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.

Mars Broadcast #5

Fred Fortune's Mars Broadcast #5

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.

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.

Day of the MIB

I never considered the fact that I might have to allow a guest video on my blog but then I never thought I'd be discombobulated by Liz, either, the big-ass Reptilian warlady who runs this Cydonia Concentration Camp, here in the Mars Underground. On top of that, I never thought I'd be discombobulated because of a rat commodities broker from Earth who squealed on me for daily access to the restaurant-grade stainless steel refrigerator the Grays installed in their secret underground kitchen up here.

So, why am I letting Farnsworth do this, the creepy little Benedict Arnold who got me ray-gunned by Liz just so he could feel young and upwardly mobile again? So I have further proof about life on Mars. What else? By the way, Farnsworth still won't tell me his real last name. I call him "Mud" because he ratted me out to the Reptilians who run this Martian Leavenworth for the Grays. He let that snide remark run off his shoulder like water off a duck's ass and even kept the name. But he cleverly spelled it the way Roger Mudd did, the 20th Century CBS news anchor. Farnsworth told me his family knew Roger Mudd personally but I really doubt that. Little name dropper.

Incidentally, Farnsworth wasn't pulled out of a rusting 1965 Rambler Ambassador that was abandoned in an alley near Hollywood & Vine by a blue beam of light, like I was. He was chased and knocked down and then dragged out of his semi-detached house in Queens, New York, a year ago by three Men In Black. Thus, the title of this guest video. Man, I can't believe I'm so hard up to prove my own Martian conspiracy theory that I'm letting a traitor like Farnsworth M. Mudd (I have to laugh my ass off at that name) post a video here. I even showed him how to add titles, credits and sound to his pathetic, amateur cell-phone video. Man, if I ever did get back to Earth, I wouldn't go to Queens to take a shit.

Day of the MIB

a video by Farnsworth M. Mudd

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.

Live from the Red Room in Downtown Cydonia

Some people never know when to give up. Yeah, yeah, I know, look who's talking. But, just shitcan that attitude for a minute or else everything I post today will go way over your head. Way over it. When people don't listen because they think they know it all, it pisses me off. Pisses me right off. Nobody knows it all. People who think they know it all are assuming their sorry-ass lives away.

And you know what happens when you assume something. Yeah, yeah, you make an ass out of you and me. You even assumed that. And then you did what most Earthlings do most of the time. You parroted it right back to me. Monkeyed it right back. But what you didn't know is that when you assume something you fail to open a door that might have opened onto your fondest dreams. Fool-asses. Think about that awhile. Do that while I think about whether or not I'm going to tell you what that animated thing that looks like the end of a red thumb with hands and feet is doing here on Mars.

Hmmmm, hmmmmm. La De Da. Ho-hummm. Tra la. Those are the annoying sounds I make when I'm taking my good old time thinking about something I might share with someone if that certain someone stops being a know-it-all for a second and listens up. Touchy? Touchy am I? You betcha. You'd be just a little touchy too if you lived on nothing but carbohydrates from pilfered candy bars and a trace of questionable vegetable protein from stinking Martian mushrooms and lousy canal algae for the past two-and-a-half-years. And an occasional cup of vending machine coffee from a vending machine where the vending route guy must have died in 1957 and no one took over his lame route. Coffee that tastes like hot water filtered through pencil shavings. So, listen up. You never had it so good with your Starbucks and your fancy wraps and croissants. Now here's the damn story.

The animated image you see is an animated gif. file of a famous insult comic who used to play the Catskills back on Earth in the 1960s. He just got done playing Think-A-Holic Lounge, that lame watering hole in the middle of the cosmos somewhere that I accidentally visit whenever one of those wild wormholes taps me on the shoulder like the hand of Fate. But you already know that story.

Mouthpiece (that's what they call him at Think-A-Holic Lounge) was already on the big-ass stage with a cordless microphone, right there in the cafeteria I mentioned earlier (under the Cydonia face) when I entered the room, looking for another bottle of that cooking sherry. Warden Liz, two of her male lizard pals, Farnsworth the Benedict Arnold commodities broker, and a couple of homelsess bums from Cleveland (not every hobo is from The Big Apple or L.A., you know) and that was about it. It was obvious that Mouthpiece was warming up the crowd in anticipation of my arrival. No, I'm not paranoid or arrogant. After five decades on Earth I can spot a cosmic setup a mile away.

