THE MOXARGON ROAST!

SOYLENT GREEN PRESENTS

LIVE FROM THE FLOKIAN FRIARS CLUB

IT'S THE

REMULAK MOXARGON ROAST!

WITH YOUR HOST:

TEKTAK F. MECHANOID

& THE ROASTERS:

XRAN THE FLESHRENDER

WYATT EARP

ANDROID CAI/7

DAMIAN G.

SPECIAL GUEST: DALEK DRONE 9099

RT

VAROS QUASAR

MUSLIHOON

SNOTGLOB T. MUTANT

AND OUR GUEST OF DISHONOUR

THE ONE THE ONLY

REMULAK MOXARGON!

NOW HERE'S YOUR HOST WITH THE MOST

TEKTAK F. MECHANOID!

(Applause)

TEKTAK- Thank, you thank you all for coming. I'd say how great it is to be here, but momma didn't program no liars. We were brought here today to honour a great man, a wonderful man, a man of great charity, wisdom, generosity, and let's not mince words, raw sex appeal. Too bad Remulak vaporized him!

(Laughter)

TEKTAK- Let's meet our guest of dishonour, the man who needs no introduction, because all he does is brag about himself, REMULAK MOXARGON!

(Moxargon enters takes the 'hot seat.')

TEKTAK- Great to see you Remulak, the embalmers did a wonderful job.

(Moxargon laughs, everyone else then laughs)

TEKTAK- Let the roasting begin! Our first roaster is a genuine class act, in fact, one of his first acts was to rob his kindergarten class. Let's hear it for space pirate and raconteur Xran the Fleshrender!

(Xran takes the podium)

XRAN- I've known Remulak Moxargon a long time. A long, long, long, painful, boring, and obnoxious time. And let me tell you something folks, there's a warm-hearted and kind human being inside Remulak Moxargon, I know this because I saw him eat one for breakfast.

(Everyone laughs)

XRAN- What can be said about Remulak that hasn't already been screamed out by his victims? Not much, and definitely nothing that can be said while Damian G's in the room.

(Eveyone except Damian G. laughs)

XRAN- Sure I could come here, and tell you embarrassing stories of our days in school, but you don't get to live as long as I have by doing that. Remulak, you're a discredit to homicidal intergalactic despots everywhere. And I'd say a hell of a lot more, but since we're charging you for the booze, I'm going to stay on your good side tonight!

(Everyone laughs)

TEKTAK- Next up, is a man whose blog has been condemned by the ACLU as a new form of police brutality, the pride of the Philadelphia PD, which shows what bad shape they're in Wyatt Earp!

(Wyatt Earp takes the podium, drink in hand)

WYATT EARP- Remulak Moxargon has many accomplishments to his credit: he is the ruler of the known universe, editor-in-chief of a highly-successful blog, and the first living organism with an ass for a head. Nice skull, Mox: I've seen better heads on a pint of beer!

(Everyone laughs)

WYATT EARP- I kid Mox, in part because I would like to be one of the lucky ones left alive after his conquest of Earth. Of course, he has been planning this "conquest" longer than Rosie O'Donnell has been a lesbian, but perfection takes time, right folks?

(Everyone laughs)

WYATT EARP- But seriously, who else can whittle the branches of info-tainment like our Supreme Overlord? No one, that's who - at least until our distress calls to the Jedi are answered. Until then, We who are about to die, salute you!

(Everyone laughs)

WYATT EARP- Thanks, you've been great. Try the soylent green Canadian bacon: it's HAM!!!

TEKTAK- Wyatt Earp you're as funny as getting pepper sprayed. Our next guest is definitely past his warranty, but that's never stopped him before, the ultra-logical Android Cai/7!

(ANDROID CAI/7 takes the podium)

ANDROID CAI/7- Insulting a powerful warlord like Remulak Moxargon is highly illogical. I have learned this lesson when he disintegrated my body after I tried to take over his blog, and then when he got me a new body, he programmed it to feel pain if I ever crossed him again. So I will take a more logical tack and tell you all what a truly wonderful organic entity Moxargon really is...

(ZAP)

ANDROID CAI/7- Aaaargh! Why did you do that?

MOXARGON- Nobody likes a suck-up.

TEKTAK- Let's hear it for Android Cai/7! Yeah. That was painful for everyone. And the word painful perfectly describes the blog of our next, and youngest guest, I have to stretch this out, because he's got to come all the way from the kiddie table, living proof that if America's young people are its future, then it has no future, blogger, scholar, and before picture for Stridex Damian G.!

(Damian G. comes over from a rickety card table in the corner and takes the podium)

DAMIAN G.- We're here to pay tribute to Remulak MoxArgon, a self-described 'trans-galactic conqueror, warlord and political columnist.' Let me give you a bit of background. In August, 2005, a very drunk and horny Remulak searched for a source of pleasure. Having exhausted his pet thrax-o-frat, Remulak turned to the series of tubes known as the Innernets. There, he found Michelle Malkin and was immediately smitten. He made it his goal to know Michelle - Biblically - and to get lots of visitors not with his wit, or political analysis, but with this...

