Monday, July 8, 2002
I suggest you check your phone for bugs and turn the stereo up loud. At least if you’re reading this column out loud to yourself or with friends. Some may say you’re crazy for believing the world is more than meets the eye, that the government deceives you every moment of every day, that you host small parties where you get together with friends and read my column aloud. I say if you’re crazy, we’re all living in a nuthouse. And we’re the less crazy “germaphobic” kind of insane and everyone else is the “dog tells you to shoot the president” kind.

We have turned a corner, loyal readers. We’ve opened a door to a room or a lid to a box that we can’t close again. We’ve stripped the spark plug where we can take it out, but can never put it back in. We’ve unscrewed the top to the jar and you’ve gotten peanut butter in my chocolate. We’re through the looking glass, people.

Be prepared for anything. Your life may be in jeopardy just for seeing me. Your wheel of fortune is spinning out of control. You’ve thrown the dice and shouted “Yahtzee!” and the government is listening in. The word of the day is “conspiracy,” with a capital “C” and it’s right on triple word score, triple letter points.

You’re looking in the manhole, Americans, and there’s a foul stench coming up. Go ahead. Turn to me with a pinched face and ask, “Damn! You smell that?” I sure do. Someone smelt it who did not dealt it.

We’ve lifted up the seamy underbelly of America and tickled it until the leg started kicking wildly. But it’s not enough. We keep tickling, up and down the belly. Don’t be surprised when it pees on you.

I’ve met with top government officials, who agreed with what I said. About being through the looking glass, I mean. We’ve walked through the park, arm in arm, neither looking the other in the eye so government spies wouldn’t know we know each other. Sure, it felt really gay to be walking like that through the park, and some teen-age boys we believe were not affiliated with the government chanted something obscene about us, but homophobic teen-agers is the least of our problems right now. We’ve broken through the ice and our collective privates have shrunken like sun-dried dates in the freezing water.

This information is too big to release in one column. I can only say three words: Japan, yogurt, chemical P. No more is safe to say; in fact, I worry about government assassins out there doing Yahoo word string searches on “Japan, yogurt, chemical P” and stumbling on this column. My life would be worth less than a possum douche if I was discovered with what I know at this point. That’s why I used “yogurt” in place of the real word which, if said, would put the horrifying reality out there for all to understand and fear, but also shorten my life significantly. So I hold back the secret true word at this moment, but let’s just say that “yogurt” is the biggest worry of our new millennium, if we knew about it.

Things will go from worst to far worse than worst if I let the wrong information slip right now. This column is a call to arms—I’m assembling an elite team, a daring venture on my part. For the first time I’m going to do something rather than report the ugly truth. My elite team will break into the yogurt storage facility and remove the dreaded chemical P before it contaminates the yogurt and yogurt-based products, at which point the ultimate weapon of covert destruction will be formed.

The team will have to be brave, intelligent, and expendable. They should also be able to follow my commands from a long distance away, since I’ll be coordinating from my fall-out shelter at an undisclosed location I can’t disclose. And should they be caught, they should disavow any knowledge of my part in the operation and certainly shouldn’t expect to receive any sort of payment for incomplete work.

If this sounds like you, or an unsuspecting friend you could trick into doing this, then by all means, contact me. I’ll be at my undisclosed fall-out shelter, so if you can contact me I’ll know right away you’re one of the government spies and my hideout’s been compromised.

Aliens Are Transporting Me from Room to Room
In all my years of studying the vast underlying conspiracies that affect us all on every level, I’ve never encountered one both so brazen and yet so curiously without motive.

The Gimp Has Claimed Quentin Tarantino
How do we know for sure Quentin Tarantino made Jackie Brown? In fact, how do we know for sure Tarantino did anything after Pulp Fiction? When he accepted the Oscar at the Academy Awards ceremony that year he seemed a little suspect to me.

The MCP Has Abducted My Office Manager
As commune profits have grown, I began to hire staff members. Many of them you know through their columns, news articles, threatening letters to the commune or court dates. But there are unsung heroes as well, and I won’t start to sing them here as my voice will crack.

Welcome to the Monkey House
Many think it is a colorful, humorous thing to say. It is, in fact, a warning. An attempt to keep visitors away. To save them from the horrors inside, even if they are here to repossess our materials. For the commune has become a house of horrors in recent weeks, and I owe it all to monkeys.