Russian Spies At The Rodeo

 

Part 21 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

One of the darkest episodes of intrigue and international skullduggery took place -- believe it or not -- in Mam and Pap’s rodeo, with closely guarded secrets of the rodeo potentially a target. They were victimized by the Russians more than most. Those were very dark days, with many patriotic Americans memorizing bits of American trivia to keep the feds from accusing everyone. We didn't complain, really, because if the rodeo's not safe, what is? But we were careful, because you couldn't know too much or you were obviously a spy. I remember being very interested in the latest gossip but couldn't ask much or I'd be accused. So you can see, even going to the rodeo a lot carried some risk.

There was this one dude (pictured) who insinuated himself into the rodeo and it all seemed quite innocent. And maybe it was. I’m certainly no one’s judge and jury, although I do make snap judgments with the best of them. You look at him. Take one look at this beady-eyed glasses-wearing, unsmiling, hat-suspiciously-tidy scoundrel and see if your skin doesn't crawl. What secrets was he snapping up and radioing ahead to mother Moscow? Some of course refused to believe it — dumb people who think rascals can’t thrive under their own noses — but as soon as I heard one peep about it I personally judged the whole case an obvious scandal.

If careful skullduggery was the Russians’ modus operandi they must’ve taken us for some real saps to think we couldn’t pick up the clues. Look at the guy! He's obviously taken more by Trotsky than a trot becoming a canter. And look at his wife and kid. If I need to spell it out for you, please check your allegiance to the red, white, and blue. When you have a wife like that shamelessly insinuating herself where the national secrets are kept, think about it. And does the daughter look like the average American kid? What do they even call those Russian hats? Something, like the head-equivalent of a parka. And the gun’s self-explanatory.

They kept a lot of this quiet, but the feds descended on Mam and Pap’s show. And our friend Mr. Romanov tried to cover his tracks by crying like a baby and insisting he was a loyal American having fulfilled the typical American wish-list, a dog, a wife, a daughter, and his own mule. I don’t know if that’s what the Russians really believe, but my Grandpa worked three jobs before he got his own mule, although since then mule ownership has become much more common, thankfully, since we have enough other problems to waste our time on.

It was a sad day — though for a few hours definitely a great clash of two civilizations — when Mam & Pap’s show came that close, just a hair’s breadth, from full nuclear meltdown. As it turned out, not one animal was harmed and not one rodeo secret compromised. Everything was dealt with and the investigations were by the book. Whatever nuclear devices were found later among Romanov’s affects were meticulously buried outside the town. I haven’t heard lately but I believe on a clear night if you’re on a flight over that area you can still see a low-level mysterious orange glow.

February -- The Mysteries of Weird

Don't you think it's amazing -- showing what a gracious guy I am -- that I celebrated Valentine's Day yesterday without once mentioning my grievances against the month of February? I think that's pretty good, and I'm assigning one gold star for myself. I told myself I'd let February pass for one day, then the next day lay into it again. (I'm trying to destroy February as a month.)

Speaking of Valentine's Day, and I'm going to add President's Day to the mix, it's hard for me to believe that a short, shrimpy, nothing-little-month like February somehow wrangled these two important franchises. I would seriously think these would be observed at a more distinguished time, like March. Except for Spring, March doesn't have many holidays.

But President's Day works like this: Abraham Lincoln was born on February 12. We used to celebrate his birth, a great president who worked like a dog to overcome the February curse. And George Washington was born twice in February! Seriously, check out his Wiki page. First, under the Old Style of the calendar he was born Feb. 11, 1731. Then over a year later he was born on Feb. 22, 1732! Unlike his fellow president, Lincoln, Washington had twice as much to overcome. But he made a vow -- deemed foolish at the time -- that he would be the first president of the United States, then he made it happen. Inspiring.