(A few giggle, more out of pity)

DAMIAN G.- Right, then. Back to teh roastage. Now, I'm not going to say Remulak is fat, but I am saying that he violates the Copernican theory, because the Sun revolves around him!

(Crickets chirp)

DAMIAN G.- Oookay. I do a pretty good impression of Remulak. BOW DOWN BEFORE MY BLUE PENIS SHAPED HEAD!!!

(Even the crickets fall silent)

DAMIAN G.- Oh god! I'm not funny! That's why girls don't like me? Aaaaaghh!

(Damian G. runs from the podium in shame)

TEKTAK- He ran so fast he put a rip in the feet of his Spongebob pyjamas. Next up, is a former member of this very blog, you all know and love him as the killing machine who has trouble getting up stairs, Dalek Drone-9099.

(DRONE-9099 takes the podium)

DRONE-9099- Exterminate! Exterminate!

(Everyone laughs.)

TEKTAK- Thanks old buddy, it's good to see that you can still deliver the funny. Up next is a blogger whose wit, beauty, grace, and fame are second to none... wait, Michelle Malkin cancelled, so you're gonna have to settle for RT.

(Everyone groans, RT takes the podium)

RT- So, we are roasting Remulak. The idea of a roasted Remulak brings many things to mind: tough to eat, hard to swallow, and a need to have Pepto-Bismol on hand.

(Everyone laughs)

RT- Remulak is so starved for "attention" that his whole body is blue.

(Everyone laughs)

RT- Remulak has many qualities: He's an angry sort of guy (He is a guy, right? Well, his type lacks human plumbing ya know...nothing is there, really--Ken-doll smooth, I tell ya).

MOXARGON- Wouldn't you like to know.

RT- Yeah, sure he's smarter than a rock and stronger than a ten year old, but his use of intimidation and the evil eye rivals that of a school lunch lady. His wit, however, is why I quickly skim through the MoxArgon site.

(Everyone laughs)

RT- Seriously, though, Remulak's mix of humor and good sense make for a pleasant visit each time I wander by the site (after drinking lots of adult beverages and turning on the black lights).

(Everyone laughs)

TEKTAK- Thanks RT, to bad we couldn't quickly skim that routine. Whoah! Up next is eveyone's favourite fin-headed liberal and the poster child for birth control, Varos Quasar.

(Varos takes the podium)

VAROS- Thanks everyone, I've come to condemn this brutal practice of 'roasting' people! It's tantamount to torture! Which is why I brought the petition to ban roasts and....

(Trap door opens beneath Varos)

VAROS- Aaaaaaahhhhh!

TEKTAK- Let's give Varos a big hand. Not much of an act, but one hell of an exit. Our next roaster is man whose name is synonymous with the word pointless. Let's give a warm welcome to Muslihoon!

(Applause)

MUSLIHOON- There's been a lot of discussion about Remulak's use of Canadian spelling. Why does Remulak use The Queen's English? What else ought a queen to use?

(Laughs)

MUSLIHOON- Remulak dyes his skin blue, out of the mistaken notion that humans will assume he has blue blood.

(Crickets)

MUSLIHOON- Remulak's opposition to Islamism is out of frustration over the fact he will never get the boys like pearls the Qur'an promises Muslim men in heaven. Now, if there were seventeen virgin boys like pearls...Remulak would have a beard and turban by now.

(Crickets go silent)

MUSLIHOON- Come on, these are the jokes folks. How about...

(Muslihoon's bow tie starts spinning, then begins to tighten)

MUSLIHOON- Aaakk! I'm choking! Help...aaaakkk!

(Muslihoon stumbles off the stage gagging violently)

TEKTAK- I guess he choked in more ways than one. Our last roaster is up not because we're saving the best for last, but because he arrived late, Snotglob T. Mutant!

(Snotglob takes podium)

SNOTGLOB- Remulak Moxargon is worse than Hitler. So is George W. Bush!

(A large hook comes out and drags Snotglob off the stage)

TEKTAK- That was the cliché police. They're very strict. Now we can't let all this roasting happen and not let our victim, I mean roastee, get a few shots back, so let's give a big hand to the Known Universe's Absolute Ruler, Remulak Moxargon.

(Standing ovation)

MOXARGON- Thanks for coming. It's good to get all you people in one place, saves ammunition.

(Laughter)

MOXARGON- What a night. If they did this for the terrorists held at Gitmo, they'd really be war criminals.

(Laughter)

MOXARGON- It's good to see everyone here. Tektak, you're a sad, desperate, petty mistake of science, but you're cheap, so I'll keep you. Xran, what can I say about you? If you were uglier you'd be joining Code Pink. I can't insult Varos and Snotglob. They think being called a lefty is a compliment, and I'm not going to even try to top Drone-9099, so let's move to our Earthling guests.

MOXARGON- Wyatt Earp, not to say you're a lousy detective, but the only cases you show interest in are labelled 'Budweiser.'

(Everyone laughs)

MOXARGON- If you ever want anyone to confess, just threaten to tell them some of your jokes. They're more effective than electroshock to the gonads.

(Everyone laughs)

MOXARGON- Damian G., whose act was the real Amityville Horror, normally I'd kill someone for the type of lowbrow insults you used, but since you died horribly on stage, I don't have to.

