Fred Fortune in the News

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Gaming With the Grays

Tic Tac Gray

Fred Fortune has apparently abandoned his post as the underground leader for the Martian Homeless ( a job he never wanted anyway) so we're taking over until he gets back. If he ever does return to Mars. If we ever get to see Fred Fortune's laughable Groucho Marx/Chalie McCarthy face again, it'll be the result of his being nabbed once again by Grays, not because he came back here voluntarily. Who would do that?

Right now, the Grays are our biggest non-human foes. Then the Reptilians. And they're your foes, too, whether you know it or not. Who are our biggest human foes? Each other. And human members of the Illuminati, that elitist bunch of wheeler dealers that many earthlings love to fear and admire. Who are we? Well, we're not members of the goddamn Illuminati, that's for goddamn sure, and we don't represent any country, social or political cause or religion. We're the good guys, just like Fred Fortune, and there's a lot more of us than you think.

World War 3.1

Another Word From Our Alternate Sponsor

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.

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

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.

Heads Up

Now that I've transferred all my old blog postings from my old hideout to this new one, I won't be blogging every goddamn day. I've got other fish to fry. How do I blog from Mars, you might ask? Well, that's a big-ass secret. If I tell you, the Illuminati will soon find out and I'll just be on the goddamn lam again.

Nooo, thank you.

Malicious Gossip About Fred Fortune #5

Hippity Hop

I may be on the lam again sooner than I think. Thanks to someone on planet Earth who recently reported me to the Illuminati. But I'll just let that person's own karma deal with it.

Hell, I'm not afraid of the goddamn Illuminati. Without their Armani suits, their chauffeured limousines and that sorry-ass rabble of starry-eyed conspiracy theorists who think the Illuminati are descendants of the Knight's Templar or at least the Freemasons and therefore worship them from afar, they're nothing. Just a lot of talk that only a bunch of bought-and-paid-for heads of state and top-drawer military men seem to really go for.

And that's because those heads of state and crooked generals are, in turn, bought and paid for, themselves, by the Illuminati. It's sort of a symbiotic relationship between a bunch of bottom-feeders whose clout with the real powers-that-be is pretty much Earthbound. Big-ass deal.

I, on the other hand, can come and go as I please because I never hurt anyone. And that kind of karma keeps working for you when the so-called shit hits the fan and the so-called heat is just around the corner. In the long run, it always pays to be a good guy.

So, whether or not I'm here or there or anyplace else, I'll be going and going just like the goddamn Energizer Bunny. And there's nothing the Illuminati can do about it. And they damn well know it.

Fred's Note: After I wrote and posted this story I decided to change the title from "Exit Stage Right" to "Hippity Hop" because I wound up talking about The Energizer Bunny. But I didn't feel like re-posting it just to make the URL match the title because that's a lot of extra work and I was just too damn hopped out to do it. So I was.