You’ve seen all those movies we made speaking truth to power about the Iraq “War”, America’s latest crime against humanity. Now here is a tale of the evils of that other quagmire of a “war”: the United States battle against the freedom fighting Taliban. Starring William Shatner and Nichelle Nichols as two journalists trying to expose American war crimes:

“Look at all the dead horses!”

“Yes, isn’t that the American way? Get horses addicted to opium and, when they charge to try and get their next fix, shoot them in the head? Oh, the humanity!’

Leonard Nimoy as the abusive, power-hungry base commander:

“According to the Patriot Act, you may ask one question, and then I get to shoot you.”

“Are you sure that’s in there? I mean I -”


“My generic concept of a Greco-Roman diety! You killed Fred Redshirt!”

“The army has taught me to shoot to kill, so I shoot to kill. Next question.”

[gun cocking noise]

George Takei as the freedom fighting Taliban leader:

“I’m from San Fransis…, I mean, Kabul.”

and DeForest Kelley as a drunken ex-President that slaughters poor freedom fighters for political gain:

“Give me back my Billy Beer! It just isn’t the same to commit war crimes while sober!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ex-President, but those Mohammadean scum somehow got the notion that alcohol is the devil. And the Geneva Conventions say that we can’t be drinkin’ in front of them.”

“To [expletive deleted] with those [expletive deleted] sand [expletive deleted] and their [expletive deleted] Geneva Conventions! We’re gonna soak them in pig’s blood and electrocute their genitals ’til they pop! Why should I care about their [expletive deleted] prisoner of war rights! I’m a former head of state, not a diplomat!”

Coming soon to a theatre near you: Opium Butterflies.


“I do say, Hollywood certainly produces Oscar-worthy movies in a hurry when being threatened by former television stars who have gained super-powers,” Professor Key-Os noted.

“Stop wasting precious energy doing intel. It is bad enough we are flying to Hollywood. Poor Gaia must be crying, considering all of the excess carbon dioxide we are releasing into her sky.”

“Meh, I still think we should be using my Union longboat, with 14,000 oarsmen and 20,000 English majors, see. It is the appropriate for an union boss like me!”

“Wait, was it not 20,000 oarsmen and 14,000 English majors?”

“I found a way to make my union transport even more inefficient!”

“Excuse me, this is your captain speaking. We will be landing on Rodeo Drive in 5 minutes. Apparently, we are in too much of a hurry to land at the airport like normal 747’s carrying the President of the United States. But what do I know? I am just a professional pilot.”


In retrospect, it was probably not a good idea to command Air Force One to land on Rodeo Drive, for Shatner and his crew saw the plane coming in. Shatner transformed into a mechanical pterodactyl and clawed at the landing gear. George Takei blasted the plane with his laser fire breath. Air Force One caught fire and crashed.


Of course the Cabinet survives. But how will they fare against the combined might of the original cast of Star Trek? Find out next time!


Ladies and Gentlemen, Chuck Norris:

“I, Chuck Norris, Philosopher King of Texas, wish to announce that I have set the city of Copenhagen on fire for hosting a conference on climate bullying. Since it is Advent, I roasted chestnuts on that fiery blaze while delivering blazing hot roundhouse kicks to those firemen foolish enough to try and stop my inferno of justice. The chestnuts were delicious. Excessive burning of carbon dioxide makes the sweetest sauce.

As the dutiful head-of-state for the mighty Kingdom of Texas, I attended this conference in an effort to crush those fools into submission for daring to rise against Western civilization. In retrospect, I should have realized that no amount of persuasion or pain would cause the environmentalists to repent of their ways. If the CRU e-mail scandal on top of the mounting evidence that anthropomorphic global warming is just a peyote-induced hallucination was not enough to change their minds, seeing me kick the brains out of leading ‘climate change’ ‘scientists’ would not do it either.

While I am happy that I won the “Highest Carbon Footprint to Attend” Award (I rode in on a ICBM-pulled sleigh), it seemed a little silly to be giving out an award like that to begin with. I mean, the losers combined carbon dioxide emissions was 40,584 tons. Do they not think carbon dioxide is the enemy?

For the sins of hypocrisy, stupidity, and anti-human sentiments, I made the streets of Copenhagen run red with blood and fire. Oppose these ‘climate change’ fools, or prepared to be destroyed!”

The more you know… the less likely you will be annihilated by the most deadly mortal ever to live, Chuck Norris.

Grand Puddle, Idaho – William Shatner exits the Grand Puddle Convention Tent. The Grand Puddle Bi-Monthly Science Fiction Convention (The Gra-Pu-Bi-Mon-Sci-Fi-Con) has reached it’s anti-climatic conclusion. Shatner lost the Sexiest Sci-Fi Septuagint Alive to Grand Puddle’s Mayor, a 3-legged dog that once went into space.