(Everyone laughs)

MOXARGON- Seriously kid, girls will like you someday. All you need is to find a girl that's your style, like Helen Keller with Paris Hilton's morals.

(Everyone laughs)

MOXARGON- RT, you do belong on the stage. Too bad it's a lower stage of evolution.

(Everyone laughs)

MOXARGON- And not to say that you have a problem with the 'adult beverages' but Wyatt Earp once gave you a breathalyser and the machine yelled: "CHEERS!" You make Lindsey Lohan look like Mother Theresa.

(Everyone laughs)

MOXARGON- And Muslihoon, what can I say. You've given new meaning to the term 'suicide bombing.'

(Everyone laughs)

MOXARGON- But in all seriousness, you're the poster boy for decapitation. And I think all your gay jokes are a bit of the 'methinks he doth protesteth too much' if you know what I mean. So let me put it clearly, so even you can understand. MUSLIHOON: I'M STRAIGHT. WILL NOT HAVE SEX WITH YOU. RT, thanks.

(Everyone laughs)

MOXARGON- Well, that's our time. I'd say I had a wonderful time, but I didn't. I would like to thank you for coming, now I know who needs my especially brutal brand of vengeance. Goodnight, and keep watching the stars, because we're watching you!

New Excerpt: The 1st Casualty by Scott Thomas Beauchamp

This is our second excerpt from Scott Thomas Beauchamp's memoir of the Iraq War. Read the first excerpt here.

+++++

"Dagnabbit!" barked Private Cletus Huckleberry. "Could you gimme a hand Bow-champ what with you being so strong and manly?"

"What's the problem?" I asked Cletus.

Cletus raised his rifle, and I saw what was stuck to it.

"Could you help pull this dang blasted dead baby off my dang bayonet," said Cletus.

"I will not participate in a cover up of your war crime," I declared, my deep, rich baritone echoing above the screams of the people my unit were torturing for the crime of looking at us funny.

"That's your answer to everything," said Cletus. "You said the same thing when I asked you to pass me the salt in the mess hall. You ain't right in the head."

Maybe I'm just a little too 'right in the head' for this madhouse born from the blood-drenched wet-dreams of the neocon-zionist conspiracy.

"I'd ask Killum to help pull it off," muttered Cletus, "but he's from Texas, and they eat babies in Texas. I need the skull to make a set of home-made tea-cups for Lurlene."

For once Cletus was right about something. They do eat babies in Texas. At least that's what Jayson Blair said in his New York Times article "Texans Eat Babies."

I turned away from Cletus in deep moral and intellectual disgust. Seymour Hersh was write, the US military is comprised of cowardly, baby-killing, homicidal maniacs.

Except for me.

I'm the only true hero in Iraq.

I write for The New Republic.

#

"What in the Sam-Hill are you doing Private Scott Thomas Beauchamp?" bellowed Sergeant Rock from the comfort of his tent of Iraqi skins built on a pile of human skulls.

"I'm reading a book," I answered, it was an old worn copy of Che Guevera's The Motorcycle Diaries, with all the racist and sexist entries edited out.

"A book!" screamed the Sergeant as he stormed out of his tent. "There ain't no place for books in this man's army! Burn it now!"

Sergeant Rock tore the book from my hands and tossed it onto a burning pile of Iraqi civilians.

"Some day Sergeant," I declared, "there will come a time when the world will know the truth about this war!"

"With Fox News brainwashing the American people?" said Sgt. Rock with scorn. "Not bloody likely!"

Sgt. Rock climbed back into his tent, closed the flap and immediately began masturbating to mass-grave photos. He was right in his own sick and twisted way. The only way the American people would ever get the truth about this war was if the Democrats put forward some sort of doctrine, one based on fairness. Where places like Fox News, Talk Radio, and milbloggers could have their filthy lies permanently silenced and true heroes like Seymour Hersh, Ambassador Joe Wilson, and me, could profess the truth without facing any challenging questions about whether they're actually factual or not.

Sure, the fascists on the right will call it censorship, but it's a good type of censorship, on based on the beliefs and saintly motivations of people like me, who not only know better than them, but actually are better than them.

When will America learn?

The End...?

Culture Corner: The New Republic of Truth...

Howdy fellow Earthlings.

I've been doing a little digging about this whole Scott Thomas/New Republic kerfuffle and I've found an exclusive scoop under the rock of truth.

It's an excerpt of Scott Thomas' upcoming memoir of the Iraq War.

Enjoy the cold stench of the truth....

++++++

THE FIRST CASUALTY OF WAR
by
Scott Thomas
(New Republic Press)

"Listen up you dog-faced maggots!" barked Sergeant Rock as he came out of his tent which he kept on top of a pile of Iraqi baby skulls. "We've got orders. We're to got the village of Al Kebab and kill everyone in there. Especially the women and children."

"But sir," I said, my voice deep, rugged and manly. "Why do we have to kill the women and children?"

"Because we're American soldiers!" bellowed Sergeant Rock, flecks of rabies-like foam flying off his mouth. "Slaughtering innocent women and children is why we exist and what we do best."

