My Favorite Holiday Greeting

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

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 post) 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 post, there's nothing for them to look at. They like TV and that's what a video is. Couch potato shit for Web potatoes. That's right, most people would rather watch a screen than read anything, 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 who have 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 Groucho 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

Author's Note 11-07-13: This video was uploaded by Michael Casher to Blogger. You can't watch this video at YouTube because it does not exist there. That is another Google redirect which is nothing more than a lie to get you to watch other videos at YouTube instead of the uploaded video on this blog post. This new uploaded format at Blogger was introduced in November 2013 by Google without notice to anyone.

TC

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 beam of light from the 1965 Rambler Ambassador sedan I called "home" at the time. 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.

Mars Broadcast #1

Fred Fortune's
Mars Broadcast #1

Author's Note 11-07-13: This video was uploaded by Michael Casher to Blogger. You can't watch this video at YouTube because it does not exist there. That is another Google redirect which is nothing more than a lie to get you to watch other videos at YouTube instead of the uploaded video on this blog post. This new uploaded format at Blogger was introduced in November 2013 by Google without notice to anyone.

TC

The Misled vs. The Mislabeled

One of the toughest things about being a so-called "conspiracy theorist" is being called that. It's obviously a media label, coined by so-called investigators and reporters of "the news" on Earth. These are the same people who take all day to tell you that some low-life in the Los Angeles area stuck up a mom-and-pop store and is now on the lam on the Santa Monica Freeway. These are the limelight lovers who are more excited about announcing the latest version of Nintendo to the world than anybody in the world is about buying it. These are the folks who gave up their dream of becoming a game show host on national television in order to settle for a sure thing as a local TV news anchor and they're mad as hell about it. Therefore, anyone who rocks any boat anywhere is making more money and having more fun than they are.

My point is this. What the hell do they know about anything?

The next toughest thing about being a squealer and finger-pointer is that anyone who can make a phone call, send an email or a text message, or post on a blog can also be a conspiracy theorist. That includes whack jobs who think every jet contrail contains chemicals that will make people do certain things or not do certain things, according to a whimsical and diabolical schedule of the federal government. These are the rabid fanatics who think President George Bush masterminded the 9/11 terrorist attack instead of Osama bin Laden. These are the consistently irritated tax payers who are so irritated, in the first place, by having to pay taxes that they want to exact their revenge on the feds somehow. Even if it means making up exotic and preposterous stories such as this and posting them on websites that cater to pissed-off people with imaginary axes to grind. These are the people whose biggest enemy in life is Uncle Sam.

In this same company of "conspiracy theorists" are people of any number of racial and ethnic backgrounds and national origins or political parties or social status or sexual orientation who have no tolerance for anyone who's not in their self-selected inner circle of chosen people. Often chosen by a god they've never met and probably never will meet. These are the pathetic lost souls whose biggest enemy in life is anyone who isn't just like them.

Then there are the "ufologists" who think reptiles and insects as big as kangaroos left their home planets in droves to buzz the skies of Earth in flying saucers and cigar-shaped spacecrafts because Earthlings are just so damned interesting to them. And that these Extraterrestrial Biological Entities have been doing this without being seen by Earthlings for centuries. These are the normal, intelligent people of Earth who have been singled out by media moguls loyal to the Illuminati and The New World Order for ridicule and who've been labeled "conspiracy theorists" by chickenshit journalists whose only gods are money and fame. One of these so-called "conspiracy theorists" is yours truly, Fred Fortune.

So, what do I call myself, you might ask, if "conspiracy theorist" is such a misnomer? I call myself a conspiracy "buff". Which means that I'm one of those finger-pointers who picks and chooses in hindsight from a long list of ready-made conspiracy theories and then either blindly supports them or tears them into fanatical shreds. When I'm selling my own conspiracy shit, as the press would like to call it, I'm merely being a raconteur. There's a hell of a big difference between rabble-rousing for fun and profit and telling on someone to save your own ass.

Did I say I wasn't a coward? Did I say I was any better than a "conspiracy theorists". Nooo, I did not. I merely said I was different, that's all. And, being different from the many, misled conspiracy theorists on Earth who cook up their own shit and serve it up to a hungry world, I think I deserve a different label than they do.

