Henry David Thoreau: Bitch Slappin’ Pimp

When I want a serious simulation of violence I head to the game room. There is no better way to go on a blind, murderous rampage than to plug in any number of first-person shooter games. Grand Theft Auto. Thrill Kill. Bullet to the Head. Me Pull Trigger, You Burst Open Sticky…stuff like that. There are a ton of options. The meaning of real life may be elusive, but when the meaning of a game is to carjack as many old ladies as you can, knock them over the head and use their meager social security money to get lap dances at the virtual strip club, a man is finally free from the lingering existential ambiguities of actual life. Nothing makes me happier at the end of a long day of computerized blood-letting on scorched city streets than to have a stripper twerking above me and my champagne bottle.

While I enjoy a good virtual spree killing, I am also a fan of classical literature.

So happy was I to see an advertisement for a game based on Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden.” Finally, I thought. The one thing I had been missing from my indiscriminate gunning down of random citizens was the meticulous philosophy of a nineteenth century transcendentalist who sought to “live deliberately.”

I was in a hurry that day and didn’t have time to actually read the particulars of the new game, and in a sense I didn’t need to. I have long considered myself somewhat of a Thoreau expert. My alternative interpretations of his ideas on solitude, economy and frugality are all the rage in America’s prison system. Felons write to me all the time, telling me that my explanations of solitude (or, don’t fuck with me), economy (or don’t touch my shit), and frugality (or don’t use all this shit at once) has really helped them do their hard time with a healthy perspective. I heard they were going to have a prison riot out in Corcoran in honor of me, but the guards got wise and the bloods were pelted with rubber bullets. They will try again, they assure me, as I also counsel about the importance of perseverance.

In the Walden game the character sets about implementing a life of solitude and quiet meditation at Walden pond, outside of Concord, Massachusetts. The character learns to relax and find harmony in the rural surroundings. In the first stage the character spends his time hoeing his garden, his beans and potatoes, all while quotes and suggestions by Thoreau himself are displayed across the bucolic setting. Then what happens, though, in the second stage, is that the character gets fed up with all this sitting around. He decides that there are two ways to enjoy solitude. One is to travel away from the public. The other is to singlehandedly gun down huge swaths of people with automatic weapons. As the game gets more violent, sinister and intense, Thoreau promises, in a voice that gets deeper and deeper, to build his serenity on a road of bones. When a first-person shooter executes an entire community, they will have all the solitude they need. Instead of hoeing a row of beans in the first part, the second part of the game is dedicated to beaning “a row of ho,” slapping them upside the head for talking back and withholding their earnings. Little known fact was that Thoreau had a vast stable of hookers to subsidize his scholarship. As Thoreau was fond of saying, “A man is rich in the number of things he can afford to let alone.” Which, loosely translated, means that sometimes a guy has to slap a bitch to cool her out. When Thoreau warns that men have become, “the tools of their tools,” what he means of course is that a gun doesn’t fire itself, and a bullet saved is a bullet wasted.

What the Walden game inevitably teaches is that a bloody-thirsty mania and a desire for the exercise of arts and humanities need not be mutually exclusive. Mankind is a complex species, rich in apparent contradiction, and the highest and lowest of human potential needs a stage to be acted out upon. Eventually the game player is given the option of dropping the gun, employing the service of a high-powered defense attorney, and watching his own insanity trial from a cage in the courtroom, like raving Russian cannibal Andrei Chikatilo. After the guilty verdict, the player is led down a dank hallway and given a bullet to the back of the head. The player then has the option of starting the game anew.

There is much to be learned from this video game, and I for one applaud its invention. Finally, Thoreau is given his true street cred for being an ass-kicking vigilante who just happened to go off to live among the majesty of the mountaintops, the clear mirror of the lake, the firmament of the stars. When Thoreau poses the rhetorical question, “Why should a man begin digging his grave as soon as he is born?” His answer, predictably, is because he, Thoreau, is coming to town to loot the place and burn it to the ground.

More Alembics to come, bitches.

Open Letter to Captain Henry “Tony” Wooten from Johnny Americana

Note from the Blog Custodian: Since “paddytheduke” the normal blog contributor is off trying to mediate the fight between Superman and Batman, he has agreed to let Mr. Johnny Americana post this written request for employment to the Dawson County sheriff’s department. Mr. Johnny Americana, a somewhat dumb-headed and misguided old acquaintance of “paddytheduke’s,” has demanded the use of this platform to implore sheriff’s candidate Tony Wooten to hire him on as a deputy in the rural Georgia county after seeing a video clip of Officer Wooten assaulting a journalist during a public political rally. Mr. Americana, while passionate about his beliefs, has always had the somewhat debilitating deficiency of misguided fervor. Mr. Americana’s letter is posted as a courtesy and we wish him the best of luck in his pursuit of gainful employment. Go right ahead, Mr. Americana.

