Back in 1999 a couple of traumatic things happened. I was in an elevator accident for one. This happened about 2 weeks after my Grandmother passed away. My Grandmother passing away is something that took me about 5 years to understand the magnitude of my loss.
The elevator accident took two years, several jobs, and two attorneys to solve.
One of the jobs was for another law firm. There was this awful and truly evil human being that worked there. According to her, she ran the world and was more powerful than Al Capone at the height of his reign. We'll call her M. Pickonme.
I interviewed for the job there and I have to admit the pay and benefits were rather competitive. I took the job. Mafia comes up to my desk, introduces herself and says "there is no way in hell I'm going to pay you (number omitted) I replied "the deal has already been made and I don't see your name on the door." She runs off in a huff. She then told me I had to pay "protection." Out of my salary. Fuck her.
On the day of my second payday her secretary comes to my desk and says "I'm collecting for Mafia." I reply "What is she, a UNICEF kid?" She says "Okay" and walks off scratching her head. My phone rings and it was Ms. Pickonme. She asked if I could come to her office. I told her I was in the middle of something and that I'd be there in a few.
I go to her office and she instructed me to close the door. She said "you know what I want" and I said "Oh, alright and start to undo my belt and take off my pants." If I could have caught a picture of her expression--anyway she starts screaming, I reply there is no way in hell I'm paying protection money to a bitch. She screams "I'm gonna kill you!" to which I reply "Blow it out your ass!."
The funniest thing about my dealings with Mafia Pikconme is that when I first met her she was wearing a red tailored suit. The first thing that went through my mind was "I didn't realize that Lucifer was a female attorney in a red suit practicing law on Seventeenth Street." I am still not convinced this isn't the case.
I was told that my life was in danger. With the life that I've had, that is the only way I know I'm alive. A lot of different people came out of the wood work to "warn me" that she could have me killed. Rumor has it that back in the day they used to kill people for fun. Her legal secretaries that didn't "work out" had a bad habit of dying.
Mafia had the most annoying habit of monitoring the staff's coffee consumption. She didn't think that she should have to supply employees with coffee. She was that petty. I was drinking something from Starbucks once and she came up to me to my desk and said "How do I know you're not putting firm coffee in your cup?" I said "Gee, I guess you don't but I'm just curious, to whom are you billing the coffee policing to?" She growled and stormed off.
A week later I was told I had to take some boxes to the freight elevator (they were empty). I have helpful nature and I still find myself charmed into doing just about anything a woman asks me. Something about fear of breaking a nail was mentioned. I take the boxes to the elevator where two copy jockeys were waiting for me. Copy Jockey #1 looks at me and says "Sorry Bill, I really don't want to do this." I say "Oh, dude, Oh I know what this is about. The guy you want is a real scum bag! Really. Let me go get him. It might take a minute." (To his defense, I don't think he wanted to kill me.) I went back to the women who sent me to be rid of the boxes and I said "there are two men in the freight lobby and they're pissed and want to talk to you." They go. I follow discretely and positioned myself where I could hear undetected. Words were exchanged. Something like "how hard is it to kill him?" Marsha arrived a few minutes later and said "I don't care WHO it is but I want you to kill the next person who comes here regardless." I wait about 30 minutes, go to Ms. Pickonme's office and said "there are two men in the freight lobby and they are insisting that you go speak with them." She asks that I follow. We arrive. She before me. Their eyes were - well, they'd been had. She looks and me and says "sorry, but you have to go, (to them) KILL him!" I said "I'm sorry too and I've called 911 and the authorities should be on their way."
Shortly before it closed, the whole firm went out to lunch. I had just ordered when someone at the table hands me a cell phone (I have learnded by now that when someone hands me their cell phone, I should just run screaming). No hello, no greeting just "I cannot believe you are eating MY food." I said nothing. What could I say to this. It was the FIRM who was paying for lunch, and even if she were paying for it wasn't hers. She continued "Who the hell do you think you are? I was told I can't come anywerhe near you and you work form me." I said "Seek help. Are you off of your meds? Have they recently been changed?" The phone was ripped out of my hand. Way too many control freaks with cell phones in my life.
The firm closed after this.
She lied to her new firm (I'm doing someone a favor by not mentioning them specifically) and told her that I had worked for her for a year or so (I didn't). That's right, I ended up working for Ms. Mafia again. She hit me up for protection money again. I was also told that I had to start buying cheaper cuts of meat, that she could already tell she was going to have a problem brining what I spent on groceries under control. I had mentioned something about a new news show and I was admonished for not watching the correct network. That's right she wanted to control what I ate, how much coffee I drank, how I dressed and which news station I watched. 7 years later and I still can't believe I heard this.
