Obama Legalizes Home Invasion

“Just one little Executive Order, what’s the big deal?”

He really had no choice. The drug war is costing hundreds of billions, and wars elsewhere trillions. People are uptight about invasion of privacy, drone surveillance, plus wiretaps and cameras everywhere. Yet Wall Street bankers don’t go to jail, and continue with their schemes and lies as though it’s business as usual, and Congress won’t pass anything about anything that actually fixes something. So Obama has given just one man the ability to invade any home or building he wants at any time for one year. To unearth whatever he wants, and leak it to 60 Minutes (so they won’t have to cover singers and tap dancers instead.) Story below…

KNOCK KNOCK
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“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” said Russell Anderson, 60 Minutes co-producer and bureau chief for CBS News. “You’re saying that Thomas Sidon, a rancher from Naco, Arizona, captured the head of the Los Zetas cartel on his property the day before yesterday, and has offered him to the Border Patrol in exchange for what, again?”
      There was a momentary silence at the other end of the line, which was ghosted by background noise. Then the White House press secretary replied evenly, “Anything he wants. And I mean anything.  Including what he did choose, which I will agree is highly unusual.  The President wants a victory in the drug war to sidestep other problems, and we believe Raoul Gasparta is the key.”
      “Go over that part again, will you? The part I’m not understanding. I understand about Gasparta. . . his full disclosure on Sidon’s interrogation transcript, the record of kickbacks and the reparations promised to avoid the death penalty. That’s obvious, and—may I speak frankly?—boring. Tell me exactly what the President promised him again.”
      The press secretary sighed. “I thought I made that clear. Didn’t you hear me, Mr. Anderson? Maybe you should wait for the press conference in one hour, and ask that question again.”
      Anderson coughed. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply that Gasparta is not important. But you can understand what it is people will be asking about, surely. So I have to ask you several things, just to be clear. One more moment, please, just to verify?”
      The press secretary sighed again. “Very well. As I said, a deal was struck with Sidon, whose ranch in Arizona is some five thousand acres.”
      “Straddling the border?”
      “That’s right. On both sides.”
      “And the President has agreed to the terms of this agreement by signing an executive order into law?”
      “That is correct.”
      “When?”
      “Two hours ago, in the Oval Office. In exchange for Mr. Sidon’s  cooperation in acting as agent for the U.S. government, he has been granted carte blanche for one year, effective immediately.”
      “And that means. . ?”
      “It means that as of today, Mr. Thomas Sidon has the legal right to enter any private home in America at any time he chooses. He cannot remove anything, nor can he take photographs. He may only enter and observe at his leisure. No U.S. citizen may refuse him entry, under penalty of law. He is free to come and go as he wishes for the duration of one year.”
      “And this is specifically what he requested?”
      “Yes.”
      “Not a million dollars, a new red Porsche, or an ambassadorship to Mexico?”
      “Yes, Mr. Anderson. He didn’t want my job either, thank God.  Although it was offered to him.”
      “But. . . why?  I mean, what’s his motive?  What’s he hope to gain by–”
      “There has been some speculation on that point here.  Perhaps the power or the novelty of it is attractive to him.”
      “Or maybe he’s a voyeur?”
      “Please don’t use that word, Mr. Anderson.”
      “Why not? Haven’t you walked down your own street at night, and looked at the windows of your neighbors’ homes? Imagine being able to legally enter any home you want at any time, and the owner of that home can’t bar your entry. What I want to know is how? What about rights to privacy? How can the President do this? Even this President.”
      “Privacy rights are waived solely on behalf of Mr. Sidon, and only for one year. He is exempt and immune from any violation, and Congress has been unable to prevent it as they are deadlocked in other matters as well. So for the duration of Executive Order 1482-421 no homeowner may prevent Mr. Sidon from coming into their home and observing, or searching.”
      “Searching?” Anderson stood and circled his desk in awe. “Oh. . . now I get it! He’s going to be cooperating with you guys, isn’t he? If he finds drugs, they’ll be admissible in court because he has the sole right to enter without a warrant! That’s it, isn’t it?”    
      The voice on the line tried to evoke calm. “I have no comment on that point, Mr. Anderson, except to say that Mr. Sidon will have the full cooperation of the law enforcement, including an escort if he desires.  Police must remain outside, however.  They do not possess his rights.  And whether Mr. Sidon chooses to reveal what he finds is entirely up to him.”
