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.

My Favorite Holiday Greeting

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Pooped and PO'd

That's right, I'm pooped and PO'd. Tired and ticked off. I'm a frazzled Freddy from blogging and making video SOS messages that not only go unnoticed by the people who matter, they get snatched by the people who don't. Internet pirates.

Cripes, I don't even know why I warmed up the old Commodore 64 today. No use checking the AOL TV listings. We don't have TV on Mars and, if we did, it would probably be even worse than the crap they consume by the bucketful back on Earth. No, come to think of it, nothing could top American television for filth and decadence and commercial overkill. Mars TV would be a big step up, even if all we had were reruns of old Nazi-Martian sitcoms like Love That Bunny, starring Hermann Goering as Bunny Malloy, the cross-dressing heartbreaker from Berlin. Or encores of the made-for-Nazi-TV movie "Days of Whine and Poses" (as I mentioned in an earlier post) starring Mr. Goering again as Ms. Malloy and Mr. Adolph Hitler, himself, as a dictator enduring a mid-life crisis as well as a full-blown identity crisis. Yep, even that extreme excrement would surpass in quality this year's prime-time lineup back on Earth.

But I'm not here today to talk about kinky Krauts from The Third Reich. I'm here to announce that, as long as my Mars Broadcasts can be downloaded using Real Player's "Download Video" feature, I'll never risk my flabby neck to make another one. Real Player now joins my ever-growing list of "bottom feeders", along with certain insurance companies and major credit card companies in the good ol' USA, which is rapidly becoming "the bad ol' USA" because of criminal corporate misconduct. Like raising the price of a gallon of gasoline by 30 cents just because major holidays are approaching. Insufferable rat bastards.

And the next thing I need to get off my bony chest, besides telling everybody that it will be a warm day on Mars before I fire up Windows Movie Maker again, is that I realize that it doesn't matter what I write on this blog because, apparently, people are only interested in my video broadcasts. Um, hmm, that's right. To the tune that they now appear on a website that caters to creeps who like dirty chat rooms and filthy ads. May their own karma be their eternal judge.

So, as long as it doesn't matter what the hell I write about on this blog, I may as well post anything at all. Any damn thing at all. Try this:

"Up your ass with a blade of grass."

Or this:

"Up your nose with a rubber hose."

Or, I could type out the lyrics to a ridiculous school boy ditty from the early 20th Century:

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!
Teacher hit me with a ruler!
I hit her on the bean
With a rotten tangerine
And her teeth came marching out!

I could even quote from the Wild Man Fischer song, Merry Go Round:

"Merry-go! Merry-go! Merry-go-round!
Oooo, oooo, oooo!
Merry-go! Merry-go! Merry-go round!"

And then quote from another Wild Man Fischer song, Monkeys VS Donkeys:

"Monkeys versus donkeys!
Monkeys versus donkeys!
Monkeys versus donkeys!"

And no one would know the goddamn difference because, if there are no videos to steal on this post, there's nothing for them to look at. They like TV and that's what a video is. Couch potato shit for Web potatoes. That's right, most people would rather watch a screen than read anything, just like they'd rather steal than make their own stuff or poke fun rather than create. Hell, I'd take a picture of myself mooning the entire solar system but, sure as hell, someone would just copy and paste that image on some trashy website that appears to be an astronomy website in the Google Search results.

Nooo, thank you. I'd rather be chased all around the underground ruins of Cydonia by Reptilians who have ray guns as big as Super Soakers. At least those big-ass, biped lizards have a legitimate reason for wanting my ass.

Dénouement

Yeah, I survived my last Mars broadcast. Thanks to my being high on sucrose and having an almost brand-new pair of Size-10 Nike's on that I'd swiped from a napping bum the day before. I was so grateful for those speedy, snazzy, get-away sneaks that I decided to return them.

I found the ex-Wall-Street stockbroker in the same spot, in a corridor beneath the biggest Mars pyramid in the Cydonia ruins, still dozing in his stocking feet. When he woke up and saw me tying a double knot in his left shoelace, he laid a single, lame haymaker in my direction before he collapsed. He must have burned up a whole day's worth of algae-and-mushroom grazing with that one punch. As I calmly reinstalled his footwear, he found the strength to lay a few chosen words on me.

He said I looked like the love child of Charlie McCarthy and Groucho Marx. The stupid jerk. As if two guys could have a love child (the number one asshole thing for anybody to say) and number two, hardly anybody in 2009 remembers Groucho Marx or knows that Charlie McCarthy was the top-hatted, bespectacled dummy that sat on ventriloquist Edgar McCarthy's knee way back in the 1930s.

So, I told him to shitcan that attitude as I snapped off a stalactite that fit my hand like a glove and watched him trip and fall down as he ran down the dark-ass cave, thinking I'd fried a synapse and needed to do some quick bloodletting as therapy. But I let him get clean away because the stalactite club was basically just a knee-jerk reaction. All I really wanted was the lemon sour ball that fell out of his pocket when he got up. Still in its own wrapper, too.