The most disturbing part of this is she and her cronies forged letters with Department of Justice letterhead and mailed everyone in my family letters stating that I was in the witness relocation program and that contact with me is dangerous for both them and myself. Knowing my family members are opportunistic, I will pay you handsomely for a copy of one of these letters. When I went home to visit my family asked me about this and I told the truth: That I had no idea what they were talking about. A couple of cousins called the DOJ and this was confirmed.
I was told by M. Pickonme that "we can't have you running to your family when you have a problem with us, we'd lose all control over you." I was also told that I could kiss my inerhitence goodbye. Fuck you!
Many other things happened in the three or four months or so that I worked for her. I spilled the story and, believe it or not, the bitch went on to become a JUDGE (albeit for about a year and a half, it seems she keeps jobs as long as I do.)
I market myself as having worked for Ms. Mafia Pickonme and lived! I hate the fact that she, some bitch with a vowel at the end of her name thinks they can kill whomever they want on a whim and when exposed, they are given a black robe and a gavel. How much money did you save my keeping your employees from drinking the cofee, Ms. Mafia? Huh? We really want to know.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Jodi Foster, John Hinkley, Carson Junior High School, and Agent Orange
I remember the day that Reagan was shot vividly.
It was in the afternoon that the news had spread throughout Carson Junior High School in Mesa, Arizona. I was living with Grandpa Phil's son and his wife. (I will never understand how that came to be). I was in 7th grade.
I walked in to what must have been 5th or 6th period and everyone was talking about Reagan having been shot. I snapped and no sooner had I gained composure when two men in suits cam into the room, escorted me out of the building and to the administration building and office where I was kept in an interior office until late in the evening.
I was not treated particularly well but I can't now recall any of the details with any specificity. I do remember some jackass making it clear that despite all the hubbub I wasn't "important" and my requests for something to drink were met with disdain.
I have always believed that Hinkley was on to something and that Jodi Foster is somehow part of our illustrious family, if only biologically.
I later ended up going to high school with a couple of members of JFA (a skate punk band) and it stands for Jodi Foster's Army. I was quite careful never to mention anything about Jodi in high school as I knew for me and many others it is a one-way ticket to being forever viewed as a lunatic.
However, listening to and knowing JFA the band got me into punk rock. I can't say I was a punker and probably couldn't even have cut it as a poser. As close as I got was the night I stole Grandpa Phil's car, put on my died-by-myself-orange levis and other thrift store attire and drove to Madison Square Garden in Phoenix, AZ. It was on Van Buren Street-the infamous street in Phoenix where hookers, pimps, drug dealers and "others" strut their stuff. Madison Square Garden was an amateur wrestling arena with the cage in the center. The bands would play inside. When Agent Orange saw me in orange levis, I was invited into the pit. I was quite drunk from the 75 cent beer sold from a keg. Oh, and I was 15. Yeah. The last time I saw the physical building it had been remodeled into a flower shop.
The rest is a blur but I do remember secret service threatening to burn the place down when I gained consciousness in the parking lot outside the building. Don't ask me what happened in the mean time for I don't know and I don't want to know.
It seems that Punk Rock and Reaganomics don't mix.
(Agent Orange is still one of my favorite bands).
It was in the afternoon that the news had spread throughout Carson Junior High School in Mesa, Arizona. I was living with Grandpa Phil's son and his wife. (I will never understand how that came to be). I was in 7th grade.
I walked in to what must have been 5th or 6th period and everyone was talking about Reagan having been shot. I snapped and no sooner had I gained composure when two men in suits cam into the room, escorted me out of the building and to the administration building and office where I was kept in an interior office until late in the evening.
I was not treated particularly well but I can't now recall any of the details with any specificity. I do remember some jackass making it clear that despite all the hubbub I wasn't "important" and my requests for something to drink were met with disdain.
I have always believed that Hinkley was on to something and that Jodi Foster is somehow part of our illustrious family, if only biologically.
I later ended up going to high school with a couple of members of JFA (a skate punk band) and it stands for Jodi Foster's Army. I was quite careful never to mention anything about Jodi in high school as I knew for me and many others it is a one-way ticket to being forever viewed as a lunatic.
