Here's Hoping "Ms. Champagne" is Correct: "What is a Republican?"

HH had a boarding school body-double? Nice try, Soldier Boy! Is the video of me flying the ill-fated DC-10 still on the Internet? Rick, is it still on?

I don't look like the guy? The signatures are not exact? ARE YOU NUTS? steal, steal, steal. No, my "Personal Protection System" is "Cop Approved."

Mitt, who is this floidly psychotic gold miner?I refuse to apologize for making sense--all of the time. Incoming ICBM's? "You know how I like my coffee. Let's talk it over."

What did he say? What?

HERMAN, MITT, RICK P., MICHELLE, NEWT, JON, GARY FRED ANDY, JIMMY, TOM, RON, BUDDY, RICK S., and VERN, Here Is Your Report for Friday, September 30, 2011.

First, allow me to say/write that I have a screenplay scene to pencil, then type with great drama, that I understand.  I do not understand why the letters on this keyboard are different sizes at the Goebel Senior Adult Center. I do not know why the young man to my right keeps scratching himself in crazy ways. I do not know why someone stole the mouse on the computer I normally use, but it is not mine, it is public property. That “we” can be sure of.

Banks with $3, $4, and 5$ fees for the privilege of spending your own money with a plastic Debit/ATM Card. How crazy is your worthless USA Homeland “spy game?” I was once in a store I generically call a “Hippie Grocery Store.” When I asked the clerk if I could pay with an “ATM Card,” he, as my mother said many times, “Played me crazy.” What made him understand what I was talking about? The term “Debit Card.” Okay people, let’s play with numbers, colors, and words until the whole world goes nuts like in my ninth screenplay. In real life, let’s not.

“ATM Card,” Check Card,” [someone just gave me a hint on who the black chick was behind Michelle Obama in the Target Store near me] or “Debit Card,” our banks are clearly out of line. Didn’t they get “bailed out,” more than once with public funds? My 2008-2009 joke? “It’s socialism the sneaky way, because now we all own the bank.” Therefore, the Soviet Commissars who run the bank are now not going to lend the “little guy” any money, nor the small business person, however, if you are Yahooey or Googlly and want a loan, you must dance on the head of Mr. Potter’s pinhead full of angels—and they  know how.

Why is everyone in this room: “Game Boy,” “LWCF,” “Michelle,” and “YahooPower Outage Lady” all reacting to what I’m typing, and they are not looking at my Dell monitor screen? I’m “nuts?” No, I’m Howard’s grandson, heir to all capital that was once HUGHES. Kill me tonight, and don’t ever allow me to run for president at age 56, because the name of this illegal Homeland “psy-op” game has been: INFANTALIZE & PATHOLOGIZE. Imagine, if you can, having everyone around you either committing crimes, lying without a crime involved, snitching to the sheriff and/or FBI, drinking, using street drugs, treating you like a child, and no matter how much common sense you exhibit, you are somehow a “mental case.”

Here is my plan. Howard Hughes, or so the legend goes, handed J. Edgar Hoover his lunch, and Hoover handed over Howard’s file. Charles (my dad) was “exposed” by me at a single-digit age, because when I saw the hook come down for “Charlie Tuna” in the Star-Kist advert, I thought, “Those glasses look just like dad’s…but that can’t have anything to do with him.” About forty-five years later, I was looking at an HP computer monitor at 911 St. Rita Avenue in Clayton Missouri and realized, “Oh, you really are Howard’s grandson. That’s why you life has been so freaking weird.”

Circling back to the Marines and FBI, in the case of the former, you will do what I say to the letter if I get my butt elected. You will not question me at all, or I’ll surely erect gallows for you, smartass. On the latter, ready for me with my Radio Shack six C Battery bullhorn? Gosh, what a show! D.C. Police, Homeland Battle Wagons, & Marines. Me? President? Mr. Top Cop? Mr. Chief Executive? Mr. Commander in Chief? I seem to have wise genes that say, “Too much power,” but for my idea of “fun,” it would be: “Exit the building in twenty minutes,  or we’re coming in. This is the president. Please exit the building.”

Ready to debate? Better go to Office Depot and stock up on Index Cards. I don’t need them. The screenplay scene, “buttinski?” It’s five thirty a.m. Low cloud cover. A Central American guy in coveralls is running. What’s that jet noise? He’s got two flashlights with orange cones. He comes to a stop. Starts waving the flashlights in the “Move Forward” motion. His buddy comes running. He pulls the guy’s earmuff down. What’s that line?

“I did not eat any peyote. What are we to do with that?”

On this one, candidates, I’m not yelling at the mafia Camera Operator. No, we are in a Studio City warehouse. That’s because the floodlit Air France Concorde is not really there. It’s only a movie. That said, if it does not look realistic, don’t you know I’m on the phone? My line? “Does anybody have a Concorde that will start? I’ve got jet fuel money.”

By the way, since the airplane is a surprise, the stairs don’t match-up just right. Our British accented-Captain’s line: “We apologize for the inconvenience in de-planeing, and thank you for flying Air France.”

How many jokes can I put in one scene? Many of them, sir. BTW, can someone get a few spies & stalkers off of my back? I’ve got to arrest them? See you in NH!

Be sure to rack-up more DUI's this weekend. California needs some cash. As Caroline said in 1985, "I don't drink."