Little Writer Rat

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Yeah, this is Fred Fortune, not Farnworth M. Mudd, the big-time Benedict Arnold who's secretly been this little writer rat all along. What do I mean? Take a look at the animated gif. file to your left, the one I found in the hard drive of a new-generation laptop computer I saw hidden under Farnsworth's cot when I was snooping this afternoon for pork rinds and Power Bars that he hadn't opened up yet.

Y'know, I can't stand finishing other people's half-eaten stuff anymore. I'd rather eat those stinky Martian mushrooms and that green canal goo they call "algae" here in netherworld Mars and suck on those bitter red rocks for ancient salt anyday than taste slobbered-on, fingered-up, second-hand junk food.

When I asked Liz about these ebooks in the underground cafeteria up here, she roared and gave me a backhand. When I woke up an hour later I was staring at the right big toe of one of Liz's Reptilian grunts who guard this little Martian Sing Sing and I asked him if Farnsworth was really an ebook author.

"He is now," he grunted. "He and the warden are splitting the ebook royalties from your buddy's ebook sales on Neptune. They're rolling in like flies take to shit."

"He's not my buddy," I grunted back as I pulled myself up and into a cafeteria chair. "Are they any good?" I asked, doubtful if this big green-and-brown oaf had ever read a book in his life, in any language.

"Hell, no," he replied, roaring so loud he sounded like Godzilla mauling the hell out of Tokyo. "He can't write worth a damn. Or spell, either. That's why he'll be a millionaire before the Martian year's out."

And that's all I can remember because I think I fainted. The human mind can only stand so much unreality before it shuts down. One thing I do know for sure: the next time I see Farnsworth, he'd better leg it away from me as fast as he can because I can no longer be held responsible for my actions. Anyway, that's what I plan to tell the jury at my murder trial.

The poop and nothing but the poop.

OK, I just got back from "vacation" and found out that all hell had broken loose around here while I was gone. It took me a little while to figure out the truth because, like Earth, Mars is filled with nothing but lies and deception ever since the Grays and the Reptilians took it over. Before the bubble-heads and the lizards took over this section of the solar system, Earth was on its way to becoming a paradise and Mars was already one. But I don't want to talk about the Grays and the Reptilians. I'm always harping about the Grays and the Reptilians. And I don't want to sound like a broken record, either, so let's leave them both out of this. I want to talk about F. M. Mudd and the Illuminati and shit like that.

First of all, Farnsworth had my permission to post on my blog but he didn't have my permission to create and post an unauthorized video of me and Red Mouthpiece, using stills and audio from our gig in the Red Room. He was supposed to write about whatever he wanted to write about and then post it here but, like most people from Earth nowadays, he can't spell worth a damn and he knows virtually nothing about grammar. So, he did the video instead and posted only the video. That's OK. The Fred & Red comedy team got some free publicity and now we're booked at Think-A-Holic Lounge, if we can ever hop a roving wormhole again and learn to how steer it. I showed Red the promo and he laughed his ass off and I didn't even know he had one.

Continuing with this story, let me undo some more myths about what's been happening at the Cydonia Concentration Camp since early July. First of all, I wasn't "on vacation". I was busy bottling ancient sea water from one of the gorges here on Mars, for use on a gourmet cooking show that Liz and her buddy Farnsworth are putting together for American television, using the old Nazi TV studio where I did my five Martian Broadcasts. I gathered the salt water for Liz who promised to discombobulate my ass and cancel my time-travel ticket if I didn't. That would have meant pain and poverty and possibly death for me so, naturally, I grabbed a case of empty Coca-Cola bottles left over from World War II and headed for the salt water falls.

Furthermore, the Illuminati, who actually wrote the text of the last post here on a wireless laptop connection from the island of Malta in the Mediterranean Sea back on Earth, are full of day-old dog turds. How dare they edit and re-post a copyrighted item from my blog? The sonzabitches must have used Blog This! Anyway, Cydonia is not only big enough for me and Farnsworth M. Mudd, it's got plenty of room for my new pal Red Mouthpiece, too, whose on-stage insults roll off me like water off a duck's ass. So, F. M. Mudd and Red Mouthpiece and me, Fred Fortune, are the new Allies, if you will, versus the new Axis comprised of the Illuminati, the Grays and the Reptilians. World War III, here we come.

Additionally, Mars Broadcast #5 was ruined by my sudden inability to communicate. I've never been at a loss for words in my entire life but all of a sudden nothing came out. In fact, there weren't even any thoughts in my head. I've been told before that my mouth isn't always connected to my brain but I thought people were just being mean to me because they think I look like the love child of Groucho Marx and Charlie McCarthy. Boy, is that queer. Anyway, I did manage to cough and blink a lot before Farnsworth and Red told me it was time to find a hobo to pickpocket somewhere and call it a day. So, that's what I did.