Or was it? Did either of these men actually become president in any honest way, or was it all someone behind the scenes, knowing how history would work out, pulling the strings to make it happen? I would suggest that the evidence is suggestive, suggesting some shenanigans. Really, what's the chances that Washington and Lincoln, two of our greatest presidents, should come along and actually be elected? What I'm really saying is that both men were probably involved with the Illuminati, who somehow have control of the strings of time and fate. The implication is they became involved with the Illuminati, but resisted and were briefly found to be unworthy. But when they ingratiated themselves again with the Illuminati, they had to settle for President's Day being in February. Making two strikes against Lincoln and three against Washington.

The two men then conferred, Washington saying, "The average people think of February as any other month." Lincoln agreed. And so, ever since, presidents have generally escaped the full berating for their many failings. This whole arrangement took the heat off future presidents, who could now say, "Yeah, but Washington and Lincoln were both born in February." Speaking of scandal. The truth is the Illuminati are always five moves ahead of the people, and the people are always ten moves behind them. There's no sanctity to anything, only evil scandal and no one with the cajones (or brains) to do anything about it.

I've been looking at this for a number of years. In those years I've said many times, more times than I can count in hindsight, "The Illuminati wouldn't be the Illuminati if they weren't doing Illuminati-type of things. This is just one more thing in their despicable in-your-face dealings. Their motto is, quite frankly, 'Take it or leave it.'" When you find you're over a barrel, that's the Illuminati. When you're painted in the corner, that the Illuminati. When you're all twisted up inside, with a fever and heartburn, that could be anything. But everything else is the Illuminati.

I need to study the Illuminati more, because they're tied in with February, as already illustrated. Still, I'd like to get to the bottom of their mumbo jumbo and find out what makes them tick. It's gotta be something, to keep them in business century after century, yanking everyone's chain, even power players like Washington and Lincoln. As I understand it, they're the ones we have to thank for eyeballs on pyramids (as seen on the dollar bill), the Washington Monument as a national phallic idol, and Betsy Ross' original circular arrangement of stars on the flag. They're big into circles, on the flag -- liking non-linearity -- and their work probably includes crop circles.

Time forbids me to list their many invasions into everyday life. I call it, however, "THE MYSTERIES OF WEIRD," taking the word "WEIRD" as a kind of proclamation that they are God. Such as "WE (that is to say I) R Deity. Toys R Us? No, We R God! Weird. Certainly they've been around long enough, we may as well call them eternal, so maybe they're right.

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!

DNA Tells The Truth -- Lassie Was A Collie!

Thanks to my enrollment in an obedience school for dogs, and something of a happy accident as a result of my enrollment, I have finally been able to clear up a mystery that's kept the world guessing for decades: What was Lassie anyway? What kind of dog?

I grew up watching "Lassie," and I have to say, I always thought I knew dogs. But Lassie was a total mystery. In part -- and I believe this with all my heart -- it was a mystery encouraged and perpetuated by the producers of the show. They knew there would be more interest, more buzz, if they kept it up in the air and kept us guessing. We'd eagerly tune in looking for clues, while from the producers' point of view, we'd also be watching the ads, so they could rake in the big bucks.

Actually -- and this is the sad part -- it worked! The producers exploited a poor, innocent dog, feeding the sad creature table scraps, and it was lucky to get that, while they themselves rolled in piles of money and selfishly smoked big cigars, never once sharing them with their star. We the viewing public were so caught up in the mystery and fantasy, being so fascinated with Lassie, that, ironically, we bear some responsibility for the poor dog's fate.

As to our guilt, of course at this point we can't do anything about it. Just repent and hope we'll be more discerning the next time someone comes up with a dog show. But people are funny. I can see us falling for the same damned thing, for the most part because we're ignorant. And Hollywood's always got a razor up to our family jewels, and if we're not immediately discerning, then whoops, they're gone again!