      Anderson cleared his throat, and steadied himself with his free hand on the chair. “Oh my God. . . he does want money. Millions.  People will pay him a fortune not to tell. He’ll be as rich as Midas!  Won’t he? Where’s he go first, Beverly Hills?”
      “Again, that’s up to him.”
      “’Up to him,’” the 60 Minutes producer repeated in a daze. “Holy Hopscotch. This guy is smart. Fame and fortune at the stroke of a pen! What’s he gonna wear, though. . . Kevlar?”
      “He will be protected by both police and by the fame he achieves via executive order.”
      “Oh my God. And. . . and if this is true, that’s who he is, right?  He’s God!”
      “For one year. That is correct.  If anyone refuses entry, they will be committing–”
      “A sin?”
      “No, a felony.”
      “What’s the difference?”
      “With a sin, you pay later. With a felony, you pay now, Mr. Anderson. Ten to twenty years in federal prison, based on the severity of the offense.”
      “Severity of the offense?” Anderson laughed, albeit nervously. Yet the smile on his face felt too good to be true. “Who decides the severity of the offense? No, don’t tell me. He does?”
      “So you see how it works?”
      “I do, I do. But what if someone pretends not to be home?”
      “That would make Mr. Sidon very angry, would it not?  Ineffective as well, because he also has the right to force entry when he suspects he has been denied.”
      “How?”
      “With a SWAT team battering ram, should he request it.”
      “Holy–”
      “Listen, Mr. Anderson?  I really have to go now. I’ve given you too much time already.”
      “Certainly, sir.  I understand. Thanks. Thanks so much!  This is the story we’ve been waiting for. . . for over twenty years!” Anderson glanced at his watch. “Tell me, does anyone outside the press know about this yet?”
      “No, Mr. Anderson, and goodbye.”
      “Thank you, sir.  Thank you and thank the President!” Anderson hung up, and then punched his intercom. “Julie, get me Steve Croft on the phone, now!”
      “Yes, sir,” his secretary’s voice chimed. “What about the man who’s been–”
      “Nevermind! Julie, listen to me, this is important. Cancel everything else today. No calls, no appointments. And I want the senior staff in my office in ten minutes. Got that?”
      “But sir–”
      “Do it, Julie!”
      “Yes, sir.”
    Anderson sat and leaned back into his leather armchair. He imagined hiring Sidon to replace Andy Rooney’s former time slot. A one year exclusive contract, with bonuses based on ratings. He linked his fingers behind his head, and now briefly smiled at the prospect of a whole new unlimited source of privileged information. Then he thought about what skeletons he had in his own closet, an obvious consideration in hiring such a man-god. . . What if Sidon became displeased with his perks, over time, or wanted to extend his contract? What documents would need shredding, in that ca—  
    Ohmygod.
    He remembered his complicity, two years prior, in a CIA coverup, when some idiot in the Bush administration proposed bombing Mecca, leaving clues that unknown radical religious terrorists did it. Of course operation “Buddha Bomb” had never gotten off the drawing board, and the CIA operative who’d leaked the memos had since disappeared. But what if Sidon didn’t care about Lloyd Blankfein or 50 Cent or some mafia don with a beach house and a payroll of cleaning agents? What if he wanted to go after the establishment itself? Would his copy of the CIA nondisclosure agreement protect him, just as it secured certain intelligence favors that maintained 60 Minutes’ very mystique? Several reporters had been KILLED to keep the operation secret.
    Anderson shrugged off his fear, and as the CBS regulars gathered in his office, felt a giddy sense of the power hiring such a man would mean, knowing that—-at long last-—no one would be able to escape public scrutiny due to loopholes caused by privacy paranoia.
    He waited until it was standing room only to speak.
      “Gentlemen,” he announced, “and Leslie. . .” The phone ringing interrupted him. He snatched it up. “What?”
      “Mr. Anderson?” his secretary said. “I’ve got Steve Croft on line two, but I think you should know. . .”
      “Know what?”
        “Well, remember you told me to cancel all appointments?”
      “Yes. . .”
       “This is odd, sir, but. . . well, I sent the man without an appointment away first, but he got pretty angry. He’d been waiting about twenty minutes, remember? Anyway, he just called me back, and I think you should know he’s at your house, now.”
    ”Who, did you say? Who’s there?”
    ”I’m not sure, but. . . and here’s the odd part. . . caller I.D. shows it to be your home number.”
                                         –0–  

(from New Mystery Reader)

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America’s Shocking Secret Drug War

