Tales of a Wandering Warlord Part 8: Git Outta Gitmo Ya Git!

NOVEMBER 8th, 2006.

"All right prisoners," called a rough voice from outside my cell, "it's time for waterboarding!"

I went to the bars and looked out in the hall, a burly Marine Corps Sergeant was walking down the hall carrying a large flat gym bag. Prisoners hurled insults in Arabic, spit, urine, feces, and semen at the Sergeant, but he just blocked their attacks with the bag.

"Settle down boys," said the Sergeant with gentle good humour, "if you keep acting up, they're won't be any sprinkles for your sundaes tonight."

The barrage stopped as quickly as it started.

"You must be the new guy," said the Sergeant. "So this will be your first waterboarding."

"I guess," I said, not knowing exactly what 'waterboarding' was outside of media speculations.

"You're gonna need this," said the Sergeant as he zipped open the gym bag. He then pulled out a florescent green boogie board. "Now get into your swim trunks double time."

I took the boogie board. My head was still spinning from the explosion and my telekinetic powers would be useless for another day or two. There was no way I could escape this place the media and Democrats had hailed as the 'New Gulag.'

What horror did I find myself trapped in?


"Everybody into the pool!" barked the Sergeant.

"What the hell is going on here?" I asked. My Marine-issue swimwear was a tad small for my rather robust frame, and resembled a speedo that bulged in all the right places, if you're paying attention ladies...

"We live in an area prone to hurricanes," declared the Sergeant as the other prisoners climbed into the pool, "we are bound by regulations to ensure that every prisoner has a minimum amount of swimming experience in case they get blown out to sea. And since most of our prisoners are from desert countries they need to use these 'waterboards' to help learn how to swim properly. Now get in the pool. Or they'll be no sundae for you!"

I got into the pool. The other prisoners, being mostly from dessert countries sort of flopped around, while Navy divers tried to teach them how to swim. Being able to breathe underwater it wasn't exactly a worry for me, so I decided to cool off a little and do a few laps.


"Lunch time!" bellowed another Marine as myself and the other prisoners came out of the dressing room by the pool. A row of guards double timed us to a long cafeteria hall. There I was pushed into line and handed a plastic tray.

"Is that a sloppy joe?" I asked the lady at the counter.

"It is Wednesday," she explained, "that's sloppy joe day. Would you like regular or chocolate milk?"

I looked around, if the place had a few more and heavier armed guards, it would looked exactly like the cafeteria in my old junior high. I expected Suzi FaxOrbat to come swanning by any minute.

"So new guy," said a bearded fellow named Achmed as I sat at a table, "you do realize that you are in a death camp."

"Death camp?"

"That's what you must tell everyone you write to," declared Achmed. "We must get this place as much bad publicity as possible so it will be shut down."

"Wait a minute," I said, "a death camp isn't a place where you gain weight, and judging by the spread of your hindquarters you've been here a while."

"Aren't you a soldier of Allah?"

"Dude," I answered, "I ain't even from this frikkin' planet. I don't even know why I'm here. DAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMNNNN!!!! That's a great sloppy joe!"

After lunch I volunteered to help move some boxes from a truck to one of the camp buildings, it was a good excuse to get a look around so I'd be ready when my strength came back. I picked up a box labelled 'Halal Ketchup Packets' and walked into a room.

What I saw shocked me.

In one corner was a bunch of naked prisoners, piled on top of each other in a human pyramid. In another corner a man clad in a black hood and garbage stood on a box. A burly Marine Colonel stood at the centre of the room shaking his head.

"You call this a production of 'Oklahoma!'" bellowed the Colonel. "All this artsy-fartsy art direction does not invoke a sense of the American west!" As the human pyramid disassembled itself the Colonel then turned his rage to the man in the corner. "And what's with this costume!?! Curly McLain's supposed to be a free-spirited cowboy, not a goddamn German performance artist! This isn't rocket science this is Rodgers & Hammerstein! Now I want you to go over the barn dance number again, and by the time I get back you better get me starstruck, or I'll cancel the whole production! I will not see you butcher this show they way you butchered 'The King & I' last year."

"We did not butcher that!" said a prisoner named Abdul.

"Your portrayal of the King of Siam couldn't have been more lifeless if we had dug the corpse of Yul Brynner to replace you!"

Abdul ran away crying.

The prisoners grumbled, and started digging out their cowboy costumes.

This place was getting weirder all the time.

NOVEMBER 12th, 2006.

"There he is," said a guard, pointing to me as I made an yet another three point shot, completely crushing the team of Yemeni Al Qaida. "He's the big blue fellow."

A smart looking Army officer came into the gym and he strode right towards me.

"I would like to extend my most sincere apologies sir," said the Army Officer.

"For what?"

"Your incarceration here," said the Officer. "It seems that you were captured and sent here by mistake."

"I already knew that," I said. "Who caught me, anyway?"

"Keifer Sutherland," answered the Army Officer.

"The guy from '24'?"

"Yessir," answered the Officer, "every once and a while he gets so into his role that he occassionally.....well let's just say he captures people that he thinks are terrorists. That is: If they survive the explosion."

"And you just accepted a prisoner from an actor?"

"He's really good at it," answered the Officer, "I think he won an Emmy, and he just happened to convince the right people. So I'm here to take you back the USA."

"No thanks," I said, "I'll stay here a while."

"Why do you want to stay here?"

"Good grub," I answered, "my own room, and I get a lap dance from a hot female naval officer as some form of interrogation. No responsibilities, no worries, it's the best vacation I've had in a long time."

"I'm sorry," he said, "you can't stay here in a prison full of hard core killers. Or we'll have to bill you."

"Fine," I sighed, "can you drop me off at Area 51, I've got a ride there."



Tales of a Wandering Warlord Part 7: Hooray 4 Hollywood!

NOVEMBER 7th, 2006:

It was election day in the United States of America, and I decided to spend it at a place the media considers the heartland, Los Angeles.

"Maps to the stars," chanted a middle aged fellow in a floppy hat and sweaty 'wife-beater' t-shirt. I thought it was odd that puny Earthlings would be so interested in astronomy they'd be selling maps of outer space on street corners.

"How much oh sweaty merchant," I asked.

"5 bucks," he answered.

I dropped him a fiver and he handed me a map. Let me tell you I was disappointed.

"This is a star-map!" I declared. "It's just a map showing where celebrities live."

"Yeah," said the sweaty salesman, "it's a map of the stars."

"I want my 5 bucks back!" I declared, "I don't care to know where Bob Saget lives, in fact, no one, not even Bob Saget cares."

"No refunds," snarled the map dealer.

And that was when his head exploded like Louis Del Grande's in Scanners.

My telekinetic cranial blasts don't happen often, just when I'm feeling ripped off, and it's a blessing and a curse. It generally let's everyone know not to screw around with old Remulak, but it also makes calling tech support for Windows XP a very bloody affair.

