Bolton For the Doors

I sat behind John R. Bolton as California Senator Barbara Boxer said: "My overall assessment is that you have nothing but disdain for the United Nations." She looked very stern.

Bolton, President Bush's nominee for America's embassador to the United Nations, squirmed in his seat.

"You can dance around it," Boxer continued, "you can run away from it, you can put perfume on it, but the bottom line is the bottom line. It's hard for me to know why you'd want to work at an institution that you said didn't even exist."

We tried not to giggle. She said 'perfumed bottom.' It was hilarious. She realized it too, and began to snort. Thankfully a recess was called. Bolton and I met in a private room. Boxer joined us, as did Sens. Biden, Chafee, Kerry and Allen.

"That was SO AWESOME!" Sen. Allen said. "The press is totally eating that up."

"It's great TV," said Biden. "How's my hair?"

"Not bad," I said. "Babs, that's hilarious. You know the U.N. doesn't really exist... you nearly made me squirt 400-year-old Scotch out of my nose. (I'd snuck it in an Aquafina bottle).

It's true, it doesn't. the big building in New York is a series of sound stages and computer animation studios by which most major wars and all space flight footage is staged.

Bolton laughed. "This is good fun, thanks for inviting me."

"It's our pleasure," Chafee said. "Did you like how I totally kissed your ass? The press dug it."

I turned to them and reminded...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

All of a sudden I stopped typing. An alarm went off on my laptop.

An unauthorized viewer was visiting the blog.

Now, I'm an important person, and I don't often allow people to discover my true identity. I agreed to do the blog on a lark... but not if it was going to expose me to unsavory elements.

"Who is the intruder?" I called out to SEKUROTRON, my massive, secret lair-wide security system.

"IT IS A STU-DENT ON THE INTER-NET," the computer said in a hilarious Jetson's robot voice. I programmed it like that. There were all kinds of other options too. The Star Trek computers, the War Games computer. You could even have it talk like that computer from the film "Demon Seed." That movie was awesome.

"Locate the source."

"THE SE-CRET LOCATION OF YOUR WEB-LOG WAS LOCATED BY A GRAD-UATE SEMINAR AT THE UNI-VERSITY OF WISCON-SIN." The voice cackled naselly. "HU-MAN GEO-GRAPHY AND MASS COMMUNICA-TION."

Detailed information about everyone in the class, and the professor, a man named Greg Downey came up on my laptop screen. His attempts to understand the Internet, various digital divides and the like were very cute. Of course, in reality, the Internet is just another mind-control device I use to further the enslavement of all human-kind.

"SHALL I EX-TERMINATE THEM?" The computer asked.

"In due time," I answered. "In due time."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

... "The United States is committed to the success of the United Nations," Bolton said, face flushed. "And we view the U.N. as an important componant of our diplomacy."

As he finished speaking, he passed me a folded piece of paper. It was a xeroxed flyer for a kegger planned for this evening at Sen. Dodd's house. His wife was out of town, so it was certain to be raucous.

There would be more questions, but I knew the vote would come soon. Kegs at Dodd's house go fast. We didn't want to miss out.

Kyrgyz as Kyr Does. Ha!

The four or five guards that hadn't tried to shoot me moved out of the way. I hated that so many had to die -- but sometimes, during coups, you have to learn the hard way.

I didn't feel too bad. Technically I didn't shoot them -- they shot themselves. Sure, I could have told them that my Mitochondrial Shield repels bullets directly back to the source of the shooting, but for most people, that's something that has to be seen to be believed.

I was just happy that Shadow, my pet albino thylacine, hadn't bitten his shield (stored in what otherwise appears to be a dog collar) off and eaten it. That's happened too often to count.

"So," I said in my best Kyrgyz, "is acting President Bakiyev available?"

There was no reply.

"So," I repeated in my best, but slightly exasperated Russian, (both languages being official in Kyrgyzstan), "is Bakiyev available?"

"I am here," said a chubby man with glasses and a nice suit. "Please come in to my office."

"You know, Askar Akayev was a friend of mine," I said, sitting down. Shadow remained in the hallway, sniffing at a corpse. I let him have his fun.

It was true, the former President of Kyrgyzstan -- who had been ousted in a coup earlier in the week -- and I were part of an a cappella group during the late 90s. We called ourselves "Audio-dacious" and performed many hits of the day, such as "No Scrubs," "La Vida Loca" and "Who Let the Dogs Out" entirely without accompanyment. We weren't a barbershop quartet, and I had no reservations killing any music reviewer who made that mistake. Other members were Egyptian President Hasni Mubarek, Former U.N. Secretary General Boutros-Boutros Ghali and one of the Iron Chefs. I think it was Iron Chef French.

"We had no choice, the election was rigged."

I shook my head. Of course it was rigged! I'm the one who rigged it! I rig everything!

"Yes, be that as it may, I trust he's in good health?"

I already knew the answer. He was in Russia, as would I be after this meeting. Fact was, Akayev was finished, and I'd likely have to purge him of all memories of me. Which was too bad, since he was the one who kept all the group's arrangements.

"So, can I offer you a drink, Mr..." Bakiyev offered. I answered only the first part.

"Scotch. But I brought my own." Not many people get to drink a glass of 400-year-old scotch, and I try to use it to my advantage.

"I'm not a Scotch drinker," Bakiyev said. I shook my head in amazement. God, this was so awkward.

"Okay, let me get down to business. I control a secret government that covertly controls all the nations of the world, and a few outside of it. Nothing you do, during whatever tenure you have here as the leader of the country, is done without my approval. And should I approach you with a task, you will complete it without question."

He was silent.

"Trust me, it's in your best interests. It's just the way its done."

"No one controls us! We have taken down the puppet government," Bakiyev said.

Rebel leaders. It's so endearing in movies -- but in person just creates all sorts of hold-ups in my daily schedule.

"Look," I began, "I don't have much time. I know you were very keen on running the country and only had the best intentions when you took down the current government. I totally respect that, and want nothing more than to let you spread freedom or what have you. But this is just how it is. I didn't invent it. Just inhereted it."

(That part wasn't true. I was promoted steadily through the nineties. I worked hard to get this job, darn it. But it's complicated to explain.)

"I will ask you to leave."

He had a point in his defiance. I've heard it many times before. After all, it's quite condescending to have some bozo arrive with a wierd marsupial and tell you that your ideals are all for naught because the world is actually under my well-manicured thumb. It's quite rude of me, really.

But it has to be done.

I sighed.

"So, which will it be. Nanoprobes? Mind-knumbing ear worms? Brain laser?" I dug through my briefcase.

