizza companies, like Domino’s,” Ryan said. “You’ll just have to be careful to read the expiration date at the bottom of each coupon. Otherwise, when your military hardware arrives on your doorstep, you won’t get the discount.”
“We’ve got to get America back to a feeling of individual responsibility,” Ryan told host David Gregory. “And that includes our nation’s military. If you have a problem with, say, China, don’t wait for the government to do something. Using our new coupon system, you’ll be able to go out on the free market and buy your own army of military contractors, and use them to attack Beijing. Or, if you prefer to go it alone, use your voucher towards purchase of a nuclear submarine. You’ll have the launch codes, not some socialist General living off the government tit.”
Speaker of the House John Boehner heartily endorsed Ryan’s plan, and said he intends to bring it up for a vote in the House as early as next week. “It’s time we put an end to socialized military in this country,” Boehner said.
House Majority Leader Eric Cantor called the plan a “win-win” for the American people. “Not only does our plan put a stop to this government takeover of the military, it gives our nation’s psychopaths an outlet for their rages and murderous sprees. Instead of going down to the local mall or fast-food joint to shoot it up, they can do something constructive. Like invade Norway.”
“Americans have a do-it-yourself kind of spirit,” said Cantor. “They don’t want bureaucrats in Washington deciding who needs to be shot or blown up. They want the freedom to go out there and blow them up themselves.”
On “Meet the Press,” Ryan went even further, saying he planned to propose similar plans to replace the country’s police and fire departments with a series of fun-house tokens, like those offered at arcades.
“Any American citizen will be able to purchase their own fire truck or police cruiser on the open market, as long as you have sufficient tokens. Only instead of using them to play Whack-a-Mole, you’ll be buying handcuffs, billy clubs and fire hoses. The plan will save taxpayers billions!”
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Monday, May 30, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Dictator's Toilet and Other Close Shaves
While we’ve all been sitting around waiting for the rapture, the world’s idiots haven’t stopped entertaining us with their colorful shenanigans. Take, for instance, the following news item:
Zimbabwean Police Sergeant Jailed For Using President Robert Mugabe's Toilet
Alois Mabhunu, a homicide detective in the western city of Bulawayo, is in a wee bit of trouble after he used a toilet reserved for President Robert Mugabe. The incident occurred at the annual Zimbabwe International Trade Fair (ZITF). According to local radio station VOP, this is how it all went down in the Presidential toilet:
"Mabhunu, due to the call of nature, rushed to the toilets reserved for Mugabe and his guest Ekra, but was stopped by other officers guarding the toilets," VOP said. "Under intense pressure from the call of nature, the officer forced his way in and managed to relieve himself. He was arrested on 7 May after a report was made to Mugabe's security men and to senior police officers in the city."
A local human rights lawyer pooh-poohs the charges. "There has to be a law saying the toilet is the president's, but this was a public one," Beatrice Mtetwa is quoted as saying. "They will have had to issue a proclamation in the government gazette specifying it. I bet they didn't do that."
Okay, I don’t mean to dump on the President of Zimbabwe, but do I understand this correctly? The Zimbabwean government regularly issues proclamations in the official government newspaper anointing specific public toilets as Mugabe’s personal privies, not to be sullied by the buttocks of any other human? What’s this feature in the gazette called? The Toilet Blotter?
Well, at least all of Zimbabwe can rest easy now that the police have flushed out this dangerous criminal. And let this be a warning to the rest of you: Don’t use the president’s whiz palace or urine trouble, pal!
Meanwhile, in Florida, a woman named Megan Barnes crashed into the back of a pickup truck at about 45 mph while driving on the highway between Miami and Key West. Ms. Barnes told the investigating officer that she was distracted because she was “shaving her bikini area” while driving.
But wait! It gets better. Ms. Barnes told the officer she was on her way to a date and “wanted to be ready for the visit,” so she asked her ex-husband (I’m guessing his name’s Cletus), who was in the car with her, to steer so she could concentrate on shaving her hoo-ha. To no one's particular surprise, the Highway Patrol quickly discovered that Ms. Barnes didn't have a valid driver's license. Oh, and, the day before, she'd been convicted of DUI and driving with a suspended license. Oh, and her car had been seized and had no insurance or registration. Oh, and she was on probation. But hey, at least she’s well groomed!
Zimbabwean Police Sergeant Jailed For Using President Robert Mugabe's Toilet
Alois Mabhunu, a homicide detective in the western city of Bulawayo, is in a wee bit of trouble after he used a toilet reserved for President Robert Mugabe. The incident occurred at the annual Zimbabwe International Trade Fair (ZITF). According to local radio station VOP, this is how it all went down in the Presidential toilet:
"Mabhunu, due to the call of nature, rushed to the toilets reserved for Mugabe and his guest Ekra, but was stopped by other officers guarding the toilets," VOP said. "Under intense pressure from the call of nature, the officer forced his way in and managed to relieve himself. He was arrested on 7 May after a report was made to Mugabe's security men and to senior police officers in the city."
A local human rights lawyer pooh-poohs the charges. "There has to be a law saying the toilet is the president's, but this was a public one," Beatrice Mtetwa is quoted as saying. "They will have had to issue a proclamation in the government gazette specifying it. I bet they didn't do that."
Okay, I don’t mean to dump on the President of Zimbabwe, but do I understand this correctly? The Zimbabwean government regularly issues proclamations in the official government newspaper anointing specific public toilets as Mugabe’s personal privies, not to be sullied by the buttocks of any other human? What’s this feature in the gazette called? The Toilet Blotter?
Well, at least all of Zimbabwe can rest easy now that the police have flushed out this dangerous criminal. And let this be a warning to the rest of you: Don’t use the president’s whiz palace or urine trouble, pal!
Meanwhile, in Florida, a woman named Megan Barnes crashed into the back of a pickup truck at about 45 mph while driving on the highway between Miami and Key West. Ms. Barnes told the investigating officer that she was distracted because she was “shaving her bikini area” while driving.
But wait! It gets better. Ms. Barnes told the officer she was on her way to a date and “wanted to be ready for the visit,” so she asked her ex-husband (I’m guessing his name’s Cletus), who was in the car with her, to steer so she could concentrate on shaving her hoo-ha. To no one's particular surprise, the Highway Patrol quickly discovered that Ms. Barnes didn't have a valid driver's license. Oh, and, the day before, she'd been convicted of DUI and driving with a suspended license. Oh, and her car had been seized and had no insurance or registration. Oh, and she was on probation. But hey, at least she’s well groomed!
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Rapture Preacher: “My bad. I forgot to carry the two.”
Saying “math was never my strong suit,” red-faced end-times preacher Harold Camping apologized to his followers tonight when the world didn’t end as he had predicted.
“It was a simple math problem,” Camping said, in a broadcast from his Oakland radio station. “I forgot to carry the 2. A little mistake like that has enormous ramifications in the Bible Code. It throws everything off. So, instead of God saying May 21 was Judgment Day, what He was actually saying was that it was Bad Judgment Day. And, when you look at all the people who believed me, and spent all their money and gave away all their worldly possessions to get ready for the Rapture – not to mention the millions of people who went to see that new ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ movie – it’s pretty hard to argue with Him. It was Bad Judgment Day.”
The 89-year-old number-crunching preacher has scrutinized the Bible for almost 70 years and claimed to have cracked a Bible code that told him when the Rapture would take place.
When a caller to his radio show pointed out that this marks the second time Camping has erroneously predicted the end of the world -- the first being in 1994 -- Camping responded, "Yeah, I know. What can I say? I suck at math."
Camping added that, according to his newest calculations, something called "The Rupture" is scheduled to take place on Tuesday, May 24th, but that it doesn't sound like anything to worry about.
“It was a simple math problem,” Camping said, in a broadcast from his Oakland radio station. “I forgot to carry the 2. A little mistake like that has enormous ramifications in the Bible Code. It throws everything off. So, instead of God saying May 21 was Judgment Day, what He was actually saying was that it was Bad Judgment Day. And, when you look at all the people who believed me, and spent all their money and gave away all their worldly possessions to get ready for the Rapture – not to mention the millions of people who went to see that new ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’ movie – it’s pretty hard to argue with Him. It was Bad Judgment Day.”