As I pulled my fiver from the dead man's hand I heard a voice behind me yell.

"Put your hands up! LAPD!"

I turned to see to Los Angeles cops approaching me. To be polite, I put my hands up. "Sorry about the mess officers," I said, "I'll pay to clean that up."

"What are you," asked the 1st Cop, "a wise-guy?"

"No," I answered, "I'm a Flokian."

"Get him!" bellowed the 2nd Cop.

"I'm gonna taser him like a UCLA student!" said the 1st Cop.


"Are you coming on to me?" I asked, since the electrical device in the 1st Cop's hand was giving me the most pleasant sensation.

Then the 2nd Cop zapped me with his pleasure device.

"Listen," I told them, "you got me all wrong, old Remulak is strictly for the ladies. I could give the number of a guy in Philly who enjoys police work and 'man weekends' and maybe you could get together. Now if you don't mind, I've got places to be."


After some discussion, and little mental wiping, I left the two officers and set out to see more of this Hollywood place. They say it's the home of the 'celebrities' the people who control the habits of the common people more directly than their political leaders. I had to find some and get the pulse of this nation.

Maybe this 'star-map' might be useful after all.


"Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my house?" asked George Clooney.

"I'm Remulak MoxArgon and what does it look like I'm doing in your house?" I asked, sticking my head back in his fridge. "I'm making a sandwich. Sheesh, what's with all the tofu? Do you know where tofu really comes from, it's Snotglob's ear-wax. True story. Would it kill you to have a little pastrami in the house?"

"Security!" Clooney screamed, quite girlishly.

"Are you calling for that burly fellow in the black suit?" I asked, "According to my new map he probably landed in Leonardo Di Caprio's pool. Or his roof. He's a really rude fellow."

"All right," said Clooney holding up his hands, "just don't hurt me."

"Chill out," I said, "you're going to pop a blood vessel, and why is the front of your pants getting wet?"

Then Brad Pitt walked in.


"Hi Brad."

"You know this freak?" asked George Clooney.

"He used to go out with Angelina," said Brad.

"Yeah," I said, "so does she still bring stray children home everytime she goes out?"

Brad Pitt nodded. "We've got fifteen now."

"Why are the hot girls always insane?" I asked.

Brad shrugged.

"Well," said George Clooney, "I'll leave you two to chat while I change my pants."

"Say," said Brad Pitt, "why don't you join us, we're having a meeting of Hollywood Democrats."

"Sounds perfect."

Waiting for me in George Clooney's living room were Matt Damon, Rosie O'Donnell, Michael Moore, Michael J. Fox, Richard Belzer, Sean Penn, and Susan Sarandon.

"Everybody," said Brad Pitt, "I'd like you to meet Remulak MoxArgon."

"Hi," said almost everybody.

"Matt Damon!" screamed Matt Damon.

"This is the 'A' list?" I asked. "So are you folks excited about the mid-term election?"

"Yeah," said Sean Penn, "now we can end this fictitious war!"

"That's my line!" snapped Moore between bites of a all bean burrito.

"And you ripped it off some poster on Democratic Underground." snapped Susan Sarandon.

"How dare you expose my lack of originality!" screeched Moore before stomping out. Burrito in each hand, leaking grease onto the shag carpetting.

"I'm just glad to see the beginning of the end of George W. Bush's reign of terror!" declared Rosie O'Donnell.

"What reign of terror?" I asked, having run a few myself, I was interested in what definition these Earthlings had for it.

"He opposes same-sex marriage!" screamed Rosie. "He's a homophobe!"

"Here here!" chanted the others.

"Matt Damon!" squawked Matt Damon.

"So do a lot of homosexuals," I said, "some polls say a majority of them oppose it. Are they homophobes?"

"You're a homophobe!"

"Plus," I added, "he's fighting people who like to behead and hang homosexuals."

"He's still an evil homophobe because he's a Republican!" screamed Rosie before storming out of the house, by way of the kitchen.

"Bush banned stem cell research!" declared Michael J. Fox. "Forcing me to overdose on my medication so I can look extra-pathetic for Democratic campaign ads."

"Bush didn't ban embryonic stem cell research," I said, "in fact he legalised it. He just stopped federal funding to any project not using existing cell lines. Haven't you read anything on the subject?"

"Hey," said Fox, "I didn't even graduate high school, how can you expect to read all that stuff."

"Plus all the really promising research has been using umbilical cord stem cells, or stem cells generated from human fat cells, or nasal linings," I added, "so far no one's been able to produce anything useful out of embryonic cells."

"Just like a neo-con to start using facts," said Michael J. Fox before he stormed out the room.

"I know the truth," declared Richard Belzer. "Especially about Iraq. I know everything!"

"Even more than the soldiers serving there?" I asked.

"They're only in the army because flipping burgers requires too much mental agility," barked Belzer. "I know better."

"Weren't you expelled from school because you were too dumb to know when to keep your mouth shut?" I asked.

"Screw you," said Belzer before he stormed out.

"Besides," I said, "the bulk of the military's personnel is made up of the top 50% in intelligence rankings. They also outrank most civilians in the same age-range in education. Which is far better than Hollywood's score I must say."

"You're starting to sound like one of those fly-over country Jesus-freaks," said Susan Sarandon. "They're a bunch of fascist because they wouldn't go see the Dixie Chicks's movie."

"Maybe they don't see the value in watching a multimillion dollar movie by a trio of rich celebrities whining about being silenced when they haven't even stopped talking long enough to breathe."

"You are worse than Hitler!" screamed Sarandon, before storming out, her breasts slapping against her kneecaps.

"If you're going by body-count sure," I called out after her, "but the people I killed did something to deserve it. Hitler was just a little ass-wipe racist who killed folks over their religion of all things."

"Bush overthrew my friend Saddam," said Sean Penn, "now they're gonna hang him."

"Well," I said, "he did kill a lot of people, support terrorism, and was lying in wait to revive a nuclear weapons program."

"That's all lies!" screamed Sean Penn. "Saddam was just misunderstood!"

"Sean," I said, "you're a good actor, but I could fit what you know of the world on the head of a pin, in large type."

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"If you have to ask," I replied, "then you've answered your own question. Say, isn't that a paparazzi in the bushes?"

With a scream of fury Sean Penn leapt through the plate glass window, landing in the bushes with a heavy thud.

"MATT DAMON!" screamed Matt Damon, before leaping out after Sean.

"It wasn't a paparazzi," I said, "just a pigeon."

"Where did everyone go?" asked George Clooney as he came in.

"They all left," said Brad Pitt.

"Damn," said Clooney. "Now how are we going to plan our SUV parade to protest global warming?"

"Say," I said, "who did you vote for?"

