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February 21, 2005 |
Cape Town, South Africa Whit Pistol "Smashing tits!" thinks Mark Thatcher, upon leaving a Cape Town courthouse. frican politics managed a rare chance to draw the attention of the western world when good-natured white boy Mark Thatcher, son of Der Iron Girdle former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, finally answered accusations he and other exceptionally-Caucasian financiers backed a coup of the African nation of Equatorial Guinea.
Equatorial Guinea, a sub-Saharan country in Africa, established its independence in 1968 from Spain and has lived under a dictatorship ever since. In 2004, a group of mercenaries were arrested and charged with plotting a coup in the country when their plane landed in Zimbabwe, those on board demanding they find a movie other than Kangaroo Jack to play for the rest of the trip. Authorities in Zimbabwe, Equatorial Guinea, and South Africa charge ...
frican politics managed a rare chance to draw the attention of the western world when good-natured white boy Mark Thatcher, son of Der Iron Girdle former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, finally answered accusations he and other exceptionally-Caucasian financiers backed a coup of the African nation of Equatorial Guinea.
Equatorial Guinea, a sub-Saharan country in Africa, established its independence in 1968 from Spain and has lived under a dictatorship ever since. In 2004, a group of mercenaries were arrested and charged with plotting a coup in the country when their plane landed in Zimbabwe, those on board demanding they find a movie other than Kangaroo Jack to play for the rest of the trip. Authorities in Zimbabwe, Equatorial Guinea, and South Africa charge a complicated web of white sugar daddies have fueled the coup attempt, and that Thatcher was among them.
Moss Chevalier, one of the wealthy foreigners implicated in the charges, denied personal involvement in a conspiracy, but praised the mercenaries and their efforts.
"Equatorial Guinea is a country suffering under the thumb of an oppressive ruler. Its people die in impoverished conditions while he channels the wealth of the country into his personal coffers. I have a great admiration for the generous—dare I say handsome—financiers who are risking their livelihoods to bring democracy to this long-suffering nation."
Coincidentally, Equatorial Guinea discovered off-shore oil in 1996, greatly boosting the country's economic value.
Overthrowing governments for oil are nothing new, even quite the rage in recent years, but the Equatorial Guinea case is a trendsetter for being a coup allegedly paid for entirely by citizens, rather than the traditional route of grassroots movements within the country or foreign governments. With the current U.S. administration trying hard to privatize Social Security and medical insurance coverage, could the privatization of colonialism be far behind?
"Obviously countries rich in natural resources have faced a history of invasion by private companies and corporations," said University of Trenton History Professor Bobby Shockes. "This goes back to the early days of capitalism, as well-backed private merchants brought their own bodyguards and miniature armies so they might claim native lands as their own. Traditionally, though, these eventually call for government intervention to protect them, such as the United Fruit Company incident in Guatemala, when the U.S. interceded on the company's half against the rule of that government in the 1950s. But this changes all the rules. The message here is a positive one for businesses and wealthy individuals: 'Don't wait for the people or our government to make for better business conditions—do it yourself!"
On Friday, Mark Thatcher left a South African court in Cape Town, saying it was "patently clear" he had no involvement in the attempted coup. The trial for the coup itself, ended in November 2004 in Malabo, Equatorial Guinea, while Thatcher's friend, Simon Mann, is serving a sentence in Zimbabwe for his role in the coup. Thatcher's involvement centered around the purchase of a helicopter that purportedly would have flown opposition leader Severo Moto from his exile in Spain to the seat of power in Malabo, upon success of the coup. Thatcher now plans on using the helicopter for personal Cape Town weather reports, or perhaps selling it to pay off the 3 million Rand fine he received for violating South Africa's anti-mercenary laws.
The White House chose not to respond to indignant questions from this reporter if they were interested in using the new privatized invasion style for Iran and Syria, or if they would prefer the time-tested CIA shadow-intervention plans. the commune news wouldn't mind financing a coup for the big building Time Magazine works out of, but for that kind of expense, we might as well just build a new building—with solid gold walls and toilets full of Chardonnay. Shabozz Wertham stubbornly refuses to privately fund anything at all, including the pizza we ordered last Saturday. C'mon, you know it was your turn to pick up the tab, Shabozz.