The 89-year-old number-crunching preacher has scrutinized the Bible for almost 70 years and claimed to have cracked a Bible code that told him when the Rapture would take place.
When a caller to his radio show pointed out that this marks the second time Camping has erroneously predicted the end of the world -- the first being in 1994 -- Camping responded, "Yeah, I know. What can I say? I suck at math."
Camping added that, according to his newest calculations, something called "The Rupture" is scheduled to take place on Tuesday, May 24th, but that it doesn't sound like anything to worry about.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Your Guide To Post-Rapture Looting, or Armageddon a New Microwave!
Featuring The Rapture Rap!
Remember waaaaaaaay back in January, when we warned you the world was going to end on May 21? Yeah. Now everyone’s hopping on the bandwagon. The Harold Camping bandwagon. You all know who he is by now. The 89-year-old end-times crank who claims that, at about 6 p.m. Saturday, Pacific time, about 2 percent of the world’s population will be immediately "raptured" to Heaven, while the rest of us will be, uhh, heading in the opposite direction.
So, if you've got big Saturday night plans, you might want to reschedule. Because, if you’re like us, the only hot date you've got this weekend will be with .... Satan!
Okay, you say. So the rapture’s coming. What do I need to know to be prepared?
Well, it’s kind of complicated, but basically, either you’re going to be sucked up into the clouds to meet Jesus, or, if you’re not on the guest list, you’ll be staying here to writhe in a misery of plagues – massive earthquakes, boils, frogs, and giant horse-like locusts with scorpion’s teeth and lion’s tails. So you might want to stock up on RAID. And unguent. Perhaps head out for a little post-rapture looting. We’ve got our hearts set on a new microwave.
But Wedgietor, you ask. What's the best way to go about post-rapture looting?
The key to a good post-rapture looting excursion is preparation. Before you head out to loot, make yourself a To-Loot list. Remember, there's going to be a massive earthquake, which will throw open all the graves, tossing the bodies of everyone who's ever died out into the open, so A) the roads may not be driveable, which means you'll probably be looting on foot (don't overdo it!), and B) it's going to be smelly. Also, C) there might be zombies.
Considering this last possibility, the first item on your To-Loot list should be a shotgun -- the best weapon for zombie-killing, according to "The Zombie Survival Guide."
#2 item on the To-Loot list: air-freshener.
#3: a pair of comfortable shoes.
#4: toilet paper. Lots of toilet paper.
Then, find a good place to hunker down for the End Times. There should be plenty of options, what with all the Christians being raptured right out of their houses. Try to pick a quiet, out-of-the-way place, with sturdy doors. And remember, no chimneys -- locusts like chimneys. Then, kick back and make yourself comfortable while you wait for the misery of plagues. And while you’re waiting, you can sing this little Rapture Rap we’ve written. We like to call it, "Baby Got Raptured":
I don’t like big bugs and I can not lie
You other brothers can't deny
When a locust flies in with a lion’s tail
Then you’ll know your life was an epic fail
You get stung, wanna pull out your hair
When the locust stings you on the derriere
Deep in the jeans you’re wearing
You’re doomed and you can't stop swearing
For five months they’re stingin’ your rump
Then just when you think you’re over the hump
Along comes the seventh Trump and says “You’re fired”
Throws the beast into the lake of fire
Then Satan gets cast in the bottomless pit
Oh, [bleep]!
Old Beelzebub, he escaped
Started a war but ended up in the fiery lake
So ladies, ladies
If you don’t wanna roll in Hades
Then sing it loud in the clouds
Even left-behind boys got to shout
Baby got raptured!
Remember waaaaaaaay back in January, when we warned you the world was going to end on May 21? Yeah. Now everyone’s hopping on the bandwagon. The Harold Camping bandwagon. You all know who he is by now. The 89-year-old end-times crank who claims that, at about 6 p.m. Saturday, Pacific time, about 2 percent of the world’s population will be immediately "raptured" to Heaven, while the rest of us will be, uhh, heading in the opposite direction.
So, if you've got big Saturday night plans, you might want to reschedule. Because, if you’re like us, the only hot date you've got this weekend will be with .... Satan!
Okay, you say. So the rapture’s coming. What do I need to know to be prepared?
Well, it’s kind of complicated, but basically, either you’re going to be sucked up into the clouds to meet Jesus, or, if you’re not on the guest list, you’ll be staying here to writhe in a misery of plagues – massive earthquakes, boils, frogs, and giant horse-like locusts with scorpion’s teeth and lion’s tails. So you might want to stock up on RAID. And unguent. Perhaps head out for a little post-rapture looting. We’ve got our hearts set on a new microwave.
But Wedgietor, you ask. What's the best way to go about post-rapture looting?
The key to a good post-rapture looting excursion is preparation. Before you head out to loot, make yourself a To-Loot list. Remember, there's going to be a massive earthquake, which will throw open all the graves, tossing the bodies of everyone who's ever died out into the open, so A) the roads may not be driveable, which means you'll probably be looting on foot (don't overdo it!), and B) it's going to be smelly. Also, C) there might be zombies.
Considering this last possibility, the first item on your To-Loot list should be a shotgun -- the best weapon for zombie-killing, according to "The Zombie Survival Guide."
#2 item on the To-Loot list: air-freshener.
#3: a pair of comfortable shoes.
#4: toilet paper. Lots of toilet paper.
Then, find a good place to hunker down for the End Times. There should be plenty of options, what with all the Christians being raptured right out of their houses. Try to pick a quiet, out-of-the-way place, with sturdy doors. And remember, no chimneys -- locusts like chimneys. Then, kick back and make yourself comfortable while you wait for the misery of plagues. And while you’re waiting, you can sing this little Rapture Rap we’ve written. We like to call it, "Baby Got Raptured":
I don’t like big bugs and I can not lie
You other brothers can't deny
When a locust flies in with a lion’s tail
Then you’ll know your life was an epic fail
You get stung, wanna pull out your hair
When the locust stings you on the derriere
Deep in the jeans you’re wearing
You’re doomed and you can't stop swearing
For five months they’re stingin’ your rump
Then just when you think you’re over the hump
Along comes the seventh Trump and says “You’re fired”
Throws the beast into the lake of fire
Then Satan gets cast in the bottomless pit
Oh, [bleep]!
Old Beelzebub, he escaped
Started a war but ended up in the fiery lake
So ladies, ladies
If you don’t wanna roll in Hades
Then sing it loud in the clouds
Even left-behind boys got to shout
Baby got raptured!
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Schwarzenegger admits, “I am the Impregnator”
As attention in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s “love-child gate” shifted to the former housekeeper who bore his child, the former governor and movie star made a bizarre admission at a hastily-called press conference, announcing that he is actually a cyborg sent from the future to single-handedly repopulate the planet.
With his estranged wife, Maria Shriver, at his side, Schwarzenegger spoke to a crowd of stunned reporters gathered outside his Pacific Palisades mansion.
“It is true,” he said. “I am the Impregnator, a cyborg model T-1000 love machine, sent from the future to save humankind. You see, on January 27, 2013, one week after Michele Bachmann is sworn in as the 45th President of the United States, a massive nuclear war is triggered when President Bachmann accidentally attacks North Korea, China, Russia, Iran, Mexico, Chile, Vietnam, France, England, Germany and Taxachusetts simultaneously with nuclear weapons. After those countries retaliated, a worldwide nuclear fire ensued. No humans survived. I was sent back in time from the future to repopulate the planet with as many half-cyborg babies as possible, so that they can survive this nuclear fire. That is why I have spent the past thirty years spreading my cyborg seed all across the planet Earth. Now that I have completed my mission, it is time for me to return to the future. But before I go, I would like to say to all of my bastard love-children: Hasta la vista, babies.”
Schwarzenegger then stepped onto an elevator platform above a vat of boiling molten steel. Turning to Shriver, he handed the elevator controls to her. “Here,” he said. “I cannot self-terminate. You must lower me into the…”
“Oh, don’t worry, you bastard,” said Shriver, feverishly pushing the button that lowered her philandering cyborg husband into the pit of unbelievably hot bubbling molten liquid.
