Fred Fortune

I may be on the lam again sooner than I think. Thanks to someone on planet Earth who recently reported me to the Illuminati. But I'll just let that person's own karma deal with it.

Hell, I'm not afraid of the goddamn Illuminati. Without their Armani suits, their chauffeured limousines and that sorry-ass rabble of conspiracy theorists who worship them from afar, they're nothing. Just a lot of talk that only a bunch of bought-and-paid-for heads of state and top-drawer military men seem to really go for.

And that's because those heads of state and crooked generals are, in turn, bought and paid for, themselves, by the Illuminati. It's sort of a symbiotic relationship between a bunch of bottom-feeders whose clout with the real powers-that-be is pretty much Earthbound. Big-ass deal.

I, on the other hand, can come and go as I please because I never hurt anyone. And that kind of karma keeps working for you when the so-called shit hits the fan and the so-called heat is just around the corner. In the long run, it always pays to be a good guy.

So, whether or not I'm here or there or anyplace else, I'll be going and going just like the goddam Energizer Bunny. And there's nothing the Illuminati can do about it. And they damn well know it.

Anyway, I'm not just sitting around on my keister and waiting for Planet X to rattle Earth's electromagnetic cage, as it were. Not that there's a hell of a lot do on Mars, don't get me wrong. Foraging for mushrooms and algae and trying to locate a few drops of water in the mammoth underground caverns pretty much takes up an entire Martian day, if you really want to know. But there are other things to do with the six or seven spare minutes left over each day and worrying about planet Earth is not one of them.

As I said before, most of us Martian cave dwellers are human abductees from Earth that the Greys dumped here after they found out there was more alcohol and illegal substances in our blood than they anticipated. Which means they can't siphon us to fill their own tanks for breeding. The little clone asses. Cloning yourself nearly to death pretty much sums up the underlying truth about the Greys' intellectual capacity. Building spaceships that can flit in and out of Earth's atmosphere on the whisper of gravity isn't exactly a Nobel-Prize-winning achievement if you're too lazy to get it on with the old Grey lady once in a while and make more of yourselves. Hell, any two-bit homeless asshole from any run down American city could have told you that.

So, just what, exactly, am I doing in the meantime? What takes up my life activity when I'm not slugging it out with other Martian bums over part of a left-over Big Mac that someone had in their pocket when the Greys dumped their latest shipment of solar system rejects under the Cydonia Face?

Hell, I don't really know. Most of us are so goddamn tired from sucking red stones all day long for ancient salt – if you can find any stones left unsucked, that is – that we only have enough time to remind ourselves that the Greys are our real enemies and not the rich and powerful and selfish Earthlings who never gave us a single blessed thought from day one.

So, I'll try later to remember what the hell it was that I wanted to say. Then, if I can remember to write it down, I'll try to find the time to post it here. If I can remember my password.

Because this is my weblog. Not yours.

It's not so strange when you really think about it. When you read a book or a magazine and you like or don't like what the author has written you can't scribble your thoughts in the margins and then return the damn thing for corrections. If that's the purpose of a "blog" then it's a really stupid one. Anyone can be a critic. That takes no talent whatsoever.

Have something to say? Get your own blog and blog it.

I'm not here looking for cyber friends or fans like a lost soul who has no where else to go for social interaction. I'm not someone whose misery needs company or a vengeful and over-opinionated web surfer who needs to tear down what someone else has created in order to feel good about myself. So, keep your cyber cliques to yourselves. I'm just not interested.

My few readers don't necessarily have to come from tblog. And that is our collective prerogative.

Besides, out here on Mars we can't hear you anyway.

Being forced to leave planet Earth just after the new millennium rolled around was sort of a mixed blessing for me. True, I no longer have my cushy service industry job, where I could abuse customers all day long on the phone and via e-mail without affecting the size of our customer data base, whatsoever, and I no longer have the use of my comfortable recliner ( No, it wasn’t a goddamn Lazy Boy).

