Sunday, November 29, 2015

Start YELLING in the Alley

I saw that movie.


Yes, it is WEST of Pennsylvania Avenue [Where I will never live], EAST of Minnesota [Where Helen & Bob lived], NORTH of Robert [Which “Bob?”], and SOUTH of Blow [Slang for cocaine, and no, I don’t have any, there never will be any in here, and as for the possibility your “Authorities” are way into graft, corruption, spying, lying, and an occasional sneaky MURDER, this does not affect me].

Hey Twitter twats with big rifles, I’ve got news for you! The Government can, and maybe will, take your guns away. More shot & killed cops? You will be disarmed, and don’t lay that ESP-Flying Saucer/Premier Radio Network crap on me. I’m not an insecure, PMS-stricken, psychopathic, violent idiot bitch, like you. Boyfriend in the military? He probably enlisted to get away from you! How about a Constitutional convention to rock your world? Scary “Minorities,” scheming intellectuals, computer scientists, and peaceful urban folk outnumber you—by a lot. There go your guns! All gone!!

And now, some of the run-up to another close scrape with Armageddon, when I distinctly remember, based only on ”open source” publications like The New York Times and The Nation, saying: “Wow Gayle, if that Russian regional commander hadn’t kept his finger off the button, we might not be here.” This explains my future real estate, or lack thereof, and I am not at liberty to explain how.

Don’t tell me Howard sent-in the false “bogeys.” Fair readers and Google staff with funny accents, I’m already fairly certain that is true, which explains my lack of visitors with holiday greetings. {“Fuck you” is rude, and not politically correct for Yuletide} Maybe when “we” all get together, it is surely lawful to wonder why the Hughes Glomar Explorer’s radio call letters are my initials, plus a “G.” It’s all at your Area Code 314 public library with spies “up in there” packed like sardines, but you have to know where to look.

Happy Chanukah!!

“The evidence before this committee and some of the activities of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Central Intelligence Agency consisted of story after story of abusive practices. The FBI, an arm of our Government, engaged in what was tantamount to a private war against one individual--not a criminal, just a man who spoke out against injustice. The CIA, an arm of our Government, locked Mr. Hughes in a cell, a "vault" for 3 years. For 3 years this agency kept a man in solitary confinement without resort to legal process and under conditions designed to break his mind and his spirit. In addition, the CIA made a number of efforts to kill the leader of a foreign nation and joined forces with organized crime so that they might better accomplish their goal. We must never permit these agencies to dishonor us in like manner again.”

       Christopher Dodd (1978)

“Today the Soviet people and the American people have a common foe—the threat of a war incomparable with the horror we went through previously. This war may perhaps not occur through evil intent, but could happen through miscalculation. Then nothing could save mankind.

I shall not pass judgment on the peculiarities of the American political system. Nevertheless, why is it that every election campaign, especially the presidential campaigns, must be accompanied by ant-Soviet statements? It is probably far easier to appeal to chauvinism and to other such sentiments than to tell the truth.”

       Yuri Andropov (1983)

“Maybe they are poisoning those guys. They just keep dying off.”

       Frank Dutton (1985)

“Get away from the door. What are you doing here? What do you want?”

       Bill Hughes (1985)


Hope springs eternal

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Saturday, November 28, 2015

Two Belgian Girls: A Timely Terror Tale

Who? I have no idea.

Recently, I found the woman who offered me a job in Area Code (314), and I had bragged of it years ago in (805). What happened? Nothing. I bragged of this job offer in (213), and nothing came of it. “What happened, Bill?” I’m so glad the schizophrenic [According to Dr. Mafia] voices in my head have prompted me to tell two more “California Stories.” You want my West Coast Advisory? Don’t go out there unless you are already nuts, and if you are not, “They’ll take care of ‘ya.”

Story #1: I was behind the MGM Lion Tamer’s senior center, when an attractive lady approached. “May I buy you a cup of coffee?,” she asked. After I had told her my life story for free, she said, “I will contact Reverend Nutcase, and he will find you a place to stay.” “Hey, somebody is going to help,” I told the Kook Kontingent. She was to return in two weeks. When she did, she had been transformed into a surly bitch. “I cannot help you,” she angrily said. Go to the agency at an address that is also Howard Hughes’ Pilot License Number was the directive. I did; I got out alive. You might not.