As his buff body sunk into the boiling goo, the bodybuilder-turned actor-turned-governor of California told his wife, “I know now why you cry. But it is something I can never do.”
“I’m not crying!” Shriver yelled, continuing to push the button. “Die, lying bastard cyborg scum!”
And with that, Schwarzenegger disappeared into the blistering lava. Then, however, a metal hand reappeared, thrusting out of the fiery liquid to form a final thumbs-up, before sinking once more into the molten steel.
With his estranged wife, Maria Shriver, at his side, Schwarzenegger spoke to a crowd of stunned reporters gathered outside his Pacific Palisades mansion.
“It is true,” he said. “I am the Impregnator, a cyborg model T-1000 love machine, sent from the future to save humankind. You see, on January 27, 2013, one week after Michele Bachmann is sworn in as the 45th President of the United States, a massive nuclear war is triggered when President Bachmann accidentally attacks North Korea, China, Russia, Iran, Mexico, Chile, Vietnam, France, England, Germany and Taxachusetts simultaneously with nuclear weapons. After those countries retaliated, a worldwide nuclear fire ensued. No humans survived. I was sent back in time from the future to repopulate the planet with as many half-cyborg babies as possible, so that they can survive this nuclear fire. That is why I have spent the past thirty years spreading my cyborg seed all across the planet Earth. Now that I have completed my mission, it is time for me to return to the future. But before I go, I would like to say to all of my bastard love-children: Hasta la vista, babies.”
Schwarzenegger then stepped onto an elevator platform above a vat of boiling molten steel. Turning to Shriver, he handed the elevator controls to her. “Here,” he said. “I cannot self-terminate. You must lower me into the…”
“Oh, don’t worry, you bastard,” said Shriver, feverishly pushing the button that lowered her philandering cyborg husband into the pit of unbelievably hot bubbling molten liquid.
As his buff body sunk into the boiling goo, the bodybuilder-turned actor-turned-governor of California told his wife, “I know now why you cry. But it is something I can never do.”
“I’m not crying!” Shriver yelled, continuing to push the button. “Die, lying bastard cyborg scum!”
And with that, Schwarzenegger disappeared into the blistering lava. Then, however, a metal hand reappeared, thrusting out of the fiery liquid to form a final thumbs-up, before sinking once more into the molten steel.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Report: Bin Laden Partied With Porn Stars, Charlie Sheen
Evidence that Osama bin Laden partied with troubled actor Charlie Sheen at his Abbottabad compound was found in the hideout of the slain Al Qaida leader by the Navy Seals who killed him, U.S. officials said on Monday.
The evidence recovered in bin Laden's compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, consists of Sheen’s wallet, which the debauched star apparently left behind, and home-made video recordings that show bin Laden drinking, snorting cocaine, and cavorting with Sheen and two unnamed porn stars, according to the officials, who discussed the discovery on condition of anonymity.
At one point on the video, a drugged up and naked bin Laden is shown smashing furniture in his bedroom and locking one of his wives in the closet, the officials said. Reuters identified the woman on the video as bin Laden's youngest wife, Yemeni born Amal Ahmed Abdel-Fatah al-Sada, and said that she was screaming inside a locked closet while the terrorist mastermind threw chairs and tables around the room.
“He thought she stole his walkie-talkie,” the Reuters report states. “She was fearing for her life and was hysterical. Bin Laden was incoherent and screaming slurs at her, while Charlie Sheen can be heard in the background telling him to ‘man up.’”
The officials said they believe the videos were made earlier this year, in January or early February, and that they include a 20-minute rant by bin Laden in which the al Qaida leader appears to have been coached by Sheen on how to improve his video messages.
In this section of the video, according to a source who has seen the footage, bin Laden appears on camera, chain-smoking and rocking back and forth. He claims to have ‘the blood of a camel’ in his veins’ and says that ‘defeat is not an option.’
“They are going to have to change the United States of America to the Usama States of America. Duh. Winning!’” the source quoted bin Laden as saying.
According to Sheen’s lawyer, Monty Dingle, the former “Two and a Half Men” star has been interrogated by U.S. intelligence, but remembers nothing of the incident.
“Charlie Sheen says that he was kidnapped by ‘The Church of the Martian Idiots’ – which is what he calls Alcoholics Anonymous – and that they brainwashed him,” said Dingle. “He recalls nothing from 2004 up to and including last night.”
The evidence recovered in bin Laden's compound in Abbottabad, Pakistan, consists of Sheen’s wallet, which the debauched star apparently left behind, and home-made video recordings that show bin Laden drinking, snorting cocaine, and cavorting with Sheen and two unnamed porn stars, according to the officials, who discussed the discovery on condition of anonymity.
At one point on the video, a drugged up and naked bin Laden is shown smashing furniture in his bedroom and locking one of his wives in the closet, the officials said. Reuters identified the woman on the video as bin Laden's youngest wife, Yemeni born Amal Ahmed Abdel-Fatah al-Sada, and said that she was screaming inside a locked closet while the terrorist mastermind threw chairs and tables around the room.
“He thought she stole his walkie-talkie,” the Reuters report states. “She was fearing for her life and was hysterical. Bin Laden was incoherent and screaming slurs at her, while Charlie Sheen can be heard in the background telling him to ‘man up.’”
The officials said they believe the videos were made earlier this year, in January or early February, and that they include a 20-minute rant by bin Laden in which the al Qaida leader appears to have been coached by Sheen on how to improve his video messages.
In this section of the video, according to a source who has seen the footage, bin Laden appears on camera, chain-smoking and rocking back and forth. He claims to have ‘the blood of a camel’ in his veins’ and says that ‘defeat is not an option.’
“They are going to have to change the United States of America to the Usama States of America. Duh. Winning!’” the source quoted bin Laden as saying.
According to Sheen’s lawyer, Monty Dingle, the former “Two and a Half Men” star has been interrogated by U.S. intelligence, but remembers nothing of the incident.
“Charlie Sheen says that he was kidnapped by ‘The Church of the Martian Idiots’ – which is what he calls Alcoholics Anonymous – and that they brainwashed him,” said Dingle. “He recalls nothing from 2004 up to and including last night.”
Friday, May 13, 2011
Dr. Mengele comes out of hiding, defends enhanced interrogation
Nazi War Criminal Dr. Josef Mengele has come out of hiding to join the parade of former Bush administration officials defending their use of torture.
Dr. Mengele, 100, infamous for conducting grisly human expriments on concentration camp inmates at Auschwitz during World War II, fled to South America after the war and was thought to have died in 1979. But Mengele resurfaced this week when he appeared on Fox News’ Sean Hannity Show with former Vice President Dick Cheney.
Mengele, aka “The Angel of Death,” reminded Fox viewers that the Bush administration term for torture – “enhanced interrogation techniques” – originally came from the Nazis.
“It was (Gestapo Chief Heinrich) Muller, actually -- who first coined the phrase, ‘Verscharfte Vernehmung,’ which translates to ‘sharpened, intensified or enhanced interrogation,” said Mengele.
The former SS Captain seemed at ease, playfully teasing Cheney at times. “You Americans amuse me. You are so fickle. At the Tokyo Trials after World War II, you tried, convicted and even hung Japanese soldiers for waterboarding POWs. And you were certainly against it when the Gestapo did it, accusing us of breaking the Geneva conventions. Then, after 9-11 you embraced it. Now, who knows? Make up your mind, won’t you?”
Hannity seemed in awe of the doctor. “I’m a big fan of your work,” the smitten host told Mengele.
Cheney, meanwhile, seemed equally infatuated. “When you talk about torture, it’s Vlad the Impaler, Torquemada, and this man right here. They’re the holy trinity of pain infliction.”
Hannity had Mengele sign an autograph, and then Cheney and Mengele went on NBC’s “Meet the Press” with David Gregory, joining former Bush administration officials Condoleeza Rice, Donald Rumsfeld, torture memo author John Yoo, and Cheney’s daughter, Liz, who proclaimed, “the debate is over. Torture works.”
“Who cares whether it works or not,” said Mengele. “The point is, it’s fun!”
Dr. Mengele, 100, infamous for conducting grisly human expriments on concentration camp inmates at Auschwitz during World War II, fled to South America after the war and was thought to have died in 1979. But Mengele resurfaced this week when he appeared on Fox News’ Sean Hannity Show with former Vice President Dick Cheney.