In closing, let me state the fact that Farnsworth is a real human being from Earth, like me, not an astral body like Red Mouthpiece. But no one has a picture of Farnsworth and he refuses to be on camera. He said he's a "behind the scenes" person. I have virtually no social skills anymore and couldn't convince him to have his picture taken by the PC cam but he did allow me to draw him. When he saw the results, he tried to lay a haymaker on me but I sidestepped it without even thinking and pulled a fresh crueller from my cardigan pocket and offered it to him in exchange for being allowed to post his image here.

Farnsworth claims he's never, ever been to Think-A-Holic Lounge but I swear he looks a lot like somebody I've seen there before. I'll just assume he's lying his ass off because that's what he did for a living on Wall Street before he got dumped here by the Grays. Believe it or not, he looks a lot better pictured here than he does in real life or at Think-A-Holic Lounge and he damn well knows it. In real life, Farnsworth M. Mudd looks like the love child of Eleanor Roosevelt and Stan Laurel. Poor bastard.

Fred & Red Do Cydonia

Fred took a little vacation and left his "pal" Farnsworth M. Mudd in charge of things until he gets back. So, naturally, Farnsworth went apeshit and whole hog in the unauthorized file-sharing and video-pirating department.

If we were Farnsworth, we'd start looking for a new place to hide out. Cydonia will no longer be big enough for the both of them. So, you'd better get your upwardly-mobile butt out of town before sundown. Hell, Fred was right. Never trust an ex-Wall Street commodities broker who wears penny loafers.

And just who are we? Hmmphh! Who in the hell do you think we are?

"Fred & Red" Do Cydonia

Author's Note 04-20-14: Due to a lack of interest, including low blog traffic, zero ebook sales of "The Four Bloggers of The Apocalypse" and no feedback, when feedback was available, Fred & Red never did Cydonia. So they didn't. That's right, the comedy team disbanded before their first gig. Then Fred Fortune went solo. So he did.

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.

Viewing Tip: If you're using headphones, turn the volume way down before starting the video. If you're not using headphones, turn the volume up before you start the video. Blog Admin Update 6-6-13: Hey, Google, stop deleting our videos and making us re-upload them. Try dumping some hateful and filthy content for a change. That way, you might clean up your own image, which is desperately in need of a moral and visual face-lift. So it is.

Postmodern Pondering

Umh, humh. Yeah, I know. Most of you figured I'd drag my "criminal" butt over to the ol' Commodore 64 again and, this time, post a comedy video featuring Fred & Red. Or maybe another humorous anecdote about Mouthpiece (Red) and how his comic insults have made him the little darling of this hideous Martian Lompoc. Wrong.

I figured that's what most of you wanted from me so, naturally, I was determined not to comply with your wishes. Most of you are from Earth, anyway, and that makes most of you a bunch of little Benedict Arnolds, like Farnsworth M. Mudd (still laughing my ass off about that name). People who'd sell your fellow Earth man and Earth woman for another day of getting yours, your way.

No, I'm not having a "hissy fit". Farnsworth has "hissy fits". Whenever he doesn't get his way he screams and points like a teenage girl having a tantrum. Just like a girl. If he swore at me and tried to stare me down once in a while he'd at least be acting like a teenage boy having a conniption. Forget about Farnsworth ever acting like a man and taking a swing at me. He's more than likely to make another video all by himself, probably an unflattering lie about me pickpocketing money from women and candy from children.

That's where I draw the line. If I have to rob women and children, I'll bite the bullet and get a job first. But there aren't any convenience stores in the entire galaxy that'll hire me now, thanks to those shitheads at Think-A-Holic Lounge. If I ever get picked up again by a roving wormhole and dumped at Think-A-Holic Lounge, I won't even set foot in the goddamn door. I'll just hang around outside and moon them until they can't take it anymore and start a fight with me in the parking lot. Then I'll just sit back and watch all those damn security bots they love so much over there mop up the place with them. Serve them right.

But, back to the point of this posting. Shit. Now I forgot why the hell I fired up the ol' Commodore in the first place. I'm pretty sure it was important. No, it had nothing to do with the Grays. I'm sick and tired of whining and crying and squealing on the Grays. Everybody knows about the Grays. Leave the goddamn Grays out of this. No, I think it had something to do with Cleveland. But I can't for the life of me think of a single damn thing I'd ever want to say about Cleveland.

So, it must have been something else.