Dear Sheriff’s Captain Henry Wooten,

Henry, can I call you Tony? I hear all your friends call you Tony and I’d like to be your friend. Not only do I want to be your friend, I want to be your subordinate, your employee, your trusted soldier in the fight against crime. I was watching some footage of you recently and I must say I’m very impressed. I saw you take down a terrorist at that farm in North Georgia in just the nick of time. Score one for the good guys! Terrorists are everywhere these days, even in the rural south, which is scary. What’s even scarier is that they’ve developed such intricate disguises that you can hardly recognize them anymore. Take the one you so expertly disarmed. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought she was a thin, all-American, white woman instead of a hairy Middle Eastern Arab with a suicide belt. And that gun she was carrying looked an awful lot like a video camera. ISIS is always evolving, trying to stay one step ahead of us and if they can start looking like “us” there is no telling where they will show up next. Hell, this blonde, saggy broad sitting next to me at this bar could be a suicide bomber. (I know it’s a little early in the day but I needed a drink because I’m shaking with enthusiasm for the sheriff’s office and not because I have the DT’s.) Where was I? Oh yeah, terrorists are everywhere, even at the highest levels. I suspect that Clinton woman was trained by the mujahideen. I have a friend that said he got up close to her once during a town hall meeting and saw her filthy beard but the Lefties in the newsrooms are always airbrushing the damn thing away in pictures.

Back to you though Tony, Big T, Woo-Tang Clan, Woo-Woo! Wooten! Your heroism on that gamy pig farm saved lives that day. The “Talking Head” bureaucrats are always saying we need to collect the right “intelligence” about ISIS in order to defeat them, but you were like, fuck that, I don’t need no intelligence to know this woman is a threat. That frail looking woman, Nydia Tisdale (what kind of a name is Nydia, anyway? That ‘y’ in the middle just makes it look all foreign) anyway Nydia was about to kill all of you, but you threw yourself in the line of (video) fire and bent that crazy bitch’s arm behind her, even as some of the bystanders and even the state’s Attorney General looked on like you were nuts. We need less bystanders and more men of action like yourself and Corey Lewandowski, who wrestled that nosy reporter away from President Trump. (He got elected, right?) You and Mr. Lewandowski know that you can’t let these people come around exercising their right to freedom of the press. Today’s video recorder is tomorrow’s assault rifle, and today’s investigative journalist is tomorrow’s organic shrapnel. What’s the difference between a barbed question and an armor-piercing bullet? About three dollars a round. If you hire me on as deputy I can help stop the scourge.

You may be wondering about my credentials. First of all let me say that I take down women all the time, except that when I do it’s usually because I owe them for child support and they come at me like wild animals. Or when they tell my kids to stop smoking in front of their kids and all hell breaks loose… I’m just saying I have a lot of experience taking down women and could be a real valuable asset to your law enforcement team.

My actual work experience? Well, right now, Tony, Atomic T, Tonator, I’m working at a bakery down in the city. We make niche pastries. Our big sellers are “anatomical” cakes in the shapes of titties and ding-dongs. It used to be a real problem selling these specialty desserts to people we didn’t approve of, but now with the new Georgia law we can make sure that when we sell a big pair of cream pie titties we are selling them to a man and when we make a five-pound chocolate schlong we are selling it to a girls’ bachelorette party. God Bless America. See, I’m already kinda enforcing the law, right? It wouldn’t be that much of a jump to patrolling the streets looking for terrorists and sodomites and journalists who think they can just keep government open to the public. Transparency is for windows, Tony. You know what I’m talking about.  Speaking of which I threw an old boat anchor through the front window of that terrorist’s home today. April Fool’s Day, Nydia. You should’ve heard the fuckin shatter. You’ve gotta teach these journalists and terrorists that they can’t just record what politicians say, because on the extremely rare occasion they get caught saying something stupid they don’t need it advertised all over the place. If only we could just keep the internet open to people who love America and freedom. 

Yours belligerently,

Johnny Americana.