Mengele, aka “The Angel of Death,” reminded Fox viewers that the Bush administration term for torture – “enhanced interrogation techniques” – originally came from the Nazis.
“It was (Gestapo Chief Heinrich) Muller, actually -- who first coined the phrase, ‘Verscharfte Vernehmung,’ which translates to ‘sharpened, intensified or enhanced interrogation,” said Mengele.
The former SS Captain seemed at ease, playfully teasing Cheney at times. “You Americans amuse me. You are so fickle. At the Tokyo Trials after World War II, you tried, convicted and even hung Japanese soldiers for waterboarding POWs. And you were certainly against it when the Gestapo did it, accusing us of breaking the Geneva conventions. Then, after 9-11 you embraced it. Now, who knows? Make up your mind, won’t you?”
Hannity seemed in awe of the doctor. “I’m a big fan of your work,” the smitten host told Mengele.
Cheney, meanwhile, seemed equally infatuated. “When you talk about torture, it’s Vlad the Impaler, Torquemada, and this man right here. They’re the holy trinity of pain infliction.”
Hannity had Mengele sign an autograph, and then Cheney and Mengele went on NBC’s “Meet the Press” with David Gregory, joining former Bush administration officials Condoleeza Rice, Donald Rumsfeld, torture memo author John Yoo, and Cheney’s daughter, Liz, who proclaimed, “the debate is over. Torture works.”
“Who cares whether it works or not,” said Mengele. “The point is, it’s fun!”
Friday, May 6, 2011
Al-Qaida Puts Out Help-Wanted Ad for “Evil Mastermind”
Al-Qaida confirmed the killing of Osama bin Laden and put out a Help Wanted ad for his replacement Friday. The ad, released on the terror organization’s official Web site, was dated Tuesday, the day after bin Laden’s death. It reads as follows:
Help Wanted: Evil Mastermind
Al-Qaida has an opening for an Evil Mastermind with the necessary strategic, marketing, leadership, business and evil acumen to direct the future growth of a worldwide terrorist organization. The EM is responsible for strategizing and creating worldwide fiendish plots and jihads, terrorizing various nations and people, and synergizing backward overflow. In addition, the EM takes part in the preparation of occasional menacing video and Internet statements, which consist of issuing various threats, rants, manifestos and announcements. The ideal candidate will have a minimum of 10 years of relevant experience, including experience with fundraising, fiscal and staff management, explosives, and beards. A history of increasingly-responsible roles in a worldwide evil organization is required. Some regional and international travel will be necessary, and extended hours of squatting in caves, walled compounds, spider holes, volcanic lairs or other undisclosed locations may be required.
Physical Requirements: Ability to use various military weaponry, lift up to 20 pounds, sit or squat for extended periods of time, and flee from Navy SEALS.
Al-Qaida offers a competitive salary and benefits package, including Medical and Dental Insurance, 401(k) with Company Match, use of various safe houses and caves, and one slightly-used bullet-proof vest (size XL). NOTE: We are no longer able to offer Life Insurance for this position.
As part of our standard hiring process for new employees, employment with the Al-Qaida organization will be contingent upon successful completion of a comprehensive background check.
If interested, please contact our HR department.
Help Wanted: Evil Mastermind
Al-Qaida has an opening for an Evil Mastermind with the necessary strategic, marketing, leadership, business and evil acumen to direct the future growth of a worldwide terrorist organization. The EM is responsible for strategizing and creating worldwide fiendish plots and jihads, terrorizing various nations and people, and synergizing backward overflow. In addition, the EM takes part in the preparation of occasional menacing video and Internet statements, which consist of issuing various threats, rants, manifestos and announcements. The ideal candidate will have a minimum of 10 years of relevant experience, including experience with fundraising, fiscal and staff management, explosives, and beards. A history of increasingly-responsible roles in a worldwide evil organization is required. Some regional and international travel will be necessary, and extended hours of squatting in caves, walled compounds, spider holes, volcanic lairs or other undisclosed locations may be required.
Physical Requirements: Ability to use various military weaponry, lift up to 20 pounds, sit or squat for extended periods of time, and flee from Navy SEALS.
Al-Qaida offers a competitive salary and benefits package, including Medical and Dental Insurance, 401(k) with Company Match, use of various safe houses and caves, and one slightly-used bullet-proof vest (size XL). NOTE: We are no longer able to offer Life Insurance for this position.
As part of our standard hiring process for new employees, employment with the Al-Qaida organization will be contingent upon successful completion of a comprehensive background check.
If interested, please contact our HR department.
Fox News Headquarters Explodes – Investigators Cite Lethal Mixture of Stupid and Crazy
Investigators sifting through the rubble of Fox News Channel headquarters in New York City after it blew up early this morning say they believe the massive explosion was caused by a lethal mixture of crazy and stupid, forming an explosive chemical that experts call “crupid.”
“Anyone who’s spent five minutes watching that channel since the death of Osama bin Laden would immediately recognize that a dangerous chemical combination was being introduced,” said New York City fire investigator Jerry Ewing. “All the signs were there. When you get that much crazy and stupid in one enclosed space, something has to give.”
Chemicals expert James Farthammer agrees. “Our investigators have been going over the tapes of their broadcasts since bin Laden’s death was announced, and the word I’m hearing is that they’ve never seen so much crupid in one place. It’s just a recipe for disaster, like lighting a match next to an open gas line.”
The building, located in midtown Manhattan just a few blocks from Times Square, blew up in what witnesses termed a massive blast at about 3:40 a.m. Friday. No one was inside the building at the time, and no injuries were reported.
“We got lucky,” said Ewing. “If this had happened during the day, with all the craziness and stupidity you had built up in there, we’d have had major loss of life.”
According to Farthammer, lethal levels of crazy have been brought in by, among others, Glenn Beck, who wondered on one broadcast if Bin Laden was “ghosted out of his compound” and speculated that what we’re seeing now is just a “show,” and Fox Business host Andrew Napolitano, who speculated that the government might not be “telling us the truth or pulling a fast one to save Obama's lousy presidency.”
Stupid emissions have included Sean Hannity, Karl Rove and others declaring, without any evidence, that Bin Laden’s death was a “victory for torture,” and countless claims that Obama’s appearance in New York City was a “shameless victory lap.”
Meanwhile, according to Farthammer, Fox & Friends’ Steve Doocy has brought enough of both elements to blow the building up all by himself, citing the following:
On the May 4th edition, Doocy said of the potential release of photographs of bin Laden's burial, "If you don't show [bin Laden's] face, then, you know, who's to say what was in that bag?" leading co-host Gretchen Carlson to immediately state: "I believe it was him." On May 3rd, after a guest pointed out that the body has been confirmed as bin Laden's through DNA testing, Doocy replied that skeptics won't "believe DNA" evidence, because "that's just numbers on a piece of paper." And Thursday, Doocy reacted to news that the Obama administration will not be releasing photographic evidence of bin Laden's death by claiming that the photograph will, eventually, be leaked, "if it exists."
Farthammer warned that other structures containing Republicans and right-wingers could also be in danger due to high levels of crupid. He cited The Washington Times building in the nation’s capital, and the homes of conservative bloggers like Michelle Malkin, who erroneously reported that President Obama had a flag removed from Ground Zero before his appearance there, and anyplace that Sarah Palin spends more than five minutes in.
“No doubt, when we’re talking about lethal mixtures of stupid and crazy, Palin is a walking bomb,” said Farthammer.
“Anyone who’s spent five minutes watching that channel since the death of Osama bin Laden would immediately recognize that a dangerous chemical combination was being introduced,” said New York City fire investigator Jerry Ewing. “All the signs were there. When you get that much crazy and stupid in one enclosed space, something has to give.”
Chemicals expert James Farthammer agrees. “Our investigators have been going over the tapes of their broadcasts since bin Laden’s death was announced, and the word I’m hearing is that they’ve never seen so much crupid in one place. It’s just a recipe for disaster, like lighting a match next to an open gas line.”