However, listening to and knowing JFA the band got me into punk rock. I can't say I was a punker and probably couldn't even have cut it as a poser. As close as I got was the night I stole Grandpa Phil's car, put on my died-by-myself-orange levis and other thrift store attire and drove to Madison Square Garden in Phoenix, AZ. It was on Van Buren Street-the infamous street in Phoenix where hookers, pimps, drug dealers and "others" strut their stuff. Madison Square Garden was an amateur wrestling arena with the cage in the center. The bands would play inside. When Agent Orange saw me in orange levis, I was invited into the pit. I was quite drunk from the 75 cent beer sold from a keg. Oh, and I was 15. Yeah. The last time I saw the physical building it had been remodeled into a flower shop.
The rest is a blur but I do remember secret service threatening to burn the place down when I gained consciousness in the parking lot outside the building. Don't ask me what happened in the mean time for I don't know and I don't want to know.
It seems that Punk Rock and Reaganomics don't mix.
(Agent Orange is still one of my favorite bands).
Thursday, September 20, 2007
But Grandpa, What a Big Meth Lab You Have
Grandpa Phil was quite a character. He was an avid yachtsmen (of course) and was one of the smartest people I've ever known. He had an understanding of science and electronics that boggles my mind. I think he could compete with some of the greatest technical minds of today. He also seemed to have an irrational fear of our house burning down.
While there were many an involved lie about our house, he had it built. He had to flee Scottsdale in '67 and go to Chicago due the big Mafia war involving various families in Arizona and elsewhere. He came back in '69 (although I seem to remember Grandma saying they visited 11 times in two years).
The house was built in the desert and back then everyone had septic tanks as Scottsdale was maybe 1/10th the size it is today. Sewers weren't built in our area until the '80s. There were some peculiarities of the house I'd like to share with you. It had a gigantic 13' pool, a putting green with fake turf and a shuffle board. The bathroom was huge and had a door to the outside patio. This is a common design feature.
What is odd however, is the bathroom was huge-the double vanity had to be 10' long with a gigantic mirror. However, you could not see what was going on in the toilet area. Makes sense as if I were using the bathroom with someone else I wouldn't want to see what was going on at the toilet either.
We were very water-use conscious. You had to be. It was a desert. We landscaped with mostly native plants, had a dirt (and rather long) driveway. Everything seems normal until you mention the 16 gallon flush toilet, the bullet proof sliding glass doors (THEY WERE SO HEAVY AND HARD TO MOVE), and the pitch of the front overhang which made it impossible to see if people were home or not until you were literally at the front door.
Adjacent to the carport there were two a utility rooms. One of the utility rooms housed only a water heater. The walls were fireproof. It seems you don't want an open flame during certain stages of meth cooking. One day, however, the lab went boom, Grandpa had chemical burns all over his legs and his daughter, 14 at the time, had to drive him to the emergency room. I believe this happened in early summer.
He explained his leg burns as the result of using gasoline to set weeds on fire near the open flame of the gas pool water heater (we NEVER used this). That's how he got chemical burns on his legs and instead of calling an ambulance, he had his 14 year old daughter drive him 7 miles south to the nearest emergency room. Yeah.
It's still not as good as the Mormon Mafia connection in Joseph City, Arizona (between Holbrook and Winsolow off old route 66). People laugh when I mention the Mormon Mafia. Think of it as everything a mafia could offer only for rich white people. If a president or a first lady needed a problem taken care of, they would seek out the services of the Mormon Mafia.
It seems a Mormon with an unverifiable past just showed up there one day in the '50s and leased a bunch of government land. (He didn't have a yacht, however). It seems he somehow conned the government into a constant supply of red phosphorus (apparently a key ingredient in meth production and very tightly regulated). He said he had to spray the ground with it (his 1,100 acres or so) to combat the radioactivity from Uranium mining in the area. He would spray red food coloring and water all over it to appease the feds.
Not a bad gig, getting the feds to supply you with all of the chemicals necessary to make some really killer meth apparently based on the German Air Force recipe which, from my understanding, pushes the limits on how strong a stimulant can get. He had a lab built underground underneath the cow milking area. Interesting shit.
But Grandpa Phil's fate wasn't so fortunate. It seems that some bikers didn't like the competition and kept him and my Grandmother hostages in their own home for a couple of weeks and got him to give up the recipe and put him out of business. That was a bad day for the family as they had gone from a pretty powerful force to be reckoned with to relative obscurity by a bunch of bikers. I am sure his pride suffered greatly. But that was good news for the Mormon Mafia which grew even more rich and powerful as they controlled a bigger share of the market. I don't think my family was completely cut out of the picture as Grandma used to put the stuff in her Christmas stolen and Oh my God, don't eat a piece of that if you plan on sleeping anytime in the next week or so! We invariably would play the card game Blitz after eating stolen. Hmm, a bunch of wired nazis eating meth-laced stolen and playing Blitz! I'm surprised more people didn't discover their roots sooner. I don't know who makes the stolen with her recipe now, but I am sure someone in the family does. That's why I avoid holidays with them. (If you are reading this, yes, I do hate you this much!)