I caught a glance at the orders in his hand.

"Why are our orders written in Hebrew?" I asked, suspicious of a possible Zionist theocratic conspiracy being behind our mission in Iraq.

"Why are you asking all these logical and rational questions about our mission?" demanded Sergeant Rock. "Are you one of those intellectual giants who write for the New Republic, who are greater defenders of American liberty than the crypto-fascist shock-troopers we are?"

"No sir," I said, although I wasn't afraid of the Sarge, New Republic writers never feel fear, I decided to keep my true mission a secret.

"Now move out and go kill us some civilians!" ordered the Sergeant. "Our Israeli masters demand blood. You are ordered to ignore that reference to our Israeli masters!"

#

The drive to Al Kebab was long, and the road was dusty. So I decided to shoot the breeze with my colleagues. They were the typical Red State breed that represent all personnel in the US Military.

There was Private Cletus Huckleberry, he was raised in the cotton fields of West Virginia. His family of illiterate Appalachian mountain cotton pickers had lost their entire crop to the great Global Warming caused boll weevil scourge of 2005. This left Cletus with no job, no food, no skills, and a case of complete illiteracy. The Army was his only option.

"I ain't reckon on fancy book learnin'" said Cletus, which was his answer to any question that didn't involve the cooking and eating of something called a 'varmint.' I had simply asked him about the weather. I decided to ask him about something else.

"What are your plans for after the army?" I asked.

Cletus shrugged. "I guess I'll go home to Nutter's Crotch West Virginny and marry my cousin."

"Which one?" I asked, knowing he had dozens, all between the age of eleven and fourteen and all named Lurlene.

"Whatever one ain't preggers at the moment with another man's baby," said Cletus. "I hope it's one I ain't molested yet. I like surprises."

"Who cares about weddings!" screamed Corporal Kenny Killum at the top of his lungs. "There's a lot of killing to do! Maybe we can rape some people!"

"It's wrong to rape women," I said trying to be the voice of reason and civilization, like John Edwards.

"Who said anything about women?" asked Corp. Killum. "I'm from Texas! Yee-ha!"

"Stop the truck!" screamed Corporal Ted Token, he had joined the Army to escape the segregated African American slums of the South and be taught reading, writing and basic math. Instead he had been trained to be an ice cold killing machine.

"What's up Corporal Token?" I asked, tightening my flak vest around my broad manly chest, my pectoral muscles rippling in anticipation of combat. "Is it insurgents?"

"No," said Token as the truck screeched to a halt. "There's a woman who has third degree burns. Let's verbally abuse her and give her more emotional scars to go with her physical ones."

#

I could make out the reflection of my chiseled handsome face reflected in a puddle of Iraqi children's blood. We entered Al Kebab, there were no insurgents, so my unit slaughtered everyone they could find, shooting, stabbing, burning and some pretty vicious pointing at genitals.

"Look at me," said Kenny Killum, dancing and capering wearing a necklace of children's head. "I got me some jewelry!"

I sighed at the rabid inhumanity of my fellow soldiers. Here they were fighting insurgents and trying to promote democracy like the foul cowardly savages they were while the world ignored the real heroes of freedom. People who ran magazines that condemned the US government in wartime, reporters who published top secret war information, and Democratic members of congress who held weekly anti-war votes to undermine this horrible fascist war.

And then there's me.

The greatest hero of all time.

++++++

Scott Thomas Beauchamp is the Ernie Pyle of the 21st century.

Live Earthling Report

A SPECIAL REPORT BY

VOX POPLAR

Token Earthling Correspondent for

The MoxArgon Group

Howdy fellow Earthlings.

As the MoxArgon Group's token Earthling it was up to me to cover the over-sized Al Gore campaign ad called Live Earth. Thanks to some transporter technology borrowed from my alien employers I was able to attend all the concerts. So don't go nitpicking as to how I could be in different places at the same time, I just explained it.

Here is my report:

----------------------------

The weather was fine over Giants stadium and not in the least feverish for the time of year as the transporter rematerialized me at the concert site. To avoid freaking out the sort of folks who sort of freak out at the sight of anyone spontaneously materializing I appeared in what the transporter's computer said was a secluded spot.

The spot just happened to be behind a massive heap of non-recyclable, non-bio-degradable plastic cups, styrofoam food containers, plastic utensils and discarded half-full cans of hairspray, apparently left behind by Sheryl Crow's entourage. The area reeked of discarded tofu, spilled champagne, and I could feel the ozone layer above it starting to thin.

I poked my head up from behind the heap and looked around. The coast was clear, everyone was helping AFI decide which brand of eye-liner was the most enviro-friendly and gave them the most street-cred. I put my 'Universal Press Pass' around my neck and stepped out into the backstage hullaballoo.

"Goddamn it Ernie," screamed a tall skinny roadie to his short, stocky colleague. "Alicia Keys needs more air conditioning!"

"But the grid is already maxed out Bert," replied the roadie Ernie.

"Then tell the power plant to start shoveling more coal anything below freezing will make her hair limp!"

Ernie relayed the commands into his walkie-talkie. In the distance a tall smokestack started spewing thick black clouds.

