Wednesday, February 14, 2018

King Harry Rules

Ms. Middleton dresses down to visit the insane asylum.
Has she put her husband there yet to crown King Harry?


Dear Ken –

I am writing to you like we are old college classmates, because to date I don’t get much help from Lindenwod College/University or Saint Louis University. I am pasting an appeal I made below to Dr. Helen Caldicott, who resides in Australia and is reportedly a “single issue” activist on nuclear weapons. What I’m reporting right now is, the childish competition to build more warheads is sheer madness that will be funded by either of the major party candidates. Now, tell me why.

I’m no “conspiracy theorist,” yet I have a solid hunch your friend Lady Di might have done what J. Edgar hoover was certain Howard Robard Hughes, Jr. did. (That’s fail to die and escape the media microscope). The supposed intensive search for Hughes relatives in 1976 did not find me, with 101 clues there is a direct genetic link. How could you help? That is entirely up to you! A passionate “liberal” lawyer would be a good start.


William C. Hughes

Monday, February 12, 2018

Royal Rule

Did it all stay in Vegas, or will there be scandal for Camilla to have squashed by her enforcers?


CATO Staff and / or John Sampler –

The book was finished in December of 2004. The copyright certificate came to my catchy address of 911 St. Rita Avenue in early 2005. To the north, a U.S. Army JAG. To the south, an Air Force officer, but I’m not related to Howard Hughes, who manufactured expensive defense stuff for the Army. The Air Force guy and I conducted “car talk” out back and he said? “If my wife knew how I drive this car, she’d kill me.” HIS = Mazda Miata. MINE = Nissan 240SX. Where is my car?

Where is the book? Barely still recoverable, and what I’d like to do is lop off the first chapter on drug policy and have it published as a long, thoughtful journal article. Why? I now disagree with myself. My physician read it, as did an agency outside Washington, D.C. and an agency near San Diego. As always, they want the manuscript, but won’t offer a dollar. Ditto with my screenplays and a movie business that can go to hell. I’m a super-quirky governor of California in the making? Not if don’t publish something/anything.

Good day,

William HUGHES

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

"Dallas" was his full name at Penske

And now, a Charlie Hughes joke.
(If he were still alive)

CHARLES: "I saw the lights of Dulles."
WILLIAM: "The guy's house, or the airport?"

Friday, February 2, 2018

Johnson & Johnson


Mr. Johnson –

My joke muttered to myself after reading Keith Rogers’ article on the Carole Lombard plane crash was, “I might as well call the Pioneer Saloon.” (I’ve had no luck with “The Media Monolith’ so far). Maybe you can change that. Right again I was, because Mr. Rogers has retired, like the HUGHES AIRCRAFT employees I’ve been talking to.

Book manuscript #5 has been thoroughly researched. The joke? “I learned how planes fly by reading about how they crash.” (I still don’t get the wing curvature thing). However, I did build model rockets as a kid. That I understand.

My late mother had many talents, which apparently included predicting plane crashes. My ex-wife did the same thing, and how could I prove that? I can’t, so you simply have to believe me. The ATR-72 had a problem with ice? That was not the cause in Rosemont, IL or in the case of Senator Paul Wellstone’s “accident.” My extended family would thoroughly discuss aircraft mishaps over the holidays, and it has been too long since I identified a “character actor” at granny’s house for Thanksgiving. Today, it would be considered “child abuse” to say, “Billy, only the kid survived.” Then, they told me he had died! (A famous plane crash in New York City).

The Lombard event was filled with superstition, and mom called it beforehand. Then, shrinks said she was nuts, when really it was VALIUM. The Las Vegas casino shooter was taking it too, yet this seems to escape the lawman’s full attention span, which has become too short, in my opinion. Mom also sensed a St. Louis tornado that destroyed the club she and daddy Charles were in. As a kid, I heard it, but did not see it.