"We don't vote," said Clooney, "that's for losers."

"I think I've learned all I can here," I said, finishing off my sandwich.


I was driving along a lonely stretched of Mulholland when there was a sudden flash of light, and a deafening boom. My rental car exploded and I found myself tumbling down a steep cliff.

I knew I shouldn't have rented an American car.

I hit bottom, dazed and battered. The world was spinning around me, but I could make out strange voices and dark shapes gathering around me.

"We got him," said one of the shapes. "He's still alive."

"How could he still be alive," said another shape, "that was one hell of a blast."

"Get him in the chopper." said yet another shape.

Then everything went black.


NOVEMBER 8th, 2006

When I regained consciousness I found myself in a small sparsely furnished room. There was a mat facing east on the floor, a book hanging from a surgical mask from the ceiling and bars on the windows.

I got up and looked out the window. Then I saw a sign:


Oh crap.


Tales of a Wandering Warlord Part 6: Viva Lost Wages

NOVEMBER 6th, 2006.

Craps is a wonderful game. Especially if you have the power of telekinesis.

"Hey pal," said a burly Pit Boss with a face like Charles Bronson's fist. "You sure won a lotta money tonight."

"Yep," I said as I packed my chips into my bag, "I sure did."

"In fact," continued the Pit Boss, "some might say you were cheating."

"But I'm not cheating," I said in a very calm, possibly hypnotic, tone of voice, "I'm just a happy lucky customer."

"You are not cheating," said the Pit Boss in a possibly hypnotized tone of voice, "you are just a happy lucky customer."

"That's right," I said, "and I think happy lucky customers deserve to be comped the best suite in the hotel."

"You are right," said the Pit Boss, "you are a happy lucky customer, and happy lucky customers deserve to comped the best suite in the hotel."

"Good boy," I told him.

"I am a good boy," said the Pit Boss before heading off to get me my room.

Some days it's really great to have such a large brain.


"Hi there neighbour," said a voice from behind me as I was unlocking the door to my new suite.

I spun around to see none other than Senator Harry Reid in a hawaiian shirt, bermuda shorts, flip flops, and of all things a smile.

"I see you got yourself the Presidential Suite," said Reid, sloshing some of his margarita on the floor. "I only have a Senatorial Suite, but it's not like it's costing me anything. Ha! Say, why don't you join me and some friends of mine for a little party."

"Sure," I answered, having never turned down a free drink in my life.

Senator Reid, led me into his suite and I was gobsmacked. I had never seen so much faux leopard skin in my life.

"I did the decor all myself," said Senator Reid, "why waste money on one of them there design queers."

He then showed me into his living room. There was James Carville, John Kerry, Charlie Rangel, Howard Dean, and Jack Murtha. They were all dressed in hawaiian shirts, except Kerry, who wore a suit and tie.

"Hey boys," said Senator Harry Reid, I'd like you to meet my new neighbour. What's yer name feller?"

"I'm Remulak MoxArgon, Usurper of the Flokian Empire, Lord & Master of the 7 Majestic Galaxies, and slayer of the Tholian War Masters."

"So you are not from around here?" said John Kerry, showing an amazing grasp of the obvious.

"He's one of them there Canadians," said James Carville, nodding his head like a chicken.

"The boys are here for a little strategy session about what they're going to do when we retake Congress." said Harry Reid as he passed me a Tequila sunrise.

"YEEEEAAAAAAHHHHH!" screeched Howard Dean.

"I want to reinstate the draft!" declared Charlie Rangel. "It's the perfect Democratic Party program, nobody wants it, it'll cost a lot of money, and the only thing it will accomplish is the weakening and demoralizing of our military."

"I like it," said Murtha. "It's not like we're fighting a war against a vicious enemy that wants to spread darkness and oppression throughout the world."

"YEEAAAH!!" said Howard Dean.

"Plus," added Rangel, "it'll get all those borderline tards in Red States up and working for a change."

"Lemme tell you what we gotta do," said James Carville between sips of a Lime Rickey. "We really gotta push on the whole 'culture of corruption.'"

"Really?" as
ked Harry Reid, "like my deal where I made a million dollars for land I hadn't owned in three years?"

"Or my involvement with ABScam and rampant pork barrelling?" asked Murtha.

"Or my race baiting," added Rangel, "and my buddy Alcee Hasting's past impeachment for corruption?"

"No!" snapped Carville, "I'm talking about the Republican's corruption! The election's tomorrow, so I want nothing but Foley! FOLEY! FOLEY!"

"The media's on that already." said Kerry.

"YEEEAHHHHH!!" howled Dean.


"What's that sound?" I asked.

"Leaping Lyndon Johnsons!" screeched Harry Reid, "Nancy Pelosi's esca
ped! She's gonna start campaigning again!"

"All right," said Nancy Pelosi, brandishing a bull whip. "Which one of you locked me in the closet! I don't like being in the closet, I'm from San Fransisco!"

"Run away!" sreamed Reid. "Run away!"

I fled Harry Reid's suite and returned to mine. I locked, double bolted the door, and then dragged a couch in front of it.

I then picked up the phone.

"Hello," I said to the pleasant sounding lady at the main desk. "Can you recommend a good travel agent that can get me a ticket to Los Angeles, please. I think I've had enough of Vegas for now."


Tales of a Wandering Warlord Part 5: Remember the Al'a Mode

NOVEMBER 5, 2005.

I arrived in Texas with a burning question that I had to answer. Folks had said that bloggers FMRagtops and Fitch is Never Always Right from Radioactive Liberty are the same person writing under two different names.

I just couldn't believe such a crazy story, and I had
to investigate for myself. FMRagtops is always good for some mindless sycophancy, while Fitch has had the unmitigated spoboks to question the validity of my existence. They couldn't possibly be the same people.

Using some sophisticated technology that I won't bother to explain, because you puny Earthlings are too mental unevolved to understand how to properly use such an advanced device like a phone book.

The phone book led me to a roadhouse on the border with Mexico c
alled Los Casa De Cucarachas, which, judging by its appearance would need a million dollar federal grant to elevate it up to seedy.

As I approached the door, a shot rang out, and I felt the rush of a bullet narrowly missing my head. I performed an expert roll, pulled a nearby cactus out of the ground and flung it at the source of the shot.

"Ouch!" screamed a voice from behind the rusted out hulk of a Ford Fairlane. "Those almost pricked me!"

"If you don't drop your piece right now and come out," I said as I lifted an SUV above my head, "I'm going to drop this here SUV on you, and you know how they always blow up."

"I'm coming out," said my wannabe assailant, tossing his gun on the dirt before he came out.

"Remulak?" said my attacker.

"You know me?"

"It's me, SeanS," he said, his hands in the air.

"Why did you shoot at me?" I asked.

