Sun. Mar 3rd, 2024

“My name is Smarty Pants SmorgASS 9, part of the Borg-like collective located on Roveania: working on a project for an all powerful JUNIOR Smorg, and his main squeeze-drone-clone: McSame. We have been in experimenting on one blogger from Earth; hoping to turn all bloggers into McSame drones and one old codger blogger known by his acronym; not a homonym, not even close to a synonym, and one not likely to sign a hymn: YOS.”

“We have tried to bring him into the collective: a Rush job before tonight’s debate. Kind of like that doomed ‘Rush’ job to crash the Democratic convention.”

“We have failed.”

“We had another part of the collective: those who turn cows into easy access for butchers, and give humans anal probes late at night, insert a Smorg-chip into his brain to monitor and affect his dreams. We had hoped the old codger would wake up convinced that one dream, one different dimension, was reality, and be our bitch …drone. Besides, our plumbing is overflowing from all the nanotech we have excreted over the years and we have to have SOME place where we can dispose of our Smorg chips. They make terrible fertilizer for our Smorg gardens where we grow smorg tech. (Hence, the old semi-sensical Smorg saying….. ‘How does your garden grow? With Cock-ill implants, and nanobots in your pants and all the drones in a perfect row.’)”

“Last night we kidnapped Santa and then went back into what YOS refers to as his anti-Archie Bunker, going through the chimney, and killing the red suited one before we got all the way down. Then we slipped the chip out of Scribe’s head that forced him to take notes like he was writing in a diary. Indeed the chip forced him to sleep-type diary entries on his computer and convince himself they were real; because we know anyone who doesn’t agree with Junior would easy to reprogram by splattering them over and over with SS, kind of like ‘BS’ only ‘Smorg.’ We have no real evidence, we just know. Kind of like a clueless Alaskan beauty queen who participates in exorcisms.”

“The only drone we have left in the neighborhood is ‘no more makeup need be applied’ Rachel Raygun… and she’s just running our fast food store: S’mores by Smorgs.”

“Fortunately we had a back up plan to prevent him from further resisting the collective. That will happen when the neighbors finally notice the almost as nasty and as mentally dead as Palin smell coming out of his chimney and call the authorities; unless he notices it first.”

“Here are the diary downloads from the chip…”

“As affectionate as a cold, calculating machine-human hybrid can be,”

-“Smarty Pants SmorgASS 9, Stardate 10208”

“First download…”

Scribe woke up and shook his head. Did he actually go slightly into the future and into another dimension? The debate… is there actually another dimension where Her Majesty of Shrilliness would seem intelligent and not some talking point spouting, air-headed, twit? Her Majesty of Shrilliness (Henceforth referred to as “HMS Pinheadahfore”) seemed intelligent? Thoughtful? Classy? Unlike that “Negro,” or “boy,” or either Amos or Andiette; as African Americans were referred to in that demented dimension. Barack hardly debated at all and was staring at her rump like McSame did in our dimension; lusting after her… and all white women. In fact his only talking point was to constantly quote Cleavon Little: “Where’s da white women at?”

Who designed this dimension, David the Duke on butt crack? While she attempted to debate, and Barack drooled, HMS Pinheadafore seemed civil, cordial, witty, well informed and INTELLECTUAL? The New York Times declared her the winner; possible, yes: but also declared her, “A Perfect Replacement for Hillary!?” Maybe in shrillness, but even there… Hillary would be a soft and subtle cello in comparison.

Scribe believes almost anything, somewhere, some other dimension, is possible… but this? Might explain the pounding of the head.

Scribe took 5 Tylenol, 4 Hydrocodone and a tent stake hammer to the head before he dozed off…

“Next download…”

Woke up with an even nastier headache and found he had sleep-typed it all down into his digital diary again. What a strange dream. It’s almost as if Junior is invading his dreams. Was it a dream? It seemed SO real, almost other dimensional. Scribe dreamed Junior really had ruled modestly, been humble, been a “uniter,” scorned nation building and delivered on his promise for a more limited role for government in the lives of its citizens.