P.S.  I just heard President Trump isn’t elected yet, so I have to go put up campaign signs for him around Emory University. He needs the Muslim vote and they’ve got good Muslims over there, like the nerdy, quiet kind, who need to hear his message of hope and change, like he hopes they change what country they live in. Wooten for Sheriff!!

(More Alembics to come)

An Open Letter From Johnny Americana To the National Institute of Health

Note from the Blog Custodian: Since “paddytheduke,” the normal blog contributor, is away on some type of mission of mercy for Mitch and Murray, he has given his full blessing for the ensuing post. Mr. Johnny Americana, an eager old friend of “paddytheduke’s,” has requested the use of this platform to demand the money he is owed from the National Institute of Health for participating in their nine-day flu study, as seen in this news segment (http://www.cbsnews.com/news/volunteers-infected-with-flu-for-3000-in-govt-research-program/) In short, Mr. Americana would like to collect his $3,000 volunteer fee for donating his time and his health in order to be clinically infected with the flu virus for quarantined observation. Mr. Americana, while pure of purpose and honorable of motive has always had the somewhat debilitating deficiency of being obsessed with too-good-to-be-true opportunities while paying no real attention to context. We fear further, that he is not alone, that it may be a common problem, somewhat generational. Mr. Americana’s letter is posted as a courtesy and we wish him the best of luck. Take it away, Mr. Americana.

An Open Letter To the Double-Crossing Bastards at the National Institute of Health.  Dear Dr. Anthony Fauci, or as I like to call you, Dr. Cheat-and-Swindle:

I am angry. Very angry. Outraged, even. Sick with rage, righteous fury and some type of warty pustules on my lower buttocks. Let me state my case formally. It has been several weeks, and still, and yet, I have not been paid for sacrificing my very valuable time and putting my precious health on the line so you and your quack medical team, with your crude and poorly constructed “laboratory” experiment, could sicken me with reckless infections for your morbid interest. First thing is first. When I was approached to be one of the paid participants in your government study to test the body’s response to the influenza virus, I said “Come on in, wee beasties, the water is fine. I’ve got white blood cells, macrophages, T-cells for your tiny asses.” Furthermore, my body is toned and waxed. Girls at the gym stop and watch me push weight around like it owes me money. I am a picture of health! What is some little piece of protein going to do to me? I eat protein for breakfast. Really I do, actually. Be it egg whites or  microscopic viral replicants, protein is protein.  In addition, I was promised $3,000, a sum which I had planned to use to start my video portfolio for an important audition in an upcoming reality television series called Who Wants To Marry A Transvestite? My money has yet to arrive, my video portfolio is missing an important montage, and don’t think I won’t sue if my one opportunity for superstardom passes right by me.

To make matters worse, I was promised that the illness wouldn’t last for more than nine days, but here it is three weeks later and I am fevered, delirious, nauseous, and dripping like a faucet. (A leaky faucet, Dr. Wiseass.) I am still very sore. It has been a humiliating experience through and through. You call yourselves doctors? You dare claim to be part of that noble profession that seeks to free humanity from the specter of disease? When I get through with you you’ll wish you flunked all your pre-med courses and went to beauty school.

When I arrived for the preliminary assessment after agreeing, at that truck stop, to participate in your little study, I immediately began to suspect that something was wrong. I was charged a $400 processing fee (refundable, apparently) from a fellow in a dirty white coat who introduced himself as Dr. Lou Brissity, and then I was made to fill out a rather comprehensive questionnaire that I felt was highly inappropriate and intrusive. For instance what was the point of asking if I had any bondage experience? Or do I like to be choked? Or was I sexually turned on by humiliation? What does any of that have to do with how my body reacts to the flu?

Dr. Brissity, after telling me I was lucky enough to be chosen as a paid participant, introduced me to his assistant Nurse Lana (I don’t think that was her real name, by the way. She giggled and said it was an anagram, whatever that is. I figured her name was probably Anna or Graham. By the way a leather nurse’s outfit and fishnets? Very unprofessional.) Where was I? Oh yes, Dr. Brissity had me meet him and Nurse Lana down at that Motor Inn near the airport, the one they found all those dead hookers behind. I thought we would be dealing with a hospital environment with a sterile quarantine. Instead, this place was dirty. Real dirty. Not only was the room not sterile, there were dirty towels all over the place, the distinct smell of excrement and one guy in there that was dressed like a sheik who said he didn’t speak any english, but now that I think about it he told me he didn’t speak english in perfect english.