Story #2: Two ladies were behind the Lion Tamer’s center. I heard them speaking in French. Shocked I was when they spoke to me in English. Again, my life story for free. The nice lady was from Belgium, and said, “We are starting a business, and will hire you to help get it going.” They also returned in two weeks looking like dazed Zombies. When I asked about the job I had bragged to the Boss Lady Lion Tamer about, the Belgian woman handed me a loaf of Saint Louis Bread Company bread, known out there and elsewhere as Panera. To the assembled bums and drifters I said, “What the fuck was that?” “Zombie-ized” in that manner, maybe if you gave them a rifle, they would…never mind, French P.M. I am way overdue for my Tom Eagleton / Eagleton Federal Courthouse-approved Electroconvulsive Therapy. It helps with my “delusions.”

And now, a passage from my crazed personal correspondence, written six hours before a gun_man entered Planned Parenthood in Colorado Springs. Mr. Policeman, maybe you should bring him a bag of legal pot. That might calm him down, so he stops shooting at cops and others. I myself have been crazy enough to say, “Burn that shit up!” I contend it is no good for you. Amendment #1 of your Con.stituton says I can say that at the Press Club in Washington, if Dr. McCoy gives me a gate pass.

“I am now rabidly against the sale and shooting of guns, and if running for public office I’d say, ‘Fuck the Second Amendment. A few more dead cops and someone will pack the Supreme Court with Sarah Brady’s relatives.’ [That’s profanity + a political joke]. Guns, Guns, Guns is an old Guess Who song.”


I know I’m right! (About the RCA record by that Canadian band, at least).

Friday, November 27, 2015

Another WTC Collapse "Coincidence"


From Left to Right on 9/11:

“Not prudent for the Bin Laden family to undertake these activities.”

“That Hughes boy will make for a perfect patsy.”

“As long as the Navy is not implicated.”

“That is so far-fetched, can’t believe this came to my attention.”

“Bob, back when Pat wore a cloth coat, Margaret did too, by necessity, yet she calls me names. It’s because of Jack…and Bobby, isn’t it?” 

I’m sure Mr. Podhoretz can’t wait for the phone to ring at Commentary On Dysentery—a publication appealing primarily to suburban males in Tel Aviv whose training was more rigorous than John Brennan’s Ding-Dongs. I’m no conservative, and likely only one-eighth Jewish, but that was enough for West Coast Nazis to insult me and use the f-word while tossing objects that missed, except one girly-man rock that did not even hurt when it hit me on the leg.

How is it that a casino operator rakes in political “cred” for the lack of airplanes that supposedly strayed off course in September of 2001? This writer cherishes the audio from a fallen airliner in 2001 November, which featured a Captain saying, “Where are we?” Not in a vortex of turbulence from the jet in front of you. No, he’s too far out, and I’m not. My contemporaneous BBC page said they were over Staten Island. Wrong again at MI-6! Sorry pale GayBoys, that was Charlie Hughes’ dry cleaner in St. Louis.

Seems I was recently allowed to use that .mil .net in an attempt to get directions to a place in Texas. Google maps appeared to have been taken over by aliens from far away, not a mountainous region of Central America. MapQuest did not work right either, so perhaps it was an error, bad Army low intelligence joke, or a spying spanner that did not work. Ready, skeptics who went to a fine Indian subcontinent university before arriving with no hassle at LAX in 1998?

My current street name is also a thoroughfare in Texas. The problem, probably not for Bush 43? The name of the TOWN is the same as a 9/11 hijacker’s GIRLFRIEND. Let’s do the math, shall we?

Hughes’ Street + Texas Town + Hijacker Girlfriend = NO “COINCIDENCE”

Someone’s been HadleyStreeted. [That’s a subtle St. Louis joke, son]. It strikes me that many inside the Pentagon have nice uniforms and too few meaningful tasks that should lead to really, really dead terrorists. “Oh, let the French take care of it. I’ve got 18 holes to play with a think tank guy.” Didn’t the Hollywood Bum Corps all say, “They’ll be back to Iraq” before they ever left. No ESP, people, their families are rich and are told many newsworthy things that are left out of the “mainstream media.” [It matters not if the conglomerate is “liberal” or “conservative” when you are left not knowing JackShit™]

Radios, Radar, Microwaves, Infrared, Satellites, Computers, Magic Beams, and...
You could look out the window, too.

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Charlie's "Stuff" / Charlie Suit

Many saw the ever-present "Charlie Suit," and the craziest things were said at an address I'd have to take a fucking cab to see. Like what, Bill?

CHARLIE
How'd it go, Bill?

BILL
Walter Cronkite was complaining like his booth was going to blow down.

CHARLIE
Really?


