Party Mammal

As you can see, I'm not the wallflower you probably thought I was. Oh, don't get me wrong, I still admit to being a cowardly, finger-pointing squealer but I was hoping that, if you bought that lame routine then you'd have no problem thinking I was also someone who never took a drink in my entire life.

So, if you fell for that facade, then you apparently never paid any attention to me when I talked about how I'd kept my DNA safe from the Grays by unconsciously maintaining a high blood alcohol level back on Earth. So high, in fact, that no self-respecting mad scientist would even come near me. Including the Grays, who make Josef Mengele look like a soda jerk in comparison.

And, like I told you over and over again, I maintained that lab-reject blood alcohol level with regular infusions of Muscatel and Wild Irish Rose while roaming the back streets and alleyways of Los Angeles, California, a city still run by Hollywood freaks whose lifestyles make the Reptilians look like a bunch of Shirley Temples on the Good Ship Lollipop. That's right, if you can only afford wine, nothing gives your blood an alcohol jump-start like cheap fortified wine with 20% alcohol by volume.

So, not having tasted either of my favorite hobo vintages for over a year now, imagine my surprise when I found the cafeteria that the ever-hopeful Grays built for the human adbuctees who eventually would pass the alcohol and drug screening for their pathetic bubble-headed booby breeding stock. The only thing is, this particular flock of Grays has a tendency to abduct Earthlings from alleys in major American cities and that's where most of the diseased livers in America the Beautiful reside today.

So, naturally, when I found that empty cafeteria I headed straight for the cooking sherry. After only two bottles of that shit I then, naturally, located the nearest lamp shade and put it on. If I could have found a discombobulator and an unarmed Reptilian I would have worn its head for a hat, instead. Anyway, one of the ex-Wall Street stockbrokers that I unfortunately share this Martian Lompoc with and whom I knock down and rob of candy on a regular basis up here, took this professionally damaging photo of me. Little shit smear.

And here you probably thought Walter Cronkite was the only Earthling to have actually worn a lamp shade after dipping his bill. A lot you know.

Happy-Ass New Year!

Merry Christmas from Mars

Because of recent developments beyond my control, I'm unable to show my ugly mug in person. You guessed it, Warden Liz finally caught me red-handed, all "live" and "in the act" of broadcasting my conspiracy doo-doo (my conspiracy doo-doo is as good as anyone else's) to the rest of the solar system.

But that's not why she zapped me with her trusty discombobulator. No, she said she caught me before I said anything even remotely damaging to the Earthling abduction project. Hmmphh! Then why did she get so mad that she zapped me right out of the chair if she didn't even feel threatened by my broadcast? Because someone posted an animated caricature of her (a flash image) on the Saturn Outernet earlier this month and she thinks it was me, that's why.

Well... I'll do some squealing and finger pointing about that deal sometime after the New Year. I'll show that psycho Reptilian fembot a thing or two. I'll find that graffiti caricature of her and re-post it. That'll teach her to throw me around a room just for fun. Anyway, my broadcast days are over until I can come up with something that will really make her mad. The madder she gets, the more I'll feel like a conspiracy bell-ringer.

So, anyway, when I woke up after hitting the floor at the end of Broadcast Number Four, she tossed me around for a while, swearing and clicking in her native lizard tongue, and then she let me go because she couldn't stop laughing at the chocolate drool that came out of my mouth every time I lost consciousness. Still, she did bounce me off a few pieces of furniture and a couple of walls before she got tired of that shit. Apparently, the only thing that saved my life is that I'm such a bore. Thank heavens for that.

Before she let me go she didn't even bother to make me promise to stop broadcasting my conspiracy doo-doo. And that pissed me off. Pissed me right off. The big scaly sow didn't bother to penalize me because she thinks I have no audience, no viewers and no followers. And, therefore, no proof. Well, that's only her opinion. But, until I can find some hard evidence of life on Mars, I'll take a break from videocasting. Besides, it's too close to Christmas to get my shorts in a twist over anything, especially a lizard heckler the size of a kangaroo.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Mars!

