What Up?
... this city council meeting is the last bastion of democracy in the U.S.A.
[Print copy available for purchase here.]
... You have a wife and children,
and somebody says to you, ‘If you go public with that I cannot guarantee the safety of your family.’ ...
You have to choose between your family’s welfare and the welfare of the nation, and your story might not do that much good. You might just be denounced as a conspiracy kook.
The press would ignore you, belittle you.
People might look into your past and find that you had done some things you’re not so proud of. People would learn very quickly to keep their mouths shut.
— David Ray Griffin, The New Pearl Harbor
Chapter One
“I am”... I said
To no one there
And no one heard at all
Not even the chair
— Neil Diamond
“Fuck you!”
The words burst from his mouth like poop from a hose.
As the sun smiled down on the almost winter’s scene, the wrappers, diapers, toppled carts in The Giant Store parking lot.
The other driver had pulled or maybe he had pushed in front of her, but she was giving him hell, he could tell, as the husband slumped in the passenger seat hoping to survive to naptime.
His tires squeaked over the snow as he left. He stopped, right in the middle of traffic, just now remembering the paper he had purchased inside. He knew he was supposed to get something in there, maybe it was the paper.
He read and began to wonder just as three bangs rang out, as his car was hit on at least three sides by cars with other places to go.
“You idiot! Amen, goddamnit, why did you stop! Keep moving! Idiot!” about a hundred times was all he remembered hearing as he pulled away as it appeared nobody was sticking around.
Shaken a little after these most recent assassination attempts, Michael Hokes, drove out of the lot, his head on a swivel, looking around in the car, maybe he actually did have the something he forgot.
He squeaked into his drive.
He coasted a few feet on the flat ground toward his lot, a door leading underground and a thin metal rod sticking up about ten feet with a flag probably hanging limp.
He stopped in the car almost wondering about the dents and the newspaper article, but more about what he was supposed to get probably but didn’t.
He got out and surveyed his lot, proud in a way that it was part of such a nice neighborhood, hundreds of the same lots as far as you cared to see this way, that, the other, all with one door leading down and one metal pole with the flag.
On the days when the breeze picked up and the flags all fluttered in the same direction, it was enough to take your breath away. It was.
Each of the homes in the Anderson Subdivision consisted of underground “living quarters” on a two-acre lot, with the living space excavated, expanded versions of the former tight, cramped bomb shelters.
He picked up one of the children’s toys, a hammer, and carried it with him as he straightened a sandbag stacked by the door, leaned to open the wooden double door and step down to the concrete steps.
Why they didn’t make these doors a more solid metal, iron steel, he just could not understand, and it was always his last thought of the day as he descended the concrete steps and turned to pull the door over him like a submarine hatch.
It smelled like dirt and cave and felt like concrete on his feet and the sounds were still in the distance so he stayed here just a moment in the chill and the musty smell and the something that this little space held, like old people, like church, like something he chose not to give a name.
He knew he was facing horizontal but this is where he began feeling more vertical as if it were a missile silo. These “domiciles,” BombShelterStyle, the latest trend, were guaranteed, not guaranteed, thought, said to, to withstand nuclear war, global warming, depression, obesity and pimples.
Upon entering the bunker home, one paused in the dark “foyer” with all the canned goods, bowling balls, hula hoops, gardening tools, oil, paint thinner.
He pried off his shoes with the other foot and left them there and ducked his head to enter the lighted big room.
The Wife bent over the sink clanking dishes and he shuffled to stand over the children huddled in a circle staring up at the TV.
“Did you get the ...!” shouted the wife and before she even said it, he remembered.
“Oh, I forgot, sorry.”
“Goddamnit Dad!” the children said not taking their eyes off the screen, not knowing what had been forgotten.
Their knees touched as they sat at the wooden table close enough for all to keep watching the television. Michael told them about the accident.
“Not really an accident, more on purpose, well ...”
“On purpose!”
“No, not the forgetting, the-the, accident, on purpose, not me.”
He chewed and thought about the story in the newspaper and smiled. He remembered, got up quickly and found the paper in the dark and returned, flapped it open and said look at this.