The building, located in midtown Manhattan just a few blocks from Times Square, blew up in what witnesses termed a massive blast at about 3:40 a.m. Friday. No one was inside the building at the time, and no injuries were reported.
“We got lucky,” said Ewing. “If this had happened during the day, with all the craziness and stupidity you had built up in there, we’d have had major loss of life.”
According to Farthammer, lethal levels of crazy have been brought in by, among others, Glenn Beck, who wondered on one broadcast if Bin Laden was “ghosted out of his compound” and speculated that what we’re seeing now is just a “show,” and Fox Business host Andrew Napolitano, who speculated that the government might not be “telling us the truth or pulling a fast one to save Obama's lousy presidency.”
Stupid emissions have included Sean Hannity, Karl Rove and others declaring, without any evidence, that Bin Laden’s death was a “victory for torture,” and countless claims that Obama’s appearance in New York City was a “shameless victory lap.”
Meanwhile, according to Farthammer, Fox & Friends’ Steve Doocy has brought enough of both elements to blow the building up all by himself, citing the following:
On the May 4th edition, Doocy said of the potential release of photographs of bin Laden's burial, "If you don't show [bin Laden's] face, then, you know, who's to say what was in that bag?" leading co-host Gretchen Carlson to immediately state: "I believe it was him." On May 3rd, after a guest pointed out that the body has been confirmed as bin Laden's through DNA testing, Doocy replied that skeptics won't "believe DNA" evidence, because "that's just numbers on a piece of paper." And Thursday, Doocy reacted to news that the Obama administration will not be releasing photographic evidence of bin Laden's death by claiming that the photograph will, eventually, be leaked, "if it exists."
Farthammer warned that other structures containing Republicans and right-wingers could also be in danger due to high levels of crupid. He cited The Washington Times building in the nation’s capital, and the homes of conservative bloggers like Michelle Malkin, who erroneously reported that President Obama had a flag removed from Ground Zero before his appearance there, and anyplace that Sarah Palin spends more than five minutes in.
“No doubt, when we’re talking about lethal mixtures of stupid and crazy, Palin is a walking bomb,” said Farthammer.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Aloha, My Lovely, Part 6: A Placenta in the Sun
From the case files of Sam Stain, Private Eye, who's been hired by Donald Trump to go to Honolulu and bring back the President's placenta
We splashed down in a stream of rushing water, and floated. The little Smart Car’s headlights showed the way as we bobbed along on the surface.
I looked at Al Gore, who was still gripping the wheel, as if he could steer. “The gizmo floats?” I said.
He pointed out the windshield. “Clearly. It’s not a Swift Boat, but it’ll do.”
We were moving fast, the river carrying us downstream, away from the Governor’s goons who’d been chasing us in the big Packard.
“You know,” said Gore, “this is a perfect example of how global climate change has adversely affected the planet. This raging river that we’re floating in used to be a tiny stream, but now, due to increased rains brought on by a warming climate…”
I thought about plugging him, but I couldn’t do it. There was only one alternative. Groaning, I opened the door and jumped.
I could hear the former Vice President’s frantic cries fading into the distance as I hit the water and went under. Gasping and flailing, I fought my way to the surface as the river hurtled me downstream. Then something slammed into the back of my head, and the lights went out.
I don’t know how much time had passed when I came to, lying spread-eagled on my back on the riverbank with a lump the size of a breadfruit bulging the back of my head. It was still dark, stars twinkling the night sky above. I staggered to my feet and stood there, pain throbbing my think-tank. Where was I? I had no clue. I had to get to the airstrip, somehow, and I was running out of time.
An idea crawled up my spine and nipped me in the noodle. I still had Al Gore’s Blackberry. I pulled the phone out, praying that it still worked. It did, flickering to life when I powered it up. A half an hour later I staggered onto the Halawa Beach airstrip, Mapquest leading the way. I was just in time. The sound of a jet engine cut the darkness from above. Looking up, I saw landing lights flashing as a big, dark jet descended out of the west. Moments later its wheels hit the ashphalt runway, a roaring blue 727 with the word TRUMP printed in big, white letters across the fuselage. I recognized the design – it was one of the Trump Airline jets from the ‘80s. The Donald had bought the Eastern Air Shuttle, a flying bus service that flew hourly shuttles between Boston, New York and Washington. He’d tried to turn it into a luxury shuttle, but it didn’t take. The airline went bango a couple years later, Trump defaulted on his loans and the company was turned over to creditors. He must have kept one of the jets for himself, I thought, as I watched the plane bounce down on the asphalt runway.
I followed, running to the end of the airstrip as Trump’s jet wheeled to a halt. A door opened at the rear of the aircraft and a comely blond stewardess lowered a portable stairway. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Stain,” she said as I walked into the empty jet. Well, it was almost empty. There was one other passenger: The Donald. He was sitting in a big swivel chair in the center of the aircraft, facing a flat-screen TV and holding an empty vodka glass.
“Have a seat,” he said. “I was giving a speech in Honolulu, so I thought I’d just swing by and pick you up. You look like shit, Stain. What the hell have you been doing?”
I started to answer but he cut me off, holding his empty glass up so the stewardess could see. “I’ll have another T&T, Tonya,” he said, jiggling the glass. He looked at me. “You want one, Stain? Trump and Tonic. My own label. Trump Vodka. You remember, I’m sure. It was the best, Stain. Everything I do is the best.”
I remembered reading somewhere about his vodka venture. He’d predicted the T&T would become one of the most requested drinks in America, but then the vodka went bust, just like the airline.
“I’ll take a bourbon,” I said.
Trump gave me a disgusted look, then turned to the flat screen. He was watching himself give a speech. “Watch this, Stain. It’s my favorite part,” he said, then he pointed the remote at the screen and turned up the sound.
The Trump on the screen was looking straight at me, his piercing blue eyes dancing with delight. “You wanna know what I’d tell the Chinese,” he said. “Here’s what I’d tell the Chinese. I’d say, ‘Listen you motherfuckers, we’re gonna drop a 25 percent tax on your asses.”
The crowd went wild.
The Donald muted the screen again, then turned to me, smiling smugly. “You see, Stain? They love me. I’m gonna tell you something. Everyone’s saying it’s all a publicity stunt, that I’m not really running for President. But let me tell you, I’m running. It’s gonna be Trump-Blagojevic, 2012. What do ya think? I’ve already got the slogan. ‘Let the hair take you there.’ What do ya think, Stain?”
“It’s catchy,” I said.
His too-blue eyes narrowed, boring into me, and his nostrils flared. “You stink, Stain,” he said. “Why don’t you go back into the dressing room and change your clothes. There’s a whole wardrobe back there from my personal collection. Go ahead. You’ll feel better.”
He turned back to the TV, turning the sound up once again. I got up and walked back to the back of the plane. Behind me, I heard him replaying his favorite line of the speech. The part where he tells the Chinese who’s boss.
Tonya, the stewardess, led me into a private dressing room, filled with clothes from the Donald J. Trump Signature Collection. I picked out a white silk dress shirt and a pair of black slacks. The labels read: MADE IN CHINA. Peeling out of my filthy clothes, I slipped them on. They fit like a dream, the silk cool and clean against my skin, but somehow, I felt even dirtier wearing them.
When I got back to my seat, there was a glass of bourbon waiting for me, but The Donald was gone. I picked up the glass and drank. Then I drank another. Before long, my eyes closed and I went drifting off to dreamland.
I awoke to a gentle rocking, sunlight streaming through the windows of the plane. Tonya’s hand was on my shoulder, shaking me awake. “Mr. Stain, we’re here,” she said.
I peered out the window. She was right, we were on the ground, the big Trump plane parked at a jetway next to a terminal. “Mombasa?” I said.
“Cairo,” said Tonya, smiling. “We had a change of plans. Mr. Trump told me to give you this.”
As I stood up, she handed me an envelope.
Cairo? What were we doing in Egypt? I opened the envelope. Inside were two Disney On Ice tickets and a note. The note read:
Stain,
I received a tip that what we want is in Egypt. A man named Dennis will contact you at the Sultan Bar, at the Mena House, near the Great Pyramids. Give him the Disney On Ice tickets, and he’ll tell you where to find Obama’s placenta. Contact me when you get back to New York.