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 December 24, 2001
I Don't Believe in Santa Claus AnymoreI hate to sound like a party pooper, or even worse, like I've grown cynical, but I have to admit that this year will be known for me as the year I stopped believing in Santa Claus.
It wasn't any one particular thing, just a series of things that built up until I said, "You know what? I'm fed up. Every year I keep asking for stuff I never get and there's too much proof. There is no Santa Claus."
Kids line up around the block to sit on my lap and tell me what they want for Christmas. And this isn't any one place, it's every town and every city everywhere all over the world. How is Santa supposed to be in all those places at once, you tell me that? It's just physically impossible. Some of them don't even look like me, they'll be Asian guys or black guys or occasionally a woman or something. Nothing wrong with that, of course, I just think it's obvious most of them—oh, let's face it, all of them—are guys in suits pretending to be me. Well, there goes Christmas, kids. You just told some minimum wage former stockboy what you want for Christmas. That helps.
This thing about the flying reindeer, too, it's complete baloney. Reindeer? Flying? Now if the story was that Santa had magical kid-loving dragons whose back he rode on, that would be pretty cool and believable. But you can see reindeer anywhere. Go ahead, push one off a roof, tie one to the back of your Cadillac and pull it five hundred yards at 60 mph, of all the things it will do it...
º Last Column: Nick at Nite Marathons are Responsible for My Life º more columns
I hate to sound like a party pooper, or even worse, like I've grown cynical, but I have to admit that this year will be known for me as the year I stopped believing in Santa Claus.
It wasn't any one particular thing, just a series of things that built up until I said, "You know what? I'm fed up. Every year I keep asking for stuff I never get and there's too much proof. There is no Santa Claus."
Kids line up around the block to sit on my lap and tell me what they want for Christmas. And this isn't any one place, it's every town and every city everywhere all over the world. How is Santa supposed to be in all those places at once, you tell me that? It's just physically impossible. Some of them don't even look like me, they'll be Asian guys or black guys or occasionally a woman or something. Nothing wrong with that, of course, I just think it's obvious most of them—oh, let's face it, all of them—are guys in suits pretending to be me. Well, there goes Christmas, kids. You just told some minimum wage former stockboy what you want for Christmas. That helps.
This thing about the flying reindeer, too, it's complete baloney. Reindeer? Flying? Now if the story was that Santa had magical kid-loving dragons whose back he rode on, that would be pretty cool and believable. But you can see reindeer anywhere. Go ahead, push one off a roof, tie one to the back of your Cadillac and pull it five hundred yards at 60 mph, of all the things it will do it won't fly. If there's ever a time to go ahead and fly, that would be it, and they don't.
Who makes all these friggin' toys, too? Sure, in the days of the wooden rocking horse and the worthless rag doll with buttons for eyes, I could see that being the product of some elfin workforce laboring away in freezing conditions, but what about these cell phones, Playstation 2 consoles, Casio keyboards, and computers these kids are getting these days? Forget the difficulty in building toys that require high-tech skill, let's just ask about Star Wars figures or Pokemon cards or something. Not that elves couldn't make that stuff, but they'd be in violation of serious international copyright laws. You're talking about one bad-ass criminal St. Nick there.
He must be trained in some shady business to infiltrate houses all over the world. How many houses have chimneys these days? Santa's out there squeezing down air ventilation pipes, under locked doors, through keyholes, through sealed windows, all sorts of unimaginable stuff. Forget laughing with a "Ho, ho, ho," the Santa they're talking about must be a scary Eugene Tooms X-Files motherfucker.
And how many kids throughout the world? How many houses, how many presents? One guy doing all this stuff in one night? Even including time zones and expanding it out to a full 24 hours to get all this done, one guy, I don't care how mystical his ass is, will be finishing that job. Forget it. Not in one year, certainly not in one day.
