Bollywood Movies Based On Us

Kind of exciting. Our exploits have inspired a strange Bollywood movie about Operative C's and my exploits. I'm not sure what the title is, yet. But here are some links to a couple excerpts:

Shooting
Prostitute
Poker
Prostitute 2
Operative C

True Love

It's always touching when two people meet and they have a wonderful connection. Call it love at first sight, call it 'soulmates', what have you; there is nothing greater in this world than love.



Now, I'd like to hear from our readers on this matter. Is this animal abuse? Most places say that it's not animal abuse if the animal is not penetrated. But aside from a legal standpoint; because the animal cannot consent, what do these things morally imply?

If You Didn't Already Hate Chris Wallace

Here's a link to the Wallace-Kerry interview where Wallace again comes off like a little twerp. Also, here's a frank appraisal of the man from a random blog:

The best part of Chris Wallace ran down his mother's leg

To understand that sad little freak Chris Wallace, you just have to pick up any biography of his towering giant of a father, Mike Wallace. When little Chris was just a boy, his father was absent a lot. For this, he holds his father accountable. His resentment and jealousy against his old man is understandable. Many children of famous parents have had to deal with it.

But unlike most kids in that situation, little Chris never got over it. It would be an understatement to say Chris Wallace hates his father. It's more like a living fetish for him to waste every day of his life to embrace everything his liberal father loathed just for the sake of being contrary to everything Mike Wallace stands for and to become a whiny little corporate media cock-sucker that his father would also loathe.

"Look at me, daddy. Are you ashamed of me? Good! I'll make you sorry you never played catch with me!"

Chris Wallace is a picture of self-hatred and self-destruction. The next time you see him on television, try to have some pity for this pathetic little shit-bag. As a journalist and as a man, he wouldn't amount to a zit on Mike Wallace's ass.

O.J. Simpson's Book Deal Cancelled!

O.J. Simpson and his strange, random grabs for attention over the last few years (including murdering two people) are proof that reality is stranger than fiction. For example, no one in their right mind could ever have imagined that O.J. would ever be writing a memoir entitled "If I Did It", a book that would include a 'hypothetical' account of how he might have gone about murdering his ex-wife and her friend Ron Goldman. When I heard about this I thought it was a joke. But no. It's real. The book's publisher's spokeswoman even said she considered the book 'his confession', even though O.J. still insists he's innocent.

Rupert Murdoch, of the News Corporation, which owns FOX News and HarperCollins, the book's publisher, bowed to intense pressure from many people who apparently had a shred of moral fiber. So the book is cancelled and so are the interviews that would have appeared on FOX News. I for one am disappointed we can't look forward to Chris Wallace interviewing O.J., and getting up in his face about the details, though I doubt that would happen (I believe O.J.'s a Republican). Can you imagine that book and that interview, though? I can, for its entire 2-hour duration (I've got good imagination). Here's an excerpt from that interview.

Chris Wallace: So, O.J... Theorhetically, once you had the knife in your hand, would you have known what you were going to do next?
O.J.: No, Chris. I would have been a bit confused. There would have been a lot of anger running through me right then. I would have been half out of my mind and not knowing what I was going to do.
Wallace: So what would you have done next?
O.J.: Well, I think about that time I would have seen Nicole and Ron coming out from the front door. Now, remember, I loved my wife very much. And I would have never done anything to hurt her. But remember, in this instance we're talking about the theorhetical situation in which I wanted the bitch dead. A...uh...alternative universe, if you will, in which I wanted to stomp the life out of that little whore. Pardon me. Excuse me.
Wallace: I understand completely. So...whose throat would you have viciously slashed first?
O.J.: No, Chris. First I would have put on my gloves.

Trifling

It seems a few readers had problems with my use of the word 'trifling' in my last post. Some didn't understand it and some felt it was inappropriate to describe Carmen Sandiego. Here is a link to an urban dictionary and it shows the many ways 'trifling' can be used. I'm going with the second definition.

The Rhino and the Star Child

Lately I feel like Carmen Sandiego. Remember that trifling bitch from the video-game (and t.v. show) who nobody could find because she was always going around the world? Yeah, lately I've been travelling like a basketball player with tendonitis. I just got back from a secluded village in Austria to visit a couple of old agent friends of mine. They're retired now; well mostly retired. They still engage in some operations when their help is needed. Let me tell you about these two.

They call this guy the Rhino. He used to be a member of a German Mafia that operated out of Hamburg until he was recruited by our guys and became a double agent. He had perfected a special fighting move of his own that involved charging his enemies with his head and being able to incapacitate them in this fashion. The Rhino had an abnormally thick skull it was later discovered. Once a guy in Bonn actually shot the Rhino in the head with a .22 Ruger as he charged and they later retrieved the bullet from his head; it hadn't even penetrated his skull. Aside from his somewhat rough beginnings in the criminal underworld, the Rhino is a great guy. He downs copious amounts of beer at the local pub and makes a solid supplement to his savings by collecting on bar bets with strangers that he can't break various objects in the bar over his head. While I was there he did a flat-screen television. The pub owner isn't a big fan of his shenanigans, as you'd expect.

His wife is a rather mysterious former operative they still refer to as 'Star Child'. She was involved in the real StarGate remote viewing operations, and worked with Joseph McMoneagle in their psychic experiments. Legend has it that she remote-viewed the location of some of the nuclear missile installations during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Her mother was allegedly a psychic of some repute as well, being discovered in the Duke psychic experiments of the 1930's where she scored off the charts. They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

They are an interesting couple, to say the least. I had a very good time, drinking beer, gambling in some high-stakes home games, listening to some local musicians, walking the mountain trails. Though it is a bit unnerving to spend time with a psychic. When I was on my way out the door, departing their villa, the Star Child commented as if in a trance, "You're on your way to blow something up. Somewhere in the Middle East." I got the chills when she said that, because she was exactly right. Though when I think back on it, it could have just been a good guess on her part. You could say that to me pretty much any day in the last ten years and you would have been right.

Holy shit!

Part of our job is interacting with different, often strange, cultures, and no culture is more so than the Japanese. These guys are nuts, and I don't just mean the crazy-ass toilets.

Take this stunt for example. In America they would sue your ass for this. In Japan, though, they just point and laugh.


