Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Planet Asshat

Mom, I need you to western union me some money, I left my wallet
in my other pants in another galaxy... and tell Dad to watch the Cubs game Friday, I am going to beam up their star pitcher and tank their run for the series... I don't think they ever lost by UFO before... should be hilarious....

Too CLOSE 4 Southern Comfort: The Moon Whore, Drake's Beard and The Ferretfaced Galactic Posse

By Asshat formerly known as Butthead

This is what happened the past 24 hours: I was gathering intel on a CIA-run GirlScout Front called Cookies for Daddy when someone sent me a pic on Spacebook of Drake and a Turnip Creature eating McDonald cashiers at a remote Mickey Ds on route 3 near buttfuck Nowhere Nevada. Drake hugged the Turnip-Being and said, Happy Fathers Day and then got on a Harley and drove off. The Turnip being jumped on a spacepod and vanished over the mountains.

Then I got a text from James Casbolt who said, “wattup Thug?”
I answered, “Notta Homie.”
James texted, “Headup bro, wormhole yellow light.”
I texted back, “TY”

(I looked at the pic again and noted a McOrb by Drake's beard.)

I think a small constellation of man eating chin crabs may have set up shop in Drake's beard. First chance I get I will take a flea bath and Supersize in reverse and go in to have a look see. Pretty sure I will find Drake at Walmart talking up Shantelleniqua the big butted African America Clerk in electronics.

But first things first. I was given a wormhole yellow light and I would need to proceed with caution so I put the pedal to the medal and blew through just as it turned orange and then red. I was safely in the inner outer inny outy of the naval interstellar bellybutton. I cleared the lint from the concave flesh pouch and saw a fleet of incoming snatchwaxers.

Before I could cloak my ass a Venus Flytrap from the Milky Way was straddling me and rubbing her pistol on my pistol.

Ahhhh what the hell I said and grabbed her petals in my hands and drove pollen deep within her throbbing mucus chamber. Then we shared some chronic from the Venus Co-op MM13 and zipped back into Wendover Nevada to The Burger King to grab a couple shakes. Doubt I'll ever see her again but the Snatchwaxers were still hovering over a chemtrail and they looked like they could use a little asshat juice too but I was spent and needed a nap.

I needed rocket fuel and called a contact at the Jet propulsion lab to wire me some petrol but I knew it would not be there until morning so I went to play some 3 card poker at the Peppermill.

The waitress, who was a beautiful Mexican woman asked me if I needed a drink. She looked very familiar but I could not place her in my memory. I ran a face recog on her and found her code name, Lady Beandip who works for a Cabal-run escort service out of L.A., Vegas, Dallas and Phoenix (that is, she is flown out to clients in these cities, commands a $5K a night price, but all are CIA missions or, as a Project Monarch graduate, for use free-of-price by politicians and bankers of the Cabal--- for bankers she comes with a toaster or a waffle iron).

I asked her why a high priced sex slave was working a Wendover Casino and she smiled revealing her fangs, licked her lips and said, “sorry no comprendez?”

Either she was playing it cool or my face recog was on the fritz again. “Fuckin' Radio shack.”

So I ordered a Bud and a shot of tequila, caught the house manipulating the dealing device and told the pit boss telepathically “I can have your license with one phone call.” Suddenly the cards went my way. The pit boss who had one of those perfect heart shaped asses telepathed back, “I'm off at dawn. Room 1313.”

I told him I would be there.

Of course I wouldn't be because although he had a perfect ass I was programmed to muffdive and old school programming is hard to break. I looked across the casino and saw the snatchwaxers were gathered around a Sex in the City slot machine and making feminine cooing noises. I knew I would have to make my exit.

I excused myself and went to cash in my chips and make a call. That's when another familiar face walked by and smiled. I remember her being assigned to a colleague of mine who was at Lockheed-Martin working with new alien tech handed over by the NRO and ONI, acting as a friend of his 19-year-old daughter, she was actually reporting on him and seduced him, and he later vanished once he realized his daughter was 14 and that could get him two days in prison in Utah.

I contacted a former asshat of mine from the ONI days, a double-agent who worked for the same secret escort service but now under a new name, “whore2door” because she had been in Monarch with Lady Lipgloss. I needed to know what she had on her fellow sex slave. My asshat, whom I will call Lady Butterfinger because she knows my favorite candy bar and where I like to eat them.

