Police Seeking Hard-Boiled Cop to End Sniper's Spree

sniper operating in the region of outer-Washington, D.C. continues his random assault on citizens, adding more to his bodycount which includes a cross-section of the entire community with no apparent connection to each other. Nine have been victims of the sniper, seven of those have not survived. As the crimes continue to escalate, investigators are desperately seeking a brilliant-but-self-destructive hard-boiled cop to end the nightmare.

"At this point," said FBI liaison on the case Match Tidwell, "we are sorting through a list of D.C.-area-based detectives with personality issues who can unite the search for the sniper and make the case personal. Preferably someone who drinks a lot to forget the past case, say, a sniper shooting he failed to prevent 5-10 years ago. We are examining former cops and 'washed-up' investigators especially."

When asked what they were doing about the sniper, Tidwell rolled his eyes and said, "Were you not listening?"

Speculation that the new lead investigator, when chosen, would have a partner could not be made by the department at this time.

"There's always a possibility," said some cop in a general's outfit standing next to Tidwell, "say, a grizzled old veteran. I would personally prefer to assign a green young recruit straight out of the academy, someone who's still hung up on the rules and would make for a nice by-the-book personality to off-set the lead investigator's self-destructive behavior. But we're playing this by ear. It's always possible the cop chosen will insist he work alone—it's personal."

No names on the short list of officers or former investigators were given.

The plan is the latest to quickly resolve the string of attacks by the unknown sniper, dubbed by the media, or perhaps just this reporter, as "Oswald's Ghost." The necessity for a different kind of cop was realized Monday when police found a "Death" tarot card with the message to cops saying, "Dear policeman, I am God" scribed on it. At this point the investigating force of city and county police, state troopers, and FBI realized they are more than likely dealing with a very cliché-killer personality type, and to offset the awful TV-mentality violence they needed a cop to match his wits.

Brock Johnson, an expert on cinematic crime investigations and salad bars at the University of Ratsass, Maryland, painted a vivid picture of the man, the cop, sought by the police.

"What they need right now is someone who can take a cursory look at the crime scene and determine how the victims are connected," Johnson said. "Something like, 'Christ! Why didn't we notice it before? They're all wearing Members' Only jackets!' Not that, of course, that's stupid, but you get what I'm saying. There must be a common link that we're missing if the cliché—what did you call him? 'Oswald's Ghost'? That's good, he'll love that. I'd call him the Turd Burglar, but that's just me."

The police's choice to find a new, more cynical and emotionally-burdened investigator was a correct one in Johnson's opinion.

"You're not going to catch this guy with good old-fashioned police work and canvassing the area. He's apparently got a score to settle, let's say his father sexually abused him or his overbearing mother had an anal fixation and used to administer suppositories, something real fucked-up to explain his behavior. This new investigator the police are seeking, let's call him Coyote for now—he should be haunted by the failure to save someone in the past, preferably by another sniper. If he can have a personal history with the suspect, that would be fantastic, but we're not counting on it. Mostly, we want a big finish to the case where, shortly before catching the perpetrator, Coyote smacks a hand on the desk and stands up with the deadly utterance, 'Shit! There's two of them. We're looking for a pair of snipers.' That would completely rock."

Rock indeed. What a glorious day for news!

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Isaac DePlane took off his brain
as it had grown heavy
and his neck was tired.
All filled up with stats
and soluble fats
his poor peachy brain became mired.

"Catch you later, bitch!"
he hucked his brain in a ditch
and he felt wonderfully lightheaded.
Until his eye began to twitch
as he felt a phantom itch
and he forgot about where he was headed.

He wandered into a gas station
and like a mad animation
he drank down three pints of unleaded.
He screamed out names of soups
as he ran 'round in loops
like a chicken very recently beheaded.

Isaac DePlane rode a tugboat to Maine
where he took off his pants in a hurry.
And parading through town
in a homemade mackerel crown
he told folks "They're not live, don't worry."

Speaking of fish
made him hungry and wish
he was eating a salmon-stuffed taco.
But the townspeople were quick
to tire of his shtick
and they made him call his brother Rocco.

He came with their cousin Dino
in a rusty El Camino
and took Isaac to go find his brain.
When they did, Isaac cried
since someone pissed on one side
and it had been left out in the rain.

But in the end he was pleased
he no longer shit when he sneezed
and now things didn't all taste like dreck.