Now I'm not saying I don't get the joke, but that shit is just bizarre.

Snails On A Plain!

Have you heard about the giant African snails that are taking over Barbados? Here's an article about it:

A breed of giant, ravenous snails that first appeared in Barbados five years ago has thrived on the tropical island, destroying crops and prompting calls for the government to eliminate the slimy pests.A nocturnal "snail hunt" last weekend reported finding hundreds of thousands of giant African snails swarming the central parish of St. George, the country's agricultural heartland where farmers had complained of damage to crops including sugar cane, bananas and papayas.

"We saw snails riding on each other's backs and moving in clusters," said David Walrond, chairman of the local emergency response office that organized 60 volunteers for the hunt. "You're just crunching the shells as you're walking through."

The volunteers sprayed government-supplied pesticides in gullies and other cool, low-lying areas where the snails are believed to breed, venturing out after dark to catch the snails as they emerge from spending the day underground. Walrond's brigade plans to continue its assault over the next three weekends.The snails, which are about the size of a human hand, are known to consume as many as 500 different plants and their mucous can transmit meningitis and other diseases.

I like this guy talking about the snails like they're enemy combatants. I can imagine it must have been pretty intimidating to see them riding on each other's backs and moving in clusters. It's a good thing they have a 'brigade'. Must be a pretty tough fight for these guys; 'Don't let 'em get away, boys!'

I kind of wonder if this is some kind of secret war against Barbados by one of the other Caribbean nations due to Barbados' high ranking in the developing countries and its popularity as a tourism spot. It's got one of the highest standards of living and literacy rates in the developing countries. Interestingly, Japan and Barbados are the two countries with the highest per capita rates of centenarians in the world.

The Man Without A Face

One of the more interesting characters in the spy game was, as we put it in the business, 'permanently disavowed' today when he died in his sleep at his home in Berlin. Markus Wolf was known in the intelligence community since the Cold War days as the "Man Without A Face" because for a long time Western intelligence could not get a picture of him. He is one of my personal role models, not for his politics or his blind obedience to the East German Stasi (mostly assholes), but for his professionalism and his dedication to improving spycraft (and for his penchant for dressing rather sharply). Some of his innovations have become business as usual; for example, the 'Romeo Method', as they call it; he sent out young male agents to seduce lonely secretaries in foreign offices in order to gain access to secret documents. This is a practice that I still find useful, as well as just plain fun even when there are no documents involved. An interesting note; Wolf noted in his memoir that many of the spies sent to 'infiltrate' these secretaries ended up having long and successful marriages with their targets. Suckers.

Wolf even wrote a cookbook; Secrets of Russian Cooking. In it, he talks about the similarities between espionage and making food, which I wouldn't know anything about. I can make a four-course gourmet meal from the common ingredients you'd find at your local gas station (part of our training), but when it comes to cooking, I don't get near the enjoyment from making a seafood bisque as I do, for example, seducing secretaries. Plus I don't see the similarities. He also uses the opportunity to complain about how the world has viewed him very unfavorably due to his work under the corrupt and generally evil Stasi. I can think of no better place than to defend your standing in history than in a cookbook. (Interesting review of book here)

He and Mr. Jones Had A Thing Going On (Allegedly)

Are all conservatives perverts now? Everytime I turn on the news or read the paper, I'm seeing something about ministers and congressman engaging in sexual behavior that would make Monica Lewinsky blush. Is there something about being uptight and sexually repressed and morally righteous that leads to these people just turning into complete hypocritical sex maniacs? We had Mark Foley and that wasn't too bad; (people were saying he was a pedophile but that isn't true; he liked young men, not young boys; give the guy a break. His biggest problem was in not reading this book first.) And Foley blames his problems on being molested by his Catholic priest 40 years ago when he was an altar boy. And I'm sure that priest would point to some other priest who touched him inappropriately, etc., etc., all the way back to the days of Jesus...

So now we have Ted Haggerd, one of evangelical right's more prominent figures, being outed by a male prostitute named Michael Jones (MIKE JONES!!!! WHAT IT DO?) who says that Haggerd has been seeing him for sex for three years now, and also buying some methamphetamine. Haggerd defends himself by saying that he only called upon the male prostitute's services for back massages (completely understandable), and that he admitted buying some methamphetamine from Jones but ended up flushing it down the toilet because he thought that drugs were bad. Good explanations all. I know that I often go over to the red-light districts looking for a midnight cowboy so I can take him home and let him give me a really professional back massage. Also, I can understand how, being a minister, you might give in to the temptation to buy some hard-core drugs like fucking meth or crack cocaine and then think, 'Hey, what the fuck, I'm a minister, I can't be doing this shit' and flush it all down the toilet. Perfectly understandable to me.

Haggerd was elected three years ago as the President of the National Association of Evangelicals, an umbrella group that represents 45,000 churches, and he has ties to the Bush administration. It was his stance on gay marriage that supposedly drove Mr. Jones to come forward and clear the air. “He’s preaching against homosexuals and yet he’s having gay sex behind people’s backs,” Mr. Jones said. (By the way, where else are you going to have gay sex? LOL) Male prostitutes are evidently very civic-minded these days. These aren't your father's male prostitutes, back when it was all just about sex and money and everyone kept their mouth shut unless they were being paid to keep their mouth open. There are some very politically active whores out there today, and Haggerd would have known this if he had read this book.

Check out this video from a few years ago with Haggerd versus Richard Dawkins. Very disturbing.


Also, this is kind of interesting; the transcripts of the Mark Foley/page text interactions. Get ready to vomit.... here

Since it's on YouTube, I guess we can come clean about these tests

This copyrighted stuff on YouTube is really getting out of hand. But since it's up there, I guess we can now come clean about our organization's efforts to create a flying Lincoln Continental. A car about which the White Ghost once said, "Is so aerodynamically perfect, it seems a shame not to strap a rocket to it."

Well, despite White Ghost's best efforts, the results of the test are made pretty clear in the video. Probably not one of our finest hours.

We had a few more tests in 1978, but the results were about the same, and we ended the program not long after.

Anyway, I hope Comedy Central is successful in getting all these videos taken down from YouTube. There are a couple of other movies floating around out there that I'd prefer weren't readily available for public consumption.