I sauntered down the hall only to be confronted by an enraged Kanye West.

"George W. Bush does not care about black people!" declared Kanye with a level certainty found only in celebrities and children discussing Santa Claus.

"That's why he keeps hiring them for his cabinet?"

"Exactly!" said Kanye. "He's the reason the levees in New Orleans broke, even though it was a design flaw from the 1960s. He's the reason Nagin left the buses to drown, and it's his refusal to sign Kyoto is what caused Hurricane Katrina."

"Even though Bush's America is the only country to actually reduce carbon emissions," I asked, "while the emissions of most Kyoto signatories went up?"

"What are you doing here with all those facts?" asked Kanye. "My rider specifically demanded a fact free zone!"

"I think it's over by the porta-potty," I said.

"Thanks," said Kanye as he went into the porta-potty. "Goddamn it!" he yelled, "Sheryl Crow used up all the toilet paper! Again!"

I strolled down towards the food service area, might as well see what the rich and famous are eating. The soon to be ex-wife of Larry David: Laurie was lecturing a group of reporters about the importance of maintaining a natural balance.

"So that's why you tore out all that natural desert around your house in Southern California," I asked, "and replaced it with water dependent Kentucky bluegrass? Or is it why you destroyed some rare desert plant life to build a barbecue? Or is that why you drive SUVs to your private jets?"

Trapped in a sudden wave of questions about her actual behaviour the soon to be ex-Mrs. David began to shrink and shrivel.

"I'm melting!" she wailed. "Get me to the nearest botox clinic!"

At that command a bevy of black clad minions swept in, swept her up, and carried her into a Cadillac Escalade. The Escalade's engine roared to life and rocketed out of the area leaving a trail of harsh smelling grey exhaust.

"May I have your attention please," said a droning, almost robotic voice. I turned to see a small dais by the stage entrance, and standing on the dais was Al and Tipper Gore. Their son Al 3 was absent for some reason.

Everyone started gathering before their prophet.

"Only the performers please," said Al Gore. "All you common folks can get back to work."

Al Gore cleared his throat and looked out from his elevated spot onto the cluster of the hopeful innocent eyes of millionaires.

"I would like to thank you young rock and rollers for performing at this event," said Al Gore, "to get out the message of how important I --- I mean Mother Earth truly is. Sure you know nothing of the science of climate change other than what my lap-dogs tell you, but you have the power to compel the common people of the USA to vote for me--- I mean follow the tenets of my plan, which none of us actually follow, and you show great forgiveness in rallying to the cause of a man who has been trying to censor and control you for years. Thank you, now get out there and perform. I gotta lotta carbon credits to unload from this!"

The crowd of rock and rollers cheered.

"Kool-Aid for everyone!" declared Al Gore, earning another cheer.

I decided to not drink the Kool-Aid see what else was happening.

"Controller," I said into my cell-phone/communicator as I ducked behind a parked big rig hauling Bon Jovi's hair gel supply, "beam me to London, Wembley Stadium!"

To be continued...

An Alien Xmas Carol -3

PART THE THIRD

Pap, Present & Future

"Damn it," growled MoxArgon as he hit his bedroom floor with a thud. "This is getting annoying."

"Get your sorry excuse for an ass out here!" boomed a loud voice from the next room.

MoxArgon got up, dusted himself off, and fished out the plasma pistol he kept behind his collection of shrunken Andorian heads.

"I'm coming out," snarled MoxArgon, "and I'm packing heat!"

MoxArgon kicked open the open and aimed his pistol.

But he didn't shoot.

"My god," said MoxArgon in awe, "it's R. Lee Ermey!"

"That's right chucklehead," said Ermey with a commanding bellow, "you may remember from my role as the Sergeant in Full Metal Jacket."

"Cool."

"But I'm not here to talk movies," said Borgnine, "I'm here to save that sorry excuse of an underwear skidmark you call a soul!"

"So you're gonna show me how people celebrate Christmas?"

"Boy, you sure are smart you blue-b*lled p*ss-swimmer!" snarled Ermey. "Now put that gun away before I send it up your rectum sideways, pull the trigger and give you a Saskatchewan Socket Slam!"

"Yes sir," said MoxArgon putting the pistol in the pocket of his housecoat.

"Now we're going to see what a miserable little excuse for a condom leak you really are and you are going to pay attention, or swear, I will stick my foot up your ass, my fist down your throat and give a Panamanian Turkey Roll," barked Ermey.

"Yes sir!"

"I can't hear you! Sound off like you gotta pair!"

"YES SIR!"

Suddenly the room melted away and was replaced by a simple grey room. The walls were metallic, but dotted with rust. A lone humanoid woman worked hard at a stove.

"Where are we," said MoxArgon, "a photoshoot for 'Ugly Homes & Garbage Dumps?'"

"We're at the home of your employee Android CAI-7 Ratchet you smelly little maggot turd," screamed Ermey. "Now pay attention or I will pluck out both your eyes and give your skull a Mexican Mudslide!"

A small kitty flap opened at the door and in rolled the head of Android CAI-7.

"Honey," said the head as it rolled in, "I'm home."

