Surrender, Mister Ed!

I was absolutely besieged with well-wishers and others singing my praises yesterday for my post, "We Got Bin Laden, We'll Get Mister Ed." I'm actually a little tired today because I didn't get much sleep last night. Readers from many time zones around the world kept me up. It was exhausting, but also very gratifying. It meant a lot to me.

And, I had to chuckle, there were even a few readers from Hong Kong, Moscow, and Ecuador who basically wrote, saying, "Please, get him out of our country or city!" It seems like they're afraid he'll get a job in their country next, then compromise their security by too much stealing. It just goes to show, whatever your nationality and whatever your background, you're paranoid about the same things as me.

But yesterday's gone. Now it's today. So I thought, you know, maybe I'd go to the well one more time, since I love your praise. The memories of it, after all, are still clear in my mind. My right arm -- my dominant arm -- is sore from the fist pumping. But it's a pain that I enjoy, because of how I got it, by pleasing you. Does that make sense? I really think I'm on to something: All I have to do is find some famous scoundrel in the news and publicly take him to task. And my blog really takes off! It's sort of devious, I know ... [devilish grin].

OK --- THIS IS AN OPEN BLOG POST TO MISTER ED, MY MANE MAN. LISTEN UP, MISTER ED! LISTEN TO ME AND COME OUT, WITH YOUR HOOVES IN PLAIN SIGHT. SHAKE 'EM, LET'S SEE THOSE FETLOCKS!

Mister Ed, I know you used to read my blog. You told me so that time you downloaded every entry of every blog on the internet and put them in everyone's individual file. As you recall, I was irate. The government I could handle. But you threatened to show it to my minister, thereby threatening me with excommunication. That was despicable. But I paid you off, and after a few months, it all went away. I can only assume you still visit here occasionally, although now that you're on the run, no doubt you have only stolen moments for savoring it.

So I will be brief. Mister Ed, all horsing around aside, the time has come for you to give yourself up. Do not make them have to capture you. If you give yourself up, that will be seen as a goodwill gesture, and things will be easier for you. They might even give you greener pastures. Only, please, whatever you do, for God's sake, give yourself up before you ruin our relations with the Ecuadorans. From there the dominoes could only topple, and we'd lose Mauritania, Togo, Texas, and the tiny island nation of Podunkia.

Honestly, Mister Ed, wither or not you'd admit it, you should've known better than to have (allegedly) stolen all our national secrets, including, you bastard, my data from the NSA, detailing all my alleged misdeeds, the foremost of which would have to be my spotty calls to my mom. I know the rap: You must be a terrible son, calling as infrequently as you do. And there she sits, with several diseases, staring almost hopelessly at the phone. And I know there's some stranger stuff in my file. Like when I called Al Qaeda. I swear, my call was nothing more than to ask them how they managed to have their name start with a "Q" and it's not followed by a "U." I didn't know that was allowed. It should be Al Quaeda, like that.

But enough about me. The government actually wants to geld you for showing the vulnerabilities of the NSA, that it's apparently overseen by three monkeys, See No, Hear No, and Speak No Evil. Whether they even have locks on the doors has not been established. They might've been "locking" the place with duct tape left over from the Bush administration. For you to have carried out over 2 million documents without a hint of suspicion sounds like quite a feat. I'm thinking back to that time I ripped one measly MP3 file off a neighbor's CD at 3 o'clock in the morning in the middle of the Sahara Desert, and the FBI was right there to pick me up, staying true to their warning label.

Do I relish the fact that you're in big trouble? you're wondering. You're damned right I do! It couldn't happen to a worse guy, after how you threatened me. And all my loyal readers -- you screwed them over too! Let's just say, you're something less than a thoroughbred... OK, Mister Ed, you get the message. Give yourself up today.

Bolt Upright In The Night

Thank God for government snooping. It helps me get to sleep at night and get my rest. Let me explain.

At one time, I would be sleeping, then dreaming, with the noises of the night mixed in. A truck goes by and clunks its load on the bump in the road. It's a critical moment in my dream, and I bolt upright in the bed. I'm in a terrible sweat, breaking into one, I'm shaking, and even itching. (If I wear long johns in the summer, my legs tend to itch.)

After much stirring, I get back to sleep. Then I start dreaming about a mountain of bills. A mountain of bills, things you could never pay even were you to have a good job. I'm stewing away over it: I might lose my credit rating, my game toe might get better and I'll lose my disability, I might lose the house! I bolt upright in the bed, a horrendous sweat breaking out everywhere.