Dr. Brissity prescribed some anesthetic that smelled a lot like tequila and made me a little loopy, before assuring me I was ready for the influenza dosage. But, he said, in order to avoid injury to myself, it was standard procedure to tie me up and gag me with a horse’s bit and bridle. During all this, mind you, Dr. Brissity never washed his hands or wore gloves. I mean really, what type of institute are you guys running? I’ve never seen so much body hair and cheap costume jewelry on anybody, much less a doctor.

To get right down to it, and this is the worst part, I never imagined a person could be infected with the flu in quite that way. It seemed all too primitive and savage, really. Nurse Lana turned rather aggressive, whipping me with a razor strop and calling me such names.  I don’t care how good of a nurse you are, there is no need to tell me to shut up and that I deserve punishment. I’m just trying to help, after all. When I complained with loud braying noises through my gag Dr. Brissity just kept saying, “Hey, who’s the doctor here?” but I still don’t see how wearing that bit in my mouth and being flogged like a mule helped the flu virus move through my body. Come to think of it I’m not even sure I was given the flu. The flu has never caused me this much itching. One would think that trained medical professionals from the National Institute of Health would be courteous, reassuring, methodical? Let me tell you, Dr. Fauci, I was berated and beaten over the course of several days. I thought there would be monitors for my vitals, oxygen levels, breathing and such, but that scumbag doctor only had one machine, like something a road crew would use to break through concrete, and all the while threatening to bury me with the others if I didn’t shut up and obey him, my master? Since when do you guys get off being called “masters” just because you went to medical school? Maybe they should offer a class in humility?

I will be expecting payment immediately. If I don’t hear from you, Dr. Brissity or Nurse Lana within twenty-four hours I will have to march down to the Allergy and Infectious Diseases department of your depraved institute with a news crew, the kind that stalk parking lots with bulbous microphones and make a lot of bad noise for you and your government frauds. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m a reasonable man but you can’t just approach someone at a rest area, offer to pay them for research and then just jerk them around.

Yours Itchingly,

Johnny Americana.

P.S. If any of those photographs are published I demand a percentage.

A World Without Crazy? Nah.

THE ALEMBIC  — “The Weird In Review”                                                  A blog

August 30, 2013

(This entry is dedicated to the great Irish poet Seamus Heaney, April 13, 1939-August 30th, 2013)

….Relax, crazy ain’t goin nowhere… Serious field research in the study of psychology…

Recently I have been waking often, in the middle of the night, doused in a frigid sweat, screaming. My fear is a very real one, and it is this; that everybody in the world will cease doing ridiculous and crazy things. The world’s human inhabitants will suddenly begin to act peaceably and reasonably toward one another, with intentions of a grounded, explainable and level nature. Folks will make it a point to look after other folks, just because that is what good folks do and if violence does happen, it will be justified as the last resort in a collision of runaway consequences.

That is my nightmare.

I’m terrified of this, of course, because when this does happen my blog will disintegrate into thin wisps of useless gossamer. It will suffer tremendously, fall apart, and I’ll have nothing, nothing, NOTHING. When the panic sets in though, and things start to fail, and the world itself seems to be caught in the drudge of predictable, greedy, calculated, boring unkindness, you have to reel it back in. You have to take stock with a fresh set of eyes. You have to go native.

So I decided to pretend to be homeless for a little while. Nothing to it, really. I had locked myself out of my house in a hasty sprint for these extremely unhealthy breakfast sandwiches they sell around the block from me. They soak the eggs in other, somehow unhealthier eggs and the bacon is sprayed with a tasty chemical agent that crystalizes the circulatory system…well, that’s all neither here nor there. The point is that you must place your order by 10:29 a.m., Eastern Time (no loopholes) because if you are a minute late, while your heart and arteries are thanking the gods of procrastination that they don’t have to process this sludge and you are sulking about in an effort to win over the unmoved counter girl, you don’t obtain the rather Pyrrhic prize of delicious death. In other words, they stop making the sandwich at 10:29 am.

At about 10:19 I rushed out of my house, heard the door slam behind me and realized there was no jingle-jangle of keys to be found on my person. Not being able to use my car or get back into the house and denied of my guilty pleasure, I decided to walk to a nearby park and take a nap in the shade. Like I said, my sleep had been spotty at best and fatigue, with its weighty shackles, had me dragging around like Jacob Marley on Christmas Eve. It was just a bit of luck, then, to find an empty park bench that I could stretch out on. A slight breeze crept through the shady grass, bringing with it a meager chill, unusual for this time of year. Again, luck was with me in the form of a newspaper that had been left on a nearby picnic table, a newspaper that I could use as a collection of thin crunchy blankets. As I was trying to arrange them over my languid self, rustling through the unruly periodical like I was stuck in a bag of potato chips, I caught sight of a headline in one of the newspaper sheets. “Man Rips Off Own Penis While High On Drugs.”