Neither do I have my cable TV and VCR (That’s right, I didn’t have the satellite feed to my home theater and TIVO deal because I liked paying less for the same shitty channels instead of being one of those sorry saps who gladly gives up half his monthly income to channel surf nonstop because all TV programming is the same. Nothing but belly buttons and butt cracks, crude humor, bed-hopping, tear-jerker family shows, sci-fi that is actually horror and fantasy, reality crap and 80% commercials. Did I miss anything?).

I also don’t miss having my sorry life controlled by subliminal advertising, ULF low-frequency mind-control beams the Navy soaks us with day in and day out or having to drag the garbage cans out to the street in the rain, snow and freezing weather just because it’s Wednesday.

But, no longer being able to call Earth my home has allowed me to see the forest for the trees, if you will. I now see planet Earth from a distance and that allows me to see it for what it really is instead of being unable to rise above the daily gutter of eating, sleeping, pooping, praying, commuting and fornicating long enough to actually get the Big Picture.

All right, all right, I know I’m rattling on and that’s because I’m still a little rattled about not having my cushy service industry job, my non-Lazy Boy recliner and TV that isn’t worth watching, because all that crap was still a hell of a lot better than choking on Martian dust and looking over your shoulder for rogue Greys and marauding Reptoids all day long. So, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, OK, Smart Guy, and just what is the goddamn Big Picture?

Alright, already! So, I’ll tell you. It’s pretty goddamn simple, actually.

The whole, big-ass, stupid, secret deal about planet Earth is that you’re all down there and you can’t leave except when you die and, in the meantime, they’ve got you all by the short hairs.

And, knowing that, you’ll still look forward to your next drive-thru meal, American Idol and getting lucky on the weekends.

Why do I bother?

I've got no other place to go.

So, shut up and pass the salt.

Oh, yeah, I'm so glad I don't live on Earth anymore but before I tell you why let me tell you that most of us former Earthlings living in the Mars underground are the former American homeless. You know, the folks pushing the rusty shopping carts all around the downtown and sleeping near steam vents and so on. Yep, that's us.

We were dumped here on Mars after the goddamn Greys (that's right, the bubble-heads with the big, black, almond eyes) discovered that most us had blood that was way too thin for our DNA to be worth anything as far as soup starter for boosting their pathetic, cloned DNA. Pricks. Yeah, human blood gets just a little thin on a diet of Wild Irish Rose and, in some cases, dollar-store shoe polish. But, I digress from the main topic. Earth Politics. May as well write about a cockroach race somewhere.

Anyway, I'm so goddamn glad that I don't have to feel guilty about not voting for any of the U.S. Presidential candidates this election. I mean, electing McCain will almost guarantee continued warfare around the globe. Let's face it, war is prosperity for all the good ole boys who rub elbows and asses with a federal administration. Always was and always will be. If McCain gets to roam the White House unbridled, gasoline will be ten dollars a gallon and only the good ole boys will be able to afford it. The only store in America will be WalMart with its shelves chock full of wares that will reflect the astronomical price of gas. Maybe Mr. And Mrs. Smith will no longer be able to afford to drive to WalMart every other day for disposable diapers and fresh cruellers but it won't matter because there'll be a WalMart every fifty feet.

Then there's Obama. If elected, he'll inadvertently turn the White House into a half-way house for every special-interest minority group in America. The Oval Office will become a soup kitchen for every disaffected U.S. citizen who feels the need for some government reparation to offset their miserable lives, regardless of race, color, creed, national origin or sexual preference. They'll be sleeping on the front porch to get in. They'll lie and cheat and even knock heads to be first in line. And the South Lawn will be a tent city for those who heard the dinner bell a little too late. And, let's face it, Hillary won't even be in the picture because her political overcoat has just a little too much red in the collar and not enough blue where it really counts. Otherwise, she might disperse all the bums hanging around 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue by 2012, when the shit really hits the fan.

And, Ralph Nader? Forget him. If elected, he'll remove all vehicles from the American highways as unsafe and you'll all be peddling bicycles or else walking. And there won't be any products on the shelves when you get to WalMart because he'll fire everyone in the FDA and the USDA and then he'll take over Underwriters Laboratories and turn it into a mad scientist lab for seeking out that elusive product that's totally risk free.