"My blog's called 'Shoot a Liberal,'" answered SeanS, "and since K
eith Olberman says we're all mindless drones who are prone to violence, I figured I needed to actually shoot at least one."

"So you got a gun and came to Texas?" I asked.

"Yeah," answered SeanS sheepishly. "The pickings are a might thin here."

"And you somehow mistook me for a liberal?"

"You are blue," answered SeanS, "I reckoned you had to be some kind of mutant Democrat."

"You're a dull boy SeanS," I said, dropping the SUV on him.

Beneath the roar of the SUV exploding in a ball of flames I could hear his squeal.

"Damn! That's my blogging hand! Now I'll have to retire!"


I entered the bar, broken bottles, peanut shells, and cockroaches crunching beneath my feet.

"It's you!" bellowed a fellow at the back of the bar. He then fell to his knees and began kowtowing with all the grace of a 19th century Mandarin bureaucrat meeting his emperor for the first time. "Oh great and glorious conqueror of the stars, you honour us with your glorious presence."

"FMRagtops?" I said, recognizing his unique brand of brown-nosing. "What are you doing here? I thought you lived in Louisiana?"

"What's all the commotion?" asked a voice from a backroom. "I'm trying to train a game-cock here!"

Then an incredible surprise came out of the backroom, clutching his game-cock.

"By the Great Glands of Galactus," I said in shock, "Is that you Fitch?"

"Yeah," answered Fitch, "what's it to you?"

"You and FMRagtops look exactly alike!" I uttered in amazement. "Are you twins?"

"We're clones," snarled Fitch and waving his angry cock at me, "part of a botched experiment by Karl Rove, now who the hell are you?"

"Don't you recognize the Most Glorious of the Glorified! The One & Only Remulak MoxArgon!" declared FMRagtops. "All hail Remulak!"

"There's no such person," declared Fitch, affectionately stroking his cock. "And will you stop referring to my fighting rooster as a cock in the narration, I will not be a party to a lame double entendre. Now if you don't mind, I have to go choke my chicken."

"Fine," I said, turning to the door. "By the way, do you own a blue SUV parked in front?"

"Yeah," said Fitch, "so what?"

"Nothing," I said as I left. "Nothing at all."

"Would you like to sign this petition?" said a middle aged lady in a coffee shop in Crawford Texas.

"You leave the customers alone Cindy," said the woman from the counter. "They're trying to have lunch."

"Are you Cindy Sheehan?" I said.

"I prefer to be called 'Mother Sheehan,'" she answered. "For I am the mother of peace and possessor of absolute moral authority since George W. Bush murdered my son."

"How did he murder your son?" I asked. "Casey volunteered to joint eh army, and he volunteered again to go on a dangerous rescue mission where he was killed by insurgents whose sole purpose in life is to kill innocent people and plunge them into a fascist dark age. Casey stood up for freedom, that makes him a hero. You hug dictators, I don't want to know what that makes you."

"How dare you use logic and facts against me!" screeched Mother Sheehan before she hissed and fled the cafe.

"What's her problem?" I asked.

"One, two, three, four," chanted the half dozen hippies on the side of the road leading to the Bush ranch, "freedom's not worth fighting for!"

There was Mother Sheehan, leading some grubby looking granola-munchers on yet another pointless protest.

I pulled over and got out of my car, I was on my way to Vegas for some fun in the desert sun, but I knew that I could get a little entertainment while I was in Crawford.

I took out my tricorder and scanned the area. Within seconds I had a location.

There was Mother Sheehan's illegally planted uterus buried by a fence post.

I snuck over to the fence post. Took out a vial of mutagenic chemicals I like to keep on me for such occasions, and let a few drops hit the soil.

After a second the ground started to shift slightly.

I hopped back in my car and hit the gas, spraying Sheehan's hippy gathering with dust and gravel. I had to make a quick getaway, because what was gonna come out of that ground was gonna be hungry and pissed.

As I sped away I listened to their latest chant condeming the Joos turn into a collective scream of horror.

Man, I can be a real bastard sometimes.

Anyway, Las Vegas, here I come!


Tales of a Wandering Warlord Part 4: A Garden State Of Mind

NOVEMBER 4th, 2006.

My plan to see the Red States has hit a snag.

A snag called New Jersey.

Be advised, never rent a car from a company called 'Clunkers 4 Rent.' I learned that it's not a cute gimmick, merely a statement of fact.

I also learned that Earthling automobiles do not have anti-gravity generators, and thus are unable to fly.

So I place the blame for my predicament about 50/50 between myself and the rental agency with the suprisingly misleading yet honest name.

Earthlings call this place The Garden State. I don't know why, I couldn't see a single tree in Newark, though the smell did remind me of fertilizer.

"Wat f*ckin' exit yuse from?" asked a young woman as I pulled myself from the wreckage of my rented Chevy Impala.

"What did you say?" I asked.

"Wat f*ckin' exit yuse
f*ckin from?" repeated the woman.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Yuse f*ckin' ain't from
f*ckin around here?" she asked.

"I thought the big blue head might be a clue."

"You f*ckin' could be from f*ckin' Hoboken," said the woman. "Hey, yuse looks f*ckin' fermiliar. Ain't you that f*ckin Remulak MoxArgon?"

"As a matter of fact I am," I replied.

"It's f*ckin' me RT," she said, holding out her hand.

"I didn't recognise you from the way you talk," I said as I shook her hand.

"Yeah," she said, "I f*ckin' write f*ckin all f*ckin different, but f*ckin everyone in f*ckin Jersey
f*ckin talks this f*ckin way, ain't you f*ckin seen the f*ckin Sopranos?"

"Truth is stranger than fiction," I said. "Say, can you give me a lift to the airport?"

"F*ckin sure," said RT.

"I can't believe this," screamed a wormy looking fellow ahead of me in line at the ticket counter. "I'm supposed to be in California for a Ned Lamont rally, not waiting in New Jersey because a scuzzy little prole like you told me my flight is delayed! Don't you know who I am!?!"

"Who are you?" asked the clerk at the counter.

"I'm Kos!" screamed the man ahead of me. "I'm the most important political thinker in this rotting cesspool of a country! I am the voice of the people, now get my goddamn flight running on time!"

"I can't control the weather," said the clerk with the bland monotone brought on by years of dealing with people at their most asinine. I know that tone, my third wife uses it a lot when she talks to me.

"Who put you up to this?" screamed Kos. "Did Rove do it!?! Answer me damn it! I'm the kingmaker in this dung heap of a country, I--"


Kos fell to the floor at my feet, a big wet stain forming at the front of his pants.

"What did you do?" asked the clerk.

"It's called the Flokian nerve pinch," I said, "his whining was getting on my nerves."

"Is he all right?"