I sat up with a huge sigh of relief at the good news. For weeks now I had been fretting, pacing the cold floor of my house at all hours, sensing that the world’s magnetic energy was suddenly going to reverse itself somehow, and here comes my man on a drug binge ripping off his own dinker. Usually the newspaper only reports on horror, corruption and malaise, but not this time. I had stumbled upon the rare uplifting report that the world would continue to spin, as usual, and I felt relieved.

Like most people I tend to believe in signs and omens that specifically benefit me, and decided my luck was changing for the better. I flipped through some more pages. “Ohio Woman Unknowingly Married Own Father. ‘Trauma unbearable,’ she says.”

Well I’ll be dipped. No longer tired and with a mirth usually reserved for Julie Andrews in some film about Nazis, I spun through the park while the sheets of newspaper, catching the fervor of a sudden gust, gave chase. Did you hear, I yelled to the edges of the everywhere, the fringes of the everything, she married her own father accidentally, accidentally, accidentally.  The voices swept through my head. “I always said you had a lot of your father in you.” “They always say you marry a man like your father. Just, just, just like your father. Just precisely exactly like him. That’s what they say.” “Imagine the savings, during tricky holiday shopping.” “Give your daughter away at the wedding and get her right back, sly dog.”

I came to a stop, the wind at my back, the cyclone of newspaper sheets swirling after me, crackling in the wind like a campfire, a land spout of printed insanity demanding me to experience it, to understand its incomprehension, rushing at me to grasp its anti-meaning, to consume its rich disaster. One page in particular, the page that was meant to, I suppose, fluttered down and wrapped my head. I removed it and stood there, drinking it all in.

A distinguished professor from Milliken University in Ohio, as it were, a respected and valued member of the academic community who had won several awards for excellence in education, had actually murdered his entire family when he was fifteen years old, been found not guilty by reason of insanity, been cured lickety split, and then popped on down the road to the study of the scientific abstractions of the human mind, gaining a Phd in psychology, go figure.

“By Jove,” I said.

The good professor had been traced from the Texas town where he had committed the triple homicide to the dusky autumn shades of a sleepy college campus in Ohio. Dr. James St. James, was his name, which was an alias, as it turned out, and who would’ve thought?

I could visualize the interview process with an alarming starkness.

“So, Dr. Jamie James Jazzy Jam Squiggly Sam,” says the department head, “what would you say qualifies you to teach psychology at our prestigious institution?”

“Well, I hold a B.A. with a double major in psychology and sociology, a masters in  clinical therapy and a doctorate in cognitive and behavioral psychobiology. I also murdered my whole family when I was fifteen years old. Turned them into swiss cheese with a .22 rifle just for the shit of it. I did it during this bitching full moon, on one of those nights when the voices don’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“I see. Dr. Saint Jammy Jammy Flim Flammy, Dutch-Irish is it, if given tenure what can we expect from the fruits of the pupil-professor relationship? Can you properly mold these young minds into the type of professionals that will be in the vanguard of their chosen study?”

“Let’s put it this way, and please, call me Saint Jammy the Whammy of yer Mammy, when you want to directly dissect and diagnose what goes through a person’s mind as they are systematically snuffing out their entire family for reasons such as chewing too loud and nagging, you are going to want me in that classroom. No one knows better than me the insanity that rages through a person like me.”

“You’re hired.”

The accolades poured forth.

“I really learned a lot from him,” said one student. “It’s like having Ted Bundy and well, I guess the guy that cured Ted Bundy all in the same lecture class. You can’t get that type of direct interaction anywhere else, especially at pissant Harvard. It’s like Richard Speck and Sigmund Freud in an atmosphere of rigorous study.”

In a statement put out by the university, who didn’t know until recently about the professor’s dark past, they praised him for overcoming his obstacles and being such an asset to the psychology program, like he had survived cystic fibrosis or had lost his legs while serving in the military.

“Most of us who have brutally murdered two or three people, and somehow are found not guilty, usually just play golf,” said the University. “This man decided to better himself. A true role model and a fine example of the promise of America. Excelsior.”

After breaking into my house that evening I put myself to sleep with a comfort I hadn’t known in some time and I felt that everything just might, just might, be all right for a little while.