Just then a tall blond Korean Snatchwaxer walked up and stuck out her hand and I made the huge mistake of shaking it. A carpet shock of about 120 volts ripped through my arm – it felt like a thousand of those little snapdragons kids throw at each other on Independence Day. Thinking quickly I asked myself, “what would Benjamin Fulford do?” I then sucked the static electricity out of my wrist and spit it into a cocktail napkin. The Snatchwaxer, embarrassed looked at her fur boots on the carpet and shrugged. I punched her lights out and headed for the door.

As I passed the Unlucky 7s slot machines I saw Geno Kalmes sweating, shaking amd mumbling profanity as he kept pushing the slot button practically crying. This crackpot monkey had the gamblebug bad. “Fuckin mutter fuckin son of a goddamn cuntmutterfuckinbitch I have lost all my travelin money.” He cursed.

I stopped, put a hand on his machine and zeroed in on the microchip processor and flipped some digits. The next push he hit 250 bucks. When the moron went to hit the button again I took him by the ear, escorted him to the cashiere and then to his car.

I told him do not stop at another casino or I swear I will sick the turnipcreatures on your sorry ass. He looked at me and shamefully whispered, “who are you?” I told him we have been laughing at you for 51 years but your Truman show has gone into hyper unfunny reruns.... time to get a real job. I gave him the card of a DEA agent I know in California and told him he needed someone to sling dimebags to college kids.

That's when a wormhole opened up and the wormhole attendant asked me, “what floor sir?”

Before I could run the wormhole tongue snapped me up and I was spun through light years and the time space continuum to what I think is the planet David Wilcocks must have come from because everyone there looked like David Wilcocks.

I sat down at an outside cafe in a city that looked like a cross between San Francisco and dubuke Iowa and ordered a plate of Algae and sprouts. The waitress who looked just like David Wilcocks went and got my ice tea from the bartender who looked just like David Wilcocks just then Lady Thongshowing sat down and said, “I’m sorry, they kidnapped my son and made me do it.”

Half a dozen cammo dudes with guns drawn surrounded me, they did not look like David Wilcocks however, no they all looked like a Chinese Sylvester Stallone. Plus an agent in a black suit appeared using teleportation and placed a gun to Lady Thongshowings buttcrack which was also showing. He told me, “Shift out and I will shoot her buttcrack.

I was indeed going to shift to 5D and get the hell out of Dodge which oddly enough was the name of the planet. But I knew he really would shoot her buttcrack and give the boy to a homeless Draco to eat, so I remained still. My curiosity got the best of me as well.

A second suit guy (I hate to use the term “man in black” especially because he was wearing a light blue jump suit and a really gay vest) appeared by my side and slipped a damper collar around my neck — this collar kept my body vibrating at 3D…if I attempted to shift, it would tighten so hard my head would be severed. I know, because I have used the same collar on my mother.

I was ushered away and blindfolded and taken onto a vessel that I am pretty sure was some sort of TR-3, perhaps the E or G Tier 2 model. Google Ford or Chevy and ask a salesman they have all the time in the world.
BTW, there was a small news item about my apprehension:

Man abducted by military seems real
Customers having lunch at a  Dodge Restaurant were shocked and awed when a military unit of seven heavily armed men who looked like Sylvester Stallone if Sylvester Stallone was Chinese and converged on a couple in the outdoors patio and arrested both. The man was led away in handcuffs and what appeared to be a collar around his neck and the woman with her buttcrack and thong showing was also cuffed.

 When asked about the incident, the public information officer who looked like David Wilcock started crying and sobbing and bawling and gasping and sputtering... we said, “forget it.”

The flight was five minutes but I could have been taken anywhere. I knew wherever we landed, the platform went below ground based on the sound.  Above ground is a hooosh.... below is a woooosh....

I was escorted to a room, hit in the stomach by the butt of a gun, and handcuffed to a barberchair. I sat there for eight hours, never fed or given water, a Geneva Conventon violation if I might say. But the haircut made me look 10years younger.

I promised a tip when I freed my hands, the intergalactic coiffure said he would settle for a kiss. Well, mind you.... I'm not into it but my hands were tied and his kisses tasted like cinnamon and when he blew on my stomache like an adult does to a baby what could I do.... I closed my eyes and did my best to fantasize about Angelie Jolie kissing her brother. When I woke up from my satisfied sleepy nap, The blindfold was taken off and the two suit guys stood there plus an armed guard by the door.

“If you’re going to give me another haircut ” I said, “I expect you buy me dinner first.”

The suits did not have a sense of humor.

“We finally got you,” one said, “Mr. Former White Hat…did you think you could really elude us? Did you really think it would be that easy?”