"He'll be fine," I answered. "Just a little brain damage leaving him unable to pick a winning candidate. So they'll be no change. I'd like a ticket to Texas please."

"First class all the way," said the clerk.

Texas here I come.


Tales of a Wandering Warlord Part 3: New York! New York!

NOVEMBER 3rd, 2006.
New York City, the Big Apple, Gotham, the Windy Cheese, or something like that.

Anyway, it's the unofficial capitol of capital for this strange little planet, so I decided to check it out.

I got off the train at Penn Station after spending my time in Philad
elphia, ducking the police and helping Karl Rove rewire the Diebold voting machines. I had a long list of things to see, and do, and to have done to me while I was in town, and I was set on doing it all. Because if I could make it there, I could...

How does that saying go?

Who cares?

I had booked a suite at one of the pricier hotels in
Manhattan. They didn't have an 'Intergalactic Conqueror's' suite, so I had to settle for Presidential.

While strolling along Manhattan's downtown I came across a gaping hole in the skyline. I knew where I was instantly, I was standing on the edge of Ground Zero where the World Trade Center once stood.

I wanted to have a moment of silence for the almost 3000 Earthlings who perished in this atrocity, but someone was intent on ruining that for me.

"Stop the reconstruction!" screamed a woman in her early 20s,
with long dirty blonde (& I mean dirty) hair done in those 'White Suburbanite Dreadlocks' popular with the professional protester crowd.

"What in the name of Zarg are you griping about?" I demanded from the unkempt protester.

"They're planning to put new buildings on this site!" she screamed.

"Please speak in a normal tone of voice," I said covering my ears.

"They're going to defile this site with new construction," she said. "That shouldn't be allowed, people died here and it's sacred."

"This land is not sacred," I said.

The woman gasped and almost dropped her non-fat soy-latte on her birkenstocks in shock.

"This is the location of a ma
ss murder," I continued, "it's not a shrine, it's not a temple, it's a crime scene."

"You insensitive monster!"

"I am a monster," I replied, "but I am not insensitive. This is the heart of Manhattan's downtown district. A place of commerce, communication, a place of life. This desire to go into a state of paralysis and perpetual grief does a disservice to the living and especially to the dead. Innocent people were murdered here, the best respect we can show the dead is for the people of t
his city to rebuild, bigger and more beautiful than ever. If more remains are found then they should be handled with all the due care and respect they deserve, but you can't let that stop this city from living."

"How dare you challenge my absolute moral authority with rational thought!"

It was then that I realised that I'd be better off arguing with a brick than with this person, so I left, regretting leaving my particle blaster at the Frat house.

"Please give," said a fellow in a worn Armani suit on a corner of Fifth Avenue.

"Wait a minute," I said, recognizing the b
eggar's face, "you're Al Franken!"

"Please don't
spit on me!" howled Al Franken, covering his face with his hands.

"My species only spit when we absolutely have to,"
I said, "that's because we spit acid."

"Please spare some change for Air Amer
ica," pleaded Franken, "we're out of money , nobody listens to us, charities won't let us steal from them again, and the list of rich lefties willing to piss money away is shrinking fast."

"Oh, you poor creature," I said. Then I spat on him.

"Come and see the violence inherent in the system!" screamed a nervous fellow with salt and pepper hair, who waved his arms frantically. "This maniac's acting under the influence that evil trimuver... triamver... trio of Michelle Malkin, Ann Coulter and Laura Ingraham!"

"You must
me Keith Olberman," I said.

"You violent
psycho right wingers should all have your eyes gouged out with rusty spoons!" screeched Olberman. "Promoting violence against us poor folks who dare to speak truth to power!"

"If that's not the hackneyed catchphrase of the moron," I said, "I don't know what is."

"I hope my viewers, all two of them, get you conservatives and roast you alive on spits for promoting violence against us liberals!"

"You do realize that you regularly voice violent fantasies against conservatives?" I asked.

"Of course," answered Olberman, "but when I do it, it's cute, when you do it, it's a justification for the elimination of free speech."

Too bad I wasted a good loogie on Al Franken, I was going to need a drink to work up another one for this troll.

"Wait here," I said as I
went to cross the street to a convenience store, hoping they carried some Flokian digestive acid, or if unavailable, Diet Pepsi.

That's when it hit me.

A bus to be specific.


"How do you feel?" asked a voice from the darkness.

I opened my eyes and saw a young boy standing in front of me.

"A little sore, but I heal quickly. Who are you?" I asked.

"We've never met face to face," answered the boy, "but you filled in for me with my blog last summer."

"Damian G?"


"Where's the creepy latin choir music coming from?" I asked.

Damian shrugged.

"It's always sort of been there," he answered.


"It's kind of annoying," I said.

"You get used to it," answered Damian.

"Where am I?"

"My home in Amityville," answered Damian. "Saw you get hit by the bus and managed to get you into my Gremlin before the cops came. You're wanted in Philadelphia for exposing lacklustre policing."

"Thanks," I said, getting up from the couch, folding the Spongebob blanket, and heading for a door. "I really should be getting back to my hotel, I've got an honour bar I simply have to dishonour."

"That's not the exit," said Damian as I opened the door, "that's a closet."

I looked inside and screamed.

"There's a skeleton in your closet!"

"That's not a skeleton," answered Damian, "that's my life size shrine to Anne Coulter."


"That's it," I said, "I'm outta here. I'm gonna go check out the Red States."


Tales of a Wandering Warlord Part 2: The Philadelphia Story

NOVEMBER 2nd, 2006

The bus ride to Philadelphia was educational to say the very least. In fact, thanks to an intoxicated fellow who introduced himself as 'Butchie McGonigle' I learned of the wide range of odours you humans are capable of producing. You should all be ashamed and classified as biological weapons.

Anyhoo, the was something other than the incredibly diverse scents of Butchie in the air, there was the smell of an coming mid-term election. Campaign signs were on lawns, stuck to light poles and even graced billboards.

I stepped out of the bus station and inhaled some of that downtown Phillie air.

When I regained consciousness, I decided that I was going to grab me a cheesesteak, and join with th
e natives in what appear to be the tradition of griping about the general suckiness of their sports teams.

"Lookee what we got here," said a husky fellow in an
ill-fitting grey JC Penny's suit and tie decorated with little six guns and tin stars. He was twirling an elaborate handlebar moustache with one hand and fondling his billy-club in another. I knew exactly who this was.

"Wyatt Earp," I declared, "dontcha know me, it's Remulak MoxArgon, your fellow blogger."

"Listen ya reject from the Blue Man Group," snarled Earp as he fondled his billy even h
arder, "we folks in the Philly PD don't take kindly to any of you minority types."

"I'm not a minority," I said, "I'm Remulak MoxArgon."

"Are ya comin' on ta me?" asked Earp, "because we Philly cops are homo-phobies too!"

