The other night one of these Men In Green ended up at The Green Room, my favorite bar. I don’t know what they were looking for there, but what they found was some awesome drink specials and yours truly—a combination that would prove their undoing. I will tell you what I know. If I disappear, they got to me…or, I got drunk. I’m sure it’ll be one of the two. These MIGs have no country, but move throughout the world like shadows and, no, they don’t get felt up at airports; lucky bastards.
I got two of these MIG dudes drunk back at The Green Room and while they were in the can I accessed one of their laptops. Apparently, these men control the wealth of the world and their word can change nations or economies overnight, to say nothing of extending all happy hours indefinitely! So why was I buying all the beer? Geesh, in retrospect, it’s a shame I spent most of the time logging into their Facebook pages to have all their friends befriend Jack Primus and The Daily Discord. Hindsight is always 20/20, or in my case, a beer goggly 30/40.
I learned a lot perusing their files; suddenly everything made sense. Do you really think we elected Bush twice? It’s the game beneath the game. Gore never wanted the presidency and then maneuvered Bush into a second term. This was all part of the plan. This group even allowed Fox lies to keep the ’04 election close enough so we wouldn’t suspect any foul play. These Men In Green currently hate everyone except commies. These guys love commies. As they swerved away into the night their bumper sticker read: Pinko is the New Green.
I just heard something outside the window? I hope it’s just the Ghetto Shaman trying to get me to buy him some more Robitussin. Otherwise, they’re onto me. I just hope I have enough time to send this off, finish this twelve-pack, and eat those last few slices of pizza from last night. Damn, that was a good spicy Hawaiian…
I almost forgot to put on my aluminum foil hat! There, that should block their transmission for the few more minutes I’ll need. They aren’t settling for just sucking the world’s resources dry, like some Bond villain. These fiends believe the world is overpopulated so they mean to cull the herd! That’s where Al Gore comes in. He is their leader in the guise of an affable fool. Their most treasured secret is this: Al Gore’s world shattering H.A.R.P.! You think Al Gore is against Global Warming, hah! That’s nothing but another clever ruse. According to these Men In Green, Al Gore has a dreadful harp-like machine and when he plays this Human Apocalyptic Reprogramming Per-whatsas (H.A.R.P.)…well, lean in closer. It actually causes global warming!
Why are they trying to kill us? That’s the creepy part. The truth is this: they like fluffy little animals better. They think humans are all wicked and unredeemable. Sure, it’s true, but it’s still not a nice thing to say.
I heard something again. I had better attach and send this document to Pierce Winslow before they set off another electro-magnetic pulse. Shit…get another slice of pizza or warn mankind? Damn you saucy pineappley yumminess!
So we have nothing to look forward to, other than these 100 Angry Men stealing as much money as they can and then destroying the world. They’ll leave our planet a Road Warrior wasteland while they move into their mansions in Antarctica, party with Gwar, and laugh as the rest of the world becomes a lifeless desert. Worse yet, they don’t seem to buy any rounds of alcohol despite almost C. Montgomery Burns levels of wealth!
I’d like to quote the Lord Humungus, “What a puny plan!” but I hear they are already booking flights to the South Pole. They left Al Gore in the center of a hidden Tobacco patch, plucking away on his malign H.A.R.P. from Hell. I emailed the above picture from their laptop to myself and then onward to The Daily Discord. Do you think they’ll check their sent mail? Damn. I think they’re in the house now.
Still don’t believe me? Well, I don’t give a pluck what you think. You’ll be playing a different tune when the oceans roll over the cities and the forests turn to dust. Don’t come running to me when that doomsday H.A.R.P plays its final stanza as our fingers grasp through the burning sands in the hopes of unearthing some old sandwiches or the warm beer of a dead world.
And always remember, It Could Happen to Harpo!
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