Discombobulated

Never trust a commodities broker who wears penny loafers. That should have been a dead giveaway for me but I was all too trusting the day I made my last S.O.S. video, Mars Broadcast #4. If you look again at that video, you'll see me sort of making a toast with my Mallo Cup to somebody off-camera. I said, "Might as well." as I toasted this other homeless bum from Earth who was also toasting me with a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. One I'd apparently missed the last time I rifled his jacket pockets while he was napping in some underground corridor, here in netherworld Cydonia.

The little broker rat, whose first name is Farnsworth (go figure — only in Manhattan) and whose last name is definitely "Mud" had squealed on me (unbeknownst to me) to Liz, the big-ass Reptilian warden who was gunning for me because she thought I'd posted that animated caricature of her on the Saturn Outernet, which I hadn't. But later I posted it on the World Wide Web on Earth where it's a lot easier to malign people and apparently perfectly legal. Still, Liz discombobulated me at the end of my fourth Mars videocast because she was enabled by this lousy rat Farnsworth, this speculator shithead with his peanut butter cups and his goddamn penny loafers.

I found a CD-ROM on Farnsworth the other night while I was looking for peanut butter cups in his goddamn Brooks Brothers suit jacket. The damn disk had an animated gif. file on it that made me want to hit him in the head with a stick. But there aren't any sticks on Mars and there aren't any stalactites in corridors, naturally. So, I took half a strawberry Twizzler from him and the CD-ROM. He and Liz must be buddy-buddy now. I bet they watch this flash image and laugh and laugh and laugh. Anyway, this is what it looks like to be discombobulated.

Damn right it hurts. When you turn that many colors all at once it has to hurt.

Space Junk

Mars is nothing like you'd expect it to be if you never got past 1950's sci-fi movies, like me. In fact, I don't give a shit that life as we know it could end on December 21, 2012. As far as I'm concerned, life as I knew it ended on December 31, 1959.

Man, I wish it was 1950 again. I wish I could put on a spacesuit and walk over to a great big silver rocket that's waiting on it's big silver fins just to blast off and take me back to good old Earth. But not the Earth of the new millennium. Not an Earth where some techno-geek can steal the S.O.S. videos I risked my sorry neck for, just so he could display them on the World Wide Web as "junk". Junk, my ass. This is the real world out here.

That's right, some "comedian" back on Earth put all my videos on a dopey website called Junk TV. When I stumbled upon that website one day not too long ago, it really pissed me off. Pissed me right off.

Junk TV

You know, I made those Mars Broadcasts with no skills whatsoever and, basically no tools. Unless you call an old Commodore 64 PC with vintage dial-up Internet access, a broken stick mike that I had to tape together and a web cam that looks like it was made by Fisher-Price. But, what the hell, this isn't the Mars in the 1950's sci-fi movies. There are no Martians here. Just homeless bums like me, mostly from, L.A. and New York, and a handful of prison guards who are Reptilians and Grays, which is like being babysat by a bunch of bad-ass bugs.

But, what the hell should I care if some opportunistic Internet pirate stole my videos and made a name for himself out of them? Maybe I should thank him for putting all my videos in one place instead of making you video hound dogs root around my blog and dig for them. Still, if I could get back to Earth, a certain indie author I know would have his butt in a wringer so tight he'd have to dial 9-1-1 to break wind.