I'm not even leaving the house this Christmas. It's too confounding to think about. I'll probably just stay in with Mrs. Claus, sit around the fireplace and lick candycanes, maybe watch that Charlie Brown Christmas special on DVD or something, catch It's A Wonderful Life if it's even playing and just take it easy this year. Get a good night's sleep for once and check out the Day After Christmas sales if I get up early enough on the 26th. The only person I'm going to be asking for anything from is Mrs. Claus. If Santa can do all this other amazing crap he can read minds as well, so maybe he'll bring me that Palm V I've been eyeing in the Office Depot newspaper supplements. But he probably won't be happy because all I'm thinking this year is there is no Santa Claus, sorry if that pisses off the time-bending B&E reindeer pilot himself. º Last Column: Nick at Nite Marathons are Responsible for My Lifeº more columns
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|  September 30, 2002
State Fair"When I was a boy, every year Dad would take Goose, Stephanie and I to the State Fair. Mom would never come, on account of her belief that the State Fair was the devil's yard sale.
So once every fall, Dad would pile all of us kids into the family car, and we'd head off to the State Fair while Mom went down to the airport to throw rocks at foreigners. Personally, I never much minded riding in the back hatch of the car with the luggage, since I knew how much Dad enjoyed having the passenger cabin to himself while he drove and worked out his dirty limericks aloud.
But leave it to Goose to find something to complain about in every situation. This may have been due in part to his permanent role as the foundation of the Hartwig children stack, which was only natural since he was the least claustrophobic of the Hartwigs and less given to breaking out in spontaneous hives or untimely urination when sat upon during long car rides, unlike Stephanie and myself, respectively. He may have thought it unfair, but Goose was born the low man on the totem pole, and far be it from the Hartwig clan to challenge God's natural order on that one.
Dad was truly in his element at the State Fair. Never was there a man born who could eat more corn dogs without getting sick on the Tilt-a-Whirl. It was all the three of us could do to keep up with him as he sprinted from attraction to attraction, tossing rings, flirting with schoolgirls and gawking at the state's...
º Last Column: Game Show º more columns
"When I was a boy, every year Dad would take Goose, Stephanie and I to the State Fair. Mom would never come, on account of her belief that the State Fair was the devil's yard sale.
So once every fall, Dad would pile all of us kids into the family car, and we'd head off to the State Fair while Mom went down to the airport to throw rocks at foreigners. Personally, I never much minded riding in the back hatch of the car with the luggage, since I knew how much Dad enjoyed having the passenger cabin to himself while he drove and worked out his dirty limericks aloud.
But leave it to Goose to find something to complain about in every situation. This may have been due in part to his permanent role as the foundation of the Hartwig children stack, which was only natural since he was the least claustrophobic of the Hartwigs and less given to breaking out in spontaneous hives or untimely urination when sat upon during long car rides, unlike Stephanie and myself, respectively. He may have thought it unfair, but Goose was born the low man on the totem pole, and far be it from the Hartwig clan to challenge God's natural order on that one.
Dad was truly in his element at the State Fair. Never was there a man born who could eat more corn dogs without getting sick on the Tilt-a-Whirl. It was all the three of us could do to keep up with him as he sprinted from attraction to attraction, tossing rings, flirting with schoolgirls and gawking at the state's biggest pig all at once. One of my fondest childhood memories is of Dad challenging us kids to guess the fat man's weight, and the fat man coming out from behind the cotton candy booth and punching dad in the mouth.