It has been suggested that I was the batch tester for the family. They take someone whose behavior they are familiar with and then dose them with meth to watch the reaction. Grandma used to say "I made you some tea, for your digestion, here, drink it." I trusted my Grandparents. I didn't even think about it. Then I would wonder why 30 minutes later I was talking rapidly, loudly and had a yearning to clean things. I'd stay up for a couple of days thinking that this was normal. I would then wonder why I often wouldn't have any energy.
I know these things sound a bit crazy but it's my life as I recall it. I defy you to prove me wrong.
While there were many an involved lie about our house, he had it built. He had to flee Scottsdale in '67 and go to Chicago due the big Mafia war involving various families in Arizona and elsewhere. He came back in '69 (although I seem to remember Grandma saying they visited 11 times in two years).
The house was built in the desert and back then everyone had septic tanks as Scottsdale was maybe 1/10th the size it is today. Sewers weren't built in our area until the '80s. There were some peculiarities of the house I'd like to share with you. It had a gigantic 13' pool, a putting green with fake turf and a shuffle board. The bathroom was huge and had a door to the outside patio. This is a common design feature.
What is odd however, is the bathroom was huge-the double vanity had to be 10' long with a gigantic mirror. However, you could not see what was going on in the toilet area. Makes sense as if I were using the bathroom with someone else I wouldn't want to see what was going on at the toilet either.
We were very water-use conscious. You had to be. It was a desert. We landscaped with mostly native plants, had a dirt (and rather long) driveway. Everything seems normal until you mention the 16 gallon flush toilet, the bullet proof sliding glass doors (THEY WERE SO HEAVY AND HARD TO MOVE), and the pitch of the front overhang which made it impossible to see if people were home or not until you were literally at the front door.
Adjacent to the carport there were two a utility rooms. One of the utility rooms housed only a water heater. The walls were fireproof. It seems you don't want an open flame during certain stages of meth cooking. One day, however, the lab went boom, Grandpa had chemical burns all over his legs and his daughter, 14 at the time, had to drive him to the emergency room. I believe this happened in early summer.
He explained his leg burns as the result of using gasoline to set weeds on fire near the open flame of the gas pool water heater (we NEVER used this). That's how he got chemical burns on his legs and instead of calling an ambulance, he had his 14 year old daughter drive him 7 miles south to the nearest emergency room. Yeah.
It's still not as good as the Mormon Mafia connection in Joseph City, Arizona (between Holbrook and Winsolow off old route 66). People laugh when I mention the Mormon Mafia. Think of it as everything a mafia could offer only for rich white people. If a president or a first lady needed a problem taken care of, they would seek out the services of the Mormon Mafia.
It seems a Mormon with an unverifiable past just showed up there one day in the '50s and leased a bunch of government land. (He didn't have a yacht, however). It seems he somehow conned the government into a constant supply of red phosphorus (apparently a key ingredient in meth production and very tightly regulated). He said he had to spray the ground with it (his 1,100 acres or so) to combat the radioactivity from Uranium mining in the area. He would spray red food coloring and water all over it to appease the feds.
Not a bad gig, getting the feds to supply you with all of the chemicals necessary to make some really killer meth apparently based on the German Air Force recipe which, from my understanding, pushes the limits on how strong a stimulant can get. He had a lab built underground underneath the cow milking area. Interesting shit.
But Grandpa Phil's fate wasn't so fortunate. It seems that some bikers didn't like the competition and kept him and my Grandmother hostages in their own home for a couple of weeks and got him to give up the recipe and put him out of business. That was a bad day for the family as they had gone from a pretty powerful force to be reckoned with to relative obscurity by a bunch of bikers. I am sure his pride suffered greatly. But that was good news for the Mormon Mafia which grew even more rich and powerful as they controlled a bigger share of the market. I don't think my family was completely cut out of the picture as Grandma used to put the stuff in her Christmas stolen and Oh my God, don't eat a piece of that if you plan on sleeping anytime in the next week or so! We invariably would play the card game Blitz after eating stolen. Hmm, a bunch of wired nazis eating meth-laced stolen and playing Blitz! I'm surprised more people didn't discover their roots sooner. I don't know who makes the stolen with her recipe now, but I am sure someone in the family does. That's why I avoid holidays with them. (If you are reading this, yes, I do hate you this much!)