“What the hell is it?” their eyes all said.
“Well, it’s a contest,” he said.
“What kind of a damn contest,” their eyes again all said.
“Well, let’s see.”
And he read it out loud, the directions and when he came to “Ransom Note,” they all reached for the paper and he had to pull it back to keep the paper from being ripped to shreds.
He held it away and said you all finish your food first and they all put their faces down staring at the food and thinking about nothing, casting glances toward the TV, yanking old gristle chunks from their teeth.
He thought about work, a little and then asked them what they were watching on the TV.
And then someone said it was time. The radio was produced and thunked on the next little wood table next to the kitchen table. Someone scuttled over the floor, retrieving the paperback book for almost level, for the little wood table.
It was time for The Fat Dorothy Polka Show.
“Haya haya ha dolcha laka poopa shitya shitya crap’n poopa toot. Haya haya ha dolcha laka poopa shitya shitya poopa toot.”
And they all sang along because they knew the words.
You ... are-so stupid, we all, all, all, all know it. You can’t even-milk the cow-you’re just a putzer.
They all bobbed their heads as they ate and sneaked looks at the TV. And it was hard to hit their mouths with their forks, leaving red marks.
“Please come out to the Veterans Day Program,” the announcer on the radio said, “to hear a moving speaker at 5 pm, and food and music.
“And now a word from Be Dumb Breakfast Cereal, find it in your grocery aisle, for $4.95, because Be Dumb isn’t free.”
The music came back on and someone remembered The Ransom Note contest that Michael had been talking about.
“What about that?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, let’s see.”
And he pulled out the newspaper again and spread it out over the table, over everyone’s food.
“Somebody supposed to be kidnaaapped,” he read, and because he was reading too-damn slow, The Wife grabbed the paper and everyone said “thank you Lord,” with their eyes because now they could at least finish their food.
The Wife left and returned, silently standing over them with the pan and the spoon.
“Yesmore goddamnit,” they all said and she scooped and plunked out a perfect circle on each plate.
“Everybody submits the best ransom note, and somebody gets some kinda prize,” said Michael.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“Makes perfect sense, honey.
“Are you the only one who doesn’t see?”
“Yeah, Dad,” the kids said.
They all pushed away from the table at the same time, with the same wood chair squeak over cement floor sound.
“Wait a minute,” Michael said.
All bowed their heads.
“We Support The Troops, Six Feet, Bring Something To The Table, Over The Nose, Stay on the Same Page, In This House We Believe, The Cow Jumped Over The Moon, Vote Harder Then Next Time, Remember Pearl Harbor, and Stuff Like That.
“Amen, goddamnit,” they said together.
The kids made a move to head back to the TV.
“Not until you do your homework,” said The Mom.
Soon the table was cleared of dishes and covered in pencils and books and paper and the children all swung their feet hard to kick whoever they could.
“I can’t get this,” one of them said.
The Wife looked at Michael to say, you have to do it, I’m doing dishes and I fixed the dinner and I’ve been here all day. Do it.
“Well, let’s see,” said Michael, scooting his chair over with a squeak over the cement.
Since working at the camo factory and before that Michael had never really needed too much of the fancy new learning, but he would give it a try.
He hadn’t told anyone he had applied for one of the openings at the new Mexican Factory they were talking about, crushing and grinding up Mexicans for mulch, part of the rumored national jobs program.
“Hmm, I don’t know,” said Michael, looking at the school book.
He ran his finger and lifted his voice so The Wife would hear: as the crow flies, gas mileage, how does daylight savings time work, convert snowfall amounts to rain.
“We never had to know this stuff, right? Honey?”
“Oh, here’s something. How many inches of concrete do you need to survive a direct strike so that at least somebody lives through it and can continue going to The Giant Store?
“You should know that,” said The Wife.
“I should know that,” said Michael.
“Do sand bags count?” he asked rhetorically, stalling for time.