This I can prove. A tornado that caused a power outage at my office touched down about one-fourth of a mile away. The tornado date is the same date as the release date for the movie “Twister.” My plan in a one-story building with lots of glass was to go to the medical record room in the center of the building and put fat mental patient charts over my head. Hughes always has a plan! As it unfolded, the power came back on, and I finished my Medicaid billing on 06/10/1996. Mom said, “Charlie, let’s get out of here” on 02/10/1959. Coincidence? No! Who is going to publish my book? Who wants to get me back to LA to see if two movie producers would lie three times? Nobody in St. Louis, I can assure you.

Have a nice day,

William Charles Hughes

Monday, January 29, 2018

No Reason for Trump Treason


Chief Jaffe –

Joe Hartnett is the unlucky Sargent who gets this in his mailbox too! Fortunately, I am “involuntarily retired” and have the time to piece together what a writer like me calls “The Narrative.” Problem with your bank? Phone provider? Satellite TV company? Better have a pen that works and get all of the names! Some of them may not be real as the problem persists and drives you nuts. Just call again and listen to the music on hold.

Back in 2007, I thought movie scene type people were “picking” my locks at the catchy address of 911 St. Rita, and a locksmith agreed. I had already alleged the City of Clayton Missouri had renumbered my block to get the address and noted, thanks to the County Assessor, that many had “turned over” their building just before a building named the “World Trade Center” fell down in 2001. The Army lawyer next door to the north admitted he worked in secret prisons, and an Air Force man to the south talked “car talk” with me out back. (He drove a Mazda Miata; my Nissan 240SX went “missing,” along with everything I ever accumulated from wages, not selling drugs). Must be that book I wrote about 9/11 and secret prisons!

Moving along to my calls to your department on 9 August, 2017 I have to wonder how cops nationwide can beg for “tips” and then consistently fail to call back or provide info on the simplest of matters. I have thus coined a new term. It is “Reverse-Paranoia.” Yes, the hippie and Vietnam protester thought the police were coming to take them away, whereas now, the powerful marijuana that may have made them clinically paranoid is oddly legal in a growing number of states. Thus, the United States Government is apparently allowing a “flip-flop” on 90+ years of social policy. Sorry, pot is bad for you. Today, we don’t have to be “paranoid,” because the average cop avoids getting out of the police car if he or she can get away with it. On TV shows? Female cops who weigh 120 pounds are slamming big thugs to the concrete and taking them away. I see this unconstitutional crap every day on what I call “The Mind Control Screen.”

The U.S. legal system now seems to be: “I’ve got a badge, you are going to jail.” Yes, my maternal uncles thought I should become a cop and they uttered this post-arrest joke often. It was: “We’ll think of something on the way to the station.” The ACLU is going to help me? Not with me calling them “A bunch of cowards” since about 1982. This is when I read-up on Exception 1 to the Freedom of Information Act (FOIA). It essentially allowed the government to say, “If we think it’s a secret, it stays secret.” The ACLU honchos in New York went along with this, most likely to stay in bed with politicians of that era.

Out in California, I was illegally ticketed by a bastard of a deputy who had stupidly said, “Teachers are liberal, cops are conservative.” I gave consent for a photo and later became convinced some kooky lawmen and rich kids have a game that goes like this: “Hey, the dude is dead and I have the last picture of him!” Where is the photo that was taken of me along with having received a $5 gift from the Senior Deputy that was supposed to be for bus fare to Ventura, California? My now deceased Star Trek actor & financial backer was told this: “Given I seem to be homeless and the cops don’t bother me, it would not be smart to move to a different town.” Sheriff deputies promptly resumed harassing me after that remark, and I spent many hours wondering about Victor Lundin’s intentions. It was absurd, and the best example I can cite was being told to “move on” near grade schools when I could honestly tell the deputy I had taught at a public high school and cleared every background check known to your government. This did not matter to California’s criminals in brown uniforms.