Hey, U.S. .gov terrorists!
The last thing I needed to hear today was a true statement from Apollo 14.
Like?
"We're on the surface."

Whew!
THIS IS ONE PISSED-OFF CANADIAN

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Granny's HR Dept.

FIAT made up lies and took mine away. Next? The AUDI 100LS, Orange

Military creeps riding around on bikes with terribly low I.Q. scores want to know things, so today we present: Careers Suggested at Grandma’s House



And our second feature is: SpeCIAl  abc Investigation: Bill Cut Himself Cooking at I.H.O.P. in 1974.  Not today.


If I had a Canadian dollar for every time I heard the “cop” suggestion, I would not be here. Finally, I said, in about second grade: “I don’t want to see people shot and stabbed.”

Next?

Airline Captain. I said, “That would be boring,” and there was absolutely not any six foot three guy in the kitchen wearing a cool hat who said, “Damn, he’s right.”

Next?

“Why don’t you join the Air Force? That elicited a “No.”

Next? The relatives knew Vietnam was coming, and…

“Why don’t you join the Coast Guard?” And? “No.”

Bill finally got aggressive and said, “I’d like to be the network cameraman.”

And?

I got the lecture. “It’s hot, the director in the booth tells you what to do, you have to stand for a long time, and you have to join the union.”

And, some guy who looks a lot like Archibald Leach said, “Hell, he should be the director!” 

That’s Cary Grant, and the Malcolm Bliss van is coming when? Oh, that’s right! I worked there, and it closed. St. Vincent’s re-opened? Time for Arts & Crafts with Kay-Kay!

Mafia Time Machine / Paramount Time-Dimension Warp

Don’t ‘ya hate that?

In this not a Face Book timeline, Bill learns to fly the plane during the same year as he drove Dee’s car.

1971 – 1973Bill is very careful with one piston-powered engine.
1974 – 1976: Bill has more than one prop going, and remains a good boy.
1977 – 1979: Bill wants a jet, and gets one.
1979 – 1981: Ronald Reagan, in February of 1981, does his best acting job of all, when he says, “That’s terrible news. Tell his daddy I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Can you see the black column of smoke rising from the cornfield? Not like Howard! My charred remains are identified with dental records, and of course my last words were “Aw, shit!" [It never occurs to my non-official cover tormentors that old spies, and Bob Maheu, knew to, “Keep his ass out of airplanes.”]  

Mafia, We’re Back to Reality
They don’t like it, thus the drug dealing.

Then again, what if it’s like the Fiat 124? I recall it spinning around on a ramp that is still there Saint Louis. Same as the airplane, sky pilot?

01.0     Bill exits Westbound 40/64 in St. Louis, but there's a T.O. "problem." I-C-E. 
01.1    “Shit! The car is.”
01.2    “Going off the fucking..”
01.3    “Ice!”
01.4    “No!”
01.5    “Do nothing.”
01.6    “Whee!”
01.7    “Fuck! What now?”
01.8    “Now!”
01.9    “Brake!”
02.0    “Left!”
02.1    "It what?"
02.2    “Whoa!”
02.3    “Downshift!”
02.4    “Clutch pedal”
02.5    “Coast”
02.6    “What the…?”
02.7    I’m the guy going north on Big Bend Boulevard, thinking…


“Jesus, Gayle would kill my ass if I wrecked this car.” 

Four to five 360 Degree “doughnuts,” and he recovered control of the car.
This could have led to…

STATIC—BEEP

“Ladies and gentlemen, I too enjoy flying inverted. Uh, not really, and I’m very sorry if you spilled your drink. We’ll be in LA in, uh, about 15 minutes. I’ll get back to you in just a minute.”

Who done it? Can we stand the holiday drama? ZZZZZzzzzz. "Gravy? Yeah, sure."

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Hands Up! The Long Overdue Hughes Tour of Feguson




Our bus full of Liberal Arts college grad dissidents, East Coast Charles Schumer fans, biracial bisexual couples, and causes in search of adherents will board at Florissant Road & I-70, so you’d better believe the driver will be traveling at the speed limit headed north through Beautiful Cool Valley, Missouri. Off to the left is a building owned by a Catholic religious order Hughes was sent into on some sort of “mission” lost to the 2016 organic memory chips called “neurons.” These facilities are always on a hill, in case the indigenous non-Catholic people should approach with torches and pitchforks.