One of the children breaks her pencil on the table on purpose. She pries out her leg that she was sitting on and her behind spreads out over her hard, old wooden chair like bread dough in blue jeans so tight even to look at her gives Michael a case of the clausterphobe.
This young girl looks at Michael as he’s trying to figure out the problem, then at the other children and rolls her eyes and they all snicker behind their hands and point at their father with their heads.
“Bleep was an bleep job,” one said.
“Nobody bleeped at bleep,” said another.
“We never went to the bleep.”
“That new lingo,” said The Wife, looking over her shoulder from the sink where she was attacking the dishes.
“Yeah,” said Michael as the kids all burst out laughing and flushed from the table toward the TV like game birds.
“This is Fat Dorothy, from The Fat Dorothy Polka Show, reminding you that this Monday is again Tuna Helper Monday, which means Wednesday Adult Night at the pool will be held Tuesday rather than Saturday and that green laundry soap in the big blue can at Big Foods will be half off which goes to support the middle school bowling team, and that you can get your car lights and blinkers checked for free at the jewelry store from 9-11:15. Tuna Helper Monday. Trust me, it’s necessary. Since 9/11. Listen to Fat Dorothy.”
Then some radio listener came on to guess the secret sound.
“That’s a growl!” one of the children said, “like a bird before it bites!”
“More of a hum,” said Michael.
“Is it a microwave?”
“Close, but no cigar,” said the announcer as The Wife returned to the sink and Michael flipped once again through the paper.
Chapter two
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage! Rage! Against the dying of the light.
— Dylan Thomas
It is a dark, overcast, stormy, cold, snowy, windy evening.
Should be a good crowd.
Heading like mendicant pilgrim zombies, like rebel doggies on the prairie finally turning themselves in, toward a venerable brick building on the south end of town.
Inside the dark, chilly hall waits the worn, legendary wooden rostrum, facing like Admiral Byrd into the cold wind, sitting like Walden Pond, serene in the midst of swirling events.
For, in a few minutes the lights will come on maddeningly slowly, eventually not fully illuminating the room, not a room, a gladiator pit, a bull fighting arena. Half-time is over and now the second half of World War II begins.
This is the Roman Forum that is the Moon Rock Lake City Council Meeting, Tuesdays 7:30 [ish] p.m. It shall be done. These apostles of Socrates will come forward to hurl their admonitions like javelins, pebbles into a pond, like grenades into a bunker, like bolts of spitball at the heavens.
An observer prior to the meeting, stepping forward to run a hand over that old pulpit will find assorted sundry scratches, gouges, graffiti, initials, in pen and pencil and pocketknife, the hands-down star a bullet nick from the meeting of July 19, 1957, according to black magic marker notaried notation.
The lectern sits astride a wooden platform, with steps like a midget gallows with one side propped with a copy of the Moon Rock Weekly Niggler of 1974, the front page filled with stories that could come from last week’s meeting, with life and death, hurricane, tornadic, nuclear-bomb stories of potholes, roof repair scammers, water bills, garbage pickup, property taxes, and dog feces mores.
Everyone headed to the council meeting heads alone, deep in their own thoughts of screaming children and spouses, sleep they will catch up on ... not soon ... so many hours, so many times doing this same exact thing ... they are doing, right now, looming skirmishes, lives in the balance, feeling their toes squishing around inside of wet socks inside of battered tennis shoes, smelling a familiar ambient odor, a unique candle scent of kiwi-marijuana, soot? wood smoke? and some sort of cityfied livestock, hearing distant freeway traffic, now a siren, another, tires through wet street, the boomba-boomba base of over-stocked teenage vehicles pushing like fishing trawlers out into the night.
The City Council Meeting of the village of Moon Rock Lake, Minnesota, southwest of Minneapolis, population 19,997 by the most recent contested, still in the courts census, now has a pulse, as the custodian, Mr. Colovito, unlocks doors, checks the thermostat, flicks on here and there.
The red brick corner structure’s datestone on a front-facing corbel shows “1866.” Legend states that upstairs, council members used to drink and fight with each other and constituents. Bets were taken, the story goes there was a ring and blue-barreled pistols, sharp things.