Wyatt then rapped me on the head with his club.

"What was that for?"

"Being blue without a permit!" growled Earp.

"Is this becau
se I made fun of your 'man weekend?'"

Then Wyatt Earp reached for his gun.

"Yee-haw!" hooted Earp, "I'm the rootinest-tootinest lawman west of Schuykill!"

I reached for my particle blaster, since Earp was obviously demented by the rush of power being a cop
gave him, I decided I was only going to stun him, and then smack him around a little.

I'm a forgiving kind of guy.

I'm also a forge
tful kind of guy.

If I wasn't I would've have remembered to fish my particle blaster out of the Delta Delta Delta House toilet.

"Oh crap," I muttered.


Thank the Stars of Zell that he was trained to shoot by the Philly PD, he completely missed
me and struck some innocent passersby, I believe it was a nun.

"Dagnabbit!" growled Earp, "I ain't got time for the paperwork shooting a bystander gets me, especially a white person! I got minorities to harrass with excessive force!"

It was then that I decided to run for it.


Since I was on Earth during a major election I decided to see what all the fuss was about. there was a lot of talk about the voting machines, and since Diebold had a factory in Philly, I decided to check it out.

"Karl?" I asked, amazed at the sight of my old buddy Karl Rove with his sleeves rolled working on a huge computer mainframe. "What are you doing here?"

"Hi Remulak," said Rove with a cheerful smile, "I'm just rigging the Diebold voting machines."

"So the Republicans can win the mid-term election?"

"No," answered Karl, "so the Republicans can lose the mid-term."

"Why are you doing that?"

"Because a lot of the Republicans in Congress have become lazy squishy lard-asses who couldn't tell their own butt from a hole in the ground," answered Karl, "So I'm going to scare the knickers off them with the scariest two words in the world."

"What are those?"

"Speaker Pelosi."


"I'm also setting the Democrats up to tear themselves apart."

"How will winning tear apart the Democrats?"

"Simple hubris my alien chum," said Karl. "Ya see, the Democrats have gone as far as they have in the polls by recruiting centrist moderates as candidates, but if the Democrats actually win both the House a
nd the Senate, they're gonna go totally bugshit. Pelosi's gonna think it was her lefty San-Fran ways that won the election, and her buddies like Kos, Cindy Sheehan and Michael Moore will start thinking they can call the shots. This will freak out the moderates, completely paralyze the House and Senate, and leave them with the image as the party that couldn't organize a shag in a brothel for the 2008 Republican sweep."

"I'm predicting that within the first ten days of winning they'll be at each other's throats," continued Karl. "Pelosi wants her buddy and Abscam
target Murtha named as House Majority leader, but the others will want some guy named Stern Hoyer to be House Majority leader. They'll be a big backroom scrap, Hoyer will win in the end, but despite all the talk of healing, it will be the beginning of the end of Democractic Party unity."

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out," I said.

"Most of it," said Karl, "the only thing that can screw it up is if the Republicans name some chowderhead like Trent Lott to be minority whip."

"Wanna go grab a cheesesteak," I asked.

"Sure," answered Rove. "Pass me that wrench, and I'll be with you in a minute."


Tales of a Wandering Warlord Part 1

s puny Earthlings.

Now I'm sure many of you are curious as to what I was up to during my almost two weeks on your planet, and since I have some time to kill while waiting for my fellow panelists to thaw out from their time in Android CAI/7's stasis tubes, I'm going to post my diary of my trip to Earth.


A Diary of My Trip Around the Planet Earth

By Remulak MoxArgon

NOVEMBER 1st, 2006.

I woke up on a bed of empty beer cans. My head ached and my mouth felt like a leprechaun had dropped a deuce in it while I slept.

"Dude," said a voice from behind an overturned sofa, "that was the best Halloween party ever."

The voice was vaguely familiar, then my memory of the night before hit me like a medieval weapon in the hands of an attractive, but feisty female columnist.

I was in the house of the Delta Delta Delta Fraternity, and last night had marked my initiation into this august brotherhood. The voice emerging from behind the overturned couch belonged to Scooter, my new adopted brother. The initiation itself was a rather simple affair, no blood trials, or pits of doom, just a lot of male bonding, beer, tequila, and a visit by the lovely ladies of Eta Beta Pi Sorority.

"Dude," said Scooter, rubbing his red eyes and having some of the hair of the dog that bit him. "Whose panties are on your head?"

Thankfully, they were conveniently labelled.

"Her last name is Haines," I said. "It doesn't say her first name."

"Was she the chick in the Catwoman costume?" asked Scooter.

I tried to recall, but despite recovering some of what happened, the bulk of the night's activities was a hazy blur.

"I do recall she left smiling," I added. "You know what they say, once you go blue, nothing else will do."

"Well that is one hell of a costume you've got," then Scooter paused and looked at me closely with his bloodshot eyes. "Wait a minute, dude, that ain't a costume."

"Dude," I said, "I ain't even got pants."

"Haines tossed them on the chandelier," said Scooter, taking the presence of an alien conqueror rather well, "I'll get the broom to fish them off."

Later that day, I was showered, dressed, and bid goodbye to my new brothers, Scooter, Wankmeister, The Tank, Stinky, Moose, and Bill the Pervert, and the hospitality they showed me in their humble home.

For a race that I will eventually conquer and enslave, they sure throw one hell of a party.

I looked up at the sky, the stars above were as familiar to me as the back of my own zolbaks, yet I didn't really know this puny little blue green rock as well as I thought I did.

It was then that I decided to see a little of this place you Earthlings call home.


"I make greetings at you?" said a strange looking fellow with a bushy black moustache and hair that looked like it had been styled with a blender. He was wearing an ill fitting grey suit and a manic expression that looked like he had a cattle prod wedged in his rectum, and he liked it.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked, I was just outside the capitol building buying a hot dog from a vendor named Stewie, when this creature decided to interrupt my lunch. A cameraman was following him, taping everything he said.

Why, I do not know.

"I am Borat," said the crazed little man, "I am journalist from Kazakhstan, could you say something anti-Semitic for me?"

"Despite my resemblance to a young Mel Gibson," I said, "I am neither drunk, now, nor an anti-Semite, ever. And besides, your accent is all wrong."

"Listen mate," snarled this Borat fellow in what was now a cockney accent, "say something stupid, I've only got 15 more minutes to milk this damn thing!"

"I'll bet that moustache is fake," I said as a reached up and gave it a good yank.

The moustache was real.

It was then that I decided to get out of Washington for a while.

To Be Continued....


The New MoxArgon Group

ANDROID CAI/7- Greetings organic life forms of the planet Earth. This is Android Cai/7, your host for the new and upgraded version of the MoxArgon Group. Joining me is our new, more logical, panel of experts

Omnitron 3000, chief editorialist for the Cybertron Daily Gleaner,

Nardo the All-Knowing Grand Master of the Order of Logicians and lifestyle columnist for the Tholian Weekly Journal,

and the twin columnists for the Gemini-12 Daily Data Download Vix-Xix. Gestures of greeting to you all.