Soon our driver will point out a building that used to house the Datsun dealer who charged so much for a transmission and clutch wrecked by a future Air Force girlfriend, the agreement was like this: “If it ever even makes a funny noise, your labor is free, or I’m calling the goddamn Attorney General’s office.” That was 1975; nothing much has changed on this end. No sex for Hughes on that deal, but it did commence suspiciously way later in the Year of Our Lord 1999, and this is not a party, or a Prince song on WB.


Up further on the right is the cop station, where there was always a friendly Lieutenant to chat it up when a 1993 Hughes case management report went like this: “Jay’s up all night hollering, quit his job, ran off his roommate, chopped-up the furniture, put it on the curb, and threatened to beat my ass.” Son, that’s bipolar! A few doors to the north, a dilapidated frame house is long gone where future .gov contractors went in the same cop station wearing sunglasses and said, “Sargent, someone stole our pot plant.” In 1974? Amazingly, no one did any time, to this correspondent’s meager knowledge.


Moving on toward Church Street is a storefront on the left where long ago many Missourians were almost found dehydrated and dead waiting for a driver’s license and / or license plate. To the right is a bakery where mental health community worker and donut connoisseur Hughes would stop for a Long John or brownie. There was supposed to have been a book jacket photo snapped there, but these things take time, because packs of stalkers and movie mafia intellectual property thieves are not on the cop radar like a sedan full of Negroes.


Moving on to the intersection of Florissant & Chambers, volunteers will distribute bottles of Poland spring water for the long red light, and take it from Hughes, no matter how you drive, it’s always red. To the left is the storefront where Hughes did not work for a 1970’s record store called “Peaches,” because though the manager called with a job, the answering machine had not been invented yet, and Rick was told, “I just don’t answer the phone with a killer hangover.” Today, this writer is glad Wild Turkey shot girl brought a bottle of booze, not a firearm. Was the record store manager in cahoots with my girl? A communist writer in Cuba may care someday, not today. If I was date raped too, he’ll get a book deal, not me.


As our bus moves north, the Pantera Pizza may be gone, but efforts to cheesily “frame” this writer for perceived misconduct have simply become more grandiose, not this Hughes. All blackmailers should know the patient’s daughter was not dancing at the gentlemen’s club yet when she was driven to work at the pizza joint. Once employed on the East Side, Hughes as case manager endorsed the move as sensible with two young biracial mouths to feed. Dad was where? Not shooting a gun at Hughes is all that mattered. I’m sure I was quoted to him as saying, “You don’t need medication like your mom.”


The Ferguson library was moved to a new location from the days when state paperwork was completed on the fly there, so your bus will stop to catalog the many ways strangers are kept off Soldier Boy’s Internet. The government has spies in the library? Heavens no! Are you nuts? Traveler cameras banished? The foreign tourists on our bus may want to know why in this “Land of the free.” After being tossed off public property by the private sector security guard, passengers will then be excited by the famous McDonald’s, beauty supply store, and charred gas station. There will be plenty of time allowed to trigger—oops—a visit from the under new management Ferguson cops. Who called the cops on our tourists? Outrageous!


After clearing up that matter peacefully, the bus will proceed to the “nice part” of Ferguson, if it has not succumbed to ever westward “white flight.” The bus will again stop at Hughes’ old grocery store, office supply store, and K-Mart, all gone thanks to good government and race relations that should be a model for all real estate scumbags looking for some abandoned commercial properties. The Hughes Pasta House is gone? There’s always U. City if our foreign visitors are not happy with a White Castle that my satellite leased by Google says is still there.


The illogical last stop is the best donut shop in town, nicknamed “The Old Army Donut Shop” due to conversations overheard by elderly guys of all colors back when this writer lived out there. The nearly abducted at that shop story requires a microphone clipped to a lapel not yet purchased by this Hughes. An abduction was averted when a Hughes hand found no wallet in the pocket. Yet another cop-free James Bond movie-like drive down I-170 found this particular pack of rodents fleeing on to private jet rental property, and you don’t get it? This tale is a lie? The problem is, it’s not relevant until it’s told under oath with someone’s big ass on a judicial spit.


Our return trip will feature a southbound route down Elizabeth Avenue, where Ferguson’s Finest actually expect, and will see, 15 m.p.h. on the radar gun for several miles, so be sure your pod is fully charged before you board the bus. Mary S.’s house is on the left, and did we ever play you all with the 17 year-old North County, “Let’s not, and act like we did.” Where did we go to high school? So glad you asked, Wildwood Missouri neo-NaziMan. Mary attended St. Joseph’s Academy, and I was the Head of Stoner State at Rosary High. No lie, and we can prove it.