It has been suggested that I was the batch tester for the family. They take someone whose behavior they are familiar with and then dose them with meth to watch the reaction. Grandma used to say "I made you some tea, for your digestion, here, drink it." I trusted my Grandparents. I didn't even think about it. Then I would wonder why 30 minutes later I was talking rapidly, loudly and had a yearning to clean things. I'd stay up for a couple of days thinking that this was normal. I would then wonder why I often wouldn't have any energy.
I know these things sound a bit crazy but it's my life as I recall it. I defy you to prove me wrong.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Employee of the Year (or Stop Drugging Me!)
The following is a reconstruction of events as I see them. Names have been omitted to protect those in the Witness Relocation Program.
Employee of the year. What an honor. I think there was a comedian once who said something along the lines of the only bigger loser than the employee of the year is the one who isn't. Think about it. It's all bullshit, doesn't make a lick of sense, and those who work their asses off are seldom chosen. It is for those who need special encouragement or just recently sold their soul to Lucifer.
In this case I think it was to make a few people in the "program" feel better about themselves. Not exactly on the top of my list but hey, what do I know?
The firm had a big "to do" about the employee of the year. I was ready for a glass of wine (which tended to flow rather freely at these events) as I had just moved the night before and had listened to a bunch of people go on and on about how wonderful these losers were. Actually, one of them deserved it the other two, ahem, well, it may very well be a good thing that I don't run the world.
No sooner had the ramblings stopped that the wine opened. I like red. White is okay, but red wine gets my attention quickly. A co-worker who shall from here on out be referred to as "the aging hippie" had opened a bottle. She rather graciously poured me a glass. Mmmmm. Red wine. Aghghgghghghgh (a la Homer Simpson). I nursed the wine. I had a second glass. Boom, I started talking about Ronald Reagan being my father. (I like to confuse the issue--I figure my exact patronage was never made clear to me why should it be clear to these assholes!). A non-white attorney (if I stated his or her exact race or gender, they would oh so easily be identified) asked me "Really, Ronald Reagan is your father? What is he like?" I said "Just like every other Republican, a racist jackass!" You could hear a pin drop. I excused myself to get some cheese.
Another white male attorney (90% of what is there) said "hey, I heard what you said and I"m a republican." I replied "yet you seem so intelligent." Silence.
During all of this my glass of wine had kicked in. I was certifiably off my gourd. I can't tell if it was sodium pentathol and desoxyn (my personal favorite) or GHB, but it was certainly something. Most people get somewhat timid when drugged. I get really ballsy. Not that you could hear it but in the background outside of the conference room you could hear my name being hysterically paged over and over again on the firm's paging system.
Things get a bit blury right about here but one of the firm's partner's rushes in and hands me a cell phone. The person on the other end sounded a great deal like George Bush (GW, the sitting president). After what had just been going on in my life it wasn't such a stretch. I am an amateur code cracker. I fit the profile. You have to be part crazy but during times of war people like us are sought out and treated quite well as the information we decipher can be quite valuable. I had played with some numbers and events and came up with a potential when and where. Someone coupled this with the what and boom, a major terrorist strike was averted. I was happy to play my part. What I am most unhappy about is that people thought this was proof positive that I was somehow in cahoots with the bad guys. This saddens me more than just about anything that has happened to me in my life and I have endured much. I did what I did thinking it might help AVERT a catastrophe. To somehow be associated with those wishing to cause same, I get sick when I think that people like this are everywhere inside the beltway.
Back to the event. So this GW sounding guy is on the phone and mentions my contribution. I ask, nearly immediately, "Where is my medal?" He said "there is no medal for civilians." I said "well then make one!" He said "there are just some things about you I can't overlook." I said "then how about one of your daughters?" He said "You are not going near either one of my daughters." I reply "Yeah, it's probably better to keep alcoholism out of the gene pool." Silence. He responds "Let me give you a piece of my mind." To which I reply "Are you sure you can afford to to that?" Silence. We talked about New Orleans and I told him to fuck off. The phone was ripped out of my hand. Maybe it was GW. I am quite certain I will never know the real truth. The more I think about this, however, I am relatively certain it was a bad GW impersonator. As delusional as I can be, I do know that if the President wants to speak with you, you'll know. You are normally notified in advance so to give you time to prepare. Every President has some comedian who does a relatively convincing impersonation. Guess the work for that has dried up a bit.