"What are you talking about?"

"I know! I'll try out the new kenisis-eel. I've been hearing good things." I produced a jar filled with muddy water from the southern-most tip of the Amazon river, with a light green fish thrashing on the inside. Kenisis-eels apparently get very air-sick and it was a long flight to Kyrgyzstan. I reached in and pulled the little guy out.

"Open up," I said to Bakiyev, who not-surprisingly stepped away in resistance. But paralysis beams from my sunglasses stopped that, and it wasn't soon before the eel was fed into his nose, where it swam inside and pleasantly coiled around the cerebral cortex.

"Done and done," I said.

"I live to serve," Bakiyev said, as the paralysis beam wore off.

I sighed again.

Just another day keeping order amidst the chaos.

I was just glad I didn't have to waste any of the good scotch.

Checks and Balances

You know, if there's one criticism that can be leveled at me (and there is only one. All others will lead to a particularly painful death) its that I'm too America-focused.

It's hard not to be. While the Secret Organization that Runs the World is not affiliated with any nation, so much of my work leads me to the United States. While its true, my underground desert lair is not in Nevada, I do visit often.

How can I not? America is always making a pest of itself. I'm always shuttling to Quebec to mess with this whole secession thing. (That's going to get neat soon). And let's just say an Zambian teenager peeking through the tall grass bordering a forest glen is going to find something pretty spectacular in a few months. (Restoring antique U.F.O.s is a hobby of mine). I'm always putting together new bird flues, new Japanese fashion trends, new industries to move to India.

But the U.S. is the squeaky wheel. I'm always dealing with something.

But this, this just gets my goat.

When my predicessor met with a few dozen former English colonists to draft the U.S. Constitution, he was very clear. Federal government does this, state governments do that. Courts do this, politicians do that. Checks and balances. We decided to go with a two-party government because all the other counteries were slated to have parliments, and this just seemed like a fun way to spice things up.

It was very clear.

But they had to get involved. Terry Schiavo, the brain-dead woman in Florida who's family is fighting over letting her die, or keeping her alive has been annoyingly in the media for a while. People die all the time. I should know, I am responsible for many of their deaths. But despite years of litigation in Floridian and federal courts, the politicians in Florida and Washington just have to get involved.

Now, I happen to know Schiavo well, and I can tell you, her brain is not in that body. That's because it, as well as tens of thousands of others are housed in a million-gallon pool of liquified stem cells hidden deep below the Earth's crust. Electricity sparks between the grey, floating balls of wrinkle and mush we call "brains" and the millions of ideas formed, and billions of questions answered every day are, in many ways, the "engine" of my organization.

People have wondered, how is it that I know what will happen in the future of Qatar? How do I know what priorities the Tamil rebels of Sri Lanka should focus on each year? What other way can I answer the thousands of emails I get every day?

Why, the pool of brains that I call, "The Brain Pool."

Schiavo answered one of our newspaper ads a dozen or so years ago. The interview process went well, but I had to ask the big question at the end.

"Why are you willing to give up your life to become a disembodied brain floating deep below the Earth's crust?"

"Well," she said, "my family are a bunch of idiots."

She went in for the operation that day. I'm not a heartless man, and I felt sad for the family of this brainless woman. But boy oh boy, was she right. A bunch of idiots all around.

I kept track of the decade of court cases over the outcome of her still-living body, but really, I was always so much busy with the Dutch economy or the Sasquatch Liberation Army to pay too much attention.

But then I get the phone call. It was the Friday before Easter.

Tom DeLay and the U.S. House Republicans pushed a bill through to keep the farce going on. More and more courts would get involved, violating the state-federal difference. They'd be ordering the courts to hear a case, which they can do, but pushing for an outcome, which walks a fine line between check and unbalance.

Pajama-clad President Bush even flew in to sign it, as his brother continued his rant in Florida. Schiavo's brain was pissed and called to ask me to intervene.

"But too much intervention is what got us into... oh, allright," I said, and Shadow -- my albino pet thylacine -- and I headed for the sky-skiff, and off to Washington."

"Stop it," I told House Majority Leader DeLay in his office. "Don't piss me off."

"But this is our chance to mobilize our base and defeat Democrats," he panted.

"Oh, for God's sake."

I thought about zapping his memory -- I could set a satellite in motion to zap the entire country's memory, pull back the bill and pretend none of this happened. I even debated putting Schiavo's brain back in her body, but via intercom, she demurred.

"Whatever. Don't piss me off again," I said, knowing he would.

I left the office. Sometimes there's nothing you can do. A story will build up -- and hopefully it will die on its own. I mean, how big a spectical can this Schiavo story become?

All Gannoned Out

I'm a patient man.

Really.

I waited *weeks* before I interceded in the 2000 Presidential Election. I let Arafat and Sharon do their thing with hardly any interruption. And, while I'll admit knowing how this whole mess in Iraq is going to end does help with any impatience to see it resolved, I can wait.

That's what I was doing with Gannon.

You know, Jeff Gannon. His real name is Jeff Guckert. He was working for a fake GOP news website (as opposed to the real fake news websites, which, of course, I have full editorial control over. (And I want better spelling. I'm looking at you Salon and Slate.) He asked a dumb question during President Bush's late January press conference, and I let it go. Then he got outed, but literally and figuratively as both not a real journalist, and as a gay escort. Or something. I wasn't really paying attention.

Seriously, there are some real big things going on. Superbowl, Oscars... I'm busy!

But it's getting out of control. After all, Gannon is my fault. And while I gave him a month to clean up his mess, I just couldn't deal anymore. I had to do something.

There was a knock on my secret, underground desert office door.

My secretary, and current intern Scott Baio sounded in the intercom. "Sir, your 10am appointment is here."

"Send him in."

"Sure," Scott Baio said, then: "Ouch. Stop!" Obviously, Shadow, my pet albino thylacine was attacking Baio's leg again. It's not like you think. Thylacines, though dog-like in appearance are really marsupials, and aren't into canine habits like leg humping. Plus, being extinct, it's all pretty moot.

No, Shadow just likes to maul Baio's leg with his terrifyingly huge claws, monster teeth and frighteningly powerful jaw capable of opening nearly 180 degrees. Shadow had been feeling sick lately, so any sign he was feeling better was encouraging.

That put me in a good mood as Jeff Gannon/Guckert walked through the door.

"Sir, you wanted to see me?" he asked.

"No, I never want to see you. What the hell were you thinking?" I asked.

"Well, no one was asking any good questions, so I thought I'd just jump in."