And the other guy, what's his face, all I can say is this. Who the hell is this guy?

I just hate it when people tell me I sound like a broken record. They do that because they don't want to hear the truth. Especially if it hits home for them. Man, how people will do anything to filter out the shit before it hits them.

Just like the other day. I was telling this guy about how Earth is going to hell in a hand basket and this shithead starts squirming on his bar stool and looking the other way. But he didn't move to another stool. Hell, no, I was buying the rounds, that's why. The sneaky shit.

Anyway, I told him any asshole could tell the country was going to hell in a hand basket, if not the whole planet, just by going to the movies these days. Nothing but belly buttons and butt cracks, crude humor and four-letter words. And everything in tones of gray and blue and black, like color is a bad thing nowadays. And when I mentioned that, the prick just squirmed and squirmed.

Then I busted his chops about TV and said they shouldn't be saying words like "asshole" and "dick" and "prick" and "knocked-up" on TV, especially not at prime time, for heaven's sake. Kids are watching. Doesn't anybody care about them anymore? That made him squirm even more on his stool, so much that he actually farted and then pretended that he didn't. That's when I moved down to the other end of the bar. Later, I realized that was his way of getting rid of me. I guess he didn't want another free shot and a beer all that bad.

Later I heard him saying to another guy, who was also paying for all the drinks, that I sounded like a broken record. That pissed me off. Pissed me right off. I thought about slugging the both of them but they were a lot bigger than me and in better shape. They haven't been an outcast as long as me and they even have homes. They probably have big-ass wide-screen TVs and just love prime time. They probably even love those sappy commercials that sell you pills for everything but boils on your ass. They probably go to the movies all the time. So, I just let it go.

Man, being right don't mean shit these day.

2012 will be nothing like Y2K which was a lot of hype based on non-science. I'm talking Nibiru, Planet X, the Dark Star offspring. This baby is hooked up to the red wire.

Nibiru will be just a faint red dot in the eastern night sky on May 15, 2009. But, by December 21, 2012 it'll be as big as the goddamn moon. Only red and menacing and heading our way.

What can you do about it? Not one damn thing. Planet X (sounds scarier) won't do shit until February 14, 2013, when it comes between Earth and the Sun. Then the polar axis el-switcheroo, big-ass quakes, monster tsunamis on Earth and all the other happy crap that goes along with it. Like 2/3 of Earth's population snuffed out.

By July 1, 2014 it will be all over. Planet X will move out of our solar system to wherever another hell-bent-for-leather planet like Earth has earned a cosmic-law judgment day.

2013 will make Y2K look like a fizzled-out sparkler because that's all it ever was. Scare tactics to get us to buy a lot of unnecessary survival gear, including over-priced bottled water. Goddamn bank robbers. But no one can escape Nibiru and only 1/3 of us will live to tell about it.

Me? I live on Mars. Or, under Mars, as if were.

There it is. Nibiru -- 2009 to 2014. Now you know.

I swallowed this doomsday theory hook, line and sinker when I saw it on You Tube. The link will not post here on this blog. See Links on right column.

Finally found the link to add this hideous picture of me to my profile. Sure, the link was nowhere near the profile edit page. Go figure.

But this is Earth. That's what I've been telling ya! And what has telling the truth acquired for me so far? One square a day and all the red dust I can eat under the Cydonia ruins.

Well, enough on that.

Sure. I figured as much. They won't let me post a picture of myself. Don't worry, it's a clean picture that I want to put on my profile. I'm just homely as hell, that's all.

But, hey, I'm not here to find a Mrs. Fred Fortune. I'm here to motormouth about the status quo of planet Earth and this doomed solar system of ours. Which means I'll probably break the record for low number of visitors. Yeah, yeah. So what?

Anyway, I figured it would be nice if people knew what the hell I looked like.

OK, then, if an aging interplanetary misfit and intergalactic felon can't put up his own mug shot, then what the hell good is this hideout?

They'll just make me be on the lam again.