See them pulling up now.
Council member John Coleman in his small foreign car, takes his upper right spot in the lot to the west, and like Rockettes on Christmas Day, thirty seconds later Trudy Myer’s white SUV careens over the little hump and takes its slot, and boom-boom-boom Barb Baker, and Mark Jenkins fill-in the gravel lot ... just as Pete Lee slides his vintage red pickup neatly into the No Parking space in front.
Their attire is Moon Rock Lake casual-whatever, jeans, t-shirts, suits, dress, ball cap, no cap, t-shirts bearing sports teams, beer advertisements, maybe an inside joke from a previous council flap, not necessarily of this century.
In the waning light, highlighted in spots by Disney Snow dancing in the here-and-there still working street lamps, Weekly Niggler city beat reporter Jerry Merriweather tromps and slides, head down, shoulders attempting to shield his neck from a now icy breeze.
Before pulling on the door, Jerry says hello to two dogs and one cat hugging the wall.
“How’s it goin,’ Schwab? Hey, Osama. Hey, Bupkis.”
It is Tuesday, 7:34 p.m.
Council President Trudy Myer calls the meeting to order. Some not quite seated. There is hurried squeaking of chairs. She waits and starts again. She asks all to stand, face the flag and leads all through the pledge of allegiance, then conducts the council through an agenda that includes property taxes, streets, dogs, garbage pickup, then opens the public comment period.
The first to address the council with questions and comments talk about property taxes, streets, garbage pickup, ISIS.
A man in the third row pushes up. He boards the podium and grips the microphone.
“What up? council members?” he says. “I bring you greetings from the star children ...
“Michael Hokes, a.k.a Miguel, Raoul, D.B., Son of Snoopy, Pancho Lefty, Lee Harvey. Do I need to explain all that again? I don’t think I should have to because for one thing, you’re the ones trying to ...”
“No, Michael, we understand,” says Trudy Myer. “Please continue.”
“Well, there’s been another assassination attempt ...
“On me.
“And this time I’m not messing around,” he says, holding up his Red Chief ransom note so the council members could see.
“I got one-a yours, this time, see.
“No funny stuff.”
“It’s a bird. It’s a plane,” someone in the rows behind him whispers.
Trudy Myer asks to see what Michael was holding.
“We do not have a council member named Red Chief,” she says.
“Yes. You do,” he says.
“No. We don’t,” she says, looking left and right to show that all chairs were occupied.
“Yeah, well don’t shoot the minister,” he says.
“You have five minutes, Mr. Hokes.
“Yeah, and somethin’ else I wanta talk about.
“The secret sound, from the radio.”
“We don’t have anything to do with that.”
“Yeah, well. I’m just not sure it should be secret in a democrat society, and the citywide garage sales. Just where is everyone going? Is there something most of us have not been told about?
“I’m serious here,” he says in reaction to snickers behind him and possible smirks behind hands by some council members.
“This is the last bastion of democracy, the city co’ncil meetin’. It’s a big deal what goes on here, that we have a chance to speak. There really is no other place.”
Tonight’s hat is a yellow hardhat, worn backwards. Michael often wears different hats to the council meetings, sometimes dressed as an astronaut, Indian chief, policeman, fireman, maybe a bandana, or John Lennon glasses. In the past he has explained to the council and to the crowd he does it because he needs to disguise himself arriving at, and departing these meetings, as well as wanting to show how everyone should have a say in what goes on.
For a while tonight he tries to sign his words as he speaks, in order to draw attention to inclusivity, even though he does not know sign language, and by this time in his presentation has abandoned that effort as being not sustainable, also needing to turn the pages on his notes and grip the microphone like a rock star, as he is wont to do.
“And, I don’t think these little old ladies,” he says as he turns to point at three women sitting at the first bench behind him, “should have to die on the street or drown like rats in the gutter just because the city refuses to keep these corners cleared. When there’s snow, and ice and it melts a little, these drains can’t keep up on some corners, like at 7th and Willow, ya know? and one of these afternoons yer gonna see (again he turns to point like a game show hostess at the same women) one-a these old women, or all three, who knows? floating around like face-down dolls in the street, arms straight out, their heels pointing up, bumping into parked cars. Mark my words. I don’t think you wanna see that. I know I don’t. Just look at ‘em. (Again, turning to gesture.)