"How was work today?" asked Mrs. Ratchet.

"The usual," answered Android CAI-7.

"Did you ask Mr. MoxArgon for a new body?"

"You know it's a very touchy subject, especially at this time of year," said the head as he rolled across the floor. "Where's Tiny TekTak?"

"I'm here father," said Tiny TekTak as he carefully limped into the room. He was a wretched looking little cyborg, coughing and wheezing. "Will Mr. MoxArgon give you a new body so you can save me before I die horribly Father?"

"Not today son, not today."

"Wait a cotton picking minute," said MoxArgon. "This is all hooey!"

"What?" barked Ermey, "You better unscrew your head from your ass, or I will rip off your head, sh*t down your neck and give you a Philadelphia Finger Fandango!"

"This is all an illusion," said MoxArgon, "and a pretty badly thought out one at that. Somebody is trying to guilt me into giving Android CAI-7 his body back, and there's only one person who would want to do that."

"You better stop this crazy talk before I personally give you a Bolivian Ball-Busting and carve you a new poop-chute!"

"Pollcat the Mind-Bender!" said MoxArgon. Suddenly the Ratchet home vanished and he was back in his bedroom, with only two heads accompanying him.

One, belonged to Android CAI-7, the other was big, ancient and wizened, and lived in a big tank, it belongsed to the Pollcat the Mind-Bender.

"You really can't blame me for trying," said Android CAI-7.

"Pollcat," said MoxArgon.

"Yes," said Pollcat, curious as to his fate.

"Run."

Pollcat was an ancient and wise creature, and he didn't need to be told twice to haul ass, even though he personally didn't own one.

"What are you going to do with me?" asked the head of Android CAI-7.

Remulak MoxArgon picked up the severed head of his analyst and walked to the window and opened it.

"Boy," he cried out to a passing child. "What day is this?"

"Why it's Christmas Day Guv'nor," answered the Boy.

"I think Santa's left you something with me," said Remulak, before tossing the boy Android CAI-7's head, "It's a brand new kickball. Have fun."

"Thanks Guv'nor," said the adorable cockney child before he started kicking the head of Android CAI-7 down the street. Creating quite a clatter when it his some trash cans.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS," called out MoxArgon, "& GOD BLESS US EVERYONE!"

THE END

An Alien Xmas Carol -2

PART THE SECOND
A Spirited History

"Reeeeemmmmuuuuulllaaaakkk," said a ghostly voice from the shadows.

"Who is it?" asked Remulak MoxArgon poking his head out from his bed curtains.

"I am the Spirit of Christmas Past," said the spirit.

"Wait a minute," said Remulak. "You're Ronald Reagan!"

"Well," said the Ghost of Reagan, "ya got me. Hey, what's with the shot glasses?"

"When Marlay said I was getting a visit from three spirits I was expecting my old buddies Captain Morgan, Jack Daniels and Jim Beam."

"Well I am not that kind of spirit," said the Ghostly Reagan. "You must come with me Remulak MoxArgon. Come with me to get to the root of your plot to ruin Christmas."

"I wouldn't call it a plot," said MoxArgon, "more like a scheme."

"Either way," said Reagan, "you're ass is mine for a good chunk of this night, so come with me."

"You've become a lot blunter since your death," mused Remulak.

With a gesture from the ghostly former president the window slid open, letting in a blast of cold air.

"Touch my robe and leap out the window," said Reagan's Ghost.

"I'll fall," said MoxArgon.

"Come on," said Reagan's Ghost, "I'm a spirit of Christmas, trust me."

"All right," said MoxArgon touching the spirit's robe and stepping into the open window.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHH!"

THUMP!

"Now you've learned what I learned dealing with the damn Russians," said Reagan. "Trust but verify."

***

"So any lessons that don't involve me falling on my head?" asked MoxArgon as he and Spirit of Christmas past slipped through the mists of time.

"I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise," answered Reagan, "here's your old school."

Suddenly the mists parted and MoxArgon found himself standing in front of the old gray edifice of his old school, The Buggerall Academy.

"Ye gods," said MoxArgon in amazement, "it is my old school, and look there's a young me with my old school chums John Kerry, Dan Rather and Jimmy Carter."

"I must say that lunch lady terrorized the sloppy joes today like a horde of Jenjis Khans," said the young John Kerry.

"Don't diss the sloppy joes!" barked the young MoxArgon. "And it's pronounced Genghis you dingus!"

"I have fake, but accurate documents that tell me that George W. Bush and Glenn Reynolds from Gryffindork House made those sloppy joes out of blended puppies," said Dan Rather.

"How many times do I have to tell you," said Remulak, "you can't go around taking everything Frank J. says seriously Dan, it's making you look like an idiot."

"I blame the all powerful Jewish lobby," said the young Jimmy Carter.

"What Jewish lobby?" asked Remulak. "Eddie Goldberg in the Fifth Grade, or maybe the Cohen twins from down the hall?"

"They're all in on it," whispered Carter.

"You really gotta stop hanging around Mel Gibson," said the young Remulak.

"You had an odd taste in school chums," said Reagan.

"Surrounding myself with idiots made me look smarter," said Remulak.

