Pooped and PO'd

That's right, I'm pooped and PO'd. Tired and ticked off. I'm a frazzled Freddy from blogging and making video SOS messages that not only go unnoticed by the people who matter, they get snatched by the people who don't. Internet pirates.

Cripes, I don't even know why I warmed up the old Commodore 64 today. No use checking the AOL TV listings. We don't have TV on Mars and, if we did, it would probably be even worse than the crap they consume by the bucketful back on Earth. No, come to think of it, nothing could top American television for filth and decadence and commercial overkill. Mars TV would be a big step up, even if all we had were reruns of old Nazi-Martian sitcoms like Love That Bunny, starring Hermann Goering as Bunny Malloy, the cross-dressing heartbreaker from Berlin. Or encores of the made-for-Nazi-TV movie "Days of Whine and Poses" (as I mentioned in an earlier posting) starring Mr. Goering again as Ms. Malloy and Mr. Adolph Hitler, himself, as a dictator enduring a mid-life crisis as well as a full-blown identity crisis. Yep, even that extreme excrement would surpass in quality this year's prime-time lineup back on Earth.

But I'm not here today to talk about kinky Krauts from The Third Reich. I'm here to announce that, as long as my Mars Broadcasts can be downloaded using Real Player's "Download Video" feature, I'll never risk my flabby neck to make another one. Real Player now joins my ever-growing list of "bottom feeders", along with certain insurance companies and major credit card companies in the good ol' USA, which is rapidly becoming "the bad ol' USA" because of criminal corporate misconduct. Like raising the price of a gallon of gasoline by 30 cents just because major holidays are approaching. Insufferable rat bastards.

And the next thing I need to get off my bony chest, besides telling everybody that it will be a warm day on Mars before I fire up Windows Movie Maker again, is that I realize that it doesn't matter what I write on this blog because, apparently, people are only interested in my video broadcasts. Um, hmm, that's right. To the tune that they now appear on a website that caters to creeps who like dirty chat rooms and filthy ads. May their own karma be their eternal judge.

So, as long as it doesn't matter what the hell I write about on this blog, I may as well post anything at all. Any damn thing at all. Try this:

"Up your ass with a blade of grass."

Or this:

"Up your nose with a rubber hose."

Or, I could type out the lyrics to a ridiculous school boy ditty from the early 20th Century:

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!
Teacher hit me with a ruler!
I hit her on the bean
With a rotten tangerine
And her teeth came marching out!

I could even quote from the Wild Man Fischer song, Merry Go Round:

"Merry-go! Merry-go! Merry-go-round!
Oooo, oooo, oooo!
Merry-go! Merry-go! Merry-go round!"

And then quote from another Wild Man Fischer song, Monkeys VS Donkeys:

"Monkeys versus donkeys!
Monkeys versus donkeys!
Monkeys versus donkeys!"

And no one would know the goddamn difference because, if there are no videos to steal on this posting, there are no worries. And that's because people would rather watch than read, just like they'd rather steal than make their own stuff or poke fun rather than create. Hell, I'd take a picture of myself mooning the entire solar system but, sure as hell, someone would just copy and paste that image on some trashy website that appears to be an astronomy website in the Google Search results.

Nooo, thank you. I'd rather be chased all around the underground ruins of Cydonia by Reptilians with ray guns as big as Super Soakers. At least those big-ass, biped lizards have a legitimate reason for wanting my ass.

Dénouement

Yeah, I survived my last Mars broadcast. Thanks to my being high on sucrose and having an almost brand-new pair of Size-10 Nike's on that I'd swiped from a napping bum the day before. I was so grateful for those speedy, snazzy, get-away sneaks that I decided to return them.

I found the ex-Wall-Street stockbroker in the same spot, in a corridor beneath the biggest Mars pyramid in the Cydonia ruins, still dozing in his stocking feet. When he woke up and saw me tying a double knot in his left shoelace, he laid a single, lame haymaker in my direction before he collapsed. He must have burned up a whole day's worth of algae-and-mushroom grazing with that one punch. As I calmly reinstalled his footwear, he found the strength to lay a few chosen words on me.

