World War 3.1

The Illuminati Lives!

Today was a rare day at Think-A-Holic Lounge. Hardly anybody showed up and we can't figure out why. Black Friday is over and done with, so people aren't shopping their heads off down on Earth, and the rest of the universe must be at home with the wife and kiddies or at home with the hubby and kiddlies or at home watching TV. What else do people do?

Anyway, Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender and the 400-year-old ghost of a dead Scottish poet, found another rare video by SciFiFoFum so he and a handful of us regular lounge lizards watched it, over and over. We had to watch it over and over because we have no idea what it's really about. You know Earthlings. They'll do anything for the camera.

And, hey, before you get all bent out of shape about the title "The Illuminati Lives" because you're so damn sure that the word Illuminati is plural and should therefore require a verb that shows plurality, meaning "The Illuminati Live", let me enlighten you about another kind of plurality. In this case, the Illuminati is a group of people, not a bunch of Illuminatums. There are no such things as Illuminatums, to my knowledge.

But there is an Illuminati and it's not a word that any bestselling author invented. The Illuminati was here long before The New York Times Bestseller List and shlocky bestselling authors who are obsessed with antiquity and have a bug up their butts about the Roman Catholic Church.

So, pull your heads out of your butts or have a wee dram of think-a-hol, on me. Either one produces the same effect. Thinking. You can't beat it with a stick.

Because of the low volume in this "security video", headphones are recommended.

Never The Netherlands

It was only last night around ten o'clock pm, Think-A-Holic Lounge time, that I asked Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, why no one from The Netherlands on planet Earth had ever visited Think-A-Holic Lounge. I wasn't surprised by his answer.

"Well," he said, trying to keep his voice from being overheard by the other patrons and the barmaid, "I'm pretty sure that any visitors from The Netherlands would almost have to be members of The Bilderberg Group and they know that their astral projections and dreaming selves and whatnots are about as welcome here as Nazis, Grays, rednecks and Fred Fortune."

He tried to suppress a snicker but he was unsuccessful. A few patrons looked at us. I hoped none of them were Bilderbergers but I also hoped that regular people from The Netherlands would look us up whenever they dream or day dream or meditate or get caught in a renegade wormhole.

"I heard that," I said, tossing back the rest of my think-a-hol. "But I think the biggest reason nobody from The Netherlands ever visits us here is because there are no keywords for Bilderberger or Illuminati or The Netherlands in our blog tags."

"Jonco," said Angus, setting me up with a double think-a-hol on the house, "you may not be the Real Mcoy but you're certainly a gentleman and a scholar."

"I'll drink to that," I said, a big smile forming on my reflective face as I made a quick toast to The Netherlands. "Up with the Dutch and down with the New World Order."

Still On the Lam from the Illuminati

I haven't been in a bar or a tavern since 1991 when I first suspected that Illuminati agents were gunning for me in those kinds of places. They knew I wanted to write books that exposed a lot of the crap they were pulling behind closed doors.

This is a picture of one Illuminati operative who was recently working undercover as a bouncer at a roadhouse in Potter County, PA, where I stupidly stopped for a beer and a burger last summer. When I recognized him I quickly snapped his picture with a cell phone camera and then I turned and ran like hell, falling down in the gravel parking lot and skinning my knee and everything.

I thought I heard him laugh when I tore out of there in my Ford Ranger, which I just sold last week for more money to buy burgers with. Without the beer, of course.

A Warning from Hell

I looked in the mirror today and this is what looked back.

I said, "Who are you?"

"The Jersey Devil, who in the hell do you think?" it said.

Then I said, "Why do you look like one of the Great Publishing Wizards of Big Apple City who scare off all the new voices in fiction and spend all of your time guarding your worn-out lair of ethnically-chosen authors?"

And the thing in the mirror said to me, "Because we are one in the same."

I said, "You're wasting your time, here, because you don't scare me."

It laughed and then its image began to waver and fade, but not before I heard it say, "You'll never sell a book, Michael Casher, you'll never sell a book Michael never sell a book never sell...."

And then my own face smiled back again and I continued shaving like it had never happened. Actually, I was tickled pink that someone had recognized me as Michael Casher and not merely his alter ego. Just like a lot of psychological side kicks, I like hearing a good lie once in a while and then pretending that I'd just heard the truth.

Author's Note 5-5-14: That's right, you lurking Jewish bastards, It's YOU who kept me out of the bookstores. Because my fiction wasn't filthy enough to be promoted by whores and dark-souled greedy traitors like you and Steven Spielberg to fill your filthy coffers. God's chosen people, YOUR ASS. The Draconians invented that "iniquitous fairy tale" just for you people, because they knew how to get you fuckers by the short hairs, with the hideous notion that you were members of an "exclusive club" when what you really were was the greediest and most hateful group of human beings to ever cover the earth with your terrible numbers. You call us Goys and revel in it and when we type the word "Jew" into Google search we're committing a hate crime. Not on your life. Who in the hell do you people think you ARE? YOU are the goddamn criminals. And you damn well know it.