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.