"Weellll," said the little stink pot as soon as I entered the cafeteria. I should have known they booked this moron astral comic just to single me out for verbal abuse. Especially now that Liz and Farnsworth are buddy-buddy with one another. "Look what finally crawled out its hole. Hey, buddy! Yeah, you with the Charlie McCarthy look. Hey, you seen my pal Groucho around here? He thinks he went to Heaven but I know for a fact that he... Oh, there he is, sharing the same dummy face with you. Whoa! Now I know for freakin' sure he went to hell!"

The handful of life forms went wild. Liz roared like Godzilla mauling the hell out of Tokyo. Farnsworth squealed like a girl. Just like a girl. Two bums were rolling in the aisle between the vending machines and the first row of tables. And Liz's big-ass Reptilian grunts laughed so hard they almost choked on their forked tongues. I wasn't laughing.

"Eat a bag of farts," I blurted out, not knowing that I'd do such a thing. I didn't even bother to make it up. It just flowed naturally. I broke the place up with that one line, leaving them in stitches. Mouthpiece felt the challenge and responded with a flair.

"Ooooh," he said, pretending to swoon with delight, "Like I told them at The Lounge the other night, I just love it when a rummy gives me advice. And I never have a freakin' pen on me to write down all those gems of wisdom. I mean, hell, nobody knows the true meaning of life like an unemployed bum who spent most of his midlife crisis in an abandoned car. Say, pal, is that 1965 Rambler Ambassador for sale or are you going to add on later? A friend of mine has the sweetest little Nash Metropolitan that'd go great with your wreck. Make a little sun porch out of it. Put the little top down and you got a deck. You already got the best freakin' view in town. Hookers and fast-food dumpsters. Hell, you can't beat that with a friggin' stick!"

That brought the house down. I didn't know Reptilians could roll on the floor but two of them did. Liz, of course, kept her cool. She roared so loud she broke two water glasses ten feet away. Farnsworth, the little ex-broker shithead, was laughing silently, his shoulder shaking and tears streaming down his cheeks like a girl. Just like a girl.

"It's better than living without an ass," I barked back, sending the small crowd into further hysterical laughter. "If I had to live my life without as ass, I'd shave my head and walk on my hands." That brought Mouthpiece to his knees. But he still hadn't given up. Not this baby.

The small crowd of homeless bums and Reptilian prison guards stopped laughing and began applauding. They even cheered and whistled. Even I had so stupidly assumed that lizards couldn't whistle. But they did. While I was busy making an ass out of Mouthpiece and myself, Liz and Co. whistled like drunken sailors at a 1920's Burlesque show.

"Better to be ass-less," he squealed, trying to keep from laughing at my zingers, "than to go around with a hat on all the time because people mistake your head for your ass. Or maybe that isn't your ass and you're just blowing a bubble? Or maybe you've been walking on your hands all along and just need a little freakin' company."

"Go find a butt and try it on," I quipped back, grasping at straws.

"Thanks for the tip, bum face," he squealed, falling on his side but still holding the mike. "Y' know, you look like a guy who shops at Butts-R-Us. I hear they're having a special on waxed asses or, if you already have a butt, their salon is running a monthly special on ass waxing. But, hell, a smart guy like you doesn't need to spend a lot of extra money on ass waxing. You just go to your barber and kill two birds with one freakin' stone."

By this time, everyone in the room was rolling on the floor in stitches, even me. Yep, even Liz, our big-ass Reptilian warden.

So, to make a long story short, Mouthpiece and I are now booked in Cydonia as a comedy team called Fred & Red. Working the "Red Room" for the rest of the season. It's sorta like teaming up Don Rickles with Rodney Dangerfield and then adding a little dash of George Carlin or Lenny Bruce, here and there. Then pumping up the volume. Hell, like Sam the piano player said in Casablanca as he drank champagne with Rick and Ilsa in Paris, "This should take the sting out of being occupied." Or take the sting out of being occasionally discombobulated by a lizard as big as a kangaroo in an underground prison on the planet Mars.

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.

Don't Knock It If You Haven't Pried It

Unh, hunh. I suppose you expected yet another Martian Broadcast this month. Like I've got nothing better to do than sit in front of a cheesy web cam and ad-lib my heart out about how Reptilians and Grays have turned my life into an outer space sitcom version of the movie "Le Papillon". Wrong.