I try to sleep, but sleep doesn't come. The whole night's terror continues to drill into my mind. I'm even praying now, "God, be merciful to me, a poor sleeper." Again, I'm stewing over it in my mind, all that could happen: Burglars are very stealthy; there could already be one in the house; Underbrush, my dog, has virtually lost her hearing, she won't bark. Car thieves are out there, too. And someone might be stealing the copper from my air conditioner. I'm not even asleep but I bolt upright, then get up and go to the bathroom and change my sweaty clothes and sheets.

Back in bed, I'm worried over my health. There's a few new aches and pains everyday. But I manage to doze off. The health concerns have now morphed into a terrible dream. There's monks flagellating themselves and trying to get me to take up flagellating. I, who think flagellating is totally stupid! But they convince me, so there I am, beating myself to death with chains. It's making me dizzy, I'm passing out, I see the signs of death everywhere. My arteries are clogged, I've got scrofula, halitosis, catarrh, rheumatism, and dropsy. And to make it worse, I'm getting a bad doctor's report. The terror builds ... I bolt upright in bed.

Once I get back to sleep, everything has shifted. Now my dream is of people on my trail. They're all trying to corner me in some way. I have few options left. I'm telling morphing inquisitors -- morphing from kindly priests to horror film beasts -- "Yes, yes, I'm guilty and everyone knows it!" There's two figures, like the Spy vs. Spy characters, with big beaks, and they're leading me to a field of bubbling tar pits, where they raise knives to stab me and dispose of me still alive. I bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath, hot tar everywhere.

At this point, I really feel like I need to work on my prayer life. But none of it helps. Then I remember, "God damn it, I live in a country where security is Number 1, top of the line, grade A. The government is keeping track of everything and everyone, and that includes me. They've got eyes in the sky, eyes in the street, eyes in the hills. They know what I've done, who I've met with, and what we've planned -- all quite innocent. No one, and nothing, is going to get me. I don't have to worry about it. Thank goodness -- seriously, thank goodness -- for that kind of security, both personal and the security we enjoy as a nation.

I consider it like that, the facts, and as I do, a great warmth descends upon me. From my feet to my head and back again, I feel the warmth. It's pervasive, a great warmth even though I'm not sweating. It is comfort, a feeling of complete comfort, like being in my dear mother's arms, little footies on my feet. And a drop seat in the butt should I need it. I find myself going into that blessed stage just before sleep, and all is well. I drift happily, then, easily into full sleep. Safe and restful, sleep, sleep, sleep.

Things You Can Still Do Without The Government Knowing

What in the fark was I doing losing it anyway? Except that 9/11 happened, everyone (you know the sort) got frightened, at at least pretended to, and next time you went to open a savings account you were treated like a terrorist. Because if one person in a cave (we thought) in Afghanistan was a terrorist, maybe we all were. It got so bad we even had various litmus tests. I went to a gas station where they wouldn't sell you fries if you asked for French fries. Seriously.

Now, in the last few weeks, there's been revelations that all our phone records are a matter of top secret information-gathering on the part of the government. I wasn't shocked. I thought that was happening already, that and more. There's nothing in the world I wouldn't put past them. And when that's true, just let your imagination run wild. Certainly we know our every move is tracked or traceable, with video cameras everywhere, the trail of cell phones, internet usage, ebooks, cloud drives, bank withdrawals, etc. And even if it's not the "government" doing it, we know they have instant access to it any time they want, as in, and legitimately so, the Boston bombing.

So, alas, those were the good old days, those thrilling days of yesteryear, back when we went around pretty much without a trace. No cell phone. If you were a block from home you might be anywhere. The only video cameras were the ones Action News used, which you never saw. And so forth.

But surely -- you gotta be kidding me -- there have to still be things you could do without the government knowing. Although, if you're willing to toss in informants everywhere, heat-seeking devices (like in Boston), and various bugs, it looks like it's getting pretty tough. So we'll say these are things you could still do without the government necessarily knowing.

Library book sale -- Of course if the government wanted you to know if you went to the library book sale, that'd be easy. You traveled public roads and paid with a debit card. But they don't necessarily know what you bought. There's a couple of checkout ladies, who seem fairly nosy about what you've got, but they're being more friendly than anything. You could buy something from this checkout lady, then something from that one, etc., until you worked your way through the whole box.

Silent prayer in the garage -- Silent prayer is always best anywhere. It's closer to actual meditation, closer from making a production of things before the Divine. Who are you trying to impress? My thought is, naturally the house is bugged, if anything is. But they don't know you're going to be in the garage. Then if you do choose to pray silently there's really nothing for a bug to pick up. I don't know of any current technology that picks up silent prayer. How God manages it? God's the ultimate snoop, I guess.