Anyway, I've always heard over the years, after the general interest in the mystery died down, that there was still one entity that didn't let it go. And you might guess who that might be, the United States government, of course! There's more to this story. One, we all heard that Lassie was played by numerous dogs, anywhere between five and six separate dogs! I personally never believed it, trusting my eyes over the propaganda: Lassie always looked precisely the same. And, two, that Lassie was a male dog, although Timmy always called her "Girl." Who should we believe, Timmy, who was right there on the scene, or anonymous people very likely with their heads up their asses?

So let's say it was very clear that Lassie was just one dog and a female. This is where we can see the government at work. If there's five or six different Lassies, and if we can't trust an innocent child to know his own dog's sex, that's just the government trying to confuse the real issue: What kind of dog was Lassie?

OK, being recently enrolled at the obedience school, after the other dogs were all picked up and the schoolmarm, Mrs. Biscuit, left for the day, I stayed behind, hiding. In her office, the file cabinets were miraculously unlocked, where I found what I was looking for, a folder marked "Top Secret," with a strange code work: "LASSIE," which to me spelled, "PAYDIRT." This is it, the actual government file, cleverly hidden in an obscure obedience school file drawer, where no one (but me) might expect to find it!

Imagine how my fingers must have been trembling, with the convulsions working their way through my body like an earthquake, as I opened the file. And there it was! I won't go into great detail, except to say, yes, Lassie was only one dog and was female! With her death -- itself surrounded by mysterious circumstance -- she was taken to an Air Force lab near Dayton, Ohio, and there she lies today! Extensive DNA testing was performed on the remains, with one unmistakable, wonderful conclusion headlining all the others: Lassie was a collie! Oh my God, now I knew, a collie! Of course!

I got the hell out of the office, never to return, and I was frantic. What can I do? They'll catch and kill me! I need to get this report out to the world! I drove and drove all night, fighting to keep my eyes open, hoping the government wasn't trailing me. Finally, I ran out of gas right next to this computer that just happened to be set by the side of the road, where I'm typing up this report for the world and am about to hit PUBLISH.

Where's All The Trash Compactors?

SUPER CHEAP TRASH COMPACTORS FOR ALL!

Friends, I have a trash compactor: My foot scrunching it down to save money on trash bags! I know, I know, very grim humor.

Like everyone, I too looked forward to a bright future of electric trash compactors for everyone. Where your garbage would be smashed down about the size of a grape. We really wanted that "brave new world" of very tiny trash (Alvin Toffler, Aldous Huxley.) Making it a true "future shock" when it didn't happen.

I don't know for sure what happened. I haven't seen an authoritative report on the subject for years. Whether everyone forgot what they promised, or it was found not to be feasible, or there was some other more sinister reason, this is what I don't know. I could let my mind wander ahead of me and conceive what might have happened, but I hate to rouse forces that are too powerful for me once exposed.

For now, I'll just pretend that I think it's a case of forgetting or the idea not being feasible. It's too dangerous to suggest something more sinister, although naturally the mind can barely help spotting a conspiracy. Just like cars that were supposed to have such fuel efficiency we'd only stop at a gas station once a month. Although I can almost see the logic to that conspiracy, since gas stations would never be able to stay in business, then when we needed one once a month, there wouldn't be any.

The fact that we don't all have our own trash compactor might be similar. Who makes the big huge dump trucks that pick up the big huge trash? The car companies, the same industry! They make big money at it. If we all had trash compactors, then any little entrepreneur with a push cart could make a sweep through town and pick it up himself. Then there's all the others with a vest interest in keeping garbage big: garbage bag manufacturers, city workers, tire makers for the trucks, etc. Even recyclers are in on it! Since they want their garbage pristine, many not even accepting flattened cans!

The government itself might be involved. And my opinion on every conspiracy is the same: If the government might be involved, they definitely are. Because these are always the guys with the best access to the strings from which everything else dangles. I myself could serve as a microcosm of what's going on, thinking back to the year I got the marionettes for Christmas. When you haven't got them, you're very content not to play with them; you don't know any different. But when you get them, you can't help playing with them and making them jump. So it is in government.