Hey kids, wanna not get laid?

... Then buy this steaming pile. Holy crap, you'd have to be retarded to want this.

Here's a tip: If you want to pretend to be a spy, don't write "I'm a spy" on your briefcase. Instead, stand around looking cool and know that you could kill everyone around you. Don't just pretend it. Know it.

White Ghost is going to vomit when I show him this.

I've Got A Good Feeling About This

A lot of people dismiss these emails we get sometimes that purport to be from African businessmen who are in a bind and need to transfer money to a safe U.S. account. But I got one today that really seems like the real deal to me. I don't know; something about it just rings true. And take it from someone who has done a lot of money laundering. It could be the better than average English or the emotional yet objective way the man makes his case. Call me gullible but I'm going to give him a call today.

Greetings,

My name is Mr.Richard Kofi Addo, the regional manager of Barclays Bank of Ghana Ltd takoradi branch in the western region of Ghana. I write you this proposal in good faith. I am 42 years old married with two lovely kids. I have packaged a financial transaction that will benefit you and I; as the regional manager of the Barclays Bank of Ghana Ltd it is my duty to send in a financial report to my head office in the capital city Accra at the end of each business year. On the course of the last year 2005 business report, I discovered that my branch in which I am the manager made Ten million eight hundred thousand united state dollars ($10,850,000.00) which my head office is not aware of and will never be aware of.

I have placed this funds on what we call escrow call account with no beneficiary. As an officer of this bank I cannot be directly connected to this money, so my aim of contacting you is to assist me receive this money in your bank account and get 25% of the total funds as commission. There are practically no risks involved, the transaction will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law, it will be simply a bank-to-bank transfer, and all I need from you is to stand claim as the original depositor of these funds who made the deposit with my branch so that my head office can order the transfer to your designated bank account under few working days.

If you accept to work with me I will appreciate it very much as you are the first and the only person I am contacting for this transaction. At this juncture, I wish to tell you what prompted me to package this deal. I have a 9-year old daughter who has leukemia, a disease of the blood, and she needs a bone marrow transplant or she will die (emphasis mine). I want this transplanting to be done in any good children’s hospital in your country if there is one. Once this fund is transferred into your account, I shall resign from my job and bring my family to start a new life in your country. I would be grateful if you would help me invest my own part of the money in a very profitable business.

I have worked for this bank for the past 15 years yet I have nothing to show for it, my yearly income after tax is barely $ 2,500.00; I really need your assistance to secure this fund as soon as possible. My private phone number is +233 243331032 call me or send me mail as soon as you receive this message if you think we can work

together so that we can go over the details.

Truly yours,

Mr.Richard Kofi Addo

This guy's got all the makings of a great Dickensonian tale here; his daughter needs the money because she is deathly ill; he has nothing to show after slaving his life away at this heartless fucking bank; and it's got international intrigue. Not only can I feel good about helping this schlub and his family out, I'll be making a good chunk of change on the side. Win, win all around. I'll let you know how our conversation goes.

Don't worry, Shaq, we've all done stupid shit before

Apparently Shaq, much like Elvis, has a little thing for law enforcement. It would also seem that officer Shaq and his cohorts made a major blunder, raiding the wrong house for child porno, freaking out some dude and his family.

I wouldn't be too hard on the Shaqster, though, we've all fucked shit up at one time or another. Like that time when instead of killing that Albanian terrorist, I killed an endangered condor, or that time when Sierra blew up that bus full of nuns instead of the 98 Degrees tour rig. These things happen, and you just have to let them, and the inevitable judgement of others, roll off your back. Don't let it get to you, Shaq. You're a good man regardless of this incident, or your free-throw percentage, or Kazaam!

Now, a lot of my fellow agents are probably groaning that I was even willing to bring up Elvis in the company of Shaq in this post. No offense to Shaq, but he's just trying to be a two-bit cop, while Elvis was an honorary federal agent, and is now, well, let's just say that now he's something even better than that.

See, Elvis realized that it's better to burn out than it is to rust in the music world, and instead of suffering in Vegas any longer than he had to, he hatched a plan. The plan was that while he was bulking up for his second career, that he'd buy a fat suit and keep singing, and then he would stage his death in the most undignified way possible, a way his most diehard fans would never believe.

This whole scheme was brilliant, and served several purposes. First, it threw people off on his new appearance, and second, since many people to this day doubt his death, the inevitable sightings of him would be written-off by most.

You've got to give a lot of credit to the man. Not only does he have more soul than any white guy who ever lived, but he's a calculating son-of-a-bitch.

So what's he up to now? Well, I can't tell you much, but I can let you in on one little exploit: You see, Saddam was no dummy. He knew that Tikrit was no place to hang out after the invasion. He took a bunch of cash and was long gone by the time the US Army cruised into Baghdad. Well, you can imagine Saddam's surprise when an older, strapped, American gentleman with killer sideburns strolled up to him on that beach in Thailand and crooned, "Well, you ain't nothin' but a hound-dog..."

A bet I'm not willing to make

Zulu recently saw this old article online, and ever since has been hassling me to make a similar bet with him.

"C'mon man," he said the first time, "I'm so heterosexual, that it completely wouldn't make any difference if I had C-cups, or D-cups... or Double D-cups! C'mon, man, bet me a hundred grand to get them."

Sexuality not withstanding, I have some real reservations about an agent, male or female, getting breast enlargement surgery. First and foremost, is the issue of hand-to-hand combat. If those things were to get in your way, they could cost you your life. It's one thing to have them as a natural part of your body and thusly deal with them. It's quite another to add them after the fact.

Perhaps even more so, though, is the issue of disguising your identity. I would think that going undercover might become more difficult when you're a man with perky, round boobs. Zulu's answer to that, of course, was that now he could more effectively transform himself into a woman. What that argument fails to recognize, though, is that we have never disguised ourselves as women, except for that one time as nuns in that catholic girls school.

I guess, this could potentially be opening new avenues in disguise, but Zulu is well over six feet tall, has a five-o'clock shadow by eleven, and has the biggest adam's apple of any man I've ever seen. I just don't think this is going to work.

So I'm going to continue to ignore his entreaties to bet, even though now he's offering to do it for no money, just a dare. I'm going to have to watch what I say now, I guess.