Drink coffee at coffee places after paying with change -- Again, you're on video getting there. And you might have bugs in your clothes. And your money might be marked. But it's conceivable that you could go to a coffee place, let's say with change. Dollar bills have serial numbers, change doesn't. Who you meet there could be dicey. Personally, I wouldn't meet anyone. They might be informants. And the coffee lady, she might be one. Drinking coffee at home might be safer. If you must go out, drink it as fast as possible and get the hell out.

Dreaming -- It's obvious. This is like silent prayer. They're not going to know what you're dreaming. Unless you're stupid enough to write it in a Dream Journal, which New Age magazines suspiciously always give away as subscriber premiums. Hmm. As for me, I dream a lot but I don't remember them clearly after the first few waking moments. I met a guy a few weeks ago who said he never dreams, which I take to be either an outright lie or he's mistaken. Now, though, on reflection, I'm thinking maybe he thought I was an informant.

Listen to music -- I'm putting this on the list even though I know it's tricky. You will need an old fashioned CD player. Even a record player won't do, because the vibrating stylus is easy to bug. Your player can't have Bluetooth either. And your ear-buds have to be completely inserted, no gaps. Then you'll need to play it at the absolute minimal volume. Of course, any MP3 is encoded with identifying information, especially if you're getting it off a Cloud source. The best recommendation here is to be discrete and to avoid guilty pleasures, just in case.

Picking your nose on a boat -- If you're on an open boat, thanks to telescopes, it wouldn't even be a matter of privacy to pick your nose and toss it to the fish. They might even see the very minimal ripple on the water and charge you with littering. But if you had a houseboat, you could go inside, allowing for all the usual rules of bugging and video devices perhaps being present, turn out the lights, pretend you were silently praying, then pick your nose and palm it. Then, with the appearance of washing something off your hand, you let it go, and the fish get it. If the fish shows up at the shore, opening its mouth with the picking on its tongue, bearing witness to a game warden, you're on your own! I used to go fishing with Grandpa, who had the greatest luck by merely farting on his bait. But Grandpa lived in a different era, when you could get away with that. Thanks to the Patriot Act and the NSA, I've quit farting all together.

Visit my blog -- No, you can't visit this blog without leaving a trail. They know you've been here, and obviously I know you've been here. You know that little camera on your computer? That's right, straighten your hair a bit ... what a mess. Why look so quizzical? I can see your hair and everything else. Including the old Sitting Bull poster on your wall and that stack of erotica on the shelf. You've been a bad boy. You've offended my sensibilities...I'll be reporting you. Sitting Bull, wasn't he an enemy of the U.S. Government in his day? You don't think they've forgotten, do you? Now you're palling around with him! And as for the erotica, we know what that's all about. There's a heat-detecting sensor built into your bed. And they've charted some interesting heating/cooling cycles when you're in bed, right before you're dreaming and "forgetting" your dreams. You're busted!

Something Put Him In An Early Grave

This is about a friend of mine, the late Q------ Wiswell, who was never married yet somehow found himself put in an early grave. He was 42, a young age to die at.

I've given it a lot of thought, and I'm wondering what it might have been that was responsible for his premature demise. It's a sad thing when people die, especially people with any degree of closeness to me.

I met Quentin in church. Of course church is where a lot of healthy people go. They're known for keeping their lives square not only with the Lord but with man. So they're not given to various excesses that so often spell tragedy for those outside the fold. And yet he died ... and I never heard an actual reason why ... Just a bunch of whispers. 

What might it have been? Why would "Q" have died so early? Maybe he was living a secret life. That happens, you know. Folks aren't always what they seem to be; sometimes they're quite a bit different.

Could it have been a secret life of gambling and debt? There's lots of people who play the ponies or bet on sports or are addicted to card games and one-armed bandits who die early. Because they're not frugal with their money. They get in deep with the wrong crowd. And before you know it, their money's gone, and so are they! But I never knew "Q" to gamble, and he always seemed to have enough money. He gave me a nickel for a parking meter one time.

Could it have been a secret life of drugs and alcohol? I despise it when people get hooked on all this crap. They think they're having a good time, which probably they are, until it's too late. You start taking that shit and you'll always be chasing the first high. Unless you only drink wine for your heart. But I never once smelled anything on "Q" or noticed any odd staggering.