Mars Broadcast #4

Fred Fortune's
Mars Broadcast #4

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

Too Much of a Good Thing

All right, all right, so I didn't win the election out here. I didn't want to, remember? The new Martian homeless spokesperson will be Liz, the evil Reptilian war lady, herself. The bigass warden of little Mars Quentin. The Queen Bee of my current digs in the Martian underground. Yep, I'm still a prisoner in the Gray's prized penal colony for Earthling abductees who don't cut the DNA mustard for bubble-head breeding stock. Thank heavens for that.


Besides, I wasn't running anyway. The campaign was a fraud and that campaign poster with my mug gracing it was unauthorized. As I told you yesterday. Anyway, I'm sooo glad I wasn't elected to represent the Martian homeless population, even though my unwillingness to run caused a lizard as big as a kangaroo to become our official honcho. Like she wasn't already.

Yep, I stayed up all night. It was easy. I ate two and a half Mallo Cups, half a Hershey Bar (with almonds) and found a new coffee machine in working order in the old Nazi TV studio that Liz thinks I'm barred from. (I use my own toe-nail clippings for lock picks). But I had a horrible dream as I napped on the leather couch that Hitler used for wooing Eva Braun. The dream became a nightmare when I realized that all my supporters were actually clones of myself.

It's true. You can have too much of a good thing.

Who Wrote Me In?

You know me. One of the things I miss the least about life on Earth is Election Day. (Right after bagpipes and the song Amazing Grace). I was sooo glad I didn't have to choose between Obama and McCain in Novemebr 2008. I would have written in the name of Ross Perot anyway, whether anyone, including Ross Perot, liked it or not. Mr. Perot was one of the few politicians in America who knew that the United States was a representative republic and not a democracy. That's why he wanted democracy for America, which is every citizen being actively engaged in making the laws of the land. What a pipe dream.

Even the Greeks didn't have a democracy. But they aspired to it more than any other nation in the the history of the world. Too bad ol' Ross wanted to use the Internet for our participation in democracy. If he'd have gotten away with that, we'd all be up for sale on the Russian black market. Or else making commercials for fast food joints. But I'd still have wanted to elect a well-meaning lunatic for President of the United States over two Illuminati puppets. Republican Presidents and Democratic Presidents have been serving the same master since FDR. The global power elite. They're the people who make sure Americans never run out of cornflakes or gasoline. They're the ones who shop for Armani and Ferraris like we shop for socks and lawn mowers. Screw the Illuminati.

But American politics isn't the real reason I fired up the old Commodore 64 today. No way. I couldn't care less who gets on the dole "down there" anymore. A greased palm is a greased palm. And a friend for life, as long as the votes and the cabbage and the pork keep coming and going. No, I'm so mad I can hardly see because of this stupid, unauthorized Campaign poster (see pic below).

Apparently, a bunch of Martian homeless people (abductees from Earth, who else?) got together and began circulating these campaign posters all over the Martian underground. They can't circulate them on the surface because the low atmospheric pressure, lack of breathable air and horrific wind storms would turn them into blue-faced balloons in two seconds and then frozen sushi. Even homeless bums who are desperate to be freed from this Martian Attica wouldn't go up top.

But they're dumb enough to think that I'll run the whole show for them just because I tried to back in July 2008, Earth Time. That's what got me in such deep doo-doo with Liz, our bigass Reptilian Warden, in the first place. My ass is in a wringer so much these days that I doubt if I'll ever have the time to make my fourth Martian broadcast. And those videocasts only get me in more hot water anyway. Besides, who would be dumb enough vote for a homeless bum who's tackled other homeless bums on a regular basis and rifled their pockets for Slim Jims and Twizzlers and shit? Dumb ex-stockbrokers, mostly. They're the biggest cry babies of all when they're cold and hungry.

And, now, because of this dumb-ass unauthorized poster, I'm like a metal duck in an old-time shooting gallery. It's hard to make conspiracy videos (my conspiracy shit is as good as anyone else's) when you're ass-over-tin-cups and lizards as big as kangaroos are on your tail. It's no way to run a solar system. Spokesperson, my ass. If I was willing to represent the Martian "homeless" in 2010, I'd better be their goddamn spokesman. Which I'm not.

