Hope this gets out to you friends and kitties. Looks like the good Doctor is in the can at Las Vegas Metro holding detention correctional whatever, and I’m writing all of this down with a golf pencil on a stack of napkins I smuggled from the commissary. I still got some blood on my hands here, literal blood, not figuratively. I was over at O’Shea’s Casino in Vegas when this loud mouth Bro-Spartcus challenged me to a game of beer pong and I won and he wouldn’t pay up the five dollars and the pack of Kools and so long story short somebody got stabbed and it wasn’t me and this is not a legal confession and I am not waiving my rights as an American citizen. When I’m getting out I’m suing O’Shea’s, I’m suing everyone I can think of.  I’m suing the makers of Kools.  That’s how far I’ll go.

 

Place smells like ‘El Salvador on the day they burned down the jail.  The guards are a bunch of psychos and this Jamaican loony tune I’m locked up with keeps singing about a big river and the sky falling. I rate this place on yelp one star… so far.  One star. I mean this place is obviously nothing but it’s you know, jail so, I don’t know, is there a two star jail even? Four stars? What would that be?  Where did Hillary’s brother go?  Club Fed prison camp in the desert, that would be four stars, I suppose.  Wherever they sent the Wolf of Wall Street. They have Tennis Courts. That would be nice. Tennis courts. I should build one here in Pahrump but Mother Midnite is a slow player (and by the way Mom, thanks for transcribing and posting this- outstanding red team player, case of beer for that one.) I could get the O’Connel’s kid, Ash, to play me but that twelve year old Matt Damon got scared when I said we’d be playing Poker for real and I put a gun on the table.  

Flip the Queen, buddy boy.  Flip it.

 

Or a four star prison would be one of those places like the Castle Itter, a special 11-11 site, where the first E.T.’s from the Pleiades to crash in Austria were kept for thirty years under the supervision of the Allied Control Council in conditions that were beyond luxurious for them- sulfuric saunas and hydrogen bathes, molten gold drinks and unlimited access to bodies from the morgue to use as communication devices to their human captors and to use as walking puppets to visit the towns nearby during the dead of night.

Or so a guy told me once right before he disappeared.  Coulda been the rental we’d gone half sues on.  But I always suspected the Aussies.

 Four stars. Ain’t nothing four stars anymore. What is there to say? Societal standards have slipped.  Not like it was when I was growing up. When I was growing up you could use fireworks against moving vehicles that drifted within fifty yards of your property or against women who rejected your advances. Men acted like men.  And women wanted it that way.  If somebody didn’t like what you had to say you got stabbed and you just appreciated they didn’t go for a major artery.  Sometimes you had your housecat shoved in the freezer for twenty minutes if you did something bad like talk while adults were talking. Sure it was harsh but it was a harsh world. Still is regardless of that long-play Sesame Street acid trip they call College.  When I was growing up I had a shot of whiskey and a bottle of beer for breakfast. People, supposed intellectuals, say that’s a bad thing but how else were you supposed to roll with the punches in strange times, sinking into a sweltering abyss of a hate jungle filled with death and eyes being clawed out left and right by MSNBC? Papa Midnite made me eat the flesh of a dead deer that had been clipped by a trucker off the side of the road that we doused in vodka and Tabasco sauce while the other kids watched from across the street one morning as they were getting onto the bus. That showed those kids, they didn’t talk to me for a year.  AND I LOVED IT!

 

Times suck. I mean, you ever have one of those moments where you remember thinking to yourself later that this was the high water mark of your life? I do. I was watching The Star Wars Holiday Special with Pat Buchanan and this Saudi Prince, something something Mohammed the first or second I don’t know.  1978. Good year for me, bad year for America. He owned these oil wells and had access to pure liquid cash and the addresses of every hit man and hooker from here to Timbuktu. We needed him to stem some of the Soviet offensive in the heavy agriculture machinery market. They were buying up our stuff through front companies and John Deere.   We were dealing with this MilIndy Startup Front called Tarragon.  It was the Air America of European farm equipment.  The Ruskies were stealing the secrets of our combines and me and Pat had just been commissioned to put a stop to this nonsense. We also needed him for Iron Castle. That was more important than putting the screws to some John Deere executives. And by screws I mean actual 3and a quarter drywall screws. Remember. This is not a legal confession.  I’m clearly still drunk from the ‘largesse’ of the O’Shea Casino.

 

This was, uh, during my days as an independent contractor. Let’s put it that way. Mother Midnite, you remember those days. I used to come home with cuts all over my hands and some new guns to shoot in the desert with Papa Midnite. Good times had by all.  Had by all.  Market down.  The High Water MARK!!!!  Except for some people. John Deere executives… Mainly.

 

So anyway, were in this desert tent, Pat and the Prince and I, and the Prince, he’s thirty and he’s got this whole West Hollywood Ashram belief system for Star Wars and he’s got twenty people setting up a satellite dish so we can watch the special in the middle of the Rub’ Al Khali . Now Iron Castle was Heart Attack important, lets call it earth shaking, and this Arab was gonna watch it even if it was at 3:00 A.M. our time. Pat’s nudging me the whole time to take a swig out of my flask because we are tired and talking about world important projects like Iron Castle and no way are we gonna watch the Star Wars Holiday Special Mormon sober. No way, no how. 

 

So I kept sneaking back to my tent to refill the flask and we sit down with the man who could make Iron Castle happen and we spent- I don’t know how long, a 101 Arabian nights of Carrie Fisher coked out of her mind singing, some Chewbaccas running around talking about the meaning of life and Harrison Ford being extremely uncomfortable. The Boba Fett part was cool. I guess. Pat liked it and we agreed that was a highlight. The Saudi Prince couldn’t stop laughing at the Chewbaccas everytime they came on screen and there were multiple Chewbaccas so this guy was just losing his mind between bumps of cocaine (you see that was the crazy thing, he hated us drinking but he was doing more coke then Carrie Fisher).  About whenever that special ended or we may have passed out, I remember looking over to Pat who was in the other sleeping bag and saying  staring at to tent and mumbling some song from College.  And it was at that moment, lying next to Pat Buchanan, talking about a secret off-book project in the middle of the desert with THE Arabian Prince of Cocaine while drinking and watching Star Wars, all of us ripped to the gills, that I realized I loved politics.

 Ain’t life Grand?


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