Could it have been a secret life of treachery and espionage against his country? It's doubtful. You hear of double agents and spies who turn on their country for money or ideological reasons. But I was at his place several times and never saw any weird insignias, flags, microfilm, carved pumpkins, etc. Plus, I was at his funeral and saw his body. He wasn't beheaded, so he was clean in this area.

Could it have been a secret life of womanizing? It might have been! I probably shouldn't tell tales, but I did actually see him once going into a club well known as a hangout for women taking their clothes off, called strippers. The imagination runs wild. I can well imagine these cute girls taking off their clothes a bit at a time, say a piece and a half for every song on the jukebox. Or, to be more exotic, a classier lady with props -- boas, scarves, a shag rug, or a playful dog puppet, sniffing around -- taking it all off in a classier way. The first girl, she's just stripping for a quick carnal excitement. The exotic lady actually puts the tease in striptease! That's what leaves you wanting more, not someone just moving mechanically (and sometimes lethargically) toward stark nudity.

It is very well likely that "Q" died from watching too many bad strippers. That would put me in an early grave, too.

I Meet The Government's Top Shadow

It might have been a bad idea for me to run the post, "The Government Is Keeping Track Of You." Just because it's true, and just because everyone knows it's true, doesn't mean they like us talking about it. With the constant surveillance I'm under, it only took them a week to track me down.

They made arrangements to meet me, they thought. A car would pull up and I would get in. The signal of my agreement would be a potted plant in my yard. Sounds simple enough, except I always have a potted plant in my yard, several of them. I saw the car pull up, but I tried to hide. I backed into the shadows and suddenly felt hands around my neck.

The next thing I knew they had a black bag over my head and I was going on the ride of my life, as they were going at least three miles per hour over the speed limit at all times. I had no idea where we were headed, except my innate sense of direction told me we headed for the northeast part of town, probably an old warehouse I know out there.

They were a friendly bunch, because they took the black bag off just long enough for me to catch a sporting glimpse of the door, giving me the chance to snap a picture of it with the micro camera I recently had embedded in my left eye. It was painful as hell, but I get some great shots, mostly cleavage you'd never get with an ordinary camera.

Inside, they put me through several metal detectors, extracted the last four digits of my "Social," and even managed to worm out of me my mother's maiden name, a matter of public record. The weirdest thing they did was frisk me for flashlights and searchlights. I was to find out why very shortly...

Naturally, I thought they'd haul me in front of a strange bureaucratic figure, a guy with a greasy curl on his forehead, rotating Chinese gong balls in his hand. But that wasn't it at all. Instead, this was nothing but a shadow sitting in a chair, occasionally shifting and moving the chair to let me know he was really there. He had a hat on the desk that he moved once in a while to let me know the chair shifting wasn't just an effect. I came to discern that his various movements expressed his moods: 1) Up and down, good terms; 2) Slammed down, upset; 3) Totally crushed and frisbee'd into the fireplace, more upset.

Of course he was saying things, asking me obscure questions about what I knew and how I knew it. I was sweating, going out of my mind about my possible offenses and whether they knew them all. I knew a polygraph test would sink me, a lie detector would be my end. Mentally, I ran over the full list making up my guilt. Good God, was it that bad? That time ... and that other time ... and, worse, the other time, very major. And that was just the harmless stuff.

He questioned and I was evasive. The hat went up and down. He continued, more persistently, but I refused his inquiries. He slammed the hat against the desk. He huffed and puffed and really questioned me, but I figured, this is the time to clam up. And there went the hat, with a puff of fire flaring up.

Maybe he had me, but maybe I had him. But my confidence was starting to drain away, because I had the thought, There's no way these guys are going to give up. With my confidence leaving, I felt a ton of paranoia settle on me. With a shadow in the chair, I couldn't be sure that other shadows in the room weren't conscious, even the ones my own legs made; they could be extensions of his, or leakages. He might have been full of shadow spores, being propagated left and right. I felt darkness coming over me, thanks to there being no real center to him.

Then it was nearly over, although I didn't know it at the time. He dropped the questioning and just chuckled. Then he spoke again, but now in "uhs" and "duhs" and "tut-tuts" -- verbal filler -- giving me very little to go on as I mentally searched for any kind of meaning.

Finally, we came to an understanding, that I wouldn't mention any of this to anyone, that I wouldn't write about it on my blog, etc. If I would agree to those simple terms, we would resume our stalemate. I agreed to his terms.

No Call!

Well, 10 o'clock has come and gone, and no crank call. That's good news.

And surely it's a benefit from The Power of Positive Thinking. Mental power proves itself once again to be transformative!