Don't Look Here

Hey, some weisenheimer posted an animated book ad here earlier today. No, I don't think it was Fred Fiend. Everybody picks on Fred Fiend, including me. Leave Fred Fiend out of this.

No, I think it just might be a certain alter ego of a certain indie author from back home. Yeah, I mean Earth. Man, that planet's getting scarier and scarier. And you know me, I hate being ascared.

So, what'd ya expect to find here? Didn't the snippet say Don't Look Here or something like that? Well, there you go, then. Don't make your problems my problems. Get a new hobby.

You snippet readers make me ascared, too. Almost as ascared as that ridiculous Doughboy Shmoo in the Facebook widget I put up from the old Commodore 64 the other day. Man, his lips don't even match his voice. He made me so ascared I took the widget down and deleted that post altogether.

Too bad, because it was about how much I enjoyed being whisked away in another wormhole to his temporary hideout in Facebookland. Anyway, that doughboy shmoo who runs Science Fiction for Thinkers is pretty scary-looking. Watch out for that one. He looks desperate enough to post something on one of your blogs. So, if you have a blog, I'd hide it. Then, if I were you, I'd go hide myself.

Trust me. Finger pointing and hiding have been my metier for over two years now. No, I'm not explaining what metier means. This isn't Open University. No, I'm not telling you what Open University is. Whattaya think this is? 4-1-1?

Planet Without Pity

My decision to never return to Earth will no doubt get screwed up by fate. Nothing delivers a death blow to your dreams like the fickle hand of fate. But fate couldn't dish out all the dog shit it dishes out to Earthlings on a regular basis if it weren't for the helping hand of other Earthlings who couldn't care less about anything that isn't all about them.

You know what I mean. You know what I'm talking about. Earth's human population is chock full of pricks and Hard Hearted Hannahs who have nothing better to do than to be the fly in your ointment. Being the cause of your failure or your disappointment trips their triggers almost as much as it does the triggers of the terrestrial and celestial powers-that-be who run planet Earth like their own personal amusement park.

No, I'm not talking about the Illuminati now. Everybody wants to blame the Illuminati. Leave the Illuminati out of this. Just like the false gods who pretend to be our creators and rightful controllers, the goddam Illuminati only know how to pull our strings. Whether or not we dance to their tune is entirely up to us. What often passes for free will among us seems to be the mere freedom to say "no" to the traps and pitfalls in life and nothing more. But I digress.

I'm talking about regular, everyday people, here. Citizens. Moms and dads and doctors and neighbors and truck drivers and movie stars and the guy who sells you cracked corn down at the feed store. I'm talking about the average Joe and Jane of contemporary Earth culture. The limelight-loving bastards and bitches who'd sell their own mothers to get ahead. Shit smears who masquerade as human beings. The guy next door. The woman across the isle from you in the supermarket. Mortal man and mortal woman who sell their souls to corporate America every damn day and who dance the jig whenever Madison Avenue strikes up a tune on the tube. The everyday powers-that-be whose earthbound power to hire, fire, intimidate, cajole, wheedle, court, marry and kill you keeps you in that matrix of living the loser life.

You know who I'm talking about. The shithead at work you confide your worst fears to and who summarily dismisses you with an impatient, "So?". The clerk who takes your heard-earned money and who hands you back your change without even looking at you because, as far as he or she is concerned, you don't even exist. Only your money is real. That's right, I'm talking about the townsfolk you run into you at the store and who come up to you and ask you how someone else you both know is doing. Who cares about you? These are the flesh-and-blood grim reapers who begin executing you as soon as you're able to open a door for yourself and exit your world of right and wrong to enter their upside down world where being a selfish and aggressive bad-ass is the key to success in life.

Hell, I have no idea where I'm going once I manage to escape from this Martian Sing-Sing the Grays and Reptilians have set up for Earthling abductees they don't know what to do with. If I manage to escape on their asses at all. But one thing I do know for sure. I wouldn't go back to Earth to take a shit.

Sneak Preview

I don't know how I managed to sneak this video past Liz, the bigass Reptilian warden who keeps trying to prevent me from broadcasting my conspiracy theories (my conspiracy shit is as good as anyone else's). But I'm all pooped out from making it and then getting it on the airwaves. It's my first promo trailer so if you don't like it go away. It's no skin off my butt.