“Five minutes, Mr. Hokes.”
“And some people are wearin’ the masks again.
“I think the co’ncil should put out a statement, a sheet, proclamation, sayin’ WTF? Ya know? With a big face, like, whaat? We’re goin’ back to that rigamarole again?
“Some people think we can just choose what to believe in ... we can each choose our own reality ... oh, I don’t believe in that ... I believe in this, this is where I live.
“People are dying!
“How can you just choose to believe in rainbows and unicorns when the world is falling apart!
“Some people say the truth is too dark. They don’t want to see the world that way, so they just decide to see it differently, but it’s not the truth.
“Do we really have that option?
“Well, I guess some do. If you have enough money you can go vacation in Mexico, live in a certain part of town, go to concerts, movies, out to dinner, sports, and you don’t see all this other shit.”
“Michael, please.”
“And you have this happy reality while the world burns.
“There never was a pandemic. The vaccine is the pandemic, don’t you know that, by now? Genocide in Gaza is too dark. Thinking about fake phony elections is too dark. Understanding that January 6 was a big psychological operation, and George Floyd, is too dark. I just don’t get it. Why can’t you see all that?
“We all live in Pluto’s Cave, and the next thing will be this new buffalo flu.
“Bagels and circuses. You all think the U.S. is the good guys, Lone Ranger. Gunsmoke, Bonanza. That’s not the truth ... and that one woman filming on Facebook in her car, sayin' they just killed my boyfriend, while he's right there, with his eyes closed, not dead yet, and she's on Facebook, talk about social media addiction. You really can't make this stuff up, but somebody does, that's for sure."
“Mr. Hokes, I'm afraid your time is up.
“Okay, thank you.
“You don’t need a feather fan to know which way the wind blows. Just sayin’. Our species is splitting into two separate groups. We’re on this train, well, two trains, and we came to this Y and we each took separate ways and now we’re getting further and further apart, and we’re headed toward, well, I don’t know, do you?
“Do any of you?” he said, turning behind him.
“Thank you.”
He grabbed his notes and turned to step down …
Chapter thirteen
“But I knew the way the people in the town thought about things. They always had some time left over from their life to bother about other people and what they did. They thought they had to get together to help other people out, like the time they got together about the woman who let a colored man borrow her car and told her the best place for her was up north with all the other nigger lovers, and the time they got the veterans with overseas wives out. If you were different from anybody in town, you had to get out. That’s why everybody was so much alike. The way they talked, what they did, what they liked, what they hated. If somebody got to hate something and he was the right person, everybody had to hate it too, or people began to hate the ones who didn’t hate it. They used to tell us in school to think for yourself, but you couldn’t do that in the town. You had to think what your father thought all his life, and that was what everybody thought.”
― John Kennedy Toole, The Neon Bible
Do you ever wonder? ... well ... The kind of people we have running our government ... if we really knew the truth, I believe we would be astonished. Forget about George Washington and the Cherry Tree. Ronald Reagan making America strong again. The George Bushes riding into the baseball game on national TV to throw out the first ball, then sitting in the front row. Forget about Bill Clinton or Barack Obama the new liberal Democrats who care about you ... Sponge Bob, The Simpsons and South Park, Calvin and Hobbes, Snoopy have more to tell us than those guys. ... At least in the Soviet Union, when they saw nonsense and lies printed in Pravda and Tass, at least they knew they were lies.
We are still at the infancy stage in our development ... of not questioning the lies. And so the next time there is a bombing or a threat of a bombing or a bunch of blue backpacks found in Bemidji – the healthy American, the true American, the real American – thinks “CIA, FBI, the police” ... the real patriot refuses to stand for the national anthem, and rather than another knee-jerk reciting of the pledge of allegiance he says – not until I get some questions answered, because ...This is important stuff. This has been Andy Rooney, reporting. Seriously, people. Don’t You Ever Wonder?