Here’s what I want:

JERRY BROWN’S ass in prison.
GREG TOTTEN’S ass in prison.
GEOFF DEAN’S ass in prison.
ED TUMBLESON’S ass in prison.
DEPUTY KAROL’S ass in prison.
DEPUTY LOPEZ’S ass in prison.
DEPUTY CARLSON’S ass in prison.

Former California AG Kamila Harris is staying off my “Please Indict” list for people who need to be jailed by a pubic hair. Oh, she’s going to be your next president? Over my potentially dead body that is very much related to Howard Robard Hughes, Felix Turner Hughes, Harold E. Hughes, Richard J. Hughes, William J. Hughes, Charles Evans Hughes, and by golly, Archaleus Hughes worked for George Washington. (Consult your dollar bill for his image). John R. Hughes was one of the first Texas Rangers and looked just like me? I called the Ranger museum and got the impression they don’t like this Hughes there because my credentials as a political “liberal” have been known in Texas since H.W. Bush owned Zapata Oil. My old joke about his son was: “He had to succeed with owning the baseball team; it’s like printing money.”

I later defended Jeb Bush on a conservative talk show in Dallas, but I’m sure they destroyed the tape by now. Fair & balanced gets you nowhere in today’s USA, so I’m ready to go back home to Wales as soon as someone provides some help. (The Hughes family arrived with royal land grants and lots of cash in about 1700, I discovered). The ancestral research began with an page displaying my mother and Howard R. on the same page. No wonder the Ventura County Sheriff took that along with my screenplays which are no longer for sale to greedy Hollywood Jews.

If I ever get to the National Press Club, a theme could well be “Dreams Die Hard When Your Name is Hughes.” How well I remember my late dad’s Washington D.C. job offer in 1971. Ever the Parliamentarian, our “blended family” voted. The measure was defeated by a 7-2 vote with Charles E. Hughes and this writer the only “Ayes” for a bigger house and suburban Virginia swimming pool. If the vote had gone our way, I may have been the one building a library instead of Mr. Obama. Now that all of my dreams are dead, I simply hope to depart USA in one piece and add a few books of mine to the stacks in surprisingly vibrant bookstores.

The Narrative
First, on 08/06/2017, I looked up social worker Karen Landman’s precinct which is #24. The NYPD search box could not locate the same information when provided with the Bustle company address.

Second, I took a guess at Precinct #6 for Bustle and reached a Detective Albericci who said to call Precinct #13.

Thirdly, I called the Precinct #13 Community Affairs number. This was in regard to 28 year-old female Alexandra Finkel. I was the babysitter and later chauffeur for Alex and her many teenaged friends. During the message, I wondered aloud to your department if employment at Bustle was entirely voluntary because the founder struck me, to be quite frank, as a “creep” and possibly not so nice of a guy. This call did not produce any response in 24 hours.

Fourthly, at about 9:15 a.m. on 08/07/2017 I called the detective number at Precinct #13 and was told that squad was only for homicides. I complained mildly to a Detective Rickford that the Community Affairs call had not been returned and noted this was not a high priority item, although to me the “smell test” had been flunked long ago. Why? Ms. Landman posted an odd comment on my Linked-In page, so I looked her up and called. This began a series of e-mail messages and phone calls about social work. Noting she lived in Manhattan, and the fact Bustle does not publish a phone number anywhere, I asked that she go to the Bustle office and suggest Alex call me. Meantime, Alexandra had sent several e-mail messages from Bustle and provided a gmail account address. Suspicion was raised by Alex not replying to the gmail box she had provided on her Bustle account, the fact her Twitter page ended in 2016 with a New Year’s resolution, and her own mother had reported, “She doesn’t ride the subway much” and “She doesn’t go out much.” Thinking I was still a friend of their family, I asked, “Why has she not married a nice young guy?” The thought was she may be “married to the company” as with many young professional females in your fair city. Her mother then began the unprovoked hurling of insults by e-mail which is not new behavior and an entirely separate issue.