TC

Biding My Time

Just so you know, I'm not planning on becoming a permanent resident of Mars or anything like that. It may have been a great place to live at one time but Mars is pretty much a cold, red desert these days. It's not much better in the underground where the Grays and Reptilians have their climate-controlled, artificially-illuminated prison for abductees like me who failed the DNA test for helping out the Grays with their biological experiments.

Every bottle of Muscatel I downed back in the alleys of Los Angeles was a feather in my cap in that respect. The Grays are nothing but a species of kidnapers and Josef Mengele wannabes. And the Reptilians who run their underground Martian San Quentin for them are just a bunch of loose cannons who enjoy using Earthlings for target practice and even having them for lunch. That's why I escaped on their asses and why I spend most of my time roaming the canals and making videocasts denouncing their evil, lab-rat empire.

Still, I'd like to get off this planet once and for all. I'm tired of living hand-to-mouth and ducking ray gun pot shots from Warden Liz and her sadistic underlings. I'm also tired of ducking haymakers from other homeless bums from Earth who think I might have a Mallo Cup concealed on me somewhere. By the same token, I'm tired of laying haymakers on them in order to rifle their pockets once they're down for sourballs and chocolate leftovers and things like that. But I have no idea how to get off Mars.

I know I'll never return to Earth. Earth is a dead planet that just pretends to be alive. Mars might be run by lizards as big as kangaroos for moral vacuum tubes like the Grays but at least they don't pretend to be the good guys. That's strictly an Earthling phenomenon.

Fred Fiend

My data is sketchy at this point but I think I'm closing in on the joker who's been impersonating me all over the Milky Way Galaxy for the past year or so. At best, this freeloader is another homeless bum from another American city like Los Angeles. No, I doubt very much if the freeloading faker is from Cleveland. Everybody picks on Cleveland. Leave Cleveland out of this.

And the worst case scenario is that this indigent imbecile is a flesh-and-blood manifestation of my polar opposite. That'd be the pits, to have some bipolar Mr. Hyde running around the galaxy bumming Mallo Cups from everybody on my behalf. It just figures that, instead of a cool Doppelgänger I'd get stuck with an evil anti-me. It's so ridiculous and unfair that it just has to be true. In that case, I have only one thing to say to this identity thief chocolate hound:

"Get your own Mallo Cups!"

Some big-time tabloid from Pluto published this photo of my nemesis. They call him "Fred Fiend". I call him a few other things but I can't print them here.

A Sucker's World

Even though I'm a prisoner on Mars I consider myself to be lucky. Despite the fact that Warden Liz and her Reptilian pals chase me all day long and take pot shots at me with their "discombobulators" and even though I have to graze for green goo and red toadstools or duke it out with other bums for chewing gum and sour balls, at least I'm not being tricked anymore by Madison Avenue and corporate liars and cheats. Earth is a sucker's world. And don't pretend you don't know what the hell I'm talking about.

Every time you Earthlings buy a 12-pak of toilet paper to save money you think you're getting it cheaper than if you bought the 4-pak or the single rolls. Look again. Do the math. Yep, it's buyer beware, even with shit paper. Being a buyer-beware seller doesn't come any dirtier than tricking people into paying more money to take a crap than they should have to. And nothing tops being a buyer-beware sucker than paying more for 12 rolls in one, big, heat-shrink package than you would if you used both your hands to pull down a 4 -pak three times or twelve single rolls two-at-a-time. Sucker.

And that's just the tip of the iceberg. The world convinces you that if you don't buy brand name products you're not giving your family the very best. If you don't pay three times as much for quilted TP and you buy the bargain brand you might as well stock the linen closet with outdated phone books (no Sears catalogs anymore) or a basket of leaves, you're such a bad mom. So you play the sucker and get the shit paper that's as soft as a baby's bottom for all your bottoms and then you turn around and buy the store brand of peanut butter to make up for it. Sucker.