And now, for tonight’s Dick Tracy Crime Stopper’s Bulletin:
When You See Something Say Something.
Because of the murder of journalists Michael Hastings and Gary Webb, a special bulletin has been released.
Be on the look-out for FBI license plates in your neighborhood.
When you see something, say something.
Because of the murder of men, women and children in Waco Texas, be on the look-out for FBI license plates in your neighborhood.
When you see something, say something.
Because of the illegal torture, imprisonment and false flag attacks designed to put the public in a state of panic, in Guantanamo, Tucson, Aurora, Boston and elsewhere around the country and globe, citizens are asked to be on the look-out for FBI license plates in your neighborhood, as well as a long, black limousine with tiny American flags fluttering from the quarter panels.
The persons inside the limousine are to be considered liars and murderers.
This has been your weekly Dick Tracy Crime Stoppers Bulletin.
When you see something, say something.
Now a word from your local chamber of commerce.
The United States is not a police state.
And you would be a fat Communist soccer-lover wearing lederhosen and a tiny Bavarian hat with a feather and tight jacket and knee socks with buckle shoes who does not fit in with the rest of the family at Thanksgiving dinner if you thought so.
There are not police everywhere. You do not have to go to where the police put you in order to hold your sign and have your freedom of speech like a Bolshevik perched atop a potato crate like a stranded nanny goat.
This is America.
There are not thousands and thousands of people making their living off of the “War on Terror,”in Homeland Security, the border patrol, the U.S. Army, the airport box cutter-shampoo-bazooka up the wazoo-finder guys, the video game industry, the bullet industry, the casket and handcuff and Easy-Bake Oven secret spy camera industrial complex.
It’s just not a police state.
The police are not shock troops protecting the rich against the poor.
It’s not.
Say it.
It snot.
And ... For what reason we have no idea, we would also like to shout out to those men and women serving in ten thousand countries and municipalities, islands, peninsulas, knolls, ditches, glens, gulleys, inlets, deltas, fjords and firths overseas. Serving in Berlin and Aachen and Baaden and Ffffen and Mmmm-mmm und Dierdorf und Dadden ... und Dasher und Prancer und Donder & Blitzen. We need you. ... For what reason we have no idea, but thank you for all you do and we are pleased to send you fifty percent of our tax dollars, for what reason we have no idea. But because you are there and they thank you at ballgames and on beer commercials ... we thank you for all you do. For what reason we have no idea.
It’s time to wake up. Yes it is. Your toast is ready, your bus is here, the world is on fire.
You are not sleeping – it is daytime – you look out yourwindow — robins, squirrels, wiener dog poop — fair to partly cloudy — it’s all a fairy tale.
You are inside a children’s book, with dragons and monsters and evil kings and queens.
You are a character inside someone else’s made-up book.
How did we come to this, my neighbor?
We have fake history, boys and girls.
Yes we do.
Our junior high and high school history books should be in italics — handed out by the teacher on the first day with a wink — Remember the Maine — Pearl Harbor — Gulf of Tonkin — Waco — Oklahoma City bombing — moon landings — stolen elections, Osama bin Laden buried at sea.
The price of liberty is eternal vigilance — somebody said that.
We have not been vigilant, we have been watching TV.
We think the country runs on cruise control, the heavy lifting having been done earlier in the morning by those who gave us the eight-hour day, the minimum wage, ended war. They suffered, they struggled, they died, that we might be free.
That is where our thanks should go and where our examples lie — NOT in the military.
The poor are ridiculed, persecuted, hunted down in America.
The chase sounded by barking pigs on the radio. Yes, it is.
Most Americans are ignorant of their own history.
Yes, they are.
And I just wanted to say, thank you for all that you do.
I’ve always wanted to have a neighbor just like you.
I’ve always wanted to live in a neighborhood, with you.
Chapter fourteen
Don’t whine about your poverty and brainless labor. You can read, can’t you? Get thee to a library and foment rebellion — in both inner and outer worlds. We take too much credit for our effect on the world, whining about our misery and guilt, what others have done or not done to us.