"They're all leaving for home for the Christmas Holidays," said Reagan, "but you're staying, why is that?"

"You should know," answered Remulak, "my Dad was acting like a dick and wouldn't let me come home."

"You did try to overthrow him," said Reagan.

"It's family tradition," said Remulak, "he was just being snotty about it."

"But look who comes," said Reagan, "isn't that your sister?"

"The script says it's my sister," said MoxArgon, "but why is she being played by Lindsay Lohan?"

"She was available," answered Reagan.

"Hey there you little bashturd," slurred Remulak's sister. "Fasher'sh furgiven yous, and yer comin' home-- hic!"

"Really sister?" asked the young Remulak, hope gleaming in his eyes.

"Yesh," belched Lindsay, "grab yer crap togesher, we're makin' like a tree and gettin outta here! Hic!"

"Oh sister," said the young Remulak, "you've brought happiness and the smell of tequila and cigarettes into my otherwise joyless holiday."

"Whatcha talkin 'bout?" said his sister before passing out in the snow.

"Say," said Remulak to the other students, "could someone help me get her in the car? No peeking up her dress Clinton!"

"That Christmas changed my life," said Remulak, "father showed me the power of forgiveness."

"Yet you still blew him up with an plasma bomb," said Reagan.

"That was business," said Remulak, "nothing personal."

***

"Where are we now?" asked Remulak as the mists of time surrounded him yet again. Then came the sound of happy music.

"I know that song," said Remulak, "and I know this place, it's old Fuzzywig's headquarters."

The mists parted and Remulak and Reagan's Ghost were in the middle of a joyous celebration. People from all over the galaxy were dancing and singing and having fun, while a stout little mole-creature named Fuzzywig.

"Look at all the joy your old employer is bringing," said Reagan's Ghost. "And all it cost him was a few credits."

"He could afford it," said Remulak, "The profits in the Flokian Opium trade were huge that year. Plus he had that whole 'Oil for Food' racket going with the United Nations."

"Let's cast our eyes on something less morally suspect," said Reagan, "let's see a young Remulak in love."

"Oh Angelina," said the young Remulak, "I know it's not a fancy engagement ring, but some day when I've conquered a few planets of my own I'll get you one of the finest gold and platinum."

"Oh Remulak," said Angelina Jolie, "I'd still love you even if you didn't conquer any planets. And this simple ring, made from the skull of a fallen enemy is enough of a token of love for me."

"That's what I love about ya girl," said the young Remulak, "you're hot with a side order of freak."

"I seem to remember this was a pretty hot night," said MoxArgon, "mind if I stick around and watch the good part after we duck behind the particle cannons?"

"There is much more to see," said Reagan as the mists came in again, blocking the view of anything fun.

"You're no fun," snarled MoxArgon.

"You're time with her would soon come to an end," said Reagan, "as you went into business with Marlay and became obsessed with conquering planets and aquiring wealth."

"So that's why I can't see no boobies tonight," said MoxArgon. "I hate stories when they get all moral."


The mists parted and MoxArgon and Reagan found themselves in the sitting room of MoxArgon's home. Angelina stood by the door, unable to bring herself to look at the young Remulak counting his money.

"You've changed Remmy," said Angelina, "when we first hooked up it was about adventure, spaceships, and a little cosplay, but now you're all about money and power."

"You're no prize yourself baby," said young Remulak from behind his stacks of gold and platinum. "We can't even go to the mall without you dragging home some orphan, I mean I can't even keep track of their names anymore."

"I can't go on," screamed Angelina melodramatically as she tossed Remulak's ring back at him and fled out the door.

"What's with all the yelling?" asked Marlay as he came in.

"Angelina left me," said young Remulak, "but she'll be back. Once you go blue, nothing else will do."

"Sure pal," said Marlay.

"Say," said young Remulak, "let's go fishing to get our minds of our troubles, just let me get this box into the car."

"What's in the box?" asked Marlay, "sounds like it's full of heavy chains."

"How silly," said young Remulak shiftily, "why would I be bringing chains on a fishing trip?"

"And with that simple little homicide," said Reagan, "you seized Marlay's share of the empire, and became the greedy, grasping old sinner we all know and loathe."

"I gotta be me." said Remulak.

Suddenly he was falling.

TO BE CONTINUED:

An Alien Xmas Carol

by Gnarls Dikkenz

PART THE FIRST
A Most Unusual Visitation

First I must tell you that Zakub Marlay was dead. Dead as a nail, in fact, deader than a nail, I'm talking really dead. Really, really dead, John Kerry's political career kinda dead. I really gotta stress that, or what you're about to read will make as much sense as the plot on LOST.

Remulak MoxArgon sat in the cold grim atmosphere of the office, checking off the day's receipts. When there was a knock on the door.

"Ratchet!" bellowed MoxArgon to the front room. "See who the hell is bothering me while I'm counting my money!"

"Yes Mister MoxArgon," said Android CAI-7 Ratchet as he rolled off his desk in the front room and onto the little wheeled box he kept for just such occassions. You see rolling into the little wheeled box was all poor Android CAI-7 could do to get around, since his employer introduced his body to the barrel of a plasma rifle.