“You know,” I said, “for a while, I did. But then I decided to let you catch me because I needed a haircut and a bellyblow...boredom does weird things to a super soldier”

“You’re in for a universe of hell, F.W. Hat.”

“Did you just call me F.W. Hat?” I said incredulously. “Who writes the shit that comes out of your chinese looking stallone mouth?”

I didn’t finish because two technicians in lab coats and a tray came in. They took my fingerprints, blood and hair samples, and performed a rectal exam. They told me I should eat more fiber now that I was 40 something.

“We’ll know your true identity soon,” said talky suit chinese stallone looking guy, “and then we’ll grow a few good clones and infiltrate your group of 8 dollar paying MI5 front Ben Fulford blog agents and use such tricky names as Stardweeb66 or Puddlepants1955.”

“Oh while you are there I said, can you tell them my friend Geno is just fucking with them?”

The Chinese Stallone looking guy third from the left said, “That punkass bitch homophobic know it all is already slated for handshake prick poisoning to be carried out by Rabbi Shelman of Berwyn Illinois.”

“How original I said. Don’t you know,” I replied, “Geno is Rothschild DNA and Rockefeller DNA coupled with Kalmes, Barry and Shaquille O'Neal designed to be a shitty free throw shooter and a sleeper agent who will one day be named Prince of Wisconsin.''

They seemed surprised but tried not to, “Funny guy,” said a Stallone Chinese looking guy in a blue jumpsuit with a gay vest.

When the techies left with my DNA, a four star general entered the room, along with a pudgy and short woman with a deep French Canadian accent. I knew her instantly: It was Lady Dragon.

“You have been pain in ass, Former White Hat,” said Lady Dragon.

“”I said, “ me asshat.”

“It was only matter of time before we get you,” said the four-star general. who found himself talking like Lady Dragon after a long car ride together.

“And who are you, sir?” I asked. “I would salute you, sir, being former military, but my hands are tied from following protocol.”

“It does not matter my name, asshat,” said the general, “just know I am the one who will give the green light on the mass arrests.” He smiled.

“You are Drake’s Pentagon contact,” I said.

“And we have had that clone spilling the bullshit to the public. And the twits at Fulford spreading it all over the world. A nifty game.”

“What did you do with original? I asked... “I have been looking for an ugly hairy fucker to turn into a floor lamp in my Southern Hillbilly themed d├ęcor in the Florida room in my trailer park beach house.”

“He is safely tucked away,” said Lady Dragon sounding like nails on a blackboard if fingernails had a really horrible Quebec accent.

“A wonderful plan devised by Hillary Clinton and Poppy Bush,” said the general. “You have this sincere-sounding old soldier talking about freedom and mass arrests, he gets the militias worked up, the people pissed off, you keep holding off the arrest dates so they will get so mad they will do it themselves; then you give a green light, arrest a few bankers and congressmen of no great consequence, you ask the militias to head out, and things look fishy, a few planned terrorist attacks, a war brewing in the Middle East, and the President declares martial law, and we move in without none of this Constitutional rights baloney. Riots and civil unrest starts up –”

I had to admit. Only Carl Rove had the brilliance to hatch such a brilliant plan and I knew he had volunteered for guard duty on planet 8 year old boy in the pedo galaxy of prepubesctatron.

“who is your brain trust on this one?” I asked.

“We thought of it ourselves.” He said proudly.

“And then Project Strawman and Op 7/11 Slurpybrainfreeze goes green light,” I said, feeling defeated.

He smiled broadly. “You are looking at the man who has the codes to activate millions of clones out there: women, children, men of all stripe and strata. This was Hilary’s design, the bitch has some brains.”

“And a fat ass,” Lady Dragon chortled.

We all laughed because Hillary fat ass jokes are funny no matter what side you are on.




  2. So which side of Hillary's ass planet are you on, Geno? I would guess the funny side. After reading your treatise on the the spiral ingression towards the madness that is the wormhole, I can say without reservation that I now understand less than I already thought I did before. And for that, I am grateful. Please accept this bran muffin as a token of my esteem.

    1. still waiting for said muffin over a year later... promise a guy a muffin and no muffin....

  3. well this was inspired and made possible by a man/blog that goes by FORMER WHITE HAT.... I will post the link that I parodied here... stealing much of his material to add my own sarcastic exaggeration to... and no matter who or what this guy is I have to say I would collaborate with him in a heartbeat... His blog has video of man eating Turnip beings from outer space.... What more needs to be said.... I want to produce this hilarious scifi, Dr. Who on acid and if FWH is perfectly serious I hope he will shrug off my attempts to have fun....