- Trump
I took a cab to the Mena House, a spectacular hotel in the shadow of the pyramids, and went up to the Sultan Bar.
“I’m looking for Dennis,” I told the bartender, a dark, elegant-looking man with a big, black moustache. His eyes led me to a dark booth in the corner of the bar, where a little man with a fez on his head sat with his back to me, sipping a martini. I walked over and stood behind him, looking down at the top of his fez.
“You must be Dennis,” I said.
He turned. It was Dennis Kucinich, his gigantic, elf-like ears jutting out from beneath the fez. “And you are Mr. Stain,” he said. “You brought the Disney On Ice tickets?”
I nodded.
“Show me,” he said.
I slid into the booth opposite the congressman and handed him the envelope.
He rubbed his little fingers over the tickets, licking his lips. “Excellent,” he said, smiling.
“The placenta?” I said.
He slipped the tickets into his jacket and stood up. “Come with me.”
I followed him outside, through the luxurious marble lobby of the Mena House to the hotel’s sprawling, jasmine-scented gardens. Above the gardens towered the Great Pyramid of Giza. That’s where he took me, the tassle of his little red tarbouche bobbing beside his head as he lead the way. We exited the gardens and walked out onto the plateau of the pyramids, heading for the spectacular temple of the Pharoahs. We passed the Great Sphinx, reclining as it had for nearly 5,000 years, and made our way to the pyramid’s entrance. The temple filled my field of vision, its sides sloping at a perfect angle to the sky. Gazing up at the smoothly polished limestone, I felt a shudder, as if the cold fingers of time were passing over my spine.
We walked inside, our shoes making loud clicks on the ancient stone. Kucinich led me down a passageway that took us through a series of chambers, each seemingly smaller than the last, until I had to crouch down just to keep my head from smacking the stone ceiling. Finally he led me into a vestibule that opened up, the ancient stone walls soaring hundreds of feet high, sloping together at the same, steep degree as the pyramid itself.
The congressman stood in the center of the room, gazing up at the distant ceiling overhead. “They built this place,” he said. “Not the Egyptians. You know that, right?” His voice echoed off the pyramid’s walls.
“Who?” I asked. “What do you mean, not the Egyptians?”
He looked at me. “They visited me, Mister Stain. I was at Shirley MacLaine’s house, in Washington state. The smell of roses drew me out to my balcony where, when I looked up, I saw a gigantic triangular craft, silent and beautiful. It was watching me. It hovered, soundless, for ten minutes or so, and then it sped away with a speed I couldn’t comprehend. But I felt a connection in my heart and heard directions in my mind. Those directions led me here. Which is where I found this.”
He took something out of his jacket pocket. It was disc-shaped, about the size of a Frisbee, dark brown in color, almost maroon. It looked like it was made of rotten meat.
I moved toward him, staring at the dingus. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes,” said Dennis Kucinich, tossing the meat-disc onto the dusty floor of the pyramid. “It’s Obama’s placenta. Or whatever they call it on his planet. President Obama wasn’t born in Hawaii, Mister Stain. Nor was he born in Kenya. He came from up there, somewhere.” He pointed up, toward the ceiling, but what he really meant was beyond the ceiling. Beyond the pyramids. Beyond the earth.
“He’s an alien being, Mister Stain. Brought here, to our planet, to rule us.”
“You’re nuts,” I said.
“Am I?” said Kucinich, smiling, his little, rodent-like eyes dancing beneath the fez. “Or am I so sane I just blew your mind?”
I tried to cluck sympathetically, but it caught in my throat. Before I could get it out, somebody laid a blackjack to the back of my head and the lights went out completely.
*********
When I came to, my head was throbbing and my eyes didn’t want to focus. I made them. I was sitting in a first-class airline seat, with a portable DVD player in my lap. A card on the seatback in front of me read “Hawaiian Air.” Someone was shaking my shoulder. It was the flight attendant.
I felt like I was having a deja-vu. Or, was I?
“Sir, we’ve landed.”
“Landed?” I mumbled, my mouth full of marbles. “Where?”
“Honolulu,” she said, smiling. “You slept most of the flight. You were talking in your sleep, too.”
I rubbed my temples. “Oh yeah? What was I saying?”
“Something about Obama,” she said. “It was hard to make out.”
It was a dream. The whole thing, just a cockamamie dream. Being kidnapped. Joe Biden in drag. Al Gore. Kucinich. The Pyramids. All of it. I hadn’t solved any case. Obama wasn’t an alien. Either I was headed for the loony bin or … I looked down at the little DVD player on my lap. Fox News was on the screen, Sean Hannity spewing a mouthful of gibbering hooey. That was it. I’d been watching Trump’s lousy DVDs and I fell asleep. The teabags had opened, and the wingnut juice seeped into my brain. I folded the screen closed, then I stood up, shaking my head, trying to clear the gibberish.
I staggered off the plane and into the terminal. In my pocket, my cellphone buzzed and hummed. I answered it.
“Stain, it’s Donald Trump. I need you to come back to New York. Obama released his long-form birth certificate. I’m very proud of myself that I was able to force him to do this.”
“I thought you wanted the placenta,” I said.
“Maybe later,” said The Donald. “But right now I’ve got something else that’s more pressing. I want you to look into his college transcripts. I read somewhere that he was a bad student. Horrible. I’d like to know, how does he get into Harvard, how does he get into Columbia if he wasn’t a very good student? I knew lots of kids, Stain. Rich white kids, with lots of money. Their fathers had all sorts of connections, and yet they couldn’t get into Harvard. So how’d this guy do it? There’s something fishy about it, Stain. I can smell it.”
I hung up. Sweat seeped out of my pores and clung to me like a stench. I felt dirty, like I’d been rolling in filth. I went to the ticket counter and picked up the ticket, then I stopped at B. Dalton’s and bought a book for the flight home. A biography of Barack Obama. I read it cover to cover, soaring 30,000 feet over the Pacific. Trump was full of it. So maybe Obama didn’t get straight A’s at Occidental College or Columbia. There are plenty of other presidents who didn’t get great grades either, including George W. Bush. In fact, Bush was a dunce, but you didn’t hear anyone asking to see his credentials once he got to the White House. Maybe they should have. And once he got to Harvard, Obama was brilliant, graduating Magna Cum Laude and named president of the Law Review.
By the time we touched down at JFK, I knew what I needed to do. I hopped in a cab and headed downtown to my dingy office, and I went to work. It took me a couple of days of digging, but I found the information I needed. When I had it all, I called Trump and told him to come to my office.
He came in, his face a pompous mask of glowing bronze, his hair swooping like a puma, ready to pounce.
He sat down in the chair across my desk, his face filled with expectation. “Well, Stain, did you get the dirt on Obama’s college transcripts, like I asked you?”
I pushed a manila folder at him. “It’s all there,” I said.
He opened it, pulled out my report and looked. His eyes glinted as they swept across the top page. Wrinkles appeared in his forehead, and his face turned red as the ink on his casino ledgers. He looked up at me, his lips trembling with rage. “What the hell is this? This isn’t what I asked for…”
“No, but it’s worth something, just the same,” I said.
He thumbed through the pages. “This is all my dealings with Ghaddafi in 2009.”
“That’s right,” I said. “It reeks like a Boardwalk Port-a-Potti.”
“Where did you get this?”
“I found it. That’s what I do, Mr. Trump. I find things.”
“What is this, a shakedown?”
I shrugged. “Call it what you like. A warning.”
He squinted, his deep-blue orbs twinkling with anger. “What is it that you want, Stain?”
I leaned over the desktop and stared straight into his tan-in-a-can kisser. I said: “I want you to shut your big bazoo. Stop lying about the President. That’s all. No more lies. Got it?”
Trump’s lips quivered, as if he were about to smooch something. It wouldn’t be me. “And if I don’t?”
I stood up, moving quickly around the desk. I stood over him, my hands clenched into fists of rage. “If you don’t, I’ll steal the marmot. You know, the one on top of your head.”
He looked up at me, a smug smile playing across his lips. “Don’t threaten me, Stain. I leave particles of guys like you in my wind.”
“That must be painful,” I said, snatching the dead marmot off his head. Stepping quickly around the desk, I opened the window that looked out over the Avenue of the Americas, and I tossed it out. The sound of car horns honking echoed from the street below.