Sorry To Hear About Your Cat, C

Um, that really is too bad, C. If making photoshopped pictures of the cat is the way you want to go, then I think I can help.
Whatever you do, though, don't send them this one:

Ghengis Cat: DEAD

Fuck.

So I'm not one to keep a lot of friends. It's dangerous for them, as they may be targeted. It's dangerous for me, because most of the people I know are liars. And, to be honest, I just don't like that many people. But I do have some friends, and two of them, in particular, a couple that I care for deeply, former agents, actually, who got out of the business, sort of, asked me to do something for them... And that should now be my fourth reason not to have friends.

Anyway, they used to be in the game, but found that it wasn't serving them spiritually. They felt fomenting coups and carrying out assassinations weren't really the kind of legacy wanted to leave, and that instead they'd like to give back to the World in a more positive way. So they came to me one day a few months ago and told me they were going to join the Peace Corps.

Now, I'm not going to lie to you here and tell you that I told them I thought it was a great idea. In fact, I bust out laughing in their faces and told them that they were a couple of damn fools! I asked them what they were going to put on their resumes, that they're fuckin' super spies fluent in 14 languages, deadly in the martial arts, proficient in many weapons, and advanced in their ability to torture and maim? Yeah, I can see some bleeding heart looking at that and saying, "Oh yeah, these guys would be perfect to go clothe orphans in the Sudan, great!" I told them that they'd be better off joining something called The War Corps, if such a thing existed, something where they could give back by slaughtering the crazed troops of warlords.

They weren't having any of it, though, and told me that their minds were made up, and that they'd "forged fake pasts for themselves in order to make a new future." I'm not making that up either, they actually said that shit.

Then they asked me if I would take care of their cat, Ghengis, for them while they were gone. Now, I usually try to avoid that sort of awkward social transaction, but in this case I just said, "Sure, whatever," because not only was I so disgusted I could barf, but I totally thought they weren't going to get in anyway.

Well, I was wrong on that count, and two weeks ago they gave me the cat, all teary eyed, and made me promise that I'd take good care of him while they were gone, and send them pictures of him and shit at the holidays.

So they drive off in the hippie van that they send to pick up the Peace Corps turds, and I'm stuck there holding this damn Chinchilla, who looks longingly at the bus for a moment, and then hops out of my arms to go eat grass, or whatever the hell cats do.

Anyway, things were going fine with the cat. I was giving him squirrels that I shot, and little sips of whiskey while I cleaned my guns. I was actually starting to get attached to the little bugger, and then the other night he went out and didn't come back in the morning like he normally does.

I immediately knew something was wrong, so I gave G-Force Ghengis' scent from a tuna-fish sandwich and we went out looking for him. We didn't have to go far before we found his coyote-chewed remains.

Fuck.

And yesterday they called on the sat-phone to ask how he was doing.

Fuck. Fuck.

And I didn't have the heart to tell them, so I lied, and said that he was great. I even made little mewing noises into the phone.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

So now the question is what do I do now? Do I tell them? Do I keep lying? Do I photoshop pictures of him at Christmas to keep them going?

I am so screwed.

How do you think this looks?


Fuck.

How Not To Play Poker

This guy is great. I laugh every time I see one of his videos. He's a classic in the poker world for his posting of his piss-poor playing of internet poker. To give you an idea of the caliber of this player; he used to play $2000 buy-in no-limit games and by the end of his short-lived career he was down to $200 buy-in games. You can find more of his videos on YouTube by searching for Tuff Fish. To those aspiring poker players out there, here's the morale of the story; try not to let your emotions rule your decisions.

Precarious Situations

Last night I got a chance to visit one of my favorite hang-outs; the Albuquerque Press Club. I don't often get a chance to visit the PC, as it's a bit out of the way of my usual daily routine, but I usually will swing by if I have to hop from Vegas to New York for some reason. The Press Club's a very low-key institution, which is good for someone looking to keep a low profile, and if you pay the 15,000 dollar membership fee, you get a number of worthwhile percs, including unlimited plays on the jukebox. So I put The Best of Frank Sinatra on loop and started sipping on some rye whiskey. This chick I've never seen there before is talking to me at the bar. We end up talking about poker and this leads to Scrabble, and she pulls a board from out of nowhere and wants to play. I should have been a bit suspicious at that moment, or at least the moment when she wanted to play for $100 a point. But I was a bit drunk and had about 30 grand in my pocket and I'm not easily intimidated so I agreed. I'm sure you could see this coming, but it turns out the woman was some kind of Scrabble champion, a serious hustler. We played with a 30 second timer, which is really the only way to play Scrabble in my opinion, and the difference in points at the end of the game was multiplied by a hundred. We played 3 games and I was into her for 12 grand by the end of it. I knew I was in trouble in the first game when I spelled 'MIRE', thinking I had effectively cut off the triple word score, and she immediately comes over the top with 'QUAGMIRE'; I felt like someone had punched me in the jaw. I was fucked from that point on. Then, to add insult to injury, at the end of every game, this girl who I thought was very proper and polite would yell out "Ship it!!! Holla!!!" and flash some kind of gang sign.

At the end of the third game, we get a spectator; this very loquacious guy who's watching and commenting on our play. I strike up a conversation with him afterwards and I immediately get a feeling that this guy's in the Business as well. He mentions quite casually some trips to Uzbekistan and Afghanistan and his explanation that he works for one of the large phone companies doesn't quite ring true to me. So I start the exchange that has been used as code between unaquainted operatives for a few years now, "I used to work for a company that put me in some precarious situations." And he responds with the correct response, "Precarious situations is my middle name." [By the way, I've talked with Hyde and C about this, and the likelihood, however small, that someone actually has 'Precarious Situations' as a middle name, makes this exchange rather dangerous.] So to make things absolutely certain we have to go through the whole strip search thing in the bathroom, make sure no one's wearing a wire, which is really sexy when you and a female operative have to go through it, but just plain awkward when it's a dude.