Without Mom being around to Yin his Yang, or however the Chinese work that, Dad sometimes got a little carried away in his State Fair enjoyment. That being said, he was still nothing but a hero to the three of us kids the year he drove the family car straight into the bumper car gallery, declaring himself the Grand Champion of All Time." º Last Column: Game Showº more columns
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Milestones1977: Commune photographer Junior Bacon receives first camera as birthday present. Takes picture of sister in shower and promptly pawns camera to buy bag of grass.Now HiringExotic Bird and Trainer. Needed to entertain staff during deadline crunch. Ventriloquist routine a must. Off-color jokes strongly recommended.Top Freak Dancing Steps| 1. | The Funky Jock | | 2. | Running Teenage Father | | 3. | Shotgun Wedding | | 4. | The Discarded Fetus | | 5. | The Shut Up This Is Just How I Dance | |
|   North Korea Pissed Their Real-Life Hunger Games Nowhere Near as Popular as Movie BY Red Bagel 10/4/2004 A Fistful of Tannenbaum Chapter 7: Bomb of AgesEditor's Note: Cornered by Surprise Truck, and put to a moment of truth, intrepid hero Jed Foster experiences guilt when his longtime non-gay friend, Reilly, volunteers for the suicide mission of trying to shut down the truck, while love interest Paulette Standiford and Foster escape on motorcycleback.
Wham-Bash! Before they knew it, Reilly had managed to climb into the truck's cab and pulled the emergency brake. He had said it would be certain suicide, and it certainly was; the truck flipped over, rolled a couple dozen times, exploded into fire, and then landed on a facility where the small pox virus was stored. In the mix of smoke, flames, and airborn infections, Jed and Paulette couldn't make out anything.
"Shit in a windtunnel!" exclaimed Paulette....
Editor's Note: Cornered by Surprise Truck, and put to a moment of truth, intrepid hero Jed Foster experiences guilt when his longtime non-gay friend, Reilly, volunteers for the suicide mission of trying to shut down the truck, while love interest Paulette Standiford and Foster escape on motorcycleback.
Wham-Bash! Before they knew it, Reilly had managed to climb into the truck's cab and pulled the emergency brake. He had said it would be certain suicide, and it certainly was; the truck flipped over, rolled a couple dozen times, exploded into fire, and then landed on a facility where the small pox virus was stored. In the mix of smoke, flames, and airborn infections, Jed and Paulette couldn't make out anything.
"Shit in a windtunnel!" exclaimed Paulette. "That was the bravest thing I've ever seen outside of a bravery convention—Bravexpo '99."
Jed shed a manly tear for his lost friend, and reserved some little regret that would plague him throughout the book. "It should have been me."
"Which one? The truck or Reilly? Because it would be weird if you were the truck—"
"Reilly," said Jed. "This is my adventure. I should have been the one under that monstrous flatbed."
"We don't have time for 'shouldas,' Jed," snorted Paulette. "We've got to get to N.O.R.T.O.N."
"Great balls of inflammation!" Jed shouted. "Are you saying N.O.R.T.O.N. is behind this?"
"Yeah, like we should be so lucky!" said Paulette. "No, in this case, N.O.R.T.O.N. is the victim. The real culprit is Ostrich."
"Now that I think about it, I knew that all along. I don't know why it didn't come back to me sooner."
"Ostrich," continued Paulette, "is working to get their hands on the nuclear detonation device that N.O.R.T.O.N. is developing. If they do, they could hold the nations of the world hostage in exchange for anything they demand. They could call for environmental laws to be eliminated, they could stage fake elections, they could replace any leader in the world and no one would be able to stop them."
"Are we still talking about Ostrich, or is this the Republican party?"
"Either or. But Ostrich is after the bomb. So we've got to stop them."
"I don't get it," said Jed, the same as when he read "Doonesbury." "If Ostrich is the most powerful secret organization in the world already, why would they have to steal the mega-bomb?"
"Bomb of Ages."
"What?"
"I've been calling it 'Bomb of Ages,'" said Paulette. "Not mega-bomb."
"Oh, sorry."
"S'alright."
"Jesus," said Jed, "I don't even remember what my original question was now."
"That's probably for the best."
So, with the plot hole forgotten, Jed and Paulette jumped on her motorcycle again and took off for the secret N.O.R.T.O.N. headquarters in Wad, Nebraska. It was an underground facility with the most up-to-date targeting equipment and a storage facility and launch pad for the world's foremost long- and short-range nuclear weapons. Normally it would take two or three days to drive to Nebraska by motorcycle, but fortunately we novelists can do it in a mere chapter.
Next Chapter: Unpleasant Entry   |