I know I shouldn't have been provoked by such a thing but I was highly insulted by this fellow Earthling's stupid remark. I mean, think about it, this former-speculator bum was suggesting that I was a cross between a mindless, wooden blockhead and an overindulged, over-opinionated, celluloid prankster from the 1930s, with heavy eyebrows, nerdy glasses and a big, black mustache. Hmm. Yeah, well, at least I don't have to have somebody work my mouth and eyes for me and my mustache isn't just black shoe polish. So, stupid or not, this guy was saying that I was not only outdated, but dumb and geeky-looking, and that insulted me and hurt my feelings. So, naturally, I reached for a stalactite.

Hmm. OK. Well, he may have a point or two about my looks. But at least I write and deliver all my own, original material. And, as far as any Mars Broadcast #3 airing in the foreseeable future, I always tick-a-lock on any loose lips about that (including mine) and then spring the broadcast on everyone's asses when they're least expecting it. Otherwise, I'd have been Reptilian food a long time ago.

Mars Broadcast #2

Fred Fortune's
Mars Broadcast #2

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

Bottom Feeders

There are lots of things I don't miss about living on Earth besides the dozen things I listed the last time I addressed this issue. I need to get two of them off my chest right now, before I start scouring that new canal I found for Martian mushrooms, algae and some ancient salt. If I'm lucky, I'll run into another homeless bum like me who was abducted from Earth by those bad-boy Grays and dumped here because his blood's Muscatel level was also a wee bit too high for their DNA experiments. Pricks. With any real luck, I'll stumble over a sleeping bum who was abducted from Earth in an alley outside of a fast-food joint or a convenience store and whose pockets may contain a few leftover fries or a half-eaten 5th Avenue.

Just thinking about food — even day-old junk food that belongs to someone else — makes me forget why I'm at the old Commodore 64 this evening, blogging away. Lately, I've been surviving on nothing but pilfered Zagnut candy bars and warm Strawberry Quik, well past the expiration date, and you can't really call that "brain food".

Oh, yeah. Bottom feeders. That's what I hated most about Earth before I got snatched by a blue beam of light from the 1965 Rambler Ambassador sedan I called "home" at the time. Go ahead and laugh but, in 1965, the Rambler Ambassador was considered the Cadillac of blue-collar-worker cars, especially by people who did a lot of camping. That baby would haul anything and you'd never even know it. Of course, I was living in it in an alley near Hollywood & Vine in 2008, so it had seen its better days.

Shit. Here I go again. Bottom feeders. I mean those crooks who run insurance companies from places like Pittsburgh and who can't do business the regular way so they pretend to hook up with major credit card companies who are offering free life insurance to their cardholders. For a day or so. Then, if you don't call this toll free number in the fine print on the back of the letter they sent you, your $3,000 worth of free life insurance provided by your bottom-feeding major credit card company becomes a $200,000 policy with quarterly premium payments coming out of your credit card. If you don't call that goddamn toll-free number. So, if you don't do anything, they attach themselves to your credit card like leeches. If you do call them (meaning, if you saw that hidden clause in the fine print on the back of the bottom feeder's letter) they don't understand why you're upset. When you call your major credit card company, they act like they don't know what you're talking about. Right, and I've never heard of a Hershey Bar or "Buyer Beware", either. Crooks.

The insurance company bottom feeders are even worse than the fake car warranty people from New Mexico who send you what looks like an official warning of some kind that makes you fear that if you so much as dare to let your vehicle's warranty expire, the President of the United States, himself, will horsewhip you. That didn't bother me quite as much as the life insurance bottom feeders because the Rambler I was living in wasn't really mine anyway and I'm sure that its warranty expired about forty years ago.

How did I get mail delivered to a 1965 Rambler Ambassador abandoned in an alley in Hollywood, you might ask? Well, I can thank the 9-1-1 emergency number people for that. Before 9-1-1 came along, my "home" would have been just a rusty, old, abandoned vehicle. But, after 9-1-1 got a choke hold on L.A. and renamed all the goddamn streets and reassigned all the goddamn house numbers to suit their Napoleonic needs, they changed that 1965 Rambler Ambassador to 1965 Ambassador Way. Go figure. Naturally, the Post Office, now called the USPS, had no choice but to deliver mail there.

And, you might also want to know how a homeless bum like me had a major credit card. Well, I wasn't always a homeless bum. At one time I was a consumer, the Cadillac of citizens. And as long as I scraped together the minimum monthly payment, I got to keep my card.

By the way, if I ever get dumped back on Earth by the goddamn Grays, I'd probably still want to visit New Mexico, especially Roswell and White Sands. Those places hold a certain fascination for me. But I wouldn't go to Pittsburgh to take a shit.