Without taking his eyes off me, Trump ran a hand across the top of his bald dome. He looked ridiculous. Like a clown, like an inconsequential foof. Like a dirty, bald-headed crumb. “I have another one at home, Stain,” he said.
“Then I’ll get that one too.”
“I have two more at my brother-in-law’s house.”
“I know where your brother-in-law lives.”
“Damn you, Stain.”
He got up and went to the door. Before opening it, he turned to me. “You’re a dead man, Stain. You know that, don’t you? As soon as I leave here I’m going to pick up the phone and make a call. That’s all I’ll do. Make one phone call. And then men will come here and rub you out. It may be tomorrow. It may be the next day, or the day after that. But they will come.”
I shrugged, pouring bourbon into a dirty styrofoam cup. “I’ll be here,” I said. “Waiting.”
He went out. I watched him walk past the bullethole in my frosted glass window, and then he was gone.
I put my feet up on the desk, leaned back in my squeaky office chair and drank.
I would wait. Like the sign on the door said, I was Stain.
THE END
We splashed down in a stream of rushing water, and floated. The little Smart Car’s headlights showed the way as we bobbed along on the surface.
I looked at Al Gore, who was still gripping the wheel, as if he could steer. “The gizmo floats?” I said.
He pointed out the windshield. “Clearly. It’s not a Swift Boat, but it’ll do.”
We were moving fast, the river carrying us downstream, away from the Governor’s goons who’d been chasing us in the big Packard.
“You know,” said Gore, “this is a perfect example of how global climate change has adversely affected the planet. This raging river that we’re floating in used to be a tiny stream, but now, due to increased rains brought on by a warming climate…”
I thought about plugging him, but I couldn’t do it. There was only one alternative. Groaning, I opened the door and jumped.
I could hear the former Vice President’s frantic cries fading into the distance as I hit the water and went under. Gasping and flailing, I fought my way to the surface as the river hurtled me downstream. Then something slammed into the back of my head, and the lights went out.
I don’t know how much time had passed when I came to, lying spread-eagled on my back on the riverbank with a lump the size of a breadfruit bulging the back of my head. It was still dark, stars twinkling the night sky above. I staggered to my feet and stood there, pain throbbing my think-tank. Where was I? I had no clue. I had to get to the airstrip, somehow, and I was running out of time.
An idea crawled up my spine and nipped me in the noodle. I still had Al Gore’s Blackberry. I pulled the phone out, praying that it still worked. It did, flickering to life when I powered it up. A half an hour later I staggered onto the Halawa Beach airstrip, Mapquest leading the way. I was just in time. The sound of a jet engine cut the darkness from above. Looking up, I saw landing lights flashing as a big, dark jet descended out of the west. Moments later its wheels hit the ashphalt runway, a roaring blue 727 with the word TRUMP printed in big, white letters across the fuselage. I recognized the design – it was one of the Trump Airline jets from the ‘80s. The Donald had bought the Eastern Air Shuttle, a flying bus service that flew hourly shuttles between Boston, New York and Washington. He’d tried to turn it into a luxury shuttle, but it didn’t take. The airline went bango a couple years later, Trump defaulted on his loans and the company was turned over to creditors. He must have kept one of the jets for himself, I thought, as I watched the plane bounce down on the asphalt runway.
I followed, running to the end of the airstrip as Trump’s jet wheeled to a halt. A door opened at the rear of the aircraft and a comely blond stewardess lowered a portable stairway. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Stain,” she said as I walked into the empty jet. Well, it was almost empty. There was one other passenger: The Donald. He was sitting in a big swivel chair in the center of the aircraft, facing a flat-screen TV and holding an empty vodka glass.
“Have a seat,” he said. “I was giving a speech in Honolulu, so I thought I’d just swing by and pick you up. You look like shit, Stain. What the hell have you been doing?”
I started to answer but he cut me off, holding his empty glass up so the stewardess could see. “I’ll have another T&T, Tonya,” he said, jiggling the glass. He looked at me. “You want one, Stain? Trump and Tonic. My own label. Trump Vodka. You remember, I’m sure. It was the best, Stain. Everything I do is the best.”
I remembered reading somewhere about his vodka venture. He’d predicted the T&T would become one of the most requested drinks in America, but then the vodka went bust, just like the airline.
“I’ll take a bourbon,” I said.
Trump gave me a disgusted look, then turned to the flat screen. He was watching himself give a speech. “Watch this, Stain. It’s my favorite part,” he said, then he pointed the remote at the screen and turned up the sound.
The Trump on the screen was looking straight at me, his piercing blue eyes dancing with delight. “You wanna know what I’d tell the Chinese,” he said. “Here’s what I’d tell the Chinese. I’d say, ‘Listen you motherfuckers, we’re gonna drop a 25 percent tax on your asses.”
The crowd went wild.
The Donald muted the screen again, then turned to me, smiling smugly. “You see, Stain? They love me. I’m gonna tell you something. Everyone’s saying it’s all a publicity stunt, that I’m not really running for President. But let me tell you, I’m running. It’s gonna be Trump-Blagojevic, 2012. What do ya think? I’ve already got the slogan. ‘Let the hair take you there.’ What do ya think, Stain?”
“It’s catchy,” I said.
His too-blue eyes narrowed, boring into me, and his nostrils flared. “You stink, Stain,” he said. “Why don’t you go back into the dressing room and change your clothes. There’s a whole wardrobe back there from my personal collection. Go ahead. You’ll feel better.”
He turned back to the TV, turning the sound up once again. I got up and walked back to the back of the plane. Behind me, I heard him replaying his favorite line of the speech. The part where he tells the Chinese who’s boss.
Tonya, the stewardess, led me into a private dressing room, filled with clothes from the Donald J. Trump Signature Collection. I picked out a white silk dress shirt and a pair of black slacks. The labels read: MADE IN CHINA. Peeling out of my filthy clothes, I slipped them on. They fit like a dream, the silk cool and clean against my skin, but somehow, I felt even dirtier wearing them.
When I got back to my seat, there was a glass of bourbon waiting for me, but The Donald was gone. I picked up the glass and drank. Then I drank another. Before long, my eyes closed and I went drifting off to dreamland.
I awoke to a gentle rocking, sunlight streaming through the windows of the plane. Tonya’s hand was on my shoulder, shaking me awake. “Mr. Stain, we’re here,” she said.
I peered out the window. She was right, we were on the ground, the big Trump plane parked at a jetway next to a terminal. “Mombasa?” I said.
“Cairo,” said Tonya, smiling. “We had a change of plans. Mr. Trump told me to give you this.”
As I stood up, she handed me an envelope.
Cairo? What were we doing in Egypt? I opened the envelope. Inside were two Disney On Ice tickets and a note. The note read:
Stain,
I received a tip that what we want is in Egypt. A man named Dennis will contact you at the Sultan Bar, at the Mena House, near the Great Pyramids. Give him the Disney On Ice tickets, and he’ll tell you where to find Obama’s placenta. Contact me when you get back to New York.
- Trump
I took a cab to the Mena House, a spectacular hotel in the shadow of the pyramids, and went up to the Sultan Bar.
“I’m looking for Dennis,” I told the bartender, a dark, elegant-looking man with a big, black moustache. His eyes led me to a dark booth in the corner of the bar, where a little man with a fez on his head sat with his back to me, sipping a martini. I walked over and stood behind him, looking down at the top of his fez.
“You must be Dennis,” I said.
He turned. It was Dennis Kucinich, his gigantic, elf-like ears jutting out from beneath the fez. “And you are Mr. Stain,” he said. “You brought the Disney On Ice tickets?”
I nodded.
“Show me,” he said.
I slid into the booth opposite the congressman and handed him the envelope.
He rubbed his little fingers over the tickets, licking his lips. “Excellent,” he said, smiling.
“The placenta?” I said.
He slipped the tickets into his jacket and stood up. “Come with me.”