“Well, that was a waste,” Leonard Nimoy declared.

“Why do you keep dragging us to this stupid ‘Gra-Pu-Bi-Mon-Sci-Fi-Con’,anyways, Bill?” queried Nichelle Nichols.

“Well, other than the $20 an appearance we make for showing up and cleaning the tent afterwards…” DeForest Kelley pointed out.

“I’m from San Fransisco.” George Takei lied.

“One of these days, this pissant town will give me the credit I deserve. And when I do, you all will be there to bask in my reflective glory.”

“Is that not completely delusional? I mean, they have voted for their canine mayor at every Gra-Pu-Bi-Mon-Sci-Fi-Con since 1943.”

Before Shatner can respond, a radioactive meteor crashed into the convention tent. Space ash, potatoes, and yokels launched into the air, covering the cast of the original Star Trek in radioactive goo. Everyone else, of course, died, either being crushed by the meteor or hit over the head with falling potatoes.

“That was odd,” George Takei tried to declare. As he opened his mouth, a blast of laser fire erupted.

Leonard Nimoy gave out a mighty scream at the sight, shattering the skulls of the corpses that filled Grand Puddle.

“It appears that we have been given super-powers. How fortuitous. What can I do?” Nichelle Nichols asked. A hoard of lemmings came from the sea (don’t ask me how), bearing gifts to appease their new mistress. “Apparently, I can command lemmings to do my every whim. It’s just like in that one Star Trek movie we were in. What do you think, Bill?”

“I think you are unto something.” A giant mechanical pterodactyl said. It turned back into William Shatner.

“With these powers we could take over the world!”

“No, even better! We can get the respect we deserve. We will go to Hollywood and force them to give us the Oscar-winning roles our acting skills demand!”


“Let us open our meeting in prayer. Oh, generic concept of a Greco-Roman deity, we act like we care what you think, but we do not. You ask us to do things against we do not what to do, like having sex with other men and donkeys. So, as Hezekiah 5:98 says ‘when you approach a 4-way intersection, look both ways before continuing on your way’. The end.”

“How inappropriate. And you call yourself a bishop.” Steam Moose harrumphed, still trapped in The Hollywood Shambler’s cage.

“It’s not just me. A whole political party does too!” Vicki Gene Robinson declared.

Barack Obama flings a can at Steam Moose’s head, “Quiet you! We have bigger fish to fry. The Hollywood producers who helped me win the election needs my aid. They are being held under siege by the original cast of Star Trek. To Hollywood!”


Told you this will be the dumbest, craziest arc yet. And we have not even really started. Tune in next time for nerdy insanity.

Barack Obama bursts into the Secret Cabinet meeting room. He is not pleased. Yew Man is buried neck deep in rich loam in the corner, though he is missing his left eye and most of his face. The Hollywood Shambler is desperately reaching out of his cage, trying to snack a passerby and eat his brains. Steam Moose is passed out in the cage, all of the squirrels trapped in his chassis either eaten or dead. And Professor Key-Os is starring at his teleprompter.

“It’s been over 4 months since I announced my plans to reduce carbon emissions, you ingrates! I’ve won a Nobel Peace Prize by dressing up as Eugene Debs, lost the Olympics by dressing up as Oprah, played a Japanese geisha for a week, and dressed up like the political philosopher Chairman Mao to amuse the Chinese. What is taking so long? Why is Yew Man half dead and potted? Why have you not refilled Steam Moose’s squirrels? Where is Red Mobster? And why do you have my teleprompter?”

“To answer your questions. Yew Man got into a fight with Nancy Pelosi’s Wax Golem. He killed the thing, but was severely dehydrated and Pelosi ate most of his face. She finally mailed him back here a week ago and I was told to plant and water him to get him back to some semblance of good health. Red Mobster and I got the idea to get Congress to do the heavy lifting on your project, so Red Mobster went to petition Pelosi.”

“Was this before or after Yew Man caused trouble?” Obama interuppted.

“Before. Anyways, Pelosi asked him to arm-twist the Blue Dogs and I have not seen him since. Steam Moose’s screams were getting annoying and I wanted to get some peace and quite while trying to finish my round of interviews for Femi-Nazi’s slot. And, at your request, I am trying to interview your teleprompter. It keeps signaling that I should read it’s responses out load, but I refuse on the grounds that it is retarded. Anything else, fearless leader?”

“No. That pretty much answers all my questions.”

“A geisha, you say?”

“I do not want to talk about it.’


Red Mobster is still frozen in fear, but the sight of the Blue Dog Coalition’s offices added confusion to the paralysis. The walls were pastel blue, with knock-off pictures of Huckleberry Hound painted here and there. The Blue Dogs were dressed in diapers, drinking bottles and taking nap-times. Aides read them letters from constituents telling them what good boys and girls they are. In one corner, they had a sticker board showing positive and negative feedback (represented by smiley and frowny faces). There were a lot of frowny faces, with more being added by the day. No one bothered the crimson criminal as he stood gaping at the entryway.