Sucker men are all over planet Earth, especially in flyover USA. No male between New York and LA would be caught dead wearing jeans that aren't seen and sold on TV. For flyover dads, wearing anything else means you're a terrible provider for your family, so pathetic that you even have to buy your own jeans at the dollar store. And that would dupe you into feeling like a day-old dog turd instead of a really smart shopper because you have no clue that a lot of dollar-store clothing is made just as good as any brand name. You think you get what you pay for and the truth is that you're paying for the name. Sucker fool.

And teenage suckers are the biggest suckers of all. If teenage boys and girls don't look, dress and act exactly like every other teenage boy and girl they think the world has rooked them big time. (Look up the word "rook" yourself. This isn't a damn English lesson). The last generation in America to value individuality was the Baby Boomer generation and they were hated so much for wanting to be individual and unique that the males were shipped off to Vietnam before they could breed. They were easy to spot. For all their individuality, most college-age Baby Boomer guys looked the same in the late 1960s. Blue jeans, blue work shirt, Army surplus field jacket and sneaks. All the government needed to do was drop a big net on them and hoist it up.

But that was yesterday and today is today. Still, nothing's really changed. Anytime anybody in the world sees anybody else with something that they don't have, getting it becomes the number one reason for being alive. That's when you're such a sucker that you even sucker yourself.

Why do I still bother? All this ranting and raving will only get me more hate email from Earth. Which probably makes me the biggest sucker of all.

Felon On Fire

I thought the word "felon" would grab ya. I figured that seeing that word would make all you Fred Fortune conspiracy-theory poo-pooers collapse with joy because you'd think I finally admitted to being an intergalactic felon. Well, better luck next time. The day I admit to anyone that pilfering a Mallo Cup from an Illuminati-controlled outpost on the far side of the moon is somehow a felony will be the day I stop loving chocolate.

So, why are you looking at a video still from my Mars Broadcast #2 with animated flames instead of Mars Broadcast #4? You get what you pay for, as they say in corporate America. After Warden Liz and her bevy of Cydonia border guards raided my taping of Mars Broadcast #3 before my face even had a chance to appear on screen, I figured I'd better think again about making another videocast.

Risking my Pillsbury Doughboy neck again for a bunch of Earthling conspiracy poo-pooers who'd rather eat pizza and suck down burgers than lend an ear to a former fellow Earthling currently incarcerated by Grays in the Martian underground is no longer high on my bucket list. You people are lucky I post my ugly mug at all since all you do is poke fun at me. I don't know how some of you got hold of my Martian email address but here's why I'm flaming you this time around. Hate email of the third kind. A few examples:

Dear Dog Turd, (meaning me, of course)

You're full of cabbage farts. If you were really in the Martian underground you'd have been an oxygen-starved skeleton months ago. Dry up and shut up. Get a new hat.

(not signed, of course)

Here's another email gem that set me on fire:

Hi F***head, (how original, so original I just had to edit it)Shit or get off the pot already. Anybody can see you faked all your broadcasts because your (misspelled, naturally) not on Mars as anybody's prisoner. Your (misspelled again) probably a Sears stowaway using the electronics displays after closing. Or better yet, yur (even a worse misspelling) a figment of my imagination or just a nightmare cuz (misspelled or deliberate?) when I wake up in the morning ur (yikes! chatroom acronym!) always gone. Thank God.

NuFuFiTr (a 21st-Century Foo Fighter, you suppose?)

And, finally, the coup de grâce:

Hey Fred, you dumb f***, (I edited out the Queen Bee [thank you, Jean Shepherd] of bad words again)

Not only do you look like the love child of Groucho Marx and Charlie McCarthy you sound like a baby boomer whiner. Your voice could crack glass its (misspelled) so grating. And if that's your real nose then you need one of those Reptilians to bite it off and have it for lunch. And what's with that f***ing hat (my editing out the dirty doo word again) and those Jack E. Leonard glasses? You rob a novelty store on your way to robbing a candy store? Get off the Web. Stop embarrassing Earth.

Your friend,

Osama bin Laden (how clever)

Wow, that was so funny I almost swallowed my Juicy Fruit. And I don't need to tell you that these three hate emails are just the tip of the iceberg. The Cydonia server is rejecting them by the bushel every day. And now Liz, the big-ass reptilian who runs this Cydonia concentration camp, has confiscated my web cam and locked me out of the old Nazi TV studio up here.