So it turns out this guy's operating mainly in Uzbekistan, helping with the border security there, turning Uzbekistan's Special Forces into a lean fighting machine. It's a small world, I say, as I tell him I was in Uzbekistan not a month before. And it turns out we even have killed some of the same peoples. He invites me to Uzbekistan for this kind of 'coffee house' open mic night thing he's got going on in Tashkent the third Sunday of every month. I promise I'll show up and tickle the ivories, even though in my experience the Uzbeks aren't very friendly to me. But he loves partying with the Uzbeks; despite being Muslim, he points out, they interpret the Koran in a certain fashion and thus are only prohibited from consuming alcohol made from grain and grapes; when it comes to potato vodka, they have no problem. He also tells me he's got this great 'harem' of Uzbek women over there that think he's some kind of Russian prince. He's making all sorts of jokes about how he's got the Muslim's version of paradise and he didn't even have to die as a martyr. "Except none of them were virgins," he adds with kind of a chagrined look on his face.

Anyway, small world. It's always heartening when you happen to run into a fellow agent out of the blue. Makes the world feel like a much more connected place.

Midnight Cowboys

There's a strange trend that I've been noticing lately and it involves cowboys. I started noticing this trend after I saw Brokeback Mountain a few months ago. By the way; a very good movie, even for someone like me who's ridiculously heterosexual. I think it helps to be very comfortable with your sexuality to enjoy this movie. I mean it helps to be someone who's had sex with a ridiculous amount of women, like I have, to really sit back and relax and enjoy the beauty and melancholy of a movie like that. Some people say that I'm too comfortable with my sexuality, but that's just absurd. You can never be too comfortable with your sexuality. When you've had sex with as many women as I have, you kind of reach another plane of existence. You become comfortable in any kind of situation that might make other, lesser men, nervous, like hanging out in Greek bathhouses, in lockerrooms after soccer games naked with a bunch of guys, chilling late night in the VIP rooms of the really upscale gay clubs in Prague. But a lot of people, including my good friend C, put me down, saying me being comfortable in those places doesn't explain why I frequent them as often as I do. ["You don't even play soccer," he said to me yesterday. Which is true, but you can really work up a sweat watching if you're not in the shade.]

The fact is that I don't need to explain these things, because I've had sex with almost as many women as Wilt Chamberlain, and when you reach this level of existence your sexual behavior is as unexplainable to other, untransmogrified people as is the behavior of a Buddhist monk who has reached enlightenment unexplainable to the everyday masses of hoi polloi. The fact is that I will admit it; I could have sex with a man in a tent in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night just like in Brokeback Mountain, and I would wake up in the morning without even the possibility passing through my mind for the shortest moment that I might be homosexual. That's how comfortable I am in my sexuality.

But back to the cowboys. Ever since watching the movie, I've noticed that every cowboy I see tends to behave in a rather effeminate manner. I mainly see cowboys at the poker tables. That's pretty much the only place I have occasion to see them; you won't run across too many cowboys in Pakistan or North Korea. But from the cardrooms of California all the way to Macao, there are effeminate cowboys all over the place. I don't know if the movie caused a lot of the gay cowboys to come out of the closet and a lot of the straight ones to go into hiding or what, but it's gotten to the point where I see someone with a handlebar mustache sashaying around in an oversized cowboy hat, a bootlace tie slung around their neck, cowboy boots and spurs, I just think 'Gay'. I can't count the number of times I've been sitting across the felt from one of these cowboys and they announce 'All in' in a very feminine voice and I can't help but think there was something sexually suggestive in the way he said it and the way he looked at me (I usually fold in those instances because I've found that's a useful tell). Very strange, though. It makes me wonder if there's always been something about the ornate and frankly quite fruity way cowboys traditionally have dressed that have always attracted those with a homosexual leaning to this profession. I'd like to hear from the readers here; keep your eyes open and let me know the next time you see a cowboy. Judge his sexuality and report back. This is good material here, and anyone's free to use it as the subject of a thesis paper or something like that if they wish.

New Set of Wheels

So we haven't seen the White Ghost in about a month, as he's been holed up in the shop. All we could hear was the welder going non-stop, but we couldn't figure out what he was doing because he had the "Do not FREAKIN' disturb" sign up. And when he puts up that sign, you know it means keep out for real.

So this afternoon we're out back shooting hoops when all of a sudden we hear this monster rumble, and the 6 inch-thick steel doors on the shop swing open to reveal this monster!
So you might be thinking, "big freakin' deal, it's a big white garbage truck." But oh no, my friend, it's a lot more. Check out the inside...
This thing is totally pimped as hell and ready for action. Above is the awesome living room for partying with the groupies, and we've got a first rate kitchen...
And the perfect bed to wake up next to a hot Russian agent...
And on the back we've got a place to store our dirt bikes!
This is pretty much the pimpest ride ever. What you can't see, of course, is the custom V-24 engine under hood. The thing goes 0-60 in 3.8 seconds, and can cruise at over 200mph. It's also fully armored, and has computer controlled machine guns pointing every direction. It can shoot oil slicks, and has several guided missiles that can pop out the top. State of the art!
White Ghost really outdid himself this time. Zulu and I are definitely going to round up some poon-tang for him this weekend.

Former agents all over new media

It's not just Hipster Pit that's jumping out of the game for blogging, but another former agent, Nova, is now trying to break it big on YouTube. Frankly, I don't get what hanging around coffee shops with your iBook, or running around town with a handycam has on riddling French operatives with bullets. I guess maybe some folks just burn out on the life.

Anyway, I probably shouldn't say anything about this, but the Nova thing (or "Lisa Nova", as she's now known) has had Zulu kinda torn up. They were kind of an item before she left for LA, and I know that her departure really had him thinking about what the meaning of true love is, and where it belongs in your life. I don't care how many terrorists you water-board, occasionally you hit a lull in activity and consider the warm embrace of a woman who truly cares about you... but if you're pros like Z and I, you get that shit outta your head and get another bucket of water.

BTW, I can't be too hard on ol' Nova, she did blow this shit wide open on Diddy and his relationship with Burger King.





Much respect, LN.

Big thought for the day

I was strolling today through a market in Phenom Phen, and got to thinking about all the ancient and beautiful cultures there are in the world, and how the people in those cultures generally feel comfortable in their skins and their place in the world. Meanwhile our western culture thrashes about, grabbing snippets of custom and belief from a variety of sources, trying to build some semblance of meaning in our lives. While others are content to exist as themselves, we constantly feel the need to create ourselves, and in so doing we drift further and further from where we started, all the while trampling the people that we borrowed from. If there's a parasite in the world making things worse for all, it is us, it is western culture. We are the problem that we are so desperately trying to solve, it's just that we can't see the problem for what it is.