We all thought things were going to get better when the year 2000 got here, rich and poor alike. A trash compactor for $29 or cheaper! But we all saw how that worked out. The "future" was exactly the same as the "past," a scarcity of trash compactors and no push to do anything about it.

Bearded Men Never Get Them Wet

You've probably noticed this, you've never seen a bearded man when it's raining.

It took me a while to realize it, but I've never personally had a beard so I haven't been privy to this information. But the more I looked around, the more suspicious I became.

And I can think back, like to college. Anytime there was the slightest chance of rain, guess who'd be absent? The one or two guys with beards. And ask yourself, have you ever been to a wedding where the groom fails to show up, and you know he has a beard and it's raining? Maybe the bride doesn't even know what's going on. There she was, all packed up and ready to go, a fresh set of sheets in the trunk, and the Bearded Wonder stood her up!

The more popular my blog becomes, the more connections I'm been able to make. And in this case, one day I put the word out, all very hush hush, that I wanted to do a story on the subject. At first, it was like I trying to get the combination to Fort Knox; everyone darted their eyes, people left the room, and an especially devout barista crossed herself. The hush was deafening, I had to leave.

But a friend followed me and motioned me into an alley, whispering to meet him later at such and such a place at the fire escape in back, to bundle up in a coat so I was disguised, and to come alone. He knew a guy with a beard who might be open to talking -- he had a terminal illness and nothing left to lose -- and since we were expecting rain that afternoon, he'd have to be home. Of course I was nervous, but I went. Up the stairs we climbed. He knocked a coded knock and we were escorted in. They frisked me for any water I might've had on me, then led me to an inner chamber. A bearded man with an IV sat wasting away.

He was actually eager to talk, and quickly spilled the truth that water is lethal to a beard of any length. If you go wet/dry, wet/dry, wet/dry, you've only got a limited number of times you can do it. There's no guarantees and there's no do-overs. Keeping a beard dry never hurts it, but if goes from wet to dry, there's something about the whiskers that makes them constrict. Then, without air being able to circulate through them, they mat and tighten up around the throat, often suffocating the wearer. Even a shorter beard can constrict so tightly that the face pulls in and shrivels up to about the size and texture of a walnut.

I asked, "What about taking a shower?" He waved it off as an impossibility. "What about taking a bath?" He said, yes, they can bathe, if -- and this is a big IF -- if they use strict precautions. Such as, naturally, keeping the water shallow and their beards as far from it as possible. Obviously, they can't wash their hair, etc. I started putting two and two together and asked if they could go swimming. He said that was a big NO, because the same principle was at work: Getting the beard wet in a swimming pool would present the same identical problem as a bathtub, rain, water balloon fights, and squirt guns. I nodded, as if to say, "Just as I suspected, but thank you for clarifying."

With the interview essentially over -- I got what I came for -- I asked my source why it was all such a big secret? The fire escape, the disguises, etc. The answer was it came down to pride. Beard wearers like to think they're hot stuff. The beard gives them that professorial look. They tend to drink wine, smoke pipes, read books with footnotes, and wear outdated, baggier suits, all very intellectual. I know I for one hate getting into an argument with a guy wearing a beard, because I know he's going to show me up in front of everyone. So it's pride. But, like Samson, their power's in their beard, but their beard is so vulnerable, their supposed superiority is all a sham!

We bid each other a respectful goodbye. I went forth knowing that now I could even the playing field with all these Bearded Wonders. Who knows -- who really knows? -- when I might just be in a restaurant and get clumsy with a pitcher of water when one walks by? "Oh, sorry!" I'll say, as he goes running for the shears!

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THE PICTURE is of Vol Tapley in 1897, whose beard was 9 foot, 2 inches long. Some sources say 11 foot. I'd love to go back in time and give him a good dousing and watch him shrivel up to nothing!