Drugs kicking into overdrive I go seeking more red wine.
One of the attorneys I worked with comes in claiming to be "looking" for me. She said something about them probably firing me. I asked what for. She said the firm had me followed, etc., I lived in a bad neighborhood and seemed to be engaging in suspicious activity. I told her to go look up the fireman's case. She said "So, now you think you're a fireman?" "No, I don't think I'm a fireman but if the reference is lost on you I'm not really worried about getting fired." (The firemans case is basically about an employer's inability to use an employee's outside of work activities as a reason to terminate or dictate terms of employment.)
She said that she had heard through "the grapevine" that I was trying to get what I thought was my money. She told me "You are not going to get your money. See, we live in a meritocray. Do you know what I mean?" I said "Yes, I agree but that meritocracy is predicated upon a system of property rights and that is why the rest of the world invests here. You can't have a bunch of people just "deciding" that someone else's money would be better utilized by people perceived to be more deserving. That ain't gonna happen here and not with my money." She said "If you get the money you'll be killed." I said I was prepared to die to make sure you bitches don't profit from anything of mine." There was more about this. I am probably not recalling it perfectly.
That is how the Witness Relocation Program works. It isn't government funded but those in the "program community" are given immunity from prosecution. They can do whatever they want. They all have get out of jail passes. The majority of the meth trade, as I understand things, will never go away because those in it are in the program and will never get caught. They operate with law enforcement knowing what they are doing and who they are.
That is why DOJ directive specifically prohibit those in the "program community" from working in the legal industry. A bunch of these assholes with licesnes to practice law would allow them to take real property from innocent citizens with no recourse available to the victims. And we criticize Sadam? Call other terrorists? Tea kettle pot black or something like that comes to mind.
She said "And now I hear you think you're Ronald Reagan's son." I said "That would explain why the secret service hauled me out of class at my junior high school the day he was shot." She asked "What junior high school." I replied "Carson." In Mesa, AZ." She said "Oh my God you really were raised by Nazis. You probably are related to him. Don't you think you should have told someone? It might have affected the way you have been treated." I told here that until this very day, I was largely satisfied with the way I had been treated (I really need to go back into therapy and work on my masochistic leanings).
I told her that I found it interesting that because I was raised by the Nazis that she knew that, that gave me credibility.
She asked if I had ever sold drugs. I said no. (I really never have.) She said "Good, because if you do that once it never goes away. " I think she was trying to tell me that she was still in business. She did not know that I knew she used to sell crank for some of my relatives. We were at the same college together at the same time and she had half the student body wired. I heard it was pretty good shit to boot.
She said that I am now being viewed much diffently than I was before. I took my index finger and dried my eyes (for effect) and said "Oh, well, then it's all been worth it." She said "Oh my God you are an asshole." Indeed.
Another partner's secretary comes in and hands me yet another cell phone. Her partner said "what you said to so and so was just out of hand." Words were exchanged. I ended it with "I didn't get this far by sitting around polishing my fish forks." Laughter on the other end. I said "How is it reasonable that people in this firm can congregate outside my home with intentions of locking me up in a cage at National General Hospital?" He demanded to know how I knew that and then said "Oh, that's why I sent so and so." Could be. So and so has bailed me out a couple of times. I love her. However, she does have her own agenda.
I kept sipping wine. At this point about 1.5 hours had elapsed and I had about 4 glasses.
My former stepmother now turned Legal Secretary with a new name, eye color, and face, came up to me and said "enjoy your stay at National General." (they lock people up in cages in the basement of National General Hospital in Denver and use them for experimentation and behavior modification. All of it sick and illegal and if the world could see what goes on there, I don't dare speculate as to what the fallout would be.)
I went home having consumed maybe 5 glasses of wine over 2.5 hours. I slept for 48 hours. Please keep in mind that someone at this event and who poured me wine is a home vinter and could have very easily put something in the wine and no one would be the wiser, save for yours truly.
Employee of the year. What an honor. I think there was a comedian once who said something along the lines of the only bigger loser than the employee of the year is the one who isn't. Think about it. It's all bullshit, doesn't make a lick of sense, and those who work their asses off are seldom chosen. It is for those who need special encouragement or just recently sold their soul to Lucifer.
In this case I think it was to make a few people in the "program" feel better about themselves. Not exactly on the top of my list but hey, what do I know?