Things I Don't Miss About Earth

There are a few things I miss about Earth before I got downsized into the streets. Like my cushy service-industry job, for instance, where hanging up on an abusive customer was not only allowed but eagerly anticipated as part of a CSR's Napoleon-wannabe day. And eating pizza and drinking beer, which was always a single activity for me and not two separate ones.

Then there was my non-La-Z-Boy recliner that did the same work as a goddamn Barcalounger at a fraction of the cost. OK, so I couldn't afford the delivery charges and gave an unemployed guy a case of beer to haul it from the mall for me in his pickup truck. Big-ass deal. I still got to watch TV in a semi-supine position and isn't that what the American Dream is? To live it up? Especially if you're drinking beer, eating pizza and watching TV in your recliner at the same time. What do you think Valley Forge was all about?

Shit. Now I'm getting off the goddamn track, here.

Oh, yeah. As I was saying, there are a few things I miss about Earth but there are a lot more things I don't miss about Earth. Here's a dozen of them:

1. Bagpipes
2. The song "Amazing Grace"
3. "Amazing Grace" being played on bagpipes
4. Watching fat families overeat at McDonald's
5. Buying water
6. Selling blood
7. Tipping
8. Politics
9. Religion
10.War
11 Religious wars
12. Those annoying little "pop-up" people at the bottom of your TV screen

Still, when you come to think of it, these are twelve things that are a lot more fun than playing hide-and-seek with other homeless bums on Mars for the last fourth of somebody's Sky Bar. Or ducking whenever a rogue Reptilian takes pot shots at us with a pocket Ray Gun, just to relieve the tedium of his or her monotonous day. But, I'd rather be a homeless bum roaming the Cydonia ruins than raiding dumpsters in America for food that was thrown out by spoiled creeps just because an approaching expiration date told them to.

A dead planet run by nobody is better than a living world run by the wrong people.

Editor's Note 4-6-13: No, none of the Fred Fortune posts are autobiographical tales about Michael Casher. Michael Casher was never a homeless bum from L.A. He was never a CSR who "hung up" on customers. He never stole a thing in his life and he was never employed by any kind of store. Fred Fortune is a fictitious character with a fictitious name and his life and times are fictional. For more information, read the sidebar texts. Thank you.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

What? OK, so I didn't have a real leprechaun hat. That's what photo shops are for. Yeah, yeah, I know. It looks like I did it with a can of spray paint from two feet away. But it's the thought that counts, isn't it? So, Happy St. Patrick's Day! Or not.

You Wish

It's bad enough that American tabloids are circulating that sorry-ass mug shot of me all around the cosmos. Muck rakers. But now I'm told that I have a Doppelganger and he's running around the galaxy pretending to be me. Unh, hunh. Well, let me be the first to tell you that this Fred Fortune lookalike is no goddamn Doppelganger.

A double of me would be worth getting to know. I could pick his brains for ideas on how to stick it to the Illuminati or how to lift a Hershey bar from a Mom-and-Pop store on Neptune without getting caught and so on. That kind of stuff would make having a Doppelganger a lot less threatening and maybe even worthwhile. But that's not the case with me and this particular Fred Fortune wannabe.

The guy who looks like me is an impostor, not a double. They say every human being has a double somewhere. Fine. Let me meet him and team up with him. Together, we'll pull the rug out from under the Illuminati, those Rothschild overlords who control the world's money supply, the Bilderberger power brokers who are the Illuminati's "yes men" and who also set the global agenda each year, the Council of 13, the Council on Foreign Relations and the Trilateral Commission, who are the Bilderberger Group's "yes" men, the 35th-Degree Masons and the Skull & Bones Society who handpick U.S. Presidents, that Vatican lot who have deceived an entire planet with their holier-than-thou witch doctoring, the Ordo Templi Orientis who think they're not accountable to anyone on Earth, the goddamn Grays, and a host of other groups of background string-pullers and movers and shakers who have been using Earth as their evil playground since day one. And we'll do it so fast it will make their goddamn heads spin. And I think these pricks know that this is exactly what me and my real-life Doppelganger would do if we ever got the chance to put our heads together and come up with a plan for retaking planet Earth. For starters.