In closing, let me add this. If you don't like looking at my sorry mug or hearing my whining baby boomer voice or reading my conspiracy crap (it's as good as anyone else's), then go somewhere else. Flaming me will only get you flamed back. But at least it keeps me warm out here on the fourth planet.

My Favorite Wormhole

My life in the Martian underground, as a prisoner of the Grays, is not exactly a bowl of cherries. Whenever I'm not dodging particle-beam death rays that Liz (the bigass Reptilian who runs the Cydonia Concentration Camp) fires at me every chance she gets, I'm still slugging it out with other former homeless bums from Earth and foraging for food.

Martian canal algae tastes like what I imagine that green pond goo that rises to the top in the summer back on Earth tastes like. Like celery or Romaine lettuce that's been sitting in the garbage for a week or so, I suppose. And Martian canal mushrooms make Pennsylvania mushrooms taste like they were grown in beef gravy or something instead of beef doo-doo. In other words, Martian mushrooms taste like something that you'd never allow yourself to eat in a million years, unless the alternative is eating your hat or maybe one of your own toes for lunch. So, when I'm not dodging death rays or brawling or foraging or risking my butt making conspiracy videos, I'm sleeping. With one eye open, of course.

But, every now and then, I find myself in the strangest place and I'm just beginning to figure out how I get there. It's happened to me twice now and I wish it would happen again and real soon. It usually happens when I'm awake and foraging in a dark canal, usually for mushrooms. Suddenly, I feel this warm gust of wind and then it's like I'm going for a real fast ride in an elevator (without music). First up real fast and then down real fast. And then — boom — I'm inside this weird but fascinating place called Think-A-Holic Lounge. I don't think they like it very much whenever I show up there. And they never tell me why. Then, as soon as I order a drink or reach for the basket of peanuts — boom — I'm back on Mars. Or under Mars, that is, foraging for mushrooms again.

The only time I was whisked away by a mysterious wormhole that didn't take me to Think-A-Holic Lounge I was taken to some unknown place that seemed like Earth but it smelled a lot better than Los Angeles. And I'm pretty sure it was the present time because when I got there some joker opened his kitchen door and gave me a Mallo Cup. My favorite. Which makes that particular wormhole my favorite wormhole.

Yep, that's the end of this story. If you didn't like it, I hope I get to tell you another one that you don't like. That'll teach you.

Count Me Out

Yeah, yeah. I'm still here in the Mars underground, spreading my conspiracy shit around the solar system. Whenever I get a break from foraging for Martian canal algae, red mushrooms and ancient salt, that is. Or whenever Liz, the bigass Reptilian in charge of the Earthling homeless out here on the fourth planet gets tired of chasing me. My conspiracy shit is as good as anyone else's.

As I've said before, Mars is nothing but an underground San Quentin run by Grays and Reptilians. This is where they dump the rejects after they abduct a bunch of people from Earth. You'd think the very fact that they found most of us living in abandoned cars and appliance cartons would be a big red flag where our DNA is concerned. Regular infusions of Muscatel and Wild Irish Rose are for a false sense of warmth and a bogus feeling of security, not for building red corpuscles.

But back to the point of this posting. Today is the day the United States counts all its people. Yep, today, April 1, 2010, the US Census Bureau tallies up all the information on the census forms they supposedly mailed to everyone back in March. I suppose my mail from the Census Bureau is still on the front seat of the 1965 Rambler Ambassador that used to be my home back on Earth. Unless L.A.'s 9-1-1 people renamed the alley again that I was living in, right off Hollywood & Vine. But who cares? I'm sooo glad I won't have to be counted this time.

I heard about the 2010 census forms. And, you know what? I wouldn't have filled mine out if I was back on Earth. The US government has a lot of nerve to label all the Caucasians in America as "white", without any option to be tagged with any other labels. I mean white Americans are the only goddamn Americans that get called by a single, racist name by their own government. White.

White, my ass. The only thing that's the color white about me was the white t-shirt I had on when the Grays beamed me aboard their flying saucer. The rest of me is either flesh-colored, pink, red, purplish, pinkish, greenish, black-and-blue or yellowish, depending on my recent food and liquid intake, fear, anger, stomach distress and how many times I've fallen down or been beaten up lately.