Suddenly, the Congressmen started to cry. It was Barack Obama walking up behind him.

“Stop being such a scaredy cat and force them to vote our way. You think these aides let those man-babies play with guns? Get in there!” Obama shoves the scarlet scalawag into the nursery.

“Yeah…, see… You gonna vote the way I tell you… see… or ‘m gonna…”

“Hush,” one of the aides scolded, “You’ll scare the poor things. Look how many frowny faces they have gotten from constituents lately. They know it’s because of the ObamaCare bill and they do not want to be forced into something else their constituents don’t want. Can’t you see how on edge they are? Shoo.”

“But Nancy Pelosi, see…”

The light whimpering from the Congressmen turned into full-on wailing.

“Pelosi scary! She eats babies! Wah!”

“Now you done it. They are going to have nightmares for weeks now.”

“Meh, I didn’t…”

“You’ve done enough harm to their self-esteem. Go bother someone else.”

“Yes, ma’am.”


Looks like the Cabinet failed yet again. ObamaCare is costing too much political capital right now to get the ambitious 17% of 1776 emissions plan implemented. The moral of the story: Don’t sit on your hands for a quarter.

Tune in next week to find out who won our little sidebar poll (Voting ends next installment). And be prepared for quite possibly the dumbest, craziest arc yet, with guest stars galore! And a possible theme song!

The Red Mobster stands outside the brightly colored doors for the Blue Dog Democrats, shuddering in fear. Visions of exploding corn swimming through his head, he takes a deep breath and opens the door…


Professor Key-Os finished the malevolent ritual to summon his next interviewee, Frank Lloyd Wright. It involved 47 goats, a slide-rule, and sopping up the blood using blueprints to graveyards. A giant face assembles itself on a load-bearing wall.


“Professor Key-Os. I have been assigned to pick out a new member of our Secret Cabinet. I was hoping to have a moment of your time…”


“Yes, we serve the President in forming policy and fighting those forces that would try and thwart us. It is a rather lucrative and influential position. First question, what can you bring to our organization?”


“Uh, interesting. What goals do you have in properly shaping America?”


“Okay. How should the government respond to the continued recession?”


“You don’t care for humanity much, do you?”


Uh, thank you for your time. We’ll get back to you.” Professor Key-Os burns the blood-soaked blueprints, breaking the connection.

“NO! I NEEDED A FEW MORE MINUTES TO POSSESS YOUR BODY!” the wall face screamed as it unfolded.

“That was creepy.” Professor Key-Os said to himself as Obama’s hippie minions start to clean up the mess, “One more to go…”


“Why can’t I quit him?” Vicky Gene Robinson asks himself while staring at the door of the Lincoln bedroom he just just kicked out of. He painfully winces away.


Obama smokes a cigarette, watching his “special friend” go. ‘I should put him on the Secret Cabinet just so he is more readily accessible when I feel that blasted urge to mate,’ he thinks to himself.

‘Egh-Y demands are cruel,’ he continues to muse,’He wants use to have children, so he drives us to mate. It’s maddening. We had our two legally mandated clutches, why can he not leave me to quietly try and kill them in the prescribed manner? Well, it could be worse; Ecell-U and I were already stationed here and were given permission to kill most of our clutches to better blend in with the humans. We would have stuck out with two dozen children. And, even though we picked the two sickliest looking ones to live, they still persist. Maybe I will be rid of them before their 25th mega-cycle. Even if I do not, they may choose to keep me alive as an adviser when they overtake my position in Egh-Y’s graces, if I am lucky.’

Ecell-U glares at him from the Lincoln bedroom’s doorway, “You were with your ‘special friend’ again?”

“Quiet, you. Not all of us are so lucky as to qualify for genitalia removal.”

Ecell-U rolls her three eyes, saying, “Whatever.” She walks off.

‘Good thing Egh-Y does not bar sodomy, or I would be cursed with more children, waiting to feast upon my flesh if they live to become adults.’ Obama’s thoughts then return to his spawning mate, ‘I must remember to ban that particular human expression once our invasion is successful.’ His cigarette done, he rolls over to sleep.


Next week, the start to get to the conclusion of this arc. How will Red Mobster handle meeting the Blue Dogs? Will Professor Key-Os like the final interview candidate? Or will Obama overrule his recommendation for some disgusting inter-species man love?

Be sure to vote (check the sidebar). Creepy man loving is winning right now. If that churns your stomach, be sure to vote for someone else. Please? Pretty please?