And I slept like a baby.

More Alembics to come.

Open Letter to Jodi Arias from Johnny Americana

THE ALEMBIC

From March 20th, 2013

Note from the Blog Custodian: Since “paddytheduke”, the normal blog contributor, is away on some type of domestic intervention, he has given his full blessing for the ensuing post. Mr. Johnny Americana, a heartsick old friend of “paddytheduke’s,” has requested the use of this platform to state his intentions to a woman he has recently become enamored with. Mr. Americana, while pure of purpose and honorable of motive has always had the somewhat debilitating deficiency of being obsessed with image while paying no real attention to context. We fear further, that he is not alone, that it may be a common problem, somewhat generational. Mr. Americana’s letter is posted as a courtesy and we wish him the best of luck. Take it away, Mr. Americana. 

An open letter to Jodi Arias from Johnny Americana.

Dear Ms. Arias,

May I call you Jodi? I’ve been watching you…

View original post 1,347 more words

Open Letter to Edward J. Snowden from Johnny Americana

From June 25th, 2013

Note from the Blog Custodian: Since “paddytheduke”, the normal blog contributor, is away on some type of liver-torturing bender, he has given his full blessing for the ensuing post. Mr. Johnny Americana, an ambitious old friend of “paddytheduke’s,” has requested the use of this platform to solicit advice from a bona fide international spy about a career change he is seeking. Mr. Americana, while pure of purpose and honorable of motive has always had the somewhat debilitating deficiency of being obsessed with image while paying no real attention to context. Mr. Americana’s letter is posted as a courtesy and we wish him the best of luck. Take it away, Mr. Americana. 

Open letter to Edward J. Snowden, International Spy, from Johnny Americana.

Dear Mr. Snowden,

I have recently seen you on the television and was wondering how I could become an international spy like you? Any suggestions you have would be greatly appreciated. It’s always good to get advice from someone in the field. I work in a cubicle, myself, cold-calling on behalf of a company that sells used and slightly damaged medical equipment. It’s boring as hell and the pay sucks unless you can get one of the senior citizens you call at random to give up their social security number. I also compile what we call “sucker lists” and sell them to anybody willing to pay for them. Point is, I’m tired of number crunching and data processing. I want to travel to exotic lands, pursue villains using the newest sports cars, the fastest boats. I have no problem knocking some unsuspecting motorcyclist off his bike, jumping onto it and pursuing some henchman. I’m versatile. I can run through open-air markets and through sewer systems. One time I jumped through the smashed window of a moving car, but that was more of a domestic dispute, well, that’s a long story and if you don’t want me to come bounding into the open window of your Camaro then just don’t steal my shit. I’m just saying. I can run on the tops of train cars. Seriously I can. Once I tried it. I had to flee a couple of hobos who told me that when riding the rails it’s always the cutest looking man who becomes the woman.

I’d like to learn how to drink martinis while I collect information about men intent on world domination. I don’t really drink martinis like you do but I could definitely learn to drink them. Shit, I’ll drink anything. I look good in a tuxedo and once in Atlantic City I won a hundred bucks playing blackjack and got a free breakfast, alcohol not included. I wasn’t wearing a tuxedo but a tuxedo tee-shirt. I think it still counts.

The best thing about your job is that they build you gadgets that you can use for the exact appropriate situations that call for them. I don’t like all this new fancy computerized hacker stuff. Give me something that explodes and I’ll escape. I love stuff that explodes. We used to mix water softener and gasoline in bottles of Colt 45, wick them and throw them off the old water tower. Fucking ka-boom, spy man.

I see they call you “The Leaker.” I want my own spy name too. We call our roommate “The Leaker” as well but that’s just because he gets drunk and pisses himself on the couch after he passes out. We don’t care that he pisses himself but we wish he would do it in his bedroom because after he pisses himself on the couch you can only flip the couch cushions once before you’re at the original stain. We keep flipping them though, and it seems to work.

I’ve only seen one picture of you, and I’m a little disappointed. You must be undercover, because you aren’t wearing a tuxedo, you aren’t playing Baccarat, and there aren’t any sexy female spies around you. Actually, you look kind of plain and worried. You certainly don’t seem to be seducing some curvy, leggy, beautiful double agent, some tall drink of water with a name like “Glory Hole” who is smart enough to outwit everyone around her until she falls through a trap door under which sits a pool of hungry piranha fish. But not before you banged her, so who cares, right? I hear you Mr. Snowden. You might be lacking in suaveness and style and don’t take this the wrong way but whatever department in the N.S.A. deals with tailoring and make-overs, you might want to drop in on them. They have to have a tanning bed or a gym or something in there. Where do my tax dollars go?