"Jeff, if people found out the truth about you, they might find out about me. That can't be."

"I'm sorry."

I wish I'd never hired this guy. But... well... it's a long story. Remember how I said he was an escort? Well, early last year the Kraken awoke -- a full century ahead of time. Lizard, mollusk, mammal, fish -- it's impossible to classify the 600-foot-tall sea monster that prophecy says shall ravage all coastline metropolises without obstruction -- until the arrival of one human being to can slay him.

We have big plans for that human.

Seriously, we've been planning on this for years. YEARS. So, goddam fishing trawlers go on and wake the bastard up, and he's pissed. He's been passed out underwater for eons. But Krakens need at least eons + one hundred years of sleep to be fully functional in the morning. Not to mention the fact that the female Kraken whom he shall impregnate was still asleep. (She's important too... without her giant, acid-filled eggs, our hero human won't be able to... oh, I've already said too much.) And that's the last thing we need -- a cranky, horny, world-destroying kraken.

So, while the kraken worked his way out of the VERY temporary kraken net I had my trained commando psy-seals (technically Sea Lions) put in place, I called my brain trust of trusted secret government employees for a meeting.

"Kill it. We have no choice," said Ashlee Simpson, who without her wig and prosthetic nose is actually the most beautiful, intelligent and deadly woman on the planet.

"No -- if the kraken’s time is now, so be it," said former Vice President Walter Mondale. "Let it find its own path -- our hero will arise."

"Liberals, you are all the same. Coddling, do whatever-you-want social welfare crap..." Simpson said.

"Come on," I interrupted. "All ideas are on the table."

"The plan can't work without the female. He impregnates her, is weakened and is easily killed," reminded former heavyweight champion George Forman -- one of my most trusted advisers. (His "grill" was actually reverse-engineered from a similar grill found aboard a UFO in the 1950s. We gave it to him as a thank you for helping me resolve that whole Princess Diana thing.)

"George is right," said William Howard Taft, who, though a zombie, was still very helpful. "We need to... well..."

"How would we wake up the female kraken?" asked Foreman

"It can't be done without permanently damaging this globe's solar orbit forever," said Taft.

"I just don't think we should do that yet..." began Mondale

"You make me sick Mondale," Simpson barked. "Oh, let's just cuddle the kraken, give it money to spend on drugs and whores."

"Ashlee, please calm down." The room drew quiet. It was rare for William Hung, the bad singer from American Idol, to speak. His fame had long-since fleeted, but whose influence with the secret shadow government that controlled the world was still as powerful as his voice. "But you do raise an intriguing point."

"Drugs?" asked Mondale.

"You idiot," said Simpson.

"No," I said. "I see what you are thinking Hung. We need to get someone to... to be the female Kraken." I thanked the team for their time, and sent them on their way to prepare for apocalypse... unless my one plan worked.

I went online. Everyone knows that krakens are strictly heterosexual, going only for monstrous horrible kraken females. But they've been known, at times, to experiment during college, usually living out military fantasies of sex with well-oiled, muscular soldiers.

I searched several websites until I found the one man who could save the planet. At least until 100 years from now.

Jeff Guckert.

"You want me to what?" He asked, after I spent well over three hours explaining the situation.

"You know, just meet the kraken. Show it around. Slake is unquenchable lust, so he'll go back to sleep for a little while."

"Okay," Guckert said. "But this will cost you. I'll want a new identity, a new career, the works."

"What kind of career."

"Journalist. Web journalist. And I want full access to the White House. I love the "West Wing" and want to see if its really like that."

"I don't know."

"I get it, or I the kraken doesn't."

Now, I probably could have used my extensive tools to convince Guckert to do it, even though making people fall in love is beyond anything we've ever invented. It's our greatest shame.

"Okay."

Needless to say, the Earth wasn't destroyed. Guckert did his part, and apparently well. Undersea cameras show the kraken smiling. Now he was Jeff Gannon, ace reporter.

But deal or no, his annoying presence at the White House is proving too distracting.

"You promised me," Gannon said.

"You were well compensated."

"I don't know," he said. The door of my office cracked open, and Shadow came bounding in, his albino jaw red with Baio blood. I made a mental note to call the clone lab and janitorial staff to clean up my reception area.

"I am a real journalist! I deserve to be in the white house! Bloggers are as important as the biased mainstream media!" Gannon whined. "You can't silence me. I'll always use my voice."

I looked at Shadow. He leapt up -- thylacines share ancestors with kangaroos, you know -- and his actions were swift and merciless.

The calls to the janitorial staff were two-fold.

- - -

NOTE: Neither intern Scott Baio nor Jeff Gannon were killed. Shadow is a peaceful, if playful, albino thylacine. As of this afternoon, Baio is enjoying the use of his new robo-prosthetic leg. Gannon's new cyber-throat is having some issues, but overall he should be back to blogging and proclaiming his innocence soon. Some laser surgery wiped away most memories of the kraken -- as well as the existence of our organization. I tried, you know? I really tried.

Fashion Weak

Ah, Fashion Week in Milan! It's over now, but is there anything more glamorous?

Yes. Many many things. But in the middle of February, pre-Oscars and post -Golden Globes, it will have to do. I rarely attend these things -- usually my work week if filled up with writing national budgets, distributing International Monetary Fund funds and causing oil prices to skyrocket.

Wow, so much of my time is spent dealing with money! I looked over my most recent posts. Money money money. Social Security, payments to alien blackmailers, U.S. Budget deals... All money. Money and astroids and comets and other space hazards. I feel so obsessed.

It makes it seem like money is all I care about. And sitting next to the runway during the Donatella Versace show -- so much beige, ugh! -- I see what obsessions with money can do!

Look at these people -- none of these clothes are affordable to 99 percent of the world. I should know! I keep it that way. But still, economic realities insist that if oppressing the masses, one needs a class to do that oppressing. I'm fine with that.

But does it have to be these people?

Earlier in the week, I was hanging out with Emporio Armani backstage before his show. Jersey shorts. That was his big bold look for autumn. Several models and other designers milled around. As did my intern, Scott Baio, and Shadow, my albino thylacine. Shadow was chewing on a blouse. Armani made a move to stop him, but stopped himself. He didn't know what Shadow was doing there, or even what he was. But somehow, he just new to leave him, and us, alone. (Somehow=mind-controlling ear worms). So instead Armani talked about his show. And boy was he whiney!

"I'm trying to create classic Hollywood, and the models all look so skanky."