Though in a week he complained
about being so inconveniently brained
and the unbearable strain on his neck.

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When I was young, we only had nine days of Christmas. That was years before capitalism went nuts and we started tacking on Christmas days like they were candy, to give people more time to buy fruitcakes, hunting rifles and salad forks. There was a real ugly period there where America was doing everything to excess; we even added a half-dozen states just for the hell of it. Nevada? Give me a break. Two hookers and a bag full of dirt does not a state make. Same thing for Hawaii. And those Hawaiian assholes even paid us back by getting us into WWII. If that's a Hawaiian's idea of gratitude, they can keep their pineapples and fat chicks, thank you very much.

But thanks to this haphazard propagation of Christmas days, many people have forgotten what the original nine days stood for. Some people think they know, but that's just like them. The true meaning of the nine days of Christmas has been all but lost from the modern world, a knowledge maintained only by myself and Chester D. Arthur of Whitebridge, Illinois. And that big sack of wrong thinks the eighth day is for purple horseshoes, so you might be experiencing your last shot at the real scoop right here.

Nine Ladies Dancing. The ninth day was always for stoning people who couldn't be properly shamed into following society's rules about things like women not dancing or Welch people trying to vote.

Eight Maids A-Milking. Again, the past was not kind to the fairer sex. The eighth day before Christmas used to be all about telling your wife to get back in the kitchen and a-milk you something, pronto. I'll let you be the judge of what results our society has reaped from letting that one slip.

Seven Swans A-Swimming. The seventh day was about remembering the seven steps of proper car maintenance: gas it, wash it, wax it, oil it, vacuum it, put out all fires, and park it inside when it's hailing. Anyone who ignored those steps would get a visit from the Swan of Poor Performance, who has largely been forgotten as a harbinger of doom ever since his children's cartoon was cancelled in the 1970's.

Six Geese A-Laying. The sixth day was traditionally a reminder for everyone to take a good big shit before the holidays to make room for the copious feasting that was to ensue. This may sound silly to ears attuned to the hectic pace of modern life, but back in the day people only shat once a month, and every year people would die from forgetting how. The accelerating pace of modern life, and diets containing more than just meat, have made those days merely a happy memory.

Five Gold Rings. This one is pretty self-explanatory, a simple reminder to get yourself paid. Visa wanted to change this to "Five Gold Cards" in 1970, but the government shot them down because nobody should have five gold cards. That counts as serious wallet abuse and you can hurt your brain coming up with so many fake names.

Four Calling Birds. Again, a failed attempt by AT&T in 1987 to have this changed to "Four Calling Cards" served to fog over the verse's original meaning: a reminder for men to ring up some tail for a booty call or four before the long deep freeze of family time gripped them through the holidays.

Three French Hens. Should a Christmas reveler fail in finding enough birds for a satisfactory pre-Christmas orgy, European prostitutes were always a handy fall-back option.

Two Turtle Doves. This nonsensical verse served as a reminder to generations about the folly of making decisions while extremely inebriated, a state in which many spent the entire month of December. Urban legend had it that the song's composer was himself hammered by the time he got to this point in the song, thanks to his habit of taking a celebratory shot after every successfully completed verse.

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree. And finally, the Big Kahuna. A stark reminder to all that anyone who becomes too drunk and belligerent throughout the holidays is likely to end up locked outside, staring confusedly at a bird in a tree. So try to keep your shit within reason.

That's all fine and good, you're likely saying, but what are the 10th, 11th and 12th days for? For shit, is the truest answer. But rather than set off a national epidemic of insomnia with that riddle, I'll delve a bit deeper to explain. In 1945, Sears paid the government $10 million to have the tenth day added. So the tenth day is for Sears, as is explained in the popular Peter, Paul and Mary song, which mentions the ten lords o' leaping on the tenth day. As was common knowledge in that day, gaylords often hung out at Sears.

Similarly, the eleventh and twelfth days were bought by Macy's and Wanamakers, with the twelfth day passing on to the May Company after Wanamakers bit the silver bullet in 1960. Macy's is represented in the song by the eleven pipers piping, since in those days the ripe stench of pipe smoke was the surest sign that there was a Macy's nearby. Wanamakers only got stuck with the twelve drummers drumming because all the other good counting stuff had been taken already.

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