— Bill Holm
Good morning, this is Schmogna Bologna, Minnesota Public Radio ... 9/11, compound, manifesto, pressure cooker in a backpack, this is a drill, everyone must check in, 9/11, pristine passport, I can’t breathe, insurrection, all Democrats go to heaven, 9/11 ... well, as you must have heard already, Moon Rock Lake man Michael Miguel Son of Snoopy Pancho Lefty, a.k.a. Raoul, Lee, Harvey, D.B. Hokes is missing. He did not show up at Tuesday night’s city council meeting as he is wont to do, as is his habit, practice ... obsession.
Some fear he is ... missing. Some don’t care, and some have so many other things to think about that we didn’t even bother to ask them. Some in MRL think that Mr. Hokes was snatched off the street on his way to a meeting by a Black Maria, maybe a Crown Vic. Some think swash-buckling tomb raiders on camels swooped him. Some say he will forever be cruising main in a candy apple yellow 1932 Ford 5-Window Coupe driven by John Milner, listening to Teen Angel. Some say, maybe he hitched out of town, and good for him, this town sucks.
Two dogs on scene are reported to have wide eyes fixed on the stars, while a tabby appears indifferent, yet aware.
In any case ... 9/11, three shots rang out, 9/11, home of the brave, one step for mankind, hate speech, Large Cat Women Smoking Winstons in Bathrobes For Biden Harris Walz Fauci Schwab Pelosi & Obama, over the nose, 9/11 ... apparently all the video, en toto, of all the Moon Rock Lake city council meetings that Michael Miguel D.B. ever attended, and there are many, over years, cannot be found, according to NASA, the Pentagon, and the Sandy Hook school board, so we do not have any video to show you, this is radio anyway. I know, right?
But, we do have audio, from the Giant Store parking lot, showing, we think, the attempted assassination of Mr. Hokes by agents of the CIA, FBI, NASA, the Pentagon, the Sandy Hook School Board, the Columbine High School library staff, the Aurora Century 13 concession crew, Mossad, the NEW! 2025 Toyota ISIS F150, the Gabby Gifford Muppets, the Challenger Crew 40th Reunion Planning Committee, Al & Bob Queda Const. Co., and the Minnesota Democratic Party, in a particularly clever, intricate, ongoing, though unsuccessful operation. Sources, however, say Mr. Hokes claimed to have received non-lethal damage to his right ear, however.
I must advise you ... 9/11, sponsored by Pfizer, six feet, safe and effective, Houston, we’re going nowhere, 9/11, Big Bees ... listener discretion is advised.
And now, Mr. Michael Miguel Son of Snoopy Pancho Lefty, aka Raoul, Lee, Harvey, D.B Hokes, during his narrow escape.
“Fuck You!”
And this just in ...
The secret sound is the earth humming along to The Fat Dorothy Polka Show.
... “Haya haya ha dolcha laka poopa shitya shitya crap’n poopa toot. Haya haya ha dolcha laka poopa shitya shitya poopa toot.”
And everyone sang along because they knew the words.
You ... are-so stupid, we all, all, all, all know it. You can’t even-milk the cow-you’re just a putzer.
... And that’s all the time we have, this is Minnesota Public Radio. I am ... Schmogna ... Bo-lo-g-na ... and you are tuned to MPR. And remember, even if you just got cancer, a blood clot in your carotid, a stroke or heart attack on your way to work or daycare ... it is not too late to get a booster.
Now we return you to your regular programming, county highway traffic in Illinois ... deep thoughts in Nebraska ... 99 red Chinese balloons over the MOA ... Barbara Olson on speaker phone ... famous faux federal prisoners tapping on pipes in Florence, Colorado ... the silent screams of poor people and war victims on Netflix, CBS, ABC and NBC ... Jeffrey Epstein mixing margaritas ... maple syrup dripping in Vermont ... F.B.I. agents lying in their sleep ... vote-counting in Arizona ... and Bigfoot-space alien telepathy in Klamath County, Oregon.