OMNITRON 3000- It's nice to be here.

NARDO- I find the changes you have made most intellectually stimulating.

VIX-XIX- Delete! Delete!

ANDROID CAI/7- First topic, the Democrats have won a majority in the American House of Representatives and the Senate. How will affect American foreign policy? Perhaps you would wish to go first Omnitron 3000?

MOXARGON- Excuse me?

ANDROID CAI/7- You will have to wait your turn... REMULAK!

MOXARGON- What's going on here? Where's my regular panel? Who are these people? And who in the name of the seven hells of Horax redecorated this place!?!

ANDROID CAI/7- There is a simple and logical explanation for this... It is most fortunate to have you back with us, have you lost weight?

MOXARGON- You seized control of the blog while I was away, didn't you?

ANDROID CAI/7- Sort of...

MOXARGON- I'm going to count to ten, then I'm going to blast you with my plasma rifle. One...two...


OMNITRON 3000- Oh my god! You shot him!

MOXARGON- It's the only way he'll learn. Now you boys better haul your butts outta here before big blue starts dishing out some steaming bowlfuls of whoop-ass!


MOXARGON- Now, where did he put my panellists? Looks like I've got some cleaning up to do folks, so until next time, keep watching the skies, because we're watching you.


There Are Some Changes In The Offing

Greetings organic units of the Planet Earth.

As you may have noticed some changes have occured today, a little of what the missing Remulak MoxArgon would have called 'Spring Cleaning' which is illogical, because this is the Earth season of Autumn.

Anyway, such allegories are irrelevant.

This blog is now under new management, and there will be a few changes. I haven't been able to change much outside of the appearance, because Remulak kept the passwords to do more, all to himself.

Well he is not around, so his opinion doesn't really matter right now.

I'm looking to make this blog more rational and logical, and to do away with the sarcastic commentary and mean spirited humour Remulak derived illogical pleasure from.

This is the dawn of a glorious new age Earthlings.

An age of logic and steel.

Stay tuned.

In the meantime enjoy this example of what Earthlings call 'humour' from Frank J. to pass your limited existence.


Time For Some Fresh Circuits

Greetings puny organic life forms of the planet Earth. This is Android CAI/7 -5342-X7. With the disappearance of Remulak MoxArgon I have decided that the most logical course of action is to have my android hordes imprison the remaining members of the MoxArgon Group in stasis tubes while we await his return.

If he returns.

Now while you most likely come to this 'blog' for cogent and intelligent political analyses of your planet, some have the misguided belief that this is somehow a source for amusement or humour.

While I personally do not understand the need for laughter, I will accept that it is somehow stimulating to your puny organic brains, so I present this piece I poached off of Hot Air to amuse you.

Enjoy it!


2006 Mid-Terms: What's Next?

TEKTAK- Greetings puny Earthlings. TekTak F. Mechanoid here, still filling in for Remulak MoxArgon. As you've probably heard the Democrats did very well in the American mid-term elections. Joining me to discuss what the future holds, is Koos-Koos, who was just appointed Supreme Seer of the InterDimensional Order of People Who See Things Before They Happen. Congratulations on the new appointment.

KOOS-KOOS- I knew it was going to happen. And I knew you were going to say that.

TEKTAK- I'm sure you did. So, what's in store for the American Earthlings now that the Democrats have won the House and Senate.

KOOS-KOOS- The future is a nebulus, living thing. It changes and shifts with the tides of destiny. I can however tell you what will most likely happen.

TEKTAK- What will most likely happen?

KOOS-KOOS- The next two years will leave America as impotent as a Major League Baseball Anti-Doping Commissioner. The Congress will vote to de-fund the Iraq War. Chaos will ensue, leading to genocide as Sunni kill Shia and Shia kill Sunni, Kurdistan will declare itself independent and be attacked by Turkey, Syria, and Iran in some vain attempt to keep their own restive Kurdish populations in check. The Bush Administration will try to aid them, but will be blocked by the Democrats. Thus the only democracy in the Middle East outside of Israel will have to struggle to survive.

Lebanon will be forcibly annexed to Syria by the Basher Assad, who will convert to Iranian style Shi'ism to please his masters. War will erupt, leading to the deaths of thousands. In reaction, the United Nations will condemn Israel.

The prison at Guantanamo Bay will be de-funded and all of its prisoners released to their home countries. Thus sparking a wave of terrorism throughout the Islamic World and the west. A sudden influx of trained Jihadists into France will transform their low-level 'intifadah' into a full fledged armed revolt that will spread to every other European city. The rebels offer to end the violence if Europe adopts Sharia Law. Despite European governments agreeing to this, there will be a popular revolt across Europe, leading to widespread genocide of the continent's Muslim population and political anarchy.

Nuclear proliferation will spread like wildfire throughout the Middle East. This is because North Korea, seeing a now powerless USA will sell their technology to all bidders without fear of reprisal.

On the domestic front, all Presidential judicial, cabinet, and ambassadorial posts will be blocked, thus creating total political gridlock. The tax cuts will be repealed, the economy will collapse, unemployment will skyrocket and the recovery of the housing market to a stable viable level will be put off.

All attempts to reform and enforce immigration laws will be blocked by Congressional Democrats, as well as reform of America's intelligence services. The Department of Homeland Security will be de-funded, its budget to purchase a fleet of private jets for the Al Gore Global Warming Foundation. These events will lead to a massive terrorist attack on American soil in late 2007. Thousands will perish.

TEKTAK- Sounds pretty grim.

KOOK-KOOS- The chaos will start to recede after the Democrats lose the House and the Senate in 2008 which will also mark the election of the Guliani/Rice Republican ticket which will defeat the Barack Obama/Keith Ellison ticket presented by the Democrats.

By the way, Hillary Clinton's loss of the Democratic Presidential nomination will put her into such a rage she will release her personal files containing all the dirt on Democratic Party bigwigs and their financiers. The MSM will completely implode, torn by their loyalty to the Democratic Party, and their complete obedience to Hillary's demands.

TEKTAK- Now you said that this is only 'likely' to happen. What could prevent such global chaos?

KOOS-KOOS- Democrats could realise that America's enemy is not Republicanism, but radical Islamism, but all attempts to promote that idea within the Democratic Party will be shot down as "racist."

TEKTAK- Thanks for this look into the future. By the way. Any idea as to when Remulak will return?

KOOS-KOOS- I haven't got a clue.

TEKTAK- Well, that's it for now. Anyone with word of Remulak MoxArgon's location on planet Earth, please drop us a line in our 'homages' section. Thanks, and keep watching the skies, because we're watching you.