Mr. Leaker Snowden, I must say I am enjoying your current ruse, your massive ploy about how your government has turned on you because you stole some high level secrets, but that’s just because you want the evil genius that you are battling to think you are a rogue element, a wanted man, and so then they take you into the confidences of their evil empire and you choke the bastards off at the neck. I get it. I’m not saying it’s absolutely original but I’ve studied up on spying and it is effective. Who is the evil genius you are pursuing, or are you not allowed to say? It’s probably Rupert Murdoch because he’s a pock-marked Australian, or T. Boone Pickens with his fucking socialist wind energy or that one guy with the real creepy title, something like the “Wizard of Omaha.” I think his real name is Warren Buffett but with a nickname like that you can bet he’s building a space laser. If you can tell me what else a wizard does, I’d like to know.

My uncle says that it takes at least three months to process a “License To Kill” so once he just made one up and had it laminated. Everyone down at Rudy’s thought it was funny until he tried to bash this guy’s head in with a pool stick. I guess I can just use his until I get the real one.

Anyway, the microwave has signaled that my convenience store burrito is ready to be “eliminated” and so I will sign off. I just want you to know that I’m really good at keeping secrets. Honest. I hate people that buckle under pressure and just give up whatever confidential information they are privileged to have, and I can tell you feel the same way I do.

That being said, I will be waiting patiently for you to come crashing through my bedroom wall in the early hours of the morning with a team of expert killers to blindfold me, bundle me up, throw me into the back of a van and whisk me to a six-month boot camp of intense and excruciating training, both physical and psychological. You can water-board me, keep me up for days on end, run me for miles and shoot me full of whatever spy chemicals I need to inoculate me against enemy brutality and protect my precious bodily fluids. I await your spectacular invasion of my house and if you have to kill any of my roommates in the process I don’t think anyone would miss them and it might be good practice for you guys. Go United States of America!

Johnny Americana.

P.S. If you happen to review any of my records or files and find that I have spent some time in a mental facility, just know that I was operating undercover that time. I had been dispatched by a shadow group to gather information about stuff that’s classified. I can prove I wasn’t crazy, though. See, until they started restraining me at bedtime I used to break into the cafeteria and cover myself in tapioca pudding. What crazy person would be smart enough to act that crazy? How about that, fucker?

Open Letter to Jodi Arias from Johnny Americana

From March 20th, 2013

Note from the Blog Custodian: Since “paddytheduke”, the normal blog contributor, is away on some type of domestic intervention, he has given his full blessing for the ensuing post. Mr. Johnny Americana, a heartsick old friend of “paddytheduke’s,” has requested the use of this platform to state his intentions to a woman he has recently become enamored with. Mr. Americana, while pure of purpose and honorable of motive has always had the somewhat debilitating deficiency of being obsessed with image while paying no real attention to context. We fear further, that he is not alone, that it may be a common problem, somewhat generational. Mr. Americana’s letter is posted as a courtesy and we wish him the best of luck. Take it away, Mr. Americana. 

An open letter to Jodi Arias from Johnny Americana.

Dear Ms. Arias,

May I call you Jodi? I’ve been watching you on television these past few weeks and I have to say that you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I mean, ever. Usually when I see you it’s in a courtroom but I think I’ve also seen you at the Palisade Mall. Aren’t you the bartender at that place where all the women dress as bagpipers? I thought so. I see you’ve had some trouble recently. Usually when you aren’t at the bagpiper bar you’re in a courtroom. I got a drunk and disorderly once but I didn’t do it either. Is that what you are dealing with too? I can’t decide whether I like you better as a blonde, or a brunette, Jodi, Ms. Arias, or Jodi. I’m sorry I feel like I know you so well already. Some people tell me I put my heart on the line too easily and that when I do it’s easy for women to chop it to pieces. You wouldn’t do that, would you Jodi? I can tell a beautiful, honest, good soul when I see one. I have to admit I’m feeling a little jealous when I see you on television all the time because you are getting all this attention. There are probably tons of guys sending you letters and flowers and other gifts but I just wanted to confess what I’m feeling. A lot of people think it isn’t good to confess. They think you should just keep playing games and try to hide your true self so you don’t get hurt but I don’t believe in that and I can tell that you don’t either. I think we have a special connection. Our initials are the same, for starters. I see that you like photography, too. I love photography. I think my pictures are good but I’m always second-guessing myself. Have you ever taken a picture of something and wished you hadn’t? I guess we are our own worst critics. I hear you are a Mormon. I’m not at the moment but once I met this guy Warren and he told me all these great things about getting married when you are a Mormon. At least it was great if you are the man, he said, but to me it sounded like it would be great if you are the woman because you have some other women to talk to while your husband is off doing stuff you aren’t allowed to know about. I think his name was Warren. Maybe it was Jeff. It was either Warren or Jeff but he was a right hard baller with a stable of Amish women. At least I think they were Amish. He said that the cops were trying to fuck with him too but that’s the way it goes sometimes.