The firm had a big "to do" about the employee of the year. I was ready for a glass of wine (which tended to flow rather freely at these events) as I had just moved the night before and had listened to a bunch of people go on and on about how wonderful these losers were. Actually, one of them deserved it the other two, ahem, well, it may very well be a good thing that I don't run the world.
No sooner had the ramblings stopped that the wine opened. I like red. White is okay, but red wine gets my attention quickly. A co-worker who shall from here on out be referred to as "the aging hippie" had opened a bottle. She rather graciously poured me a glass. Mmmmm. Red wine. Aghghgghghghgh (a la Homer Simpson). I nursed the wine. I had a second glass. Boom, I started talking about Ronald Reagan being my father. (I like to confuse the issue--I figure my exact patronage was never made clear to me why should it be clear to these assholes!). A non-white attorney (if I stated his or her exact race or gender, they would oh so easily be identified) asked me "Really, Ronald Reagan is your father? What is he like?" I said "Just like every other Republican, a racist jackass!" You could hear a pin drop. I excused myself to get some cheese.
Another white male attorney (90% of what is there) said "hey, I heard what you said and I"m a republican." I replied "yet you seem so intelligent." Silence.
During all of this my glass of wine had kicked in. I was certifiably off my gourd. I can't tell if it was sodium pentathol and desoxyn (my personal favorite) or GHB, but it was certainly something. Most people get somewhat timid when drugged. I get really ballsy. Not that you could hear it but in the background outside of the conference room you could hear my name being hysterically paged over and over again on the firm's paging system.
Things get a bit blury right about here but one of the firm's partner's rushes in and hands me a cell phone. The person on the other end sounded a great deal like George Bush (GW, the sitting president). After what had just been going on in my life it wasn't such a stretch. I am an amateur code cracker. I fit the profile. You have to be part crazy but during times of war people like us are sought out and treated quite well as the information we decipher can be quite valuable. I had played with some numbers and events and came up with a potential when and where. Someone coupled this with the what and boom, a major terrorist strike was averted. I was happy to play my part. What I am most unhappy about is that people thought this was proof positive that I was somehow in cahoots with the bad guys. This saddens me more than just about anything that has happened to me in my life and I have endured much. I did what I did thinking it might help AVERT a catastrophe. To somehow be associated with those wishing to cause same, I get sick when I think that people like this are everywhere inside the beltway.
Back to the event. So this GW sounding guy is on the phone and mentions my contribution. I ask, nearly immediately, "Where is my medal?" He said "there is no medal for civilians." I said "well then make one!" He said "there are just some things about you I can't overlook." I said "then how about one of your daughters?" He said "You are not going near either one of my daughters." I reply "Yeah, it's probably better to keep alcoholism out of the gene pool." Silence. He responds "Let me give you a piece of my mind." To which I reply "Are you sure you can afford to to that?" Silence. We talked about New Orleans and I told him to fuck off. The phone was ripped out of my hand. Maybe it was GW. I am quite certain I will never know the real truth. The more I think about this, however, I am relatively certain it was a bad GW impersonator. As delusional as I can be, I do know that if the President wants to speak with you, you'll know. You are normally notified in advance so to give you time to prepare. Every President has some comedian who does a relatively convincing impersonation. Guess the work for that has dried up a bit.
Drugs kicking into overdrive I go seeking more red wine.
One of the attorneys I worked with comes in claiming to be "looking" for me. She said something about them probably firing me. I asked what for. She said the firm had me followed, etc., I lived in a bad neighborhood and seemed to be engaging in suspicious activity. I told her to go look up the fireman's case. She said "So, now you think you're a fireman?" "No, I don't think I'm a fireman but if the reference is lost on you I'm not really worried about getting fired." (The firemans case is basically about an employer's inability to use an employee's outside of work activities as a reason to terminate or dictate terms of employment.)
She said that she had heard through "the grapevine" that I was trying to get what I thought was my money. She told me "You are not going to get your money. See, we live in a meritocray. Do you know what I mean?" I said "Yes, I agree but that meritocracy is predicated upon a system of property rights and that is why the rest of the world invests here. You can't have a bunch of people just "deciding" that someone else's money would be better utilized by people perceived to be more deserving. That ain't gonna happen here and not with my money." She said "If you get the money you'll be killed." I said I was prepared to die to make sure you bitches don't profit from anything of mine." There was more about this. I am probably not recalling it perfectly.
That is how the Witness Relocation Program works. It isn't government funded but those in the "program community" are given immunity from prosecution. They can do whatever they want. They all have get out of jail passes. The majority of the meth trade, as I understand things, will never go away because those in it are in the program and will never get caught. They operate with law enforcement knowing what they are doing and who they are.