The war on cocaine and marijuana has failed, so Congress has given up the fight in order to take up a new war against America’s #1 drug of choice—caffeine. Surprisingly, the source of this drug includes one of the same major countries as with cocaine: Colombia. So the U.S. will be targeting coffee growers, and burning fields across the globe (even more-so than the burning of jungles to grow palm oil for American potato chips.) Be warned that your Venti Latte will soon land you in prison, and that “good to the last drop” moment may stretch to twenty years in the Big House. Says Gen. Milton Bradley, “In truth, we needed to scale back on reefer madness since we want more tanks and jets to play with, and the American taxpayer is no longer a pinata to be hit with a stick while talking softly, as before. ‘Course we got the great war in Iran yet to fight, and then there’s Syria, Lebanon, Liechtenstein, Nauru, Monaco…the list goes on. We’re thinking of moving Gitmo to Colombia, too, all we need a new name. So far we’ve gotten ‘Bogmo’ if it’s Bogotá, ‘Macchiato’ for Maicao, ‘Cocacabanya’ if it’s Copacabana. Oh, and suggestions on bringing Juan Valdez to justice?”

Oklahoma City Tornado Caused by UFOs

Republican Senators need more proof that the increase in super tornadoes and Level 5 hurricanes is caused by global warming, which they view as a myth (although the New York Times recently had a front page story listing the proof, and also the theory that human activity affects the weather.) So here’s a mantra for them to repeat in the shower before going on Fox News: “UFOs cause monster tornadoes. After all, one theory is as good as another, right? A theory is a theory is a…” Wait a minute, isn’t gravity a theory? Since they’ll never actually read a science book in their lifetime, someone should point out to them that some “theories” are never anything more than a “theory.” Like the theory that pollution accumulates. Oh wait, that’s a LAW, isn’t it? (The law of conservation of mass and energy. Thermodynamics also has a role.) In any event, maybe Wal Mart should acquire Warehouse 13, and get some help in fighting this stuff (as shown in the video below.) Since many Wal Mart shoppers and Fox News watchers believe in UFOs and alien beings from dying planets, (but don’t believe our planet is affected by anything WE do) it’s a marriage made in a hotter place—the Earth of the future. With Warehouse 13 as just another big box store, maybe then all the conspiracy nuts will be happy that the government isn’t hiding everything from them, and the NRA can use a new slogan: “From my bold red hands!”

 

Jack Reacher 2 Announced

Jack Reacher has promised to punish more people who have escaped the law, this time on Wall Street. In the new movie he will target CEOs whom the FBI cannot touch because they have paid off politicians for favorable legislation. A homeless man camped out in a park is half beaten to death by inside traders, and Reacher has been summoned to dispense justice just for us, and not them (ie. “just us” justice.) Can he Just Do It, or not? Watch the video below and see. (By the Way, Reacher is the creation of Lee Child, whom I once interviewed, and Lee’s fan club call themselves “Reacher Creatures.” Zombies? No, that would be those who buy guns thinking they need to protect themselves from the coming zombie apocalypse …instead of the collapse of the dollar due to catastrophic health care costs.) Thanks, Discovery Channel! Now let’s discover some viewers whose brains haven’t been eaten by TV.

Also coming, starring a woman who says she’s “too attractive to work:” NOTTING HILL 2

Taylor Swift’s Cat Takes on Congress

“Kneel and tremble…”

Congress is stagnant, entrenched, and blocking the path to progress. And since we listen to and believe more in talking fruit and superheroes to save us from those scientifically proven zombies coming, who better than a cat with her own fan club? Meet Meredith the Cat, if you haven’t already. Not only has she better ideas than three hundred Senators, Congressmen, and Governors put together, but she can out-pitch her ideas better than Felix “The Cat” Hernandez of the Seattle Mariners (who earns $19 million, and just signed a 7 year extension worth $175 million.) By comparison, Meredith has 9 lives, hasn’t used the first one yet, and so doesn’t need an extension. Her life companion, Taylor Swift, has proven more devoted than any man, and just bought a house for them in Rhode Island for $17 million in cash, on a salary of $57 million…more than Rihanna, Lady Gaga, Justin Bieber, or Katy Perry. Also, Taylor’s father is a financial adviser for Merrill Lynch. So maybe her cat does deserve to be heard in Washington! (They listen to bankers more than anyone else, for those kickbacks under the table.) In short, those fat cats refuse to budge, but just maybe—this time—a full frontal assault on their insane stances will limit all terms of engagement.