Anyway, that was my big thought for the day, but I couldn't dwell on it for too long. There's a lot to do today. I need to kidnap a political dissident in a couple hours, and then I'm probably going to be up all night torturing him. Gotta get back to the hotel and grab a little cat nap.

Enviga - The secret is out

Well, Coke unveiled Enviga today, which I guess brings our little experiment to a close. Enviga is a new green tea beverage that actually burns calories by accelerating your metabolism. Seems that you can burn about 60-100 calories per can (we seem to be averaging around 75 cal/can).

We've actually been experimenting with the stuff on Michael Stipe for the past few years. He's all into his green tea, so we got a junior operative to pose as his "personal spiritual assistant" (eliminate the "spiritual", and that's all it is) and feed him a can once a day after yoga. Stipe is such a nut that he actually calculates how many calories he needs to stay alive (1 creepy stage show = 873 calories), and only eats that much food. So a can of this stuff a day and you can see why he'd start wasting away.

In case you were wondering, Stipe got picked for the project after releasing Up and Reveal back to back. We took a poll around the office, and collectively found him more expendable than Bono. Which was totally a good call, as Pop appears to only have been an anomaly.

Welcome aboard Corey Lidle?

Let's look at the facts about Corey Lidle:

1. Not that popular with the fans
2. Not that popular with his peers
3. A taste for adventure
   
4. A quick study with lots of physical talents
5. Famous

Now, I'm not saying that I know anything about this, but let's just say a guy with those characteristics wanted to get into another, perhaps more clandestine, line of work. Maybe he might get in contact with some people who might rig his plane up by remote control, throw a couple of drugged-out unsavory characters at the helm, smash the plane into some empty apartments, and arrange for his passport to be found on the street.

Again, I'm not saying I know anything about this. But Corey, if you're alive, welcome to the team.

Reunion

Yeah, Hipster Pit was cool. It was good to see her again. My favorite memory of her from the old days was the time we sat on top of that burnt-out hotel in Baghdad during the Shock and Awe invasion, watching the bombs go off, drinking chiante and feasting on brie and a fantastic seafood bisque. Talk about front row seats. The U.S. military put on a fantastic show that day. There was that pure adrenaline-filled excitement those first few days of battle, much like the passion and excitement of an opening night on Broadway.
And it was a sausage and squash lasagna she made, C. Get it right. It was delicious. The contrasting textures and tastes of the squash and the italian sausage was really a beautiful thing.

An evening with the Hipster Pit

Yesterday was a good day. Not only did we get G-Force back, but we got to spend the evening with the Hipster Pit, a former operative and fellow blogger, who's now pursuing a writing career in Chicago.

It was sad when Hipster Pit left the organization. Her wit and penchant for violent outbursts against captives kept us all in good spirits even during the darkest of times. She also makes a mean sausage and eggplant lasagna, which we were fortunate enough to have again last night.

Having G-Force back made us all really happy as well. Seems that he had merely gone undercover to infiltrate some drug dealers. He didn't catch anybody, but he did bring us back some wicked shit, which we partook in during our game of Scrabble. Hipster Pit abstained, which may account for her come from behind victory.

G-Force Missing

We got back from the latest mission not elated as usual, but in fact a little down. Sometimes there are just things you see that make you hate life and the people living it. The only sure way to get out of such a funk is some good booze, some meaningless sex, and some quality time with man's best friend. Well, check and check on the first two, but it seems that G-Force went MIA while we were gone.

It's been going on three days now and we're all a little worried. If you have any knowledge of his whereabouts, drop me a line. In the meantime I'll keep cruising the pound. Springing a dog out of the pound isn't nearly as sexy as extricating an operative from an unofficial Russian gulag, but I'll do whatever it takes to get our boy back. Even if it means stooping to putting up flyers.

180 Degree Turn

So Zulu and I are sitting in the back of the van on Friday morning in China Town thinking that this has got to be the most retarded mission that we've ever been on. Like, c'mon, this chick is selling fuckin' Faberge eggs? And the thing is, she's good at it. She's made $43,000 while we've been sweating our balls off in the back of the van for a day and a half. [Oh, and by the way, Z may make fun of my G-strang, but it's not as if he isn't sitting there balls-ass naked, so don't even start...]

Anyway we're sitting there listening to her banter with some closet homo when all of a sudden the light bulb comes on over my head. I turned to Zulu and said, "So while we're listening to this crap, where are we about as far from as possible?" And without saying anything we just looked at each other and knew. So I pulled on my clothes, grabbed a crappy windbreaker from underneath the passenger seat, sheathed a 6" blade, and announced, "I'm robbing the place."

As strange as that may seem, "robbing the place", is actually a common term in the business. The idea is that if you go in on an operative as a common thug with a violent streak that they'll be forced to play their hand.

I pulled a stocking over my head as I dashed up the stairs to her residence and kicked in the door. She was curled up on the couch talking to the latest schmuck and I brandished my blade while shouting, "Give me the fuckin' eggs!"

The shock of my entrance and my waiting for a read of her mood left a rather uncomfortable silence in the air, and just before I thought it had gone on too long, she shrieked. With that, I turned towards the large egg off on a table in the corner.

It was a large, glorious thing, and what immediately drew me towards it was the fabulous sheen it had, which afforded me a view over my shoulder as I approached it. This polish, I knew, would allow me to see with advance warning any strike that this potentially deadly assassin might level upon me.

But none came. As I approached the egg, in its reflection I could actually see her soil the couch. And without even laying my hands on the treasure, I turned, bowed to her, and exited.

I jumped in the back of the van and shouted to Z to hit the gas. He called back that we were heading to the theater district to get the chutes from a safe house there, and then would be on to Teterboro. Despite making the combined drive in an amazing 43 minutes, the time passed interminably for us.

Given all the TSA bullshit, our conduct at the airport could potentially be the most difficult part of our plan. Zulu's associations with P. Diddy had afforded him the opportunity to ride on Diddy's new Global Express, and Z had done his best in those interactions to get to know the pilots and the FBO crew at Teterboro. He's a master of the social interaction, and had managed to create an aura of more association with the plane than any casual passenger should have deserved. At any rate, as we drove to the safe-house he called ahead and convinced them to have the jet fueled up and be waiting for Diddy's imminent arrival.