That is why DOJ directive specifically prohibit those in the "program community" from working in the legal industry. A bunch of these assholes with licesnes to practice law would allow them to take real property from innocent citizens with no recourse available to the victims. And we criticize Sadam? Call other terrorists? Tea kettle pot black or something like that comes to mind.
She said "And now I hear you think you're Ronald Reagan's son." I said "That would explain why the secret service hauled me out of class at my junior high school the day he was shot." She asked "What junior high school." I replied "Carson." In Mesa, AZ." She said "Oh my God you really were raised by Nazis. You probably are related to him. Don't you think you should have told someone? It might have affected the way you have been treated." I told here that until this very day, I was largely satisfied with the way I had been treated (I really need to go back into therapy and work on my masochistic leanings).
I told her that I found it interesting that because I was raised by the Nazis that she knew that, that gave me credibility.
She asked if I had ever sold drugs. I said no. (I really never have.) She said "Good, because if you do that once it never goes away. " I think she was trying to tell me that she was still in business. She did not know that I knew she used to sell crank for some of my relatives. We were at the same college together at the same time and she had half the student body wired. I heard it was pretty good shit to boot.
She said that I am now being viewed much diffently than I was before. I took my index finger and dried my eyes (for effect) and said "Oh, well, then it's all been worth it." She said "Oh my God you are an asshole." Indeed.
Another partner's secretary comes in and hands me yet another cell phone. Her partner said "what you said to so and so was just out of hand." Words were exchanged. I ended it with "I didn't get this far by sitting around polishing my fish forks." Laughter on the other end. I said "How is it reasonable that people in this firm can congregate outside my home with intentions of locking me up in a cage at National General Hospital?" He demanded to know how I knew that and then said "Oh, that's why I sent so and so." Could be. So and so has bailed me out a couple of times. I love her. However, she does have her own agenda.
I kept sipping wine. At this point about 1.5 hours had elapsed and I had about 4 glasses.
My former stepmother now turned Legal Secretary with a new name, eye color, and face, came up to me and said "enjoy your stay at National General." (they lock people up in cages in the basement of National General Hospital in Denver and use them for experimentation and behavior modification. All of it sick and illegal and if the world could see what goes on there, I don't dare speculate as to what the fallout would be.)
I went home having consumed maybe 5 glasses of wine over 2.5 hours. I slept for 48 hours. Please keep in mind that someone at this event and who poured me wine is a home vinter and could have very easily put something in the wine and no one would be the wiser, save for yours truly.
Monday, September 17, 2007
President's Day
My clearest memories of Ronnie were the day before my birthday. He made a regular habit of visiting me on March 9 every year. He told me many things. My step Dad would go positively sadistic after these visits because I truly believe that man could not stand to see me happy. I was very happy right around this time until my step dad just went over the line and for reasons still not clear to me (probably around age 10) I asked Ronnie not to visit me whether it be my birthday or any other day--it just confused me too much.
They used that against me to no end.
He'd call though. If I were to think about really hard and have phone records to mull over I am sure there is some sort of pattern. One call in particular stands out. I was in high school--probably a junior (which would make in 1985) on president's day asking if I needed anything and he said "oh I'd love to help you but what day is it? That's right, MY day."
He got me there.
He was like a spoiled 14 year old girl when it came to his rubbing his status in my face which is bizarre considering I was part of his family and not his direct competition.
I would like to think his heart was in the right place but it's not like I would really know--I mean how many people in my life were nothing but tin men, sorry, the tin man went on a quest to obtain a heart-the people in my life were happy being vapid evil money hungry power mongers.
I do know there were problems with his brain. Why else would he marry a Nazi?
They used that against me to no end.
He'd call though. If I were to think about really hard and have phone records to mull over I am sure there is some sort of pattern. One call in particular stands out. I was in high school--probably a junior (which would make in 1985) on president's day asking if I needed anything and he said "oh I'd love to help you but what day is it? That's right, MY day."
He got me there.
He was like a spoiled 14 year old girl when it came to his rubbing his status in my face which is bizarre considering I was part of his family and not his direct competition.
I would like to think his heart was in the right place but it's not like I would really know--I mean how many people in my life were nothing but tin men, sorry, the tin man went on a quest to obtain a heart-the people in my life were happy being vapid evil money hungry power mongers.
I do know there were problems with his brain. Why else would he marry a Nazi?
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