The models all look skanky because that's who he hires. I have lots of control of things, but my attempts to render an end to heroin-chic were for naught. See, I have to *understand* something to properly manipulate it. For example: Trucker hats. Remember those? Foam front, mesh back. I was able to make those "in" because I understand hats, and understand why people wear hats.

But the reasons people think these models are pretty? No idea. It makes it easier when making fembots though -- which half of these models are. Requires fewer materials if making them so skinny. But it's hard to hide the weaponry I need to make them truly effective fembots when they have so little body to work with. It's like arming a broom.

Miuccia Prada complained back: "Classic Hollywood is so three seasons ago."

No, it was 50 years ago, during classic hollywood days! Can't these people come up with any new ideas. I hold my tongue for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is that while I feel free to divulge my secret identity from time to time... I don't want to this week.

We have serious business in Milan.

Not many people know this, but the seat of the Catholic Church is not in Rome, like so many are led to believe, but in Milan.

It goes back to the founding ancient Rome, when Romulus and Remus were born. The twins, suckled by a she-wolf, and later weaned by a she-ox who lactated only soy formula mixed with rice cereal, would later found the city that would birth an empire. That city was Rome.

But the wolf that suckled them? She founded Milan. And from there, told Romulus and Remus what to do. For thousands of years, because, contrary to popular belief, wolves are extraordinarily long-lived. And chatty. You just need to know how to listen.

A little after noon, (and after more annoying fashion-pratter) left Prada, Armoni and my army of emaciated robo-waifs and headed off to Sforza Castle -- a 15th century palace now used as a museum. It's a good place to stare at renaissance art that secretly gives away the ancient tales of the clandestine secret organization that runs the world -- once the task of Knights and Kings, Emporers and Pontiffs -- but now an equal opportunity employer. I think about a successor, but such decisions are a long way off.

Speaking of successors, I left my intern, Scott Baio, with Shadow at the show -- Lupticia, the Queen She-Wolf gets uncomfortable about thylacines. Divergant evolution is creepy to her.

Intern Scott Baio is just generally creepy.

Climbing into the catacombs underneith the castle, and then down past the Obliette that still houses several for-some-reason-immortal members of "The New Monkees" -- I made my way to her golden lair.

And underground cave covered in gold and wolf droppings stood before me, passageways leading to underground exits all over the city, and Italy. Rooms around us were filled with treasures unimaginable -- although, technically, my rooms filled with treasures unimaginable was bigger. I did underground sonar mapping once to make sure.

"yOU hONOR uS wITH yOUR pRESENCE," said Lupticia, bowing her wizened and whiskered head.

"The honor is all mine," I said. "You look well."

"bLUE gREEN aLGAE sMOOTHIES. tHEY wORK mIRACLES aT jAMBA jUICE."

"So I heard. I'm a coffee man myself."

"i rECIEVED yOUR eARLIER mISSIVE. yOU hAVE cOME fOR yOUR bOON. i sHALL pROVIDE."

Several wolves came forward, Dragging large chests filled to overflowing with gemstones and precious metals.

"Nice. But the wager was for more."

"i jUST cOULDN'T bELIEVE tHEY'D sHUT sCORSESE oUT aGAIN."

Wolves. They just love gambling. Sports are preferred, but Lupiticia's favorite wager was for movie awards. Even though she *had* to know I was fixing them, to decline her wagers would be rude. Often, I'd let her win, but this year, for fun, I decided to let the Golden Globe voters make their pick unaided by me. I mean, come on. They're just the Golden Globes.

"iT wAS a tRAVESTY.

"The Aviater was a poor film. The Golden Globe voters had no choice."

"i lIKED iT."

"That's because you still have a thing for DiCaprio. Admit it."

"oUR rELATIONSHIP wAS a sPECIAL oNE. i hADN'T eNJOYED lETTING a hUMAN sUCKLE mY tEAT lIKE tHAT iN qUITE a wHILE."

"Woah,TMI," I said. The sex lives of 3,000-year-old wolves is just nasty.

Another wolf came in, bearing only a wooden box in her jaw.

"tHERE, tHE lAST rING oF pOWER." (Early on, one of my predicessors made three for the immortal wolves, five for the ever-living fruit flies, seven (which were hidden in candy bars for kids to find) and nine for the kings of men. Over the years, I've managed to get the whole set. It's a passion.

"Awesome! The whole set! I'm grateful."

"yOU wON, fAIR aND sQUARE. bUT rEMEMBER, iT iS oNLY a tHING. lOVE iS wHAT mATTERS"

Sore loser wolf. I bowed politely and left.

But a days later, as Fashion week drew to a close, I couldn't help but think of that old she-wolf's words. Maybe she was right, maybe money doesn't matter as much as love.

But just to be on the safe side, I'll keep getting as much money as I can. And power. Chicks dig power.

A time for love

So, Shadow and I were tucked in to the floating bed/couch for a night of movie watching and smore's. Shadow loves s'mores. Since he was put on some experimental thylacine medicine, he's been feeling much better. It's hard getting thylacine medicine, what with the world assuming the species is extinct. But I have connections.

Many connections.

But in some ways, that's all I have.

Sure, my agency invented Valentine's Day to create a distraction from the real role the 14th of February servers -- the day the world tithes the Emporor of Xogor IV in exchange for access to the "luchre of life" -- a drop of which, annually, has kept our planet's atmosphere from melting into the cosmos, killing all life on Earth instantly.

The Xogorians invented the liquid eons ago, and it has served them well. Intergalactic mobsters, they go around selling the stuff to planets in need -- just before the need becomes dire. A century or so ago we were accidentally given two drops -- but efforts to reverse engineer it and discover its secrets have been in vain.

The cost for this is steep. The Xogorians are a people of great skill and culture, but they have one overwhelming obsession. And that is coin collecting. Their collection of American coinage is remarkable to say the least. In fact, the price for the liquid is one trillion dollars per year -- but entirely in quarters, nickles, dimes, pounds, centimes, rupees, pesos, drachmas, shekles, yen, rubles, Atlantan laser-dimes, you name it... coinage from every nation and every culture from every period of Earth's inhabitance. (Earth was forced to part with the few coins of Dinosaur currency yet discovered some decades ago -- but I secretly kept a fossilized apatasaurus penny -- who knows when it might come in handy?) In fact, this whole "state quarter" thing in the United States was developed just to keep them interested.

Over time, this expense has eaten away at the world economy. Other societies have turned to heavy taxation, the selling of human organs, and alchemy to make up the difference. But the United States has been obnoxious with ponying up its share, and so I had to spend must of last month in Washington, DC trying to shake down the government.