Arriving at the airport we sweet talked the ramp crew and drove our van right out to the waiting plane, saying that we were getting the plane ready for Diddy, and then proceeded to load our gear as inconspicuously as possible. As I stayed to finish up, Zulu went in to the pilot's lounge and convinced a jet pilot to come out to check out the plane. Once inside we knocked him out and locked him in the lav. We then hopped behind the controls and within minutes were wheels up and headed southeast.

We were burning a lot of time to get where we were going, but we were executing as well as we could with the resources at hand. Still, it was scheduled to be a four-day stakeout, so chances were reasonably good that we'd arrive in the middle of whatever was happening.

As we neared our destination we prepared our gear and started looking at maps to decide on where specifically we were headed. Zulu had read all the intel and had narrowed the region down to about a 300 square-mile swath that was mostly in Pakistan but included some of Afghanistan. I then studied the region with my Special Forces trained eye, and picked our insertion point. With chutes on and weapons loaded we opened the bathroom door and let the pilot out.

I must say, when Zulu and I are fully outfitted for battle, we cut as impressive and menacing a figure as any men alive, and for the second time in 17 hours someone soiled themselves in fear of me. Z and I decided not to embarrass the guy, though, and took no notice as we shoved him at gunpoint towards the locked cabin.

"Listen carefully," I said, "In ninety seconds a small explosive on the other side of that door will blow and let you inside. The plane is trimmed out and on autopilot, and the baggage door is open. Close it, as we'll be gone by then, and plot a course for Kuala Lumpur. We've cleared the airspace for you. Refuel there and take the plane back to New Jersey. We'll square up with Diddy later." With that we turned and headed down into the baggage compartment.

The roar of the wind was deafening, but we held on and waited for the countdown to finish on our watches. When the displays turned all zeroes we were out the back of the plane and plummeting towards the Khyber Pass. We waited until the last possible moment to pull our chutes, so as to minimize our time as easy targets, and set down moments later on the rocky mountainside.

Despite our precise execution, we were still spotted as we dropped in, and were forced into an impromptu gun battle, which we handled swiftly. Their fire also alerted us to the cave we were looking for, and we made quick time over to its entrance, dispatching of the guards and slipping our way inside.

Likely you've got a picture in your mind of what one of these Al Qaeda caves looks like. And probably you're thinking crappy cave-man shit. You'd be dead wrong though. These things are about as opulent as anything you'd see on MTV Cribs. Zulu and I were sneaking down the corridors past plasma TV's, designer furniture, and a kitchen outfitted with the latest Viking ranges and Sub-Zero refrigerators. We're talking pimp here.

At any rate, as we reached the deepest bowels of the structure, we could hear the conversation going on in the chambers beyond a pair of intricately carved doors. "PAGES! PAGES!" shouted the slightly drawling western accented English, "Whatever, it doesn't matter, we just need something to happen to get us over the Foley thing."

Zulu and I kicked open the door, and with four quick rounds from each from our XM8's we were the only living men left in the presence of Osama bin Laden and Dick Cheney.

All the color drained from Cheney's toad-like face, and for the third time in 24 hours someone soiled themselves to look at me. His thin lips started to move, but no sound came out.

Zulu and I fixed our steely gazes on the two most evil men in the world. We'd seen some pretty hard characters over the years, but never two like this.

As Cheney attempted to emit what one could only assume would be a croak, I strode across the room and delivered a rifle butt to the his head, knocking him unconscious. I reached down to pick him up and threw him over my shoulder. Bin Laden and I then locked eyes, and after a moment of mutual contemplation he nodded his head to me, and I did the same in return. The acknowledgement between us was more than just an appraisal; it was an admission that while this minor chapter had come to pass that the story was yet to be concluded on another day.

Zulu and I exited to Cheney's waiting Blackhawk and took him back to Kabul.

A lot of our conservative readers are going to wonder why we didn't kill bin Laden that day, while many of our liberal readers will wonder why we didn't kill Cheney, and then there are the independents, who will wonder why we didn't kill them both. What all those groups don't understand is that there is a fourth path, the apolitical path. Some people will come across this fourth way and go mad, others will find God, and then there are people like Zulu and I who will take the fourth path as far as it will go, and find the truth.

Unacceptable Idiocy at Poker

Seldom do I make a mistake at poker that makes me just want to beat myself silly afterwards. But tonight I got involved in one of the higher limit games I've been involved in in my life, and made one of the most rookie mistakes a player could make. The game is pot-limit omaha, with 10-20 blinds; a big game; when I first sit down, a guy wins a 5000 dollar pot. Anyway, to make a long story short, I bet a ragged board all the way down with just a pair of deuces and a wheel gutshot. I get 2 callers all the way; they both call for 75 on the flop, and they both call for 200 on the turn; I feel they are very weak, but I never for an instant consider my 2's could somehow be good. The flop is AJ4, an 8 on the turn, no flush draw at any point, so it's hard for me to consider them having too many draws out there. Whatever, it doesn't matter. The point is the J pairs on the river and everyone checks it down. I immediately muck my 2's, thinking there's no way they can be good. As it turns out both of the guys had very similar hands and picked up 2 straight draw wraps on the turn, and K high ends up winning it. So basically I just forfeited a 970 dollar pot for no real reason. That kind of shit hurts more than anything, because you know it's your own stupidity that cost you a very large amount of money, and not someone just getting lucky on you. I immediately left, knowing that I was in danger of going on tilt after my stupidity. I was up 300 bucks, but not in the least consoled. First time in a long while when the phrase, 'I need a drink', came very strongly into my head. And that's what I did.

Pathetic Stake-Out Today

So C's pretty much recovered now and they sent he and I to New York to set up surveillance on this suspected Chinese operative. This woman Mai-Ling was supposedly having meetings with someone in the Defense Department and everyone wanted to know more about this. Allegedly information about nanotechnology was being leaked; and this was nanotechnology related to warfare; the kind of stuff that the government doesn't want you to know about. We're talking microscopic machines that replicate themselves from any known materials, machines that with a little more tweaking on the part of our scientists could turn mountains to dust in a matter of minutes; the so-called grey goo scenario. So needless to say, everyone was a trifle concerned.