Yew Man awakens to find Professor Key-Os pouring over the arcane, malevolent ritual he will need to use to contact his next interviewee, Frank Lloyd Wright, master practitioner of the dark architectural arts. You cannot exactly use a telephone to call a man dead and residing in the dark dimension evil architects go to once they slump over their drafting boards for the last time. Seeing what he will have to do, he is looking forward to this even less than having to talk to Sotomayor again.

“Where’s The Red Mobster, Professor Key-Os?”

“He is talking to Pelosi. He might still be there.”

“What? You sold Mother Gaia out! Have you seen how ineffective that bill will be in reducing carbon!”

“I’m sorry, but Keynesian economics and collective bargaining cannot see a way to justify a global warming bill…”

“Whatever. I’m going to put a stop to this!”


Yew Man misses confronting the Red Mobster by 5 minutes. He storms into Pelosi’s office, not even bothering to notice the strewn bones of cannibalized children. Seething with rage, he kicks down the ornate, mahogany doors, stained with bloody hand prints and let’s out a blood-curdling battle cry, “For Mother Gaia!”

“My child, what is with this temper tantrum? Here, have a hard candy.”

He bats the old-timey confection aside.

Pelosi’s eyes narrow. “Now that was just rude.’

‘You will stop these assaults against Mother Gaia and stand for real climate change prevention. Collecting money from small businesses in some cap and trade scheme is not enough. You must ban concrete, internal combustion engines, conception, and toilet paper now!”

“I’m sorry, child, but I have no desire to anger the concrete, automotive, abortion, and toilet paper industries by banning those things. They help to pay for all this you see before you. If you wish to talk civilly and submit to my will, you can come back later. Now shoo; it’s time for Grandma Pelosi to eat a snack.’ She hungrily eyes her granddaughter, now missing her forearm.

Yew Man fires a crossbow bolt into Pelosi’s eye. It leaks some greyish goo, which Pelosi excitedly licks as it drips near her mouth. “Henry, take care of this valued voter for me. I must clean myself up.” She grabs her granddaughter by the hair and drags her into the next room.

The waxen creature hovers over the environmental cyborg. Yew Man reloads and fires a barrage of bolts at it. It shapes itself in such a way that the bolts fly harmlessly by.

“Uh oh.”

Whack. The golem hits Yew Man hard.

Yew Man flies across the room, smashing into a pile of bones. He struggles to get up on his feet. The waxen creature moves into position, preparing to hit him again.

Whack. Yew Man is sent through a wall. The creature does not follow him out of Pelosi’s chamber. Yew Man gets up to his feet, straining for breath. Some of his Yew armor is cracked, branches split and trunks distressed. It will take him a long time to nurse his armor back to health. But he has to stop Pelosi to save Mother Earth. And there is only one way to do it. He opens up his chest plate, already partially broken by the waxy blows, to reveal his sap-beam projector.

Yew Man jumps through the hole his body created. The creature prepares to hit him again. Seconds before contact, Yew Man fires an amber-colored beam at the fist-shaped wax; the creature could not evade the blast. It is launched at the opposite wall.

The sappy goo hardens on contact, trapping the wax man under a foot-thick wall of rock-hard amber. The waxen creature sags under the weight, lifeless.

The champion of Gaia collapses, severely dehydrated and completely spent.

“My office!” Pelosi emerges from her back room with an eye patch covering the still healing wound. She sees the now dead and worthless wax man. “My golem!”

A thin, dry voice weakly cries out, “Water…”

“You’ll pay for this!”


How will Pelosi avenge her fallen golem? How will the Red Mobster pressure the “Blue Dogs”? How will Professor Key-Os fare against the malevolent force of Frank Lloyd Wright? Find out next time!

And be sure to vote on Femi-Nazi’s replacement, if you have not already. Check the sidebar.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Chuck Norris:

“So, my fellow head-of-state Obama has still not released his original birth certificate? As it is his spawning day, I demand that he do so, to inform the world that he is actually an alien!

No, not the “born in Kenya” type alien. I concur with Lou Dobbs that Obama was birthed in Hawaii. I mean an extraterrestrial alien! Using my X-ray vision and my intimate understanding of human genetics, I have determined that Barack Obama lineage is not from this world! Why else does he hide the birth certificate from the public eye?

I am well-versed in intergalatic travel and have seen this kind of thing before. Alien embryos are implanted into native women to get around a planet’s immigration law or for other forms of subterfuge. The babies are then raised in the ways of it’s true species via implanted information chips. Since our Constitution has no genetic qualifications to serve as President, Obama should admit to his true species to the world. If he does not, the streets will run a blueish-grey (which is the color Obama’s blood will be when exposed to oxygen) in my efforts to prove it!

Your present (a face-melting roundhouse kick) will be delivered when you least expect it. If your species is not used to natal day gift exchanges, understand it is part of our culture.

So, admit to your alien origins, Obama, or prepared to be destroyed!”

The more you know… the less likely you will be annihilated by the most deadly mortal ever to live, Chuck Norris.