"We just don't have it," House Speaker Tom Delay whined. I had him vaporized and replaced with a clone Delay. Who then whined "I just don't know what we can do."

The President finished his chicken and waffles and looked up from his plate. "I'm trying the best I can to get this Social Security thing through."

"Try harder, " I said.

"I am! I tell people it won't change a thing, but they don't believe me."

I had to admit he was right. I'd been trying to support his plan to take social security money, and create private accounts that were doomed to failure, and then just hand the money over to me for our annual Xogorian payment (and for some other efforts I try to keep closer to my chest). We'd tried subliminal messages, mind-controlling elixer mixed in with popular sodas -- I even unleased a hypno-comet -- only to have it crash into Jupiter.

The surviving Jupitawegians of the moon Europa are now 100% on board with the plan, but Americans? Not so much. And it could be months before I'm able to trigger another hypno-comet.

"Just work on it," I said. "In the mean time, give me your watch."

The President reluctantly handed over his, and the clone Delay rummaged through his predicessor's corpse. "He has a billfold too," said the clone Delay.

"Good." I left in a huff.

But I'll admit, the real reason I was grumpy had nothing to do with Social Security, the Xogorians, or even hypno-comets. It was, despite being a totally fake holiday designed to bend the world to my will -- I always feel most alone on Valentine's day.

And so, sure, we made our payment to the Xygorians. Sure, the earth was saved for another year. But what did I have to go home to? Maybe I should let the planet melt.

It's not that I couldn't get dates. In fact, I could date any human on the planet with the flick of a switch. Quite literally. My predicessor built a giant love matrix decades ago, but I just can't bring myself to be that manipulative.

So, I decided to stay in. And that's why I was on the floating couch-bed with Shadow watching a Humphrey Bogart marathon: "Casablanca," "The African Queen," and "The Big Sleep."

Sure, it mean exhuming and reanimating the corpses of Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, Katherine Hepburn and Lauren Bacall (not yet dead, but I had her killed for the day), to name a few. I even had to have them rejuvinated so their live, command performances of the movies they filmed so long ago would be believable. I mean, anyone can have a zombie performance of a classic film -- but it takes effort to make them as powerful, if not more than the originals.

So we sat, eating smores, tearfully caught up in Bergman and Bogarts tarmac Casablanca farewell. That Bergman's arm fell off in that final goodbye somehow made it even more poignant.

I am so angry.

Now, I'm not one to throw temper tantrums. After all, I am the most powerful person on the planet, as well as the Moon and the two other inhabited planets, the names of which I'm not at liberty to mention.

And yet, lately, there have been so many events undermining my power.

For example, I did not direct the Earthquake Generator or WeatherSat 4000 to create any tsunamis, but sure enough, one happens. Then there was this big snowstorm before the Eagles won the NFC championship. I specifically called for rain -- not snow.

And now this.

The Eagles were supposed to win the Superbowl by a score of 58-3 yesterday. I made myself very clear. I usually don't fix sporting events -- I prefer a little excitement in my life -- but this was a big one. There were many things hinging on this.

For example, following this victory, a young boy in Swenksville, Pennsylvania was going to be inspired to play catch with his father, and thus learn he has telekenetic powers -- powers that with my help would make him a potent tool in my B.R.A.I.N. Army. (Beings Radiated And Inundated with Neurons. I came up with the acronym myself. Do you like it?)

Another example: America was going to be so overcome with joy at the Eagles victory, they would purchase a series of "baseball hats" that, when worn in unison, would utilize their body energy to become a giant, continent-sized battery to fuel my Astroid Deflection Net in space, and thus (yet again) avoid having the planet decimated by a giant meteor currently hurtling toward Earth.

But no. The Eagles lost. Now the boy is going to join the marching band instead and become a CPA. And the meteor? Sure, there are other ways to deflect it, but now I'm not so sure I want to.

I was so mad, I took back the special robot leg I made for Terrell Owens so he could play. Showoff is going to have to heal on his own now. No bone-knitting nanoprobes for him, either.

I was so mad. I don't mean to make a scene. But I did yell, and that upset Shadow, my albino thylacine. He's been pretty sick lately. I had my Indentured Vet take a look at him, and after several exams utilizing medicines and technologies that most humans won't see in their lifetime (which would change if they had access to the technologies, but I digress), I was told he'd be fine. But today, he just lay around in front of the fireplace in my Secret Desert Headquarters, barely emitting a chirp when I fed him his Wombat and Rice soup. And even that -- his favorite meal -- didn't do much to rouse him, the broth merely staining his furry white, giant-jawed face.

There are just a few things I ask for as the most powerful human on the Earth. The Eagles winning, tsunami-free holiday seasons and my albino thylacine to be healthy.

Dammit.

State of the Groundhog Day

Damn it.

How simple can my directions be. I told Bush to say that to fix Social Security "we also have the responsibility to make the system a better deal for younger workers. And the best way to reach that goal is through voluntary personal retirement accounts." It's just a dumb State of the Union speech? How hard can it be?

Instead, this is what he said: "If we don't fix social security, it will burn the country to the ground, like a warehouse fire in a town of dry timber, and then come back to life as a murderous werewolf, killing and impregnating all it meets."

I know he was trying to be flowery, like Churchill, but I wrote the speech clear and simple. And he had to go and improvise. What a horrible comment! Beyond the mixed metaphore, it doesn't make any sense. Since when to werewolves impregnate? They breed by biting. I should know, given my vast werewolf farm in Montana meets almost the entire world werewolf need.

And then there was the section on terrorism. I wrote: "The peace we seek will only be achieved by eliminating the conditions that feed radicalism and ideologies of murder. If whole regions of the world remain in despair and grow in hatred, they will be the recruiting grounds for terror, and that terror will stalk America and other free nations for decades."

That's plenty discriptive. It mentions stalking!! But what did Bush say?

"The peace we make is equal to the peace we take. Peace is like a giant mound of play-dough. We can make it into anything we want! Bunnies, spaceships, snakes. And it's every color of the rainbow, just like people. And it's non-toxic, so you can eat it, just like people. Peace is awesome."

I shit you not, that's a direct quote, transcribed from the real State of the Union by my intern, Scott Baio. This was only two of his remarkable off-book rantings. Thanks to him, I had to rip off my Dennis Hastert mask, and tell everyone in Congress that we were going to start the speech over, and keep doing it until Bush got it right.