I followed him outside, through the luxurious marble lobby of the Mena House to the hotel’s sprawling, jasmine-scented gardens. Above the gardens towered the Great Pyramid of Giza. That’s where he took me, the tassle of his little red tarbouche bobbing beside his head as he lead the way. We exited the gardens and walked out onto the plateau of the pyramids, heading for the spectacular temple of the Pharoahs. We passed the Great Sphinx, reclining as it had for nearly 5,000 years, and made our way to the pyramid’s entrance. The temple filled my field of vision, its sides sloping at a perfect angle to the sky. Gazing up at the smoothly polished limestone, I felt a shudder, as if the cold fingers of time were passing over my spine.
We walked inside, our shoes making loud clicks on the ancient stone. Kucinich led me down a passageway that took us through a series of chambers, each seemingly smaller than the last, until I had to crouch down just to keep my head from smacking the stone ceiling. Finally he led me into a vestibule that opened up, the ancient stone walls soaring hundreds of feet high, sloping together at the same, steep degree as the pyramid itself.
The congressman stood in the center of the room, gazing up at the distant ceiling overhead. “They built this place,” he said. “Not the Egyptians. You know that, right?” His voice echoed off the pyramid’s walls.
“Who?” I asked. “What do you mean, not the Egyptians?”
He looked at me. “They visited me, Mister Stain. I was at Shirley MacLaine’s house, in Washington state. The smell of roses drew me out to my balcony where, when I looked up, I saw a gigantic triangular craft, silent and beautiful. It was watching me. It hovered, soundless, for ten minutes or so, and then it sped away with a speed I couldn’t comprehend. But I felt a connection in my heart and heard directions in my mind. Those directions led me here. Which is where I found this.”
He took something out of his jacket pocket. It was disc-shaped, about the size of a Frisbee, dark brown in color, almost maroon. It looked like it was made of rotten meat.
I moved toward him, staring at the dingus. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes,” said Dennis Kucinich, tossing the meat-disc onto the dusty floor of the pyramid. “It’s Obama’s placenta. Or whatever they call it on his planet. President Obama wasn’t born in Hawaii, Mister Stain. Nor was he born in Kenya. He came from up there, somewhere.” He pointed up, toward the ceiling, but what he really meant was beyond the ceiling. Beyond the pyramids. Beyond the earth.
“He’s an alien being, Mister Stain. Brought here, to our planet, to rule us.”
“You’re nuts,” I said.
“Am I?” said Kucinich, smiling, his little, rodent-like eyes dancing beneath the fez. “Or am I so sane I just blew your mind?”
I tried to cluck sympathetically, but it caught in my throat. Before I could get it out, somebody laid a blackjack to the back of my head and the lights went out completely.
*********
When I came to, my head was throbbing and my eyes didn’t want to focus. I made them. I was sitting in a first-class airline seat, with a portable DVD player in my lap. A card on the seatback in front of me read “Hawaiian Air.” Someone was shaking my shoulder. It was the flight attendant.
I felt like I was having a deja-vu. Or, was I?
“Sir, we’ve landed.”
“Landed?” I mumbled, my mouth full of marbles. “Where?”
“Honolulu,” she said, smiling. “You slept most of the flight. You were talking in your sleep, too.”
I rubbed my temples. “Oh yeah? What was I saying?”
“Something about Obama,” she said. “It was hard to make out.”
It was a dream. The whole thing, just a cockamamie dream. Being kidnapped. Joe Biden in drag. Al Gore. Kucinich. The Pyramids. All of it. I hadn’t solved any case. Obama wasn’t an alien. Either I was headed for the loony bin or … I looked down at the little DVD player on my lap. Fox News was on the screen, Sean Hannity spewing a mouthful of gibbering hooey. That was it. I’d been watching Trump’s lousy DVDs and I fell asleep. The teabags had opened, and the wingnut juice seeped into my brain. I folded the screen closed, then I stood up, shaking my head, trying to clear the gibberish.
I staggered off the plane and into the terminal. In my pocket, my cellphone buzzed and hummed. I answered it.
“Stain, it’s Donald Trump. I need you to come back to New York. Obama released his long-form birth certificate. I’m very proud of myself that I was able to force him to do this.”
“I thought you wanted the placenta,” I said.
“Maybe later,” said The Donald. “But right now I’ve got something else that’s more pressing. I want you to look into his college transcripts. I read somewhere that he was a bad student. Horrible. I’d like to know, how does he get into Harvard, how does he get into Columbia if he wasn’t a very good student? I knew lots of kids, Stain. Rich white kids, with lots of money. Their fathers had all sorts of connections, and yet they couldn’t get into Harvard. So how’d this guy do it? There’s something fishy about it, Stain. I can smell it.”
I hung up. Sweat seeped out of my pores and clung to me like a stench. I felt dirty, like I’d been rolling in filth. I went to the ticket counter and picked up the ticket, then I stopped at B. Dalton’s and bought a book for the flight home. A biography of Barack Obama. I read it cover to cover, soaring 30,000 feet over the Pacific. Trump was full of it. So maybe Obama didn’t get straight A’s at Occidental College or Columbia. There are plenty of other presidents who didn’t get great grades either, including George W. Bush. In fact, Bush was a dunce, but you didn’t hear anyone asking to see his credentials once he got to the White House. Maybe they should have. And once he got to Harvard, Obama was brilliant, graduating Magna Cum Laude and named president of the Law Review.
By the time we touched down at JFK, I knew what I needed to do. I hopped in a cab and headed downtown to my dingy office, and I went to work. It took me a couple of days of digging, but I found the information I needed. When I had it all, I called Trump and told him to come to my office.
He came in, his face a pompous mask of glowing bronze, his hair swooping like a puma, ready to pounce.
He sat down in the chair across my desk, his face filled with expectation. “Well, Stain, did you get the dirt on Obama’s college transcripts, like I asked you?”
I pushed a manila folder at him. “It’s all there,” I said.
He opened it, pulled out my report and looked. His eyes glinted as they swept across the top page. Wrinkles appeared in his forehead, and his face turned red as the ink on his casino ledgers. He looked up at me, his lips trembling with rage. “What the hell is this? This isn’t what I asked for…”
“No, but it’s worth something, just the same,” I said.
He thumbed through the pages. “This is all my dealings with Ghaddafi in 2009.”
“That’s right,” I said. “It reeks like a Boardwalk Port-a-Potti.”
“Where did you get this?”
“I found it. That’s what I do, Mr. Trump. I find things.”
“What is this, a shakedown?”
I shrugged. “Call it what you like. A warning.”
He squinted, his deep-blue orbs twinkling with anger. “What is it that you want, Stain?”
I leaned over the desktop and stared straight into his tan-in-a-can kisser. I said: “I want you to shut your big bazoo. Stop lying about the President. That’s all. No more lies. Got it?”
Trump’s lips quivered, as if he were about to smooch something. It wouldn’t be me. “And if I don’t?”
I stood up, moving quickly around the desk. I stood over him, my hands clenched into fists of rage. “If you don’t, I’ll steal the marmot. You know, the one on top of your head.”
He looked up at me, a smug smile playing across his lips. “Don’t threaten me, Stain. I leave particles of guys like you in my wind.”
“That must be painful,” I said, snatching the dead marmot off his head. Stepping quickly around the desk, I opened the window that looked out over the Avenue of the Americas, and I tossed it out. The sound of car horns honking echoed from the street below.
Without taking his eyes off me, Trump ran a hand across the top of his bald dome. He looked ridiculous. Like a clown, like an inconsequential foof. Like a dirty, bald-headed crumb. “I have another one at home, Stain,” he said.
“Then I’ll get that one too.”
“I have two more at my brother-in-law’s house.”
“I know where your brother-in-law lives.”
“Damn you, Stain.”
He got up and went to the door. Before opening it, he turned to me. “You’re a dead man, Stain. You know that, don’t you? As soon as I leave here I’m going to pick up the phone and make a call. That’s all I’ll do. Make one phone call. And then men will come here and rub you out. It may be tomorrow. It may be the next day, or the day after that. But they will come.”
I shrugged, pouring bourbon into a dirty styrofoam cup. “I’ll be here,” I said. “Waiting.”
He went out. I watched him walk past the bullethole in my frosted glass window, and then he was gone.
I put my feet up on the desk, leaned back in my squeaky office chair and drank.
I would wait. Like the sign on the door said, I was Stain.
THE END
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