The box's little wheels whirred as it scurried, mouse-like and meek, to the door's open switch.

"Merry Christmas!" bellowed two jovial figures, known around the town as Varos Quasar and Snotglob T. Mutant.

"Bah humbug!" snapped back MoxArgon. "What do you two want?"

"We've come along to ask if you would like to donate to our charity," said Varos.

"It's a very worthy cause," added Snotglob, "we're going to give it to the poor."

"What a load of Nogrillian turd-pellets," snarled MoxArgon. "Are there no workhouses, no slave pits, what the hell happened to the mucus mines?"

"We don't have those anymore Mr. MoxArgon," said Varos.

"Then what's the point of having Republicans in office," grumbled MoxArgon, "if all they do is give the poor jobs in a booming economy, when they should be slaving away in misery!"

"All we ask is for a small donation," said Snotglob.

"Please," said MoxArgon, "the last time I gave money to one of your 'causes' most of the money ended up stolen by Kofi Annan and Air America. GET THE HELL OUT!"

The two visitors were willing to press their case for a donation, but were soon dissuaded by the appearance of the same plasma rifle that turned poor Ratchet's torso into scrap metal.

"My Uncle Remulak," said Xran the Fleshrender as he passed the two fleeing gentlemen in the entranceway, "you're certainly charming in the morning."

"Get out nephew!" grumbled MoxArgon. "I don't even know why I'm calling you nephew anyway! We're not related, we're not even the same species, and we're the same age!"

"It's called casting with the players you've got Uncle," said Xran with a smile. "so play along. Changing the subject back to the story, I've come here to offer you an invitation to Christmas dinner at my house."

The plasma blast flying over Xran's right shoulder was all the answer he needed.

"Fine," said Xran, "more turkey for me."

"HUMBUG!" declared Moxargon, slamming the door to his office.

"How are things going for you Android Ratchet?" asked Xran.

"As well as can be expected since I'm only a head," answered the bodiless android.

"How are the little Ratchets," asked Xran, "especially the little little disabled boy."

"Don't say that," said the Android. "That word's forbidden. Tiny TekTak must now be called Differently Abled or 'Difabled' for short."

"My things are getting complicated," said Xran. "Why don't I just wish you all a Merry Christmas."

***

"I suppose you'll be wanting the whole day off tomorrow," snarled MoxArgon as he slipped on his heavy black coat.

"If it pleases you sir."

"It does not please me," growled MoxArgon, "I'm getting pretty sick and tired of all this cheerful holiday talk. We're in the business of intergalactic conquest not making merry under the mistletoe! Take the day off, but mark my words, when I completely rule this universe, everyone caught saying 'Merry Christmas' will be promptly strangled with tinsel and buried with a stake of holly in their heart! Or I'll disintegrate them, depending on whimsy."

***

MoxArgon retired to his mean little room, in a mean little palace at the end of a mean little cul-de-sac and he was in a mean little mood.

Everyone was happy, everyone was enjoying themself, everyone was just full of disgusting Christmas cheer.

It sickened him to see those people happy.

In fact, it offended him.

That was it.

Remulak MoxArgon decided at that moment to end the scourge of Christmas cheer forever, not through expensive wars and conquests, but through a simple claim that he was offended. That will banish the flamboyant trees, the twinkling lights, and the obscene mangers, reeking of Christian goodwill and fraternal love into the darkest pit available.

And the beauty of his plan was that it wouldn't cost him a cent.

The ACLU would help him do it for free.

Suddenly there was a banging and the rattling of metal. And a ghostly apparition appeared before him.

"Who are you?" Remulak asked the phantasm.

"Ask me who I was," requested the spirit.

"Quit with the spiritually symbolic wordplay," snapped Remulak, "I can see that you're my old partner Zakub Marlay."

"Ask me why I'm in chains."

"I know why you're in chains," said Remulak, "that's the same batch I wrapped you in when I through you into the Devollian Ocean. You sank like a stone."

"That's right," answered the ghost of Zakub Marlay, "and you then stole my half of the business."

"Need I remind you that you were planning the exact same thing."

"It wasn't exact," said Zakub. "My plan used lasers. But that's not why I'm here. Forces beyond your grasp know what you're planning to do, and they sent me to warn you, to save you from your own damnation."

"Humbug!" declared MoxArgon, "this is all a hallucination. My nephew probably slipped LSD into my food again. I think there is more of Wavy Gravy than the grave when it comes to you. Hell I could probably eat some more of those brownies he sent me and spend the rest of the night being annoyed by a legion of Tellurian hobgolblins."

"Listen up," said Marlay's Ghost, "you're going to be visited by three spirits to show you the error of your ways. This isn't an acid trip, Xran only dosed the brownies with laxatives..."

"Oh," said Remulak, "you're right. Gotta run."

"Just remember the spirits," said Marlay as he faded away. "And remember to light a bloody match when you're done."

TO BE CONTINUED:

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."

HOMEWARD BOUND!

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.

ZAP!

"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.

"Remulak?"

"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:

CAMP X-RAY, GUANTANAMO BAY

Oh crap.