I doubled down on good thoughts, banishing anxiety. Mentally I arranged a scapegoat to take my fears far into the desert, laying all my griefs upon his sorry hide. I brought my hands together in the classic Praying Hands pose for a time of positive meditation. And as the witching hour of 10 o'clock neared I crossed the fingers of both hands, mentally officiating as the Holy Priest at a sacred marriage (hierosgamos) of feminine and masculine intercessors, one hand as King's X and the other as his queenly consort. Just a little technique I know that occasionally works.

As the seconds ticked down toward 10 o'clock I raced through a positive memory of every good deed I've ever done, calling in karmic favors from every spirit on the block. Helping Grandma with her bathing, helping Grandma with her meals, helping Grandma with dressing, tending her bedsores; you get the idea. Then magic words, sacred syllables of glossalalia I've heard in church. Shondola! Then I went through a list of angelic figures I happen to know from the Pseudepigrapha and Gnostic texts. I was so thorough I even included Eilo the overseer of testicles. And all the way up to Metatron himself! By now my spirit's on fire, and were I even to touch the phone it would certainly zap and render impotent and sterile anyone else on the other end. Too bad he didn't call!

I simply don't believe in being morose or leaving these matters to chance. For me, it's all a matter of rising up in righteous power and indignation. Even as I write this post, my monitor is shorting out and doing a lot of blinking. The power's easier to turn on than turn off. I'm even licking my fingers to try and neutralize some of the sparks but it only helps for a short period. But monitors and keyboards can be easily replaced. I could mow some neighbors' yards and get money to buy this stuff. Or check out the thrift stores and garage sales -- there's lots of good computer bargains to be had, if you're on the lookout. Of course if you have beaucoup bucks -- well, let me move on.

The long and short of this story is that every single one of my efforts paid off! There was no fail! And there was no call! The guy did not call! He did not dare! LOL, ha ha!

"I know where you go, and I know what you do there." [Raising two of my longer sparking fingers in his general direction] Well, here's something else for you to know, Loser, and you also know what you can do with 'em! Sit on 'it!

Please please please

I am delicately unnerved, as you can well imagine. My prayer is "Please don't call, please don't call." Let me abide unperplexed in peace, within the sanctity of my own circle and realm. I need not a minder picking up clues as to my whereabouts.

I'm Being Spied On

I'm nervous to write here anymore. But I'm going to put at least this one last thing -- call it a cry for help, or whatever. Something to document the straits I find myself in in case something happens to me. If something happens to me, be very aware of this and mark it well, there is a 104-year-old woman who could die without proper care.

The thing is, I'm being spied on, watched, apparently monitored around the clock. I haven't seen the guy and I don't know who he is. But he's out there somewhere, perhaps very close. I know because he's called me and muttered some things in the phone, then hung up. That gravelly, devious voice is etched on my memory.

It's all very devious to do, I think, especially without him stating his motive and plan and what it might take to satisfy him. At this point, I'm barely able to think straight, just being freaked out in several awesome ways. And I don't freak out easily unless circumstances are not calm. I should have just put it out of my mind. Maybe it will be a wrong number. I haven't done anything, seriously that I know of. So why am I being marked out? Is it just a big mistake on someone's part? Or have they set a dragnet, spread one to weed out the guilty from the innocent? Who can know?

The call has appeared two nights in a row, about 10 p.m., a terrible time for the phone to be ringing. I'm tremulous that it will happen again and again, a third night. Then what can I do? In a way I feel that I don't really dare do anything, except show a bright hope that I won't be singled out forever. Maybe he'll get tired of this interesting game and tell himself to quit, or move on to someone more guilty than I. I have done not anything that I know of, yet it's freakish to be accused by someone with authority who claims certain knowledge.

That's what he said, though, and that was the extent of our time. "I know where you go, and I know what you do there." What? Where? What do I do there? How does anyone know? There's nothing to know. But if he could be more specific. Does he want money? A confession? A payoff? For me to come clean? I can't come clean if the charges are clouded. There's a whole veil pulled over the whole situation. Where I go and what I do there is really nobody's business, except those who serve and those who are served. Except if someone makes it his business, which appears to be what's happening, by one with inside information.

Is there a video tape? That's the crux of my fear. If I go to the authorities and he steps forward with video tape, that would ruin me. I could be sent up for life, and marked. I could be made a laughingstock. The best course is to say nothing. And whatever evidence I can find, destroy. Let it all vanish in an instant, swallowed up and forgotten.

I have done nothing. I have no idea what any of this is about.