Of course, all this was live, and on TV. So I had to use my Neural-Wave Space Howetzer to make everyone think that were watching an old episode of "Friends" during the ruined run-throughs. I hate having to use that. To operate, it requires gallons of seal musk (the most potent telekenetic substance in the three inhabited planets of Sol). And let me tell you, it's not easy getting the seal musk. I'll have to send my intern, Scott Baio, to replenish the Space Howetzer's stores later this week.

In other news, stupid Republican members of congress went and used the purple ink on their own fingers, in a show of solidarity with the Iraqis. Crap. Now they'll be wanting to read more Dan Brown books too...

Crap.

And to top if all off, the Groundhog saw his shadow. I have a lot of powers, it's true. But after decades of trying, I have yet to learn how to manipulate the fierce weather telekenisis of groundhogs. Someday, Paunxetawney Phil, someday you'll be mine.

Election Day

Yesterday was election day in Iraq. Or, as I like to call it, "Election Day in Iraq." I ordered this thing it seems like forever ago, and it's been a long time coming.

Everything went according to plan, except for the purple finger thing. I specifically told them to dip Iraqi voters' fingers in the green ink I supplied, filled with geo-locating nanites designed to instill a deep love for Coca-Cola and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish Crackers, two foods for which I have an overriding interest in, but the details of which I'm not privy to tell at this time.

Instead they used the purple ink, which has very few nanites at all, and the ones it does have are left over from the "everyone likes Dan Brown's novels" project. Not that I don't mind the money from the Iraqi reprinting destined to follow, (I, of course, am Dan Brown. Well, not really -- but I do tend to give the cyborg that does carry his name the manuscripts I write on my days off. He dumbs them down a bit, adds a few dozen cliff-hangers, and I don't mind sharing the credit. I'm used to it, you know, not getting credit. And frankly, re-reading the Da Vinci Code a few weeks ago, it's for the best. Peeyoo!).

I decided to stay in today -- Shadow, my albino thylacine was feeling a bit under-the-weather. So rather than head over to Iraq to see the events in person. I sent my intern though.

Did I forget to mention I hired an intern? I usually do around the new year. Past interns have gone on to head the World Bank, become Vice President of the United States, front the party band "Outkast" and rule my servent race of mole-men from Moon Base Alpha.

My new intern is ok -- not nearly as troublesome as the last couple. He's known in Hollywood as Scott Baio, but I just call him Chachi. It bugs him, but when he complains I send an electric charge through his brain-mitter which leaves him a twitching, slobbering wreck for about 20 minutes.

But the important thing about internships is that the intern *learn.*

Booty Call

In the next 40 years, the communication devices most of you use that you call “telephones” will cease to exist. Even the “cell phones” (they’re excellent tracking devices, by the way) will be replaced by a technology so simple and advanced that it’s practically impossible for me to describe here. It’s like describing a color that hithertobefore hadn’t been seen, or a number inbetween, say, six and seven that isn’t a decimal. It’s not impossible, but it would take far too long to be in either your or my best interest.

Let’s just say that one of these “phone-like” devices, its shaped like a kidney, with roughly the same texture and coloration, “rang” (although its signaling is far too advanced to be merely sound- or vibration-based.

“L-man, I’m on my way over,” said the affected drawl.

Goddamnit. I dislike uninvited guests.

“It’s a bad time.”

“But I’m on my way to the ranch, got the big plane, we’ll be over soon. Can’t I just stop by?” He begged.

Now, my secret desert lair is a secret, obviously, but part of keeping a secret is putting people off the truth. I have “lairs” in most major nations, with satellite offices that help me keep up in ones I don’t. To the leaders of these nations, these fake lairs are indeed my lair. And while it’s easy for me to go from place to place, ease doesn’t equal convenience. If the President of the United States was going to show up at one of my false lairs unannounced, it was still quite a bit of work.

“Okay, but make it quick, I’ve got much to do today,” I told him, calling up my Air Force One survelliance cam. It was him alright, and I had very little time.

The Bush family had long been clients of my secret world order organization. Their grandfather, Prescott, caddied for my predicessor. The elder Bush, while head of the CIA, was a low-level employee himself, (we gave him a promotion when he became Vice President. Not for any merit, just to keep up appearances.)

Ass a President, the elder Bush was a delight to deal with, comparatively. His son, a little more difficult – not because he challeneged my authority. Why, to do that would be foolish. The real reason was because he didn’t. In fact, he just seemed to take my authority for granted. He questioned nothing. This is a problem, really – most of my min control applications require a certain amount of opposition for the subject to work – the brain synapse that fight mental slavery actually fuel the process. But with George W. there was none of that. It was uncanny.

Luckily, he just did what I asked anyway.

Usually.

Apparently though, the order not to drop by without invitiation was one of those things that slipped through the gaps in this intellect. Ah well, that’s why they pay me the big bucks.

Really really big bucks.

Which was what U.S. President George W. Bush was here to ask for.

After being met by my robot valets, and disinfected of all Nordic nanites (the Nords and their microscopic spies have been driving me up the wall lately. More on that some other day) he strode up to me, without any of the typical banter we usually engage in, and said:

“I need $468 billion.”

“That’s all?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Bush had been borrowing from me for his entire term – and, frankly, I was getting a little tired of being his purse strings. Sure, the trillions of dollars I’d loaned the U.S. from my business accounts were pocket change really – for what use is money when I have all the power in the world? Still, it was good to have in a pinch, and certainly allowed me to continue my hold over the President and his silly country.

“Are you sure that’s all?” I asked again.

“Okay, I may need more. There’s $80 billion for Iraq,” he said. I smiled. Iraq was turning into quite the money pit, which was what I’d warned Bush in the first place two years ago when he started really chomping at the bit to go to war there. A war had always been planned between the U.S. and Iraq – too much was left unfinished in 1991. But the war had been planned for second year of Bush’s second term 2006. He pushed it up with Cheney and Rumsfeld, and I didn’t hear about it before it was too late to do much to set the issue out of motion. So the war happened, and boy was it a disaster.

The $80 billion, just like the billions before, would end up back with me, seeing as I oversaw almost all the country’s rebuilding processes – from the drilling of the fake oil-like substance we pump out of the ground, to the mines of Cragnium – a nearly indestructible element with countless uses for science, medicine and everyday life. However, most of it just went for the shields on all my skiffs and other transportation craft. Lightwieght, with shimmering colors within, the mines of Mesopotamia are the only places Cragnium can be found. But we don’t want anyone else knowing. So my predecessors filled the ground with a Molasses-like goo that most mistook for oil, and under the guise of that, I get my skiff shields.

Alright, I said. Bush was flakey though, I knew not just to take an IOU from him. “Have congress OK it, and I’ll transfer the money to your account.”