I then tried reaching Ms. Landman by phone, and received no callback. Now, let us be clear that I am the good guy, yet your detective immediately started insinuating I had done something to alienate these two New Yorkers. On the contrary, and all e-mail between the parties (Landman & A. Finkel) could be forwarded if we are, as my late dad would say, “Making a federal case out of it.” Pardon me, but I find it odd when people seem happy to communicate and then…SILENCE.

I’ve gotten this cold shoulder often since two elderly gentleman approached me on the street in 2013 Los Angeles and excitedly said, “Can we tell you a story about Howard Hughes?” Apparently, in exchange for watching over his aircraft, the two storytellers were treated to breakfast in Lubbock, Texas and were as excited as the day it allegedly happened. This writer could have been a great detective because my only question was, “They had a lunch counter at a little airport?” The elderly men said they did, and I believed them. They also relayed what they claimed was Howard’s “favorite plane,” a modified B-18 bomber. Did I mention I gave no introduction? During that miserable period of LA torment, I was photographed often and promised Melvin Dummar from a pay phone he would someday be paid his 156 million dollars. His wife Bonnie is what my late mom would call, “A scream.” “Melvin’s out slopping the hogs,” she said in a first phone call that should have sealed movie rights and a large sum of money for me by now.

Fifth, the referral from smart-ass Rickford was to a Sgt. Johnson who seemed to indicate two of your thousands of cops would find a few minutes to simply ask: “What’s up?” or more appropriately, “Is everything okay?” over at Bustle. How could your detective know I’d made and taken hundreds of calls from police, who when sent on a “safety check” or mental health crisis here in the Saint Louis area always claimed that, “Nothing was going on.” Later, I’d often have panicked citizens back on my state agency phone, leading to allegations widely shared about “lazy cops,” “dirty cops,” and “killer cops.”

As of today, 11 August, 2017 nothing has been conveyed about Ms. Landman’s well-being or Ms. Finkel’s. To my astonishment, I received a tweet from the woman who had written about Bustle founder Mr. Bryan Goldberg in Business Insider. She’s the U.S. Editor in Chief, but this buys no doughnut or cup of coffee in the land. This, along with salutations from a writer at Yahoo Finance may mean the dam is going to break soon about who I am. Yes, I am a liberal, and a stern capitalist, yet I happen to think the USA’s wealthy should be taxed like in England or France. Why won’t the likes of Mr. Trump cough up 55, 60, or even 70% on their earnings at the margin? I realize most beat cops don’t discuss the elasticity of money, but it does mean simply that a dollar is worth more to a hobo than within Trump Tower.

Lately, I think my newfound anger and rejection of all I’ve known previously is the capstone of simply grieving the loss of Charles E. Hughes, who I will allege in courts of law was a vastly older brother, not my dad. What kind of family does not tell the eldest son dad died, rents a “drug house” to the next of kin, and remains eerily silent on how dad died. How about I produce an anti-drug commercial like the famous old one with eggs frying in a pan featuring a voice-over that says:

 “This is your family on meth.”

I see a frame house with flaking paint, a car on cinder blocks, laundry hanging on the porch rail, a trash can dumped on its side, a dog running around loose, and into the drive pulls a new maroon pickup truck. Yes, the meth is so “clean” these days, they don’t perceive anything is wrong until they lose their job and blame it on a relative, like me.

Regarding Catalina Island, Howard liked to deliver cases of beer personally, if he liked you. My dad’s exact quote was: “We had very little free time, but there was a movie theatre.” That would be in Avalon, California where Howard likely brought the brew and some loose women. My detractors are so nutty, they would say, in the face of documents that proved the airplane old guys on Cesar Chavez identified for me landed on the same small island where Charlie was training for the Merchant Marine, “Aw, that doesn’t prove a thing.” Latent commie kooks and neo-Nazis would say this, however what I was told in California was, “Gay guys are half of your problem.”

A DNA test proves it all. That’s why I’ve been cast by the wayside at the Wayside Motel.

Let’s chat soon.


William C. Hughes