It just dawned on me that you might have boyfriend? Do you? Oh God please say you don’t. I would just die if you did. That would be embarrassing. Well, even if you do we could get to know each other on a friend level first. Then, eventually, I think you could love me the way you loved him, maybe even more. I see that you are in court again. Everyday I watch you on television while I’m working on my car. We have a television in the garage. The sound doesn’t work but we have a radio that plays classic rock so we don’t need the sound. My uncle likes you too. He says that good girls go to heaven and bad girls go everywhere. He says it’s his favorite bumper sticker, although he doesn’t have it on his truck, oddly enough. He’s got a pair of chrome bull testicles hanging from below the license plate, though. He collects antique daggers from World War II. I could show you them sometime when you get done with this whole court thing.  Do you have a favorite bumper sticker, Jodi? Jodi Girl? Jodi Baby? Do you like Bob Seger? Jodi Girl is my favorite Bob Seger song and when I hear it I think of you. I like you with glasses. But maybe blonde and glasses would be really sexy. I was watching you in court the other day and the caption on the television screen said something about An*l sex. I just couldn’t help but wonder what the star in between the ‘n’ and the ‘l’ stood for? I started substituting letters and most of them didn’t make any sense. One did, though, and if it is the right letter then I think we’ll get along re*lly, re*lly well. My uncle’s collection of antique knives is worth a lot of money. Do you like knives? I watched this black and white movie the other day but I got bored because it wasn’t in color. I only started watching it because the woman in the movie looked like you. It was called “The Parradine Case” or something and she was beautiful like you and she was in a courtroom. She had a boyfriend in the movie that looked a lot like me and I thought that was funny too. Do you believe in omens? How about fate? I’m going to pray tonight to Joseph Smith that you get done with this court thing soon. I don’t know anything about Joseph Smith but someone told me he freed the Mormons with a pair of x-ray glasses.

I saw something yesterday about your boyfriend. I guess he passed away. I’m sorry to hear that. Did he have cancer? My grandmother had cancer and she suffered for a year before she passed away. Hopefully your boyfriend didn’t suffer. Honest when I prayed for you I didn’t ask anything bad to happen to your boyfriend, so I hope you don’t think I’m somehow responsible. Are you working at the bagpiper bar this week? I’ve been thinking about stopping by but I’m too nervous. That’s why I figured I’d write you this letter. It’s easier to be honest about my feelings and honestly this is what I feel. Life is short and anything can happen. We could meet, fall in love, get married and then we could be sleeping in bed, nestled in each other’s arms and thugs could break in and kill us for no reason at all. What I’m saying is, the world is strange and unpredictable and people are jealous when they see people happy together. You don’t seem like the jealous type. I would do anything to protect you. If somebody broke into our house and tried to harm you I’d shoot them dead for you. Would you do the same for me? I know you probably don’t like guns but I’ve got a Makarov that’s real easy to use. My uncle gave it to me along with a Luftwaffe sword that could really turn somebody’s lights out if they were threatening you.

I feel like I’m babbling. This is what I’m reduced to. I hope you get done with your court stuff soon so maybe we can go out on a date. I know a real nice place that has all you can eat. I know you are probably meeting a lot of really important people right now, big time lawyers and doctors and stuff, but I’m waiting for this guy to call me about this job. I feel really good about it. It’s not so much a job as a business opportunity. I can work from anywhere. I’m going to be my own boss so we can live wherever you want. I’ll be watching and hoping that everything works out for you. Until then I remain ever faithful.

Johnny Americana.

P.S.  You are way better looking than Casey Anthony and she was released in no time. If you happen to run into her and she mentions that I wrote her a letter professing my love for her, she’s lying. Not that it would come up but if it does, don’t believe her. She’s lying. You know how I can prove she’s lying? Because she was found guilty of perjury. That means the bitch is lying.