By the time I fire up this old Commodore 64 PC with it's rinky-dink 28.8 bps modem, adjust the web cam settings, place the stick microphone within speaking distance but out of camera range, and take a little snooze while the dinosaur dial-up connects me to the Internet, what invariably happens? If Liz, the big-ass Reptilian warden, doesn't find me and mop up the place with me or zap me with her discombobulator, I have to pee.

That's why I look like I'm wired to the eyebrows on caffeine when you catch my videocasts. But I'm not some caffeine-injected conspiracy kook who's one step away from the loony bin. I'm a kidnaped conspiracy buff sending another urgent S.O.S. to a bunch of Earthlings who'd rather point at me and laugh than listen up and band together against the New World Order and any extraterrestrial race that thinks kidnaping, torture, false imprisonment, vivisection and murder are not punishable offenses.

By the way, my conspiracy shit is as good as anyone else's, and most of it is based on real experiences and observations, not on wild conjecture, projected romantic fantasies or the sorry camaraderie between aging Trekkies who finally decide to give the real world a go before they get beamed up to St. Peter. Too bad there isn't a free thinker among you.

But I know you don't care about what I just said. Most of you are too busy aping the rich and famous to give a shit about being yourselves. And, right now, I'm too busy trying to find a half-eaten Hershey Bar somewhere than to whine and cry and finger point and squeal on cam about Earth's underground government. I'd rather suck red stones for ancient salt and eat stinky Martian mushrooms all day long than risk my hobo butt for a bunch of Earthling butt heads.

Yeah, yeah, I know. You get "sick and tired" of hearing about "the underground government". That's because you don't pay attention. If you paid attention, you'd get the message. But I'll indulge you for the last time. The underground government (or the "New World Order") is nothing but a bunch of Benedict Arnolds who gladly trade their fellow citizens for alien technology, most of which they use to spy on *and control* you.

So, don't pretend you have a clue about what's happening in this solar system when you don't know squat about Earth. If you haven't looked very hard into what's happening in your own pathetic life then you've ignored the big picture altogether. Hell, the Illuminati don't need to keep any of you on a leash. Hollywood, TV, Madison Avenue and the World Wide Spider Web do that for them. And don't even think about catching a podcast from me in the near or distant future. If I knew how to do anything in "real time" it would be hopping a natural wormhole back to Pluto where people either "listen up" or else they find themselves in the slammer.

Shit. Now I have to pee. Why do I torture myself?

*Post edited on April 5, 2014 for clarity

Down and Out in Cydonia

As promised, I said I'd re-post that animated caricature of Liz, the big-ass Reptilian warden who runs this little Martian San Quentin. Now my ass will be in another wringer when she sees it. She still thinks it was me who posted it in the first place, so that's why she'll be gunning for me the second time around.

By the way, I didn't re-post the caption that the real culprit put beneath this animated gif when he put it on the Saturn Outernet late last year, Earth Time. I thought it was stupid. It said, "Liz Licks Bug Butts", which is about as dumb as they come. Which also tells me that the original poster just had to be an Earthling from The Big Apple. Don't ask me why. And, more than likely, he was a former Wall Street stockbroker, probably one of several whose pockets I've picked for candy bars and chewing gum. That's why he posted it in the first place. To put me in Liz's gun sights so she could zap me good and put me out of pickpocketing commission for a while. Which she did.

Incidentally, this dumb-ass animated cartoon character doesn't resemble Warden Liz in the least. In fact, it ought to compliment her because this little lizard is kind of cute, if you ask me. The real Liz, who looks like a cross between Godzilla and Agnes Moorehead, blew her stack over the insinuating caption, "Liz Licks Bug Butts", because it's basically true. Whenever Reptilians run out of mice and big-city hoboes from Earth, they've been known to dine on insects, butts and all.

So, did I give this animated caricature a new caption? You bet I did. Being a hungry, homeless bum in the ruins of a Martian capital is being just about as down and out as you can get. And the only real cure for being down and out is pulling a prank on the one who keeps you in that homeless, hopeless matrix. So, I re-captioned the image of this little lizard licking and licking away to read:

To Liz, from Fred:

"Bottoms Up!"

or should I say:

"Bon Appétit!"

The Fred from Another World

Yesterday I was foraging for mushrooms in my favorite canal (the big one right under the Cydonia Face) when I got snatched by another roving wormhole. Now I look like this and I have to keep reminding myself who I am and where I'm at.