You know what I think? I think this Fred Fortune impostor is the same dog turd that's been hanging out at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Hell, I've been to a lot of places in this galaxy but they've always been real places in the physical universe. Think-A-Holic Lounge, on the other hand, occupies no space in the physical universe and, therefore, anybody who looks human and hangs out there is either unreal or a non-human impostor. In my case it's a ringer. Just wait 'till I find my real Doppelganger, you ringer rat bastard. Then your sorry tail will be ours.

So, OK. I admit that the sorry-ass mug shot of me is the real me. It was my own fault for pigging out on stolen Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and then passing out on a city bus on Pluto where shop lifting is a crime punishable by a lifetime of community service. That's why I escaped on their asses. But one day, rat ringer, I'll nip your con act in the bud before you can pretend to be someone else. Like that science fiction novelist Michael Casher. As if anybody in this part of the space-time continuum would ever want to be him.

Coming Clean

There's a picture of me circulating in cyber space that really pissed me off when I saw it. Pissed me right off. I mean, everyone in the whole goddamn galaxy knows I'm on the lam from the Illuminati and from just about every planetary police force in this constellation, as well. And everybody knows that I'm wanted for retail theft and identity fraud. That's right, not identity theft. If I was a thief I'd only steal tangible things from other people, like Slim Jims and Mallo Cups. I'm also wanted for a host of other trumped-up charges which I'll never admit to. Not now and not ever. Not even for three squares a day and access to the best prison library in the entire space-time continuum.

But that isn't the point of this posting. The point is the goddamn picture below. Yeah, yeah, that's me. The Illuminati caught me over a year ago and turned me over to the Pluto Planetary Police for retail theft prosecution. The bastards only did this in order to degrade my cyber presence and to make me look more like a hungry freeloader than a conspiracy theorist. That's how the goddamn Illuminati combed me out of their hair. Pricks. But I escaped on their asses and now I'm free. If you can call this free, being dumped in the Mars underground by plasma-thirsty Grays after they didn't care for my particular flavor of DNA.

All right, then, all you snoops and busybodies and finger pointers, go ahead and laugh. So, I'm a little thin on top. Why do you think I wear this ridiculous hat? Because I want to look like a Sicilian peasant from 1890 who walks behind a donkey cart? Just wait'll I get my hands on the sorry-ass Plutonian cop who sold this mug shot of me to the Earth tabloids. I'll womp his ass good. If I can ever choke down enough Martian mushrooms, canal algae and ancient salt to have the energy to do it, that is.

Then, go head, Pluto copper. Make my day.

Untouchables

Internet service on Mars stinks to high heaven because of all the goddamn wind storms on the planet's surface but, every now and then, I'm able to make a connection and surf the World Wide Web on Earth. And, when, I do, I usually get bumped off right away. And after foraging for food and slugging it out with other bums and sucking stones all day for ancient salt, I usually have only three or four minutes out of each day to do any Web surfing. And that's mostly for posting this blog and then for checking out the Cable TV listings, don't ask me why. There is no television in the Mars underground. And no radio, either. We're lucky to have a half dozen old Commodore 64 PCs with their rinky-dink 28.8 bps modems to fool around with. And Mars, by the way, only has dial-up and that's like sending an email message by carrier pigeon. Come to think of it, if we had any pigeons out here on Mars, they'd be dinner, not messengers.

Saturn, on the other hand, has a much better planet-wide information and entertainment network. They call it call the Outernet. But Martians, like Earthlings, are forbidden to have access to it. Saturnites are afraid that their relatively safe and secure, family-friendly, global communications network will go to hell in a chamber pot within two days if Earthlings get their grubby mitts on it. And they're absolutely right. The Saturn Outernet would soon be just another sleazy money-making tool for Hollywood and the Russian mob, just like Earth's Internet, if Earthlings had anything to do with it. That's why the Saturnites are the real Untouchables in this solar system.

But what Saturn has against Martians is beyond me. The only Martians left on Mars are homeless Earthling bums like me who were dumped here by the Grays after the creepy little light-bulb heads rejected our DNA as unsuitable for bubble-head breeding stock. Thank heavens for that. Besides, most of us Martian transplants are way too busy foraging for food or foraging for other bums who have food to cause Saturn any trouble. Theft and robbery are full-time jobs out here. Hell, it's enough to make me miss my shopping cart and my appliance carton back on Earth. I gave up missing my recliner months ago. No, it wasn't a goddamn Barcalounger.