“I may need more if I get my social security plan passed.” Yet more money that would wind its way back to me.

“I expected nothing less.”

“So,” Bush began, “you want to grab some non-alcoholic beers and play som Madden?”

“No.”

“Alcoholic beers then? Just don’t tell Dick.”

“No,” I said. “I’m busy.” Shadow walked in, as if on cue.

“What kind of dog is this again?”

“It’s not a dog. It’s a thylacine.”

“That’s right. But it’s like a dog, right?”

“No. It’s not like a dog. I really have to go. Sudan, or El Salvadore, got to go to both. Busy schedule.”

“Okay,” Bush looked sheepish. “I told Laura I’d be gone all night. He looked past me into one of my lesser control rooms. Filed with computers and monitors it set off a green glow. “Mind if I stay here and surf the net on your computers?”

“Yes. I’ll see you later, Mr. President.”

“Thanks L-man.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Simpleton. Sometimes I worry that when I decided who to give the presidency to, I screwed up. But what are you going to do. You can’t control the world with the world leaders you want, you have to control the world with the world leaders you have. Or so they say.

Finally!

Ah, my precious, precious Eagles. They finally won. People may ask, is it fair for the Secret Underground Ruler of the World to have a favorite team, let alone a favorite sport?

The answer, yes.

Because this is the only instance I will stay neutral on.

Sure, I may mess with the weather to help a game. But I'll never use my powers of human-brain manipulation, or high-level governmental influence/fear to fix a football game, or any sporting event for that matter.

It wouldn't be fair.

Sure, I'll fix elections -- America hasn't had a Presidential candidate who wasn't also on our "payroll" figuratively for over 70 years. We'll fix wars. (Did the Argentines really think they had a chance? Only by a swift victory were the British able to keep secret the truth that the Falkland Islands are made entirely out of diamonds.) We even pick in advance the winner of the national spelling bee. (The winner becomes official spellchecker for our secret society's various memos. Following their year of hard labor, in which they learn all the secret words we use, we shoot him or her into the sun, via space cannon).

But we'd never influence a football game. Somethings need to be left to "chance" and "talent." After all, if everything was fixed, sooner or later someone might catch on. Sure, sometimes people catch on anyway, but they're easy to weed out of the general population.

That was way the Eagles lost three championship games in a row. I could have made them win, but where's the fun of that?

Back to the game! How thrilling. I was in my cloaked luxury skybox, which actually circles the ring of the Lincoln Financial Stadium to continually give me the best view... and let me tell you it was exciting. Shadow sat on my lap for most of the game, hard to manage given that he ways almost 150 pounds. But he had a rough day and I wasn't about to upset him.

Around half-time, when the Eagles were ahead of the Atlanta by only four points, I was very upset, and was all set to have a volcano somewhere go off, so as I wouldn't have to read about the team losing in the paper the next morning. I've had Mt. St. Helens primed and ready for more than 6 months now, and it seemed as good a time as any.

But then Donovan McNabb and the rest of the team pulled it out. It was amazing. I almost spilled Don Perignon on Shadow during the excitement after one of the interceptions, but he opened his mouth supernaturally-wide (as thylacines are wont to do) and drank it. He likes the finer things.

During the fourth quarter, however, I was called away to deal with a situation in the Ukraine. Ukraine President Viktor Yushchenko, who played along nicely during our "revote" scheme (thus distracting the nation as we evacuated injured Mole-Men from their city undernieth the still-dangerous Chernobyl reactor site), was locked out of the Presidential residence.

He had left his key aboard the sky-skiff the night before, when I took him out for steaks to celebrate.

Due to all the secret doors, and the fact that the Mole-Men had a meeting later in the day, I couldn't just leave him waiting outside. So, I had the Goodyear Blimp, which I always keep as a back-up transportation for emergencies just like this, pick me up and take me to the Ukraine.

Many people think blimps go slowly, but that's because their drivers -- all trained by my agency -- never take them out of first gear. I got the to Ukraine and back within, the hour, but by the time I returned, the game was all-but-over.

I was glad to see the score, but disappointed I missed the exciting finish.

Afterwards, Donovan, Coach Andy Reid, and lineback Jeremiah Trotter joined me in the box, which i still had rotating because it was cool.

"Good game," I said, as they presented me with the signed game ball.

"Thank you," McNabb answered. "We're just happy to please you."

I then told him how I'd missed the fourth quarter. They offered to hook me up with a video of the game.

"That's not the same," I said, growing slightly testy. Shadow snarled slightly as he ate a fourth foot-long.

"What if you replay the fourth quarter for me?" I asked.

"Well, we do have all the plays on record, I'm sure we could reinact it if that's what you'd like," Reid said.

"I would."

Within ten minutes all the members of the Eagles (including injured Tight End Chad Lewis, with his broken angle slightly taped), and all the Falcons, dejected, but not complaining, were back on the field.

It wasn't as exciting as seeing the game with all the fans. Afterwards, I returned to the field.

"Let's do it one more time, this time with a crowd."

It took a little longer, maybe 40 minutes or so, to get all 70,000 some-odd fans back into the stadium, and all their cheer-cues on the jumbo-tron. But it was worth it. It really was a spectacular quarter.

It was close to midnight before we were done, and the Eagles looked a little tired.

"Head home," I told McNabb. "Have a nice dinner, you earned it."

"Thank you," he said, and as I left I saw him and some other members of the Eagles crying. It must be such an emotional thrill for them -- not just to win, but to win three times in one day!

It may have been a lot to ask, but for me, this is the closest thing I get to a day off. The weather wasn't bad enough to hinder the sky-skiff, and we were soon on our way back to the desert lair. It was a good day.

Snowed In

Shadow is pacing around on the sky-skiff, having already eaten his thylacine kibble and drunk on wombat essence, and is getting more agitated every minute.

We've been in a holding pattern over Philadelphia for almost 15 minutes, unheard of when you are the leader of the shadow government that secretly controls the world. Plus, it's four hours until kick-off.

I page the control tower again.

"If I have to wait longer, I will build a time machine, go back a thousand years, find your ancestors and wipe them out," I say.

"I... I'm sorry sir," the tower manager stutters. "We'll have you down ASAP."

He sounds scared, but I was only bluffing. I already had a time machine. There was no need to build one. And if I was going to wipe out his ancestors (like I did to insurgent Presidential candidate Ralph McCoy during his almost-successful 1996 run) I'd have already done it. A thousand years ago.