If you ever thought about time traveling via wormhole, forget it. It's definitely not worth the risk. Look at me. Just look at me. I look like a radioactive cartoon character from the 1930s.

I think I smell a rat. A great-big independent, otherworldly rat. Yeah, I mean you, you little indie dork. Now I crave Mallo Cups more than ever. If I ever recover from this, POD Punk, you'll get yours.

Party Mammal

As you can see, I'm not the wallflower you probably thought I was. Oh, don't get me wrong, I still admit to being a cowardly, finger-pointing squealer but I was hoping that, if you bought that lame routine then you'd have no problem thinking I was also someone who never took a drink in my entire life.

So, if you fell for that facade, then you apparently never paid any attention to me when I talked about how I'd kept my DNA safe from the Grays by unconsciously maintaining a high blood alcohol level back on Earth. So high, in fact, that no self-respecting mad scientist would even come near me. Including the Grays, who make Josef Mengele look like a soda jerk in comparison.

And, like I told you over and over again, I maintained that lab-reject blood alcohol level with regular infusions of Muscatel and Wild Irish Rose while roaming the back streets and alleyways of Los Angeles, California, a city still run by Hollywood freaks whose lifestyles make the Reptilians look like a bunch of Shirley Temples on the Good Ship Lollipop. That's right, if you can only afford wine, nothing gives your blood an alcohol jump-start like cheap fortified wine with 20% alcohol by volume.

So, not having tasted either of my favorite hobo vintages for over a year now, imagine my surprise when I found the cafeteria that the ever-hopeful Grays built for the human adbuctees who eventually would pass the alcohol and drug screening for their pathetic bubble-headed booby breeding stock. The only thing is, this particular flock of Grays has a tendency to abduct Earthlings from alleys in major American cities and that's where most of the diseased livers in America the Beautiful reside today.

So, naturally, when I found that empty cafeteria I headed straight for the cooking sherry. After only two bottles of that shit I then, naturally, located the nearest lamp shade and put it on. If I could have found a discombobulator and an unarmed Reptilian I would have worn its head for a hat, instead. Anyway, one of the ex-Wall Street stockbrokers that I unfortunately share this Martian Lompoc with and whom I knock down and rob of candy on a regular basis up here, took this professionally damaging photo of me. Little shit smear.

And here you probably thought Walter Cronkite was the only Earthling to have actually worn a lamp shade after dipping his bill. A lot you know.

Happy-Ass New Year!

Merry Christmas from Mars

Because of recent developments beyond my control, I'm unable to show my ugly mug in person. You guessed it, Warden Liz finally caught me red-handed, all "live" and "in the act" of broadcasting my conspiracy doo-doo (my conspiracy doo-doo is as good as anyone else's) to the rest of the solar system.

But that's not why she zapped me with her trusty discombobulator. No, she said she caught me before I said anything even remotely damaging to the Earthling abduction project. Hmmphh! Then why did she get so mad that she zapped me right out of the chair if she didn't even feel threatened by my broadcast? Because someone posted an animated caricature of her (a flash image) on the Saturn Outernet earlier this month and she thinks it was me, that's why.

Well... I'll do some squealing and finger pointing about that deal sometime after the New Year. I'll show that psycho Reptilian fembot a thing or two. I'll find that graffiti caricature of her and re-post it. That'll teach her to throw me around a room just for fun. Anyway, my broadcast days are over until I can come up with something that will really make her mad. The madder she gets, the more I'll feel like a conspiracy bell-ringer.

So, anyway, when I woke up after hitting the floor at the end of Broadcast Number Four, she tossed me around for a while, swearing and clicking in her native lizard tongue, and then she let me go because she couldn't stop laughing at the chocolate drool that came out of my mouth every time I lost consciousness. Still, she did bounce me off a few pieces of furniture and a couple of walls before she got tired of that shit. Apparently, the only thing that saved my life is that I'm such a bore. Thank heavens for that.

Before she let me go she didn't even bother to make me promise to stop broadcasting my conspiracy doo-doo. And that pissed me off. Pissed me right off. The big scaly sow didn't bother to penalize me because she thinks I have no audience, no viewers and no followers. And, therefore, no proof. Well, that's only her opinion. But, until I can find some hard evidence of life on Mars, I'll take a break from videocasting. Besides, it's too close to Christmas to get my shorts in a twist over anything, especially a lizard heckler the size of a kangaroo.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Mars!