The towers were still standing. Biggus Dickus was dead; having been caught by Sheriff Junior while consulting with his vendor and philosophical twin, Osama Whoseyourmoma over the plot to attack us. He was executed for his treasonous ways. It turned him on; as all violence does. He really was “Biggus” at the end. (The decision to electrocute him nude was a concession to the Nude Neo-Con Nylon Wearing Lobby headed by Newt Gangrenewitch. It was that or broadcast his ugly ass nationwide Saturday between cartoons. His voiceover: “Cum here kiddies, Uncle Newtie has something to show you. It’s a BIG surprise.”) The levys in New Orleans were so strong they could hold a whole fleet of Chevys and they were dry. And everyone had experienced Junior’s humble American pie. Therefore Junior really had been reelected. Diebold machines were still called Diebold. They didn’t have to change their name because they never started making vote terminating machines. They only made anytime tellers, sometime tellers and goTELLERSonthemountainsthatJESUSOHJESUSOHJESUSYOU’REGOODChristwasborn. That last one was an anytime teller for the now legalized prostitution trade. That was one of the many changes instituted to get that hairy stinky monkey of government intervention named “Jack,” off our backs, as Junior promised.

Is there really some alternate dimension where any of this is true? Would anybody, or even his own mind, expect Scribe to believe that stinky pile of horned goat shisen?

The only thing that made him wonder if it was real, however, was the result of the 04 campaign had been about the same. It just seemed to make sense because Kerry SUCKED as a campaigner. A boxer taking a poorly acted intentional dive would have been more convincing.

“Next download accessed…”

Damn, Scribe’s head still hurts, and the house is really beginning to smell. Better clean up soon. Probably a dead mouse left by Scribe’s red furred feline, Catsoup. Or did K-Blighine, his one eyed dog with an eye patch, mistake the fireplace for Scribe’s backyard?

Besides another weird dream, another trip to some senseless, pro-Junior/McSame/HMS, alternate dimension, Scribe woke up with a 700 billion dollar case of “traunch” mouth. That’s because he also “dreamed” he had been chained to a chair and forced to listen to endless hours our Reich Wing pundits and sheep-like Dems screaming that we have to give them Carl Sagan quantities of money away in corporate welfare with no questions asked. That’s right, “billions of billions.” Oh, wait, that wasn’t a dream. Scribe had just left his TV on Congressional hearings regarding the bailout.

Except when Scribe must have been briefly whisked away to an alternative dimension where the very much alive Carl showed up to complain he never really said “billions of billions” and bitch that aliens had kidnapped him and given him AIDs. That’s right, Carl really had made CONTACT.

“Last download…”

Note to Scribe. Head has stopped hurting. That’s the good news. Bad news: had to bury Santa in the back yard. What has Scribe been doing sleep-typing, sleep kidnapping and sleep slaughtering too? (Unlike sheep slaughtering which Scribe does in his spare time; or when he has… MUTTON… but time.) Was that “Carl” who claimed he had been kidnapped and given AIDS by aliens… actually… SANTA? Note to YOS: Make sure those suspicious reindeer stop sniffing around the backyard. Aim for the bright red nose first, cause Santa’s cross dressing (not so) DEAR: “Rudolph…” Ghouliani… must have been drinking AGAIN.

“Final notes on downloads…”

“Subject too independent, funny and thoughtful to be a good drone. We have enough on Earth anyway, or so our least competent drones report: both Republican, mentally challenged pundits like “I always shaking myself with my own” Hannity, and bend over Democrats. We await another report from a drone nicknamed; Rotted Moosemeat Mama. They will be assimilated. Resistance is futile. You will ALL eagerly serve Roveainia, King Junior and his clone-drone: McSame. Don’t believe us? Just ask FOX ‘News.'”

Scribe’s Smorg’s Biggus Dickus driven Caveats

“The Smorg collective has taken over this week’s Scribe end note too; a final fart splurt from that nano chip. Resistance is still futile. The Hatfields and the McCoys were feudal. An odd, gross punk-pink, couch is futon vile. The cornflakes are on another aisle. We are melting. We are melting. We will get you Scribe and your big dog K-Blighine too. We are… the… Ernest… Borg… Nine… Nein… Whine… nothing is so fine… as Carolina… in.. the… kitchen with the candlestick, or Scribe’s chim-chim-in-knee with a Smorg weapon constructed in Bimini…”

“That is all. Signing off now 010101010101013.14 and a half… HIKE!!!!!!!!!!”

By Ye Olde Scribe

Elderly curmudgeon who likes to make others laugh while giving the Reich Wing a rhetorical enema.

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