He said I looked like the love child of Charlie McCarthy and Groucho Marx. The stupid jerk. As if two guys could have a love child (the number one asshole thing for anybody to say) and number two, hardly anybody in 2009 remembers Grouch Marx or knows that Charlie McCarthy was the top-hatted, bespectacled dummy that sat on ventriloquist Edgar McCarthy's knee way back in the 1930s.

So, I told him to shitcan that attitude as I snapped off a stalactite that fit my hand like a glove and watched him trip and fall down as he ran down the dark-ass cave, thinking I'd fried a synapse and needed to do some quick bloodletting as therapy. But I let him get clean away because the stalactite club was basically just a knee-jerk reaction. All I really wanted was the lemon sour ball that fell out of his pocket when he got up. Still in its own wrapper, too.

I know I shouldn't have been provoked by such a thing but I was highly insulted by this fellow Earthling's stupid remark. I mean, think about it, this former-speculator bum was suggesting that I was a cross between a mindless, wooden blockhead and an overindulged, over-opinionated, celluloid prankster from the 1930s, with heavy eyebrows, nerdy glasses and a big, black mustache. Hmm. Yeah, well, at least I don't have to have somebody work my mouth and eyes for me and my mustache isn't just black shoe polish. So, stupid or not, this guy was saying that I was not only outdated, but dumb and geeky-looking, and that insulted me and hurt my feelings. So, naturally, I reached for a stalactite.

Hmm. OK. Well, he may have a point or two about my looks. But at least I write and deliver all my own, original material. And, as far as any Mars Broadcast #3 airing in the foreseeable future, I always tick-a-lock on any loose lips about that (including mine) and then spring the broadcast on everyone's asses when they're least expecting it. Otherwise, I'd have been Reptilian food a long time ago.

Mars Broadcast #2

Fred Fortune's
Mars Broadcast #2

Bottom Feeders

There are lots of things I don't miss about living on Earth besides the dozen things I listed the last time I addressed this issue. I need to get two of them off my chest right now, before I start scouring that new canal I found for Martian mushrooms, algae and some ancient salt. If I'm lucky, I'll run into another homeless bum like me who was abducted from Earth by those bad-boy Grays and dumped here because his blood's Muscatel level was also a wee bit too high for their DNA experiments. Pricks. With any real luck, I'll stumble over a sleeping bum who was abducted from Earth in an alley outside of a fast-food joint or a convenience store and whose pockets may contain a few leftover fries or a half-eaten 5th Avenue.

Just thinking about food –- even day-old junk food that belongs to someone else –- makes me forget why I'm at the old Commodore 64 this evening, blogging away. Lately, I've been surviving on nothing but pilfered Zagnut candy bars and warm Strawberry Quik, well past the expiration date, and you can't really call that "brain food".

Oh, yeah. Bottom feeders. That's what I hated most about Earth before I got snatched by a blue light from the 1965 Rambler Ambassador sedan I called "home". Go ahead and laugh but, in 1965, the Rambler Ambassador was considered the Cadillac of blue-collar-worker cars, especially by people who did a lot of camping. That baby would haul anything and you'd never even know it. Of course, I was living in it in an alley near Hollywood & Vine in 2008, so it had seen its better days.

Shit. Here I go again. Bottom feeders. I mean those crooks who run insurance companies from places like Pittsburgh and who can't do business the regular way so they pretend to hook up with major credit card companies who are offering free life insurance to their cardholders. For a day or so. Then, if you don't call this toll free number in the fine print on the back of the letter they sent you, your $3,000 worth of free life insurance provided by your bottom-feeding major credit card company becomes a $200,000 policy with quarterly premium payments coming out of your credit card. If you don't call that goddamn toll-free number. So, if you don't do anything, they attach themselves to your credit card like leeches. If you do call them (meaning, if you saw that hidden clause in the fine print on the back of the bottom feeder's letter) they don't understand why you're upset. When you call your major credit card company, they act like they don't know what you're talking about. Right, and I've never heard of a Hershey Bar or "Buyer Beware", either. Crooks.