Mars Broadcast #4

Fred Fortune's
Mars Broadcast #4

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

Too Much of a Good Thing

All right, all right, so I didn't win the election out here. I didn't want to, remember? The new Martian homeless spokesperson will be Liz, the evil Reptilian war lady, herself. The bigass warden of little Mars Quentin. The Queen Bee of my current digs in the Martian underground. Yep, I'm still a prisoner in the Gray's prized penal colony for Earthling abductees who don't cut the DNA mustard for bubble-head breeding stock. Thank heavens for that.


Besides, I wasn't running anyway. The campaign was a fraud and that campaign poster with my mug gracing it was unauthorized. As I told you yesterday. Anyway, I'm sooo glad I wasn't elected to represent the Martian homeless population, even though my unwillingness to run caused a lizard as big as a kangaroo to become our official honcho. Like she wasn't already.

Yep, I stayed up all night. It was easy. I ate two and a half Mallo Cups, half a Hershey Bar (with almonds) and found a new coffee machine in working order in the old Nazi TV studio that Liz thinks I'm barred from. (I use my own toe-nail clippings for lock picks). But I had a horrible dream as I napped on the leather couch that Hitler used for wooing Eva Braun. The dream became a nightmare when I realized that all my supporters were actually clones of myself.

It's true. You can have too much of a good thing.

Who Wrote Me In?

You know me. One of the things I miss the least about life on Earth is Election Day. (Right after bagpipes and the song Amazing Grace). I was sooo glad I didn't have to choose between Obama and McCain in Novemebr 2008. I would have written in the name of Ross Perot anyway, whether anyone, including Ross Perot, liked it or not. Mr. Perot was one of the few politicians in America who knew that the United States was a representative republic and not a democracy. That's why he wanted democracy for America, which is every citizen being actively engaged in making the laws of the land. What a pipe dream.

Even the Greeks didn't have a democracy. But they aspired to it more than any other nation in the the history of the world. Too bad ol' Ross wanted to use the Internet for our participation in democracy. If he'd have gotten away with that, we'd all be up for sale on the Russian black market. Or else making commercials for fast food joints. But I'd still have wanted to elect a well-meaning lunatic for President of the United States over two Illuminati puppets. Republican Presidents and Democratic Presidents have been serving the same master since FDR. The global power elite. They're the people who make sure Americans never run out of cornflakes or gasoline. They're the ones who shop for Armani and Ferraris like we shop for socks and lawn mowers. Screw the Illuminati.

But American politics isn't the real reason I fired up the old Commodore 64 today. No way. I couldn't care less who gets on the dole "down there" anymore. A greased palm is a greased palm. And a friend for life, as long as the votes and the cabbage and the pork keep coming and going. No, I'm so mad I can hardly see because of this stupid, unauthorized Campaign poster (see pic below).

Apparently, a bunch of Martian homeless people (abductees from Earth, who else?) got together and began circulating these campaign posters all over the Martian underground. They can't circulate them on the surface because the low atmospheric pressure, lack of breathable air and horrific wind storms would turn them into blue-faced balloons in two seconds and then frozen sushi. Even homeless bums who are desperate to be freed from this Martian Attica wouldn't go up top.

But they're dumb enough to think that I'll run the whole show for them just because I tried to back in July 2008, Earth Time. That's what got me in such deep doo-doo with Liz, our bigass Reptilian Warden, in the first place. My ass is in a wringer so much these days that I doubt if I'll ever have the time to make my fourth Martian broadcast. And those videocasts only get me in more hot water anyway. Besides, who would be dumb enough vote for a homeless bum who's tackled other homeless bums on a regular basis and rifled their pockets for Slim Jims and Twizzlers and shit? Dumb ex-stockbrokers, mostly. They're the biggest cry babies of all when they're cold and hungry.

And, now, because of this dumb-ass unauthorized poster, I'm like a metal duck in an old-time shooting gallery. It's hard to make conspiracy videos (my conspiracy shit is as good as anyone else's) when you're ass-over-tin-cups and lizards as big as kangaroos are on your tail. It's no way to run a solar system. Spokesperson, my ass. If I was willing to represent the Martian "homeless" in 2010, I'd better be their goddamn spokesman. Which I'm not.