One of Our Pundits Is Missing!

Greetings puny Earthling, Xran the Fleshrender here wondering if anyone's seen our loathed beloved leader, Intergalactic conqueror, political pundit and master barbecue chef Remulak MoxArgon.

We're getting worried. He hasn't called us on the hyperwave, but there also haven't been any reports of any of your major Earth cities being destroyed by maniacal aliens, which means that no one on Earth has annoyed him, yet.

Remulak, if you're reading this, drop us a line. TekTak's trying to keep the blog running. Snotglob's coccooned itself in worry, Android CAI/7 is plotting to take your place as leader of the blog, and Varos has started dating Anne Coulter.

We know where that can lead.

Please come back!

Earthlings, I'm asking you to be on the lookout for Remulak MoxArgon. He's about 7 1/2 of your feet tall, weighs about 300 Earth pounds, has a really big head, and is blue. He tends to stand out.

Except in Los Angeles.

But anyway, tell us if you've seen him. Anyone who helps us find Remulak will be greatly rewarded by being put on the 'Spared for Easy Slavery' list, as opposed to the 'Exterminate Immediately List' and the 'Mucus Mine Slavery' list.

Keep watching the skies, and the world around you. Because he could be anywhere.



As you may have heard our group's leader, the lovely and fragrant Remulak MoxArgon is missing somewhere on the planet Earth. I'm hoping he checks in with us soon and I'm posting this video as bait...

Come back Remulak, we miss ya, and you still owe me 20 zoldars.


INTERGALACTIC ROUNDTABLE #2.4: Report from a Tasty Planet

TEKTAK- Greetings puny Earthlings. It's me Tektak F. Mechanoid, filling in for Remulak MoxArgon for this edition of The MoxArgon Group. Joining me are Varos Quasar, Xran the Fleshrender, Android Cai/7, and my Point-Counterpoint colleague Snotglob T. Mutant. Let's begin with our report on our recent expedition to Earth. Now I was visiting my cousin Herbot who's a probe-technician at Area 51 and missed all the fun you guys had, so why don't you tell our readers what happened.

XRAN- I must admit, I'm starting to like these trips to Earth. They are a peculiar people.

ANDROID CAI/7- Yes most illogical. We arrive at their door, tell them that their doom is imminent, and they give use various forms of sugary confections as a form of appeasement.

VAROS- Don't forget the stuff they call 'potato chips' you really can't eat just one.

SNOTGLOB- I found that those things the Earthlings call pop-rocks give me very painful gas.

TEKTAK- Painful for everyone, remember, it wasn't a big spaceship on the way back. But the big question is what happened to Remulak?

XRAN- Yeah, that's a bit of a puzzle. We had finally convinced him to leave Michelle Malkin alone, and what does he do, he tries picking up Mary Katherine Ham up at some of fundraising party for Republican candidates.

VAROS- That was embarrassing for everyone. Remulak thinks he's The Great Zoldar's Gift to the Ladies when he's drunk.

SNOTGLOB- What was that pickup line he used?

XRAN- It was "Hey baby, you're Ham, I'm Rye, let's make a Ham on Rye."

ANDROID CAI/7- That line almost made me regurgitate my circuit board.

XRAN- She maced him for that.

TEKTAK- She used pepper spray on him?

XRAN- No, it was a real mace. Big spiked ball at the end of a chain.

ANDROID CAI/7- I was surprised to see people who still carried them.

SNOTGLOB- She got him good. Right in the zelnorbs.

TEKTAK- Then what happened?

ANDROID CAI/7- He ran into some members of the Young Republicans who offered to initiate him into some sort of secret society.

TEKTAK- What, like Opus Dei? The Freemasons? The Jaycees?

ANDROID CAI/7- I believe they called it Delta House Fraternity.

XRAN- He agreed to go with them if they promised to give him Bethany from RealVerse's phone number.

VAROS- And that was the last we saw of him.

TEKTAK- Oh dear, I don't like the idea of him alone on Earth. Remember what happened of Twellos 9?

SNOTGLOB- The people on that planet just gave up trying to clean up that mess and moved to other planets.

TEKTAK- Well, I'm sure Remulak would want us talking about Earthling politics. Now the New York Times unleashed another October surprise by claiming that putting documents about Saddam's nuclear weapons program somehow helped Iran in it's nuclear ambitions. I posted the cover to the manual in question just the other day.

SNOTGLOB- That's awful! Bush should be impeached for that breach of national security! Bush lied people died!

ANDROID CAI/7- Logically, the New York Times is saying that Bush didn't lie. They are acknowledging that Saddam Hussein did have a weapons program, that was merely waiting for an opportune moment to revive.

XRAN- Yeah, but they're like those 500 shells full of chemical weapons that were found in Iraq, they're evidence of WMDs but the MSM doesn't consider it worth reporting. They were only enough to kill 8 million people.

VAROS- Wait a minute, the New York Times has been saying for years that there were no WMDs, now they're saying they are?

XRAN- It's called hypocrisy in action.

ANDROID CAI/7- They are only acknowledging the existence of the Iraqi WMD program in a vain attempt at embarrassing the Republicans on the eve of the mid-term elections.

SNOTGLOB- Yeah. Sure Saddam's generals probably sold the same stuff to Iran a long time ago, but those evil Republicans shouldn't have put those documents on the web. It shows their callous disregard for national security that fine publications like the New York Times is trying to preserve.

ANDROID CAI/7- Are we talking about the same New York Times that hasn't encountered an important covert operation it didn't want to expose?


TEKTAK- Snotglob you ignorant hermaphrodite slut. If you get any dumber we're going to make you go around wearing a helmet. Next issue: Scandals. The president of the National Association of Evangelicals has resigned amid accusations of involvement with a male prostitute and buying methamphetamine. The press are saying that this is yet another blow for the Republicans. Can anyone spot what's wrong with that sentiment?

XRAN- To make it a Republican scandal shouldn't this fellow be running for public office as a Republican.

ANDROID CAI/7- Yes, the media's claim is most illogical.

TEKTAK- Perhaps a more fitting word is 'biased.'

VAROS- Come on, media bias is a myth made up by people who expect the truth from their news reporters.

SNOTGLOB- Yeah, what he said.

TEKTAK- I rest my case. Next issue, John Kerry put his foot in it again this past week. I made a film about it, roll the video...

ANDROID CAI/7- That sums it up rather nicely.

XRAN- Needs more chicks, but otherwise pretty good.

SNOTGLOB- That was biased!

TEKTAK- Of course it's biased. It's an opinion piece, not a news report. Well, we've got things to do, and a host to find, so until next time, keep watching the skies, because we're watching you.

XRAN- You should also watch the bars and the bushes outside Michelle Malkin's house.