The insurance company bottom feeders are even worse than the fake car warranty people from New Mexico who send you what looks like an official warning of some kind that makes you fear that if you so much as dare to let your vehicle's warranty expire, the President of the United states, himself, will horsewhip you. That didn't bother me quite as much as the life insurance bottom feeders because the Rambler I was living in wasn't really mine anyway and I'm sure that its warranty expired about forty years ago.

How did I get mail delivered to a 1965 Rambler Ambassador abandoned in an alley in Hollywood, you might ask? Well, I can thank the 9-1-1 emergency number people for that. Before 9-1-1 came along, my "home" would have been just a rusty, old, abandoned vehicle. But, after 9-1-1 got a choke hold on L.A. and renamed all the goddamn streets and reassigned all the goddamn house numbers to suit their Napoleonic needs, they changed that 1965 Rambler Ambassador to 1965 Ambassador Way. Go figure. Naturally, the Post Office, now called the USPS, had no choice but to deliver mail there.

And, you might also want to know how a homeless bum like me had a major credit card. Well, I wasn't always a homeless bum. At one time I was a consumer, the Cadillac of citizens. And as long as I scraped together the minimum monthly payment, I got to keep my card.

By the way, if I ever get dumped back on Earth by the goddamn Grays, I'd probably still want to visit New Mexico, especially Roswell and White Sands. Those places hold a certain fascination for me. But I wouldn't go to Pittsburgh to take a shit.

"You find that man!"

No, I'm not quoting Dr. Richard Kimble from the 1993 Warner Bros. movie "The Fugitive". You find that man! were the last words I heard before I high-tailed it out of that old Nazi TV studio in Cydonia after my aborted Mars Broadcast #1 last month, Earth time. By the way, those words were spoken by a Reptilian we call "Liz" because she's nothing but a two-legged lizard to us Earthling bums who were marooned out here by those DNA-thirsty Grays.

Liz would have had my ass in a wringer if she'd have caught me broadcasting the truth about their little Martian San Quentin but I escaped on their asses and I'm fairly safe and secure again in the bowels of the ancient Martian capital. If you can call this being safe, wandering around the nether regions of Mars looking for another place to broadcast my conspiracy shit to the rest of the solar system.

The reason I looked like I was in a room on Earth was because the Nazis once had a gold mining operation on Mars and that so-called TV studio was where they broadcasted their daytime soaps from. Back in '39 Hitler was crazy about soap operas, long before the Americans even dreamed of broadcast television. Nazi soaps were even racier than the current Mexican soaps on Earth and that pretty much tells you why Nazi Germany was going to hell in a handbasket long before Rommel swapped tank shots with Patton in North Africa. Rumor has it that Hermann Goering often made cameo appearances on these soap operas wearing a tutu and that he later became a Martian star in the 1940 made-for-Nazi-TV movie, "Days of Whine and Poses", as a cross-dressing character named Bunny Malloy.

But here I go again, getting off the goddamn track. Just thinking about Reptilians and Grays and Nazis in the same afternoon has me all bollixed up.

Anyway, Liz and Co. might think that they'll find that man! but they've got another think coming if they think for one minute that I'm going back to that TV-studio trap they set for me. Hell, if I can swipe a whole box of Oh Henry! candy bars from a U.S Air Force PX on the dark side of the moon and then use a couple lead slugs to hop a subway train to the Sea of Tranquility I can certainly filch a few cables and a portable camera from a few shitheads with Nazi glory on their brains and set up another studio here in the Mars underground.

And then we'll see who has the last word.