The only reason I look "white" on this blog is because all the images of me are from original police snapshots, taken with full flash. And whenever I make a video I'm using big-ass bright lights in the old Nazi TV studio under the Cydonia ruins. So, stick the "White" label you-know-where. Besides, what was wrong with Caucasian? What's wrong with European American? It's better than being called "the presence of all colors" because that's what the color white is. Boneheads.

Besides, America should be counting the number of Americans, not the number of visitors, too. I mean, it's nice and modern and trendy and all that for the US Census Bureau to translate their announcement into Spanish, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese and Russian (apparently, the US Government couldn't care less about the French or the Germans). But the official language of the United States of America is still English. Americans are candyasses for not enforcing that. As far as I'm concerned, if you want to be counted as an American, become a goddamn American citizen first. And if you want to become an American citizen, learn the English language. The rest of us did.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Erin Go Bragh

Mars Broadcast #3

Fred Fortune's
Mars Broadcast #3

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

Big Bad Mike

Michael Casher, indie author, scourge of booksellers everywhere.

Striking fear in the hearts of literary agents,
traditional publishers and the Illuminati, worldwide.

"The indie author phenomenon is another reason why I never want to return to Earth. It's just too damn supernatural and scary to be real." — Fred Fortune, leader of the Mars Homeless Underground

It's A Mad Mad Mad Medical World

One thing I'll never miss about Earth is having to go to the hospital. Going to the doctor wasn't so bad when I was a kid because you actually got to see the doctor. Nowadays, he or she roller skates from treatment room to treatment room while medical underlings like physicians assistants and nurse practitioners and registered nurses and licensed practical nurses and blood technicians poke and prod and siphon you. That way they can all get a piece of the insurance pie before Mr. or Ms. God him or herself graces you with their presence. And, invariably, their presence is to nod and nod and write you a kickback-infested prescription and then bill you for an extended office visit which your medical insurance will only pay half of.

Then if you have to go to the hospital you'd better hope it's not in an ambulance. If it is an ambulance, bigass EMTs will knock over your lamps and end tables trying to get you on the gurney while a backup paramedic watches and chews gum. Your bill will be big enough that you'll have to take out a loan in order to pay it. Then, when you get to the hospital, at least a dozen medical professionals, including at least six kinds of doctors, will see you for one minute each and then bill you for consultations.

If they admit you, you will be growled at by middle-aged female nurses who hate their ex-husbands almost as much as they hate you and hate taking care of you, even though they're getting paid about twenty dollars per hour more than their sorry asses are worth. If you're lucky, you'll get a dedicated twenty-something female nurse who still believes in her oath and her duty to care for you, no matter who you are. If you're still unlucky, you'll get a male nurse who hates to clean up after you or a young redneck female nurse who bitches and moans about her kids and her sorry home life all day long.

If your luck has totally run out then you'll be assigned a doctor who does not speak English and who hates white people but who loves the grant money that the hospital got to pay his or her white-hating salary. He or she will mistreat your family visitors who are, contrary to the stereotype labels they were instantly given at the uppity hospital, without a racist bone in their bodies. They will be stereotyped and hated because the racist Middle Eastern or Indian or Pakistani male or female doctor they stuck you with thinks only white people can be hateful and therefore hates all of you from day one, before any of you even get the opportunity to speak.

If you're lucky enough to get discharged before two tor three months have gone by and your hospital bill is then so big that you'll have to take out a second mortgage on your home to pay half of it, you'll probably still have diarrhea from the Clostridium difficile infection (C. diff) you picked up from unclean medical professionals' hands during your hospital stay. They will hide this fact from you as long as you're in their care, so you won't bolt, scream or sue.

Then, if you are completely luckless, you'll be visited by a home health nurse who will botch your home blood tests and call an ambulance for you, which you will not be able to afford again. Or, bad luck still in place, you'll be visited by a referred physical therapist who will insult you and your family members for having signs in your driveway warning off trespassing ATVs. Like it's any of his goddamn business.

Man, I wouldn't go back to Earth for all the money in the world. Sooner or later, some medical professional would just bill me for all of it.