It wasn't the tower manager's fault. Sure, his bank account would be liquidated as soon as I got back to the lair, but really, it wasn't his fault. The blizzard had everyone snowed in, and sometimes even the Emperor of the World can't control the elements.

But here's the thing. I can control the elements. I do almost every day. And while I had set the weather to "sleet and heavy flurries" in hopes of throwing off the evil Atlanta Falcons and aiding my beloved Philadelphia Eagles, I never set it to "Blizzard."

Sure, I saw the news reports leading up to the weekend, frightfully claiming impending snow doom, as only local TV affiliates in New Jersey can, but I never ordered a blizzard. I made a note to purge the Weather Control department again.

Their frantic, apoligetic emails to me earlier in the day implied they had no hand in the blizzard. But what's the point of dozens of weather control sattelites and undersea current-shifters if they can't keep a five-day forcast accurate? And I was angry for other reasons too. Now I'd have to spend much of next week finding out whether it was a machine going haywire causing the blizzard, or a machine going haywire that couldn't stop the blizzard.

I'm thinking of sending in an Aerial Robot Shoveling Squadron to come in and get it done -- despite my desire to keep them secret until the Ice Age I have planned to disrupt the 2012 Olympics. Desperate times, you know?

Finally, 18 minutes in, the tower calls.

"The secret, invisable hanger has been plowed. You're free to land, please don't hurt my family."

Shadow nuzzles up next to me, becalmed by the feeling of the skiff's descent.

I don't respond. As it comes into view (or lack of view) the invisable hanger is well-plowed. Around it, the woods of Southeastern Pennsylvania are draped lovingly in white, the sunlight shining off it like a dull mirror. The green of the trees and the flocks of birds the fly past warm my heart, as does the vodka.

"Very well. Few of them will be harmed."

"Thank you," the tower chief says.

What can I say. Who doesn't love a snow day?

Wedding bliss

Just got back from Trump's wedding. Ugh. I hate weddings -- but it is always nice to be invited. Although this was as much an occasion for business as shrimp cocktail.

I was already planning on a visit to "The Donald," wedding or not. All the better to go to the bash, however, given that I own the lease for Trump's ridiculous Mar-a-Lago estate and secret radio telescope station. I like checking in on my property, making sure that the nice hardwood floors aren't getting all scuffed up. Plus, trump had been going "off the reservation" the last couple months, and we had reason to believe that his robo-toupee mind-manipulation unit (RTMMU) was acting up. It's last few transmissions had been garbled, at best.

The sky-skiff decloaked and brought me in just after dark, about an hour late, but Trump had held the ceremony for me, greeting me at the landing circle.

"Hey, you're late! You're fired, ha ha," he said. When he saw no response from me, he added, "Ha, ha. Yes?" He tried petting Shadow, who snarled, squeakily.

I shook his hand, and slightly recoiled from the thick cologne. I reminded him that I owned the copyright on the phrase "You're Fired," and that he should minimize usage, given how his casinos were doing. Trump apologized.

"Don't worry," I said, "I'll give you that one for free. Wedding gift. Where's the bride?"

"Oh, Melania? She's getting ready in her room."

"Take me there."

"Um, okay."

We went through his ridiculous estate, decorated with even more ridiculous wedding flowers and statues to the bride and groom, we passed several of the hidden doors to the radio telescope that I'd used countless times to maintain my discussions with the Rigelians. Idiot never even considered that he was living in the equivalent of an English Basement apartment to the overall size and scope of the estate. Shadow ate a floral display.

And everywhere, that horrible Trump-smelling cologne.

He knocked on the door.

"Melania? You have a visitor?"

The Slovenian model answered. "Oh, Truuumpie, don't you know tha'z eet eez bad luck to see your bride ahn her weddink day?"

Trump: "I'm sorry honey. Please forgive me my impudence."

"I will decide punishment later."

As he supplicated himself I tapped the secret panel on his hairpiece. Trump fell slack as the unit placed him into a controlled coma."

"YES MASTER."

"Robo-Toupee, why have your data feeds been stopped?"

"THERE HAS BEEN NOTHING TO REPORT."

"You are a state-of-the-art mind manipulation unit, and you have nothing to report?"

"YES, I AM ONLY PROGRAMMED TO MANIPULATE MINDS."

Melania and I had a hearty laugh over this.

"SERIOUSLY THOUGH, MY TRANSMITTER WAS DAMAGED DURING A MASTERCARD COMMERCIAL."

"Ah," I said, mentioning to Melania. She walked over, opened up one of her finger-panels. A small wire came out of her pinkie, and went into the toupee. Within minutes, she said it was done.

"Melania," I said. "You know of all my thousands of fembots, you are my favorite?"

"Oh, I bet you say that to all your A.I. slaves," she said, kissing me on the mouth. I felt some microfilm pass from her tongue to mine. Interesting.

Shadow licked her leg.

I tapped the hairpiece and Trump stood up. "You're fired!" He said. "Right? Ha-ha?"

"You will know pain tonight," Melania-bot 2005 said, without laughing.

Trump smiled broadly.

The wedding was long, the reception dull, the food not nearly filled with enough fluoride and orgone juice. I made a note to have the wedding planner and the chef sent to re-education camp in the Pocono’s this summer. It's a nice one, on a lake. The lobotomies are relatively painless and the sailing is great.

I got up to leave. Regis came by.

"You promised she'd be removed."

"And I will, I said."

Kelly Ripa ran up.

"Have you seen this place? Look at all these people. What a pretty white doggie."

"It's not a dog," I said coldly. Shadow chewed on her purse.

"You promised, soon, please." Said Regis.

"It's pretty anyway," said Kelly.

"Please," said Regis.

I hate weddings.

I was back on the skiff within 10 minutes, and back at my desert lair within the hour.

I tossed the microfilm into a ceramic bowl on my desk, the packaging clattering against the dozen of others I still had to look through. I'd get to them later.

I took two long showers. That Trump smell just wouldn't come off.

Displeased

Someone strafed the sky-skiff as I left Mosul this afternoon. It scared Shadow. Equally annoying, my impromptu meeting with Iraqi P.M., and former intern Mahmud Abbas was a waste. All he wanted to talk about was the NFL playoffs, and let slip that he was an Atlanta fan. I couldn't talk with him after that, my disgust was so great.

Checked the sky-skiff after returning to the lair. It was fine, and that made me feel better. Though I have dozens of them, (and own the patent, thus preventing Boeing from every constructing another one of these silent, cold-fusion-running, cloakable, Mach-8-speeding near-space vehicles), this one was my favorite.

Stupid Atlanta Falcon fans.