Mai-Ling was posing as a Faberge egg dealer, meeting with potential business contacts in New York. (For some reason the Chinese seem to think the most ridiculous cover story is usually the best, and I have to say that this does seem to work for them most of the time. Though I do remember once they went overboard when one of their agents was posing as a flamboyantly gay rodeo clown. I'm pretty sure someone got fired for that idea.) Several of the eggs had been found to contain microprint military research inside of them, and this was how Mai-Ling was transporting the information back to China.

So C and I are set up all day today in a completely tinted-out, busted up 'Lee's Laundry Services' van in Chinatown outside this woman's apartment, trying to blend into the environment. And for anyone of you who know about stake-outs, that shit is not pleasant or glamorous in the slightest. With all of the surveillance equipment in the van, there's barely any room to move, it's hot and humid as hell, you're dripping sweat, it's hard to breathe, and, if you're working with someone who ate a rather large Mexican meal the night before and for some retarded reason had the leftovers for breakfast, things can reach a point where you're ready to say fuck the fate of the world, I'm retiring to a chalet in Switzerland.

So we're there for 12 hours today, listening to her phone conversations, which we'd tapped the night before, and being completely miserable. All she talks about all day is Faberge this, Faberge that, talking about her god-damned eggs more than a woman with ovarian cancer. She's talking to the Victor Mayer company in Germany, to some potential buyers in Manhattan, to some Wall Street guy who's making some ridiculous inquiries about 'Faberge egg salad' (by the way, wtf?) and just generally she's boring as shit. And after a while I'm pretty convinced that something is wrong here and she's just a regular old-fashioned Faberge egg dealer and we've got some bad information, or else someone else is doctoring her eggs. C's of a different opinion, though, and thinks she's just really deep undercover.

'Uhhh,' I say. 'If she goes any deeper under cover, she's going to be selling Faberge eggs for the rest of her fucking life. She'd really have us fooled then.' C conceeds that we may be wasting our time, especially since the search of her apartment the night before didn't yield any results.

"Do you think the donkey punch would be allowed under Bush's revised Geneva Conventions?" C asked out of nowhere. He's prone to non-sequitors during stake-outs. I assume it's a rhetorical question and say nothing.

To make a long story short, nothing at all happens all day except for C and me learning entirely too much about Faberge eggs, and me filling up almost an entire 2-liter soda bottle with my urine. Also, seeing entirely too much of C because he likes to strip down to a thong during these things because of the heat.

End of Internet Poker? (for Americans)

Bill Frist has almost succeeded in getting his bill passed by Bush. If this passes as it is expected to in about two weeks from now, it pretty much spells the end of United States citizens playing poker as they've been accustomed to. I have friends who get most of their income from playing on Partypoker and the like, so this is pretty big in the circle I hang with. Fortunately for me, I've been concentrating on the live casino games in the past year and this won't effect me much, though I would definitely like the opportunity to play on these sites again. It is too bad the party of smaller government feels the need to regulate morality and limit our choices yet again. Here is a rather humorous letter I found in one of the poker forums, where Bill Frist animosity is at an all-time high:

Senator Frist
Did you pass that bill because you were mad I hit that gutshot on the river against you? Well you shouldn't be you fucking idiot. You gave me 8:1 pot odds with your wimpy little bet and we all know your scared conservative bible bearing ass was folding to me if any flush card hit the river... And did you know whenever you bluff you put your hands on your balls to remind yourself that you have them? Yeah, you do. You suck. Your a dumb non creative retarded guy who doesn't have the thinking skills to make decisions for himself, so he just goes the conservative girly man route. And thanks for the easy money, I took it to Atlantic City and banged diseases infested hookers all week without protection. CUZ THATS HOW I ROLL.
--EaglesFan1

Who knows? Maybe Frist did lose a bundle on internet gambling and is a bit sore. I wouldn't put anything past him. We all know he has no problem killing cats and dogs.

Some advice is given

So Bill Clinton calls me up about a week ago, and tells me that he needs some dirt on Chris Wallace from Fox News. Says he's going to get interviewed by him and wants to really be able to "grab this little puke by the nuts and swing him around."

I said, "Bill, in order to grab a dude by the nuts, those nuts have to have descended. You could save us both some time and just take a shot that he still wets the bed. Twenty bucks says he starts sniveling and crying if you just come out with that."

"Nah...", Bill says, "That's not what I need here, I don't think... You gotta help me C, like in the old days. Tell me what to do."

Now, "helping Bill out in the old days" meant one of two things: giving him strategy advice, or getting him girls. I was pretty sure he meant the former in this case.

Actually, though, as a side note, the girl thing was always a lot of fun. Sometimes I would just round up girls from hotel bars and swing 'em by the White House in the evenings. It usually wasn't a big deal because they kept Chelsea so coked out on Ritalin that she was generally comatose by 7pm, and most nights Hillary was up until the wee hours pushing figurines around this giant Risk board she kept in the basement. Other times, though (usually while we were in Europe), he and I would head out to bars and just pull chicks together. A lot of people were pretty embarassed by the quality of the ass that he got busted on, but if they'd only seen what I had, wow, they'd have been glad it was Lewinski... I think it was all the time at Cambridge or something, but he's always going for the girls that aren't all that hot because he thinks they'll be smarter or something. At any rate, it was great, because here I am with the leader of the free world, and he's nudging me and going, "The one in the glasses is mine, hands off." And I'm looking at this incredible piece of tail next to the bookish one, and I'm just like, "No problem, dude."

Anyway, so he asks me about the Fox interview, and I think for a moment and say, "You know what, have you read Dick Clark's book?"

"No," he says, "Is it about the Rockin' New Years thing?"

"No," I said, "Remember, he was your counter-terrorism chief. You wanted to give the job to some bumpkin, but I told you that this was one better left to the professionals... told you to get your head out of your ass..."

"Oh yeah!" says Bill, "Damn, I wish you'd given me the same advice on the travel staff."

I actually had told him that on the travel staff, but decided not to mention it.

"Anyway," I said, "Just read that book. Should give you all the ammo you need..."