Homeless Man to Adopt Twins

homeless

HOMELESS MAN TO ADOPT TWINS

trumpworld
TrumpWorld: Post Election Daymares Amazon ebook. Trump is homeless in an alternate universe. http://TowerReview.com/trillionaire.html

In other McNews, The Psychopath Whisperer is back on Fox. Here’s a partial transcript:

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Welcome to my talk show. Of course you know we don’t say much in public anymore, or even at Starbucks, except to order a Venti Carmel Massi-Ego before getting on our laptops to see if Kim Kar-smash-again or Kim Jong-fun made it into the playoffs at Yahoo Trends. By the way, libraries now look like Starbucks, too! Except for the restrooms, where homeless people gather to bathe and discuss The Walking Dead. With all the TV game shows and Valerian type movies we broadcast into the galaxy, featuring screaming fan/addicts and doomsday deathmatches. It’s no wonder why space aliens want to kill us so badly. Okay, first question. Let’s hear it.

What is a psychopath, and do they whisper too?

Ha ha. Well, psychopaths don’t generally whisper. They shout orders while pointing weapons. Or they read you the riot act, whatever that is. My job is to disarm them, and then take them to a remote location once used to waterboard taxpayers to cough up more receipts. There we gently instruct them in the Laws of Murphy, which, like the Law of Attraction, states that if anything bad can happen to you it generally will, given time and temperature.

You said “we.” Who is “we.”

It’s not the A Team, it’s more like the Z Team. Like zombies, only worse, they’ve been lobotomized by watching too much TV, their eyes stuck open with Crazy Glue. In a different location, over where they film B movies with D-List actors and game show hosts. Anyway, what was your question?

What is a psychopath?

Oh. That’s someone who ruins a company before bailing out of the boardroom with a golden parachute and backpack full of bonus money. Honey. No, wait, that’s a CEO. Psychopath. Any politician who’s first order of business in Washington is getting re-elected. Or any football fan who owns a CRAZY BOY. That’s a special deluxe Lazy Boy model featuring heated and refrigerated coasters, a voice activated mini bar, a retractable cheese fountain, and a defibrillator.

kids

Interview: The World’s First Trillionaire

Super Rich

As Howard gets closer, now, I stare aghast at the squirrelly little enigma of a man. I wonder how and why in God’s name he’s chosen me. Who am I, anyway? Nobody except just maybe—I’m hoping—heir apparent to Hunter S. Thompson, a man forgotten by the newer generations of label conscious go-getters, who prefer bling-a-ling rappers to John Lennon. Some Millennials or Gen-Xers might not even know who Lennon and Thompson were, much less Y they were important (while his former fans just wanna go Zzzzz.) Me? I may be old school, but I don’t eschew (hate) anything except boredom, and my clutch punchy ’87 VW. So my other interviews (not for Rolling Stone) have been pretty desperate and diverse, from talent show winners to physicists, explorers, and ComicCon geeks. Which just may explain the why for Howard. Or maybe not.
    —His age, if I had to guess, is mid forties to early fifties. Hard to confirm with the Cardinals baseball cap covering his light brown hair. (Another red herring?) His walk is an aloof gait, in no hurry for this first media exposure—which is minus any cameras, (a prerequisite stipulated by contract.) All I have is my trusty mini-recorder, which passed scrutiny by his security team here at his remote ranch house just north of Flagstaff. Of course I’d been blindfolded on the last leg, and took off the mask only to find that the high tech rust-colored metal roofed building was not unlike the one in the movie Ex Machina, at least in style and situation.
    —“Hello,” I say, stretching out my hand at last, when he comes within range of my inquisitive gaze.
    —Howard stares down at my hand as if it’s septic or something. Then he lifts his attention to my face, studying me. “Hello,” he replies with a tone as neutral as any adversarial diplomat. He gestures toward an ermine trimmed L-shaped sectional couch. I recline into the longer section, reminded of Trump’s quote: Think big, and live large. Howard, aka WFT, is forced to inhabit the short end of the L, which he does without apparent annoyance, I note.
    —“This is quite a place,” I blurt, and then add, significantly, “from what little I’ve seen of it.”
    —The statement’s irony is not lost on him, and I get the impression that nothing is ever lost on him. “I’m sorry about the unusual conditions,” he confesses. But I can see he’s not sorry. Neither am I, actually. In fact, I’m about as happy as a dung beetle on…but enough about me.
    —“Yes,” I say, taking up the lead. “And before we get started, I do have a first question for you, Howard, which can be off the record if you like. And excuse my language, but how in hell have you managed to be so secretive? And why come forward now?”
    —Howard smiles thinly. “That’s two questions, is it not?”
    —I spread my hands in acquiescence, and wait. It’s always best to wait and access…to wait and not to show one’s hand or emotions. In my case, that would be what angle and tone I might take on this story, it now being confirmed that I am actually doing this interview. Something it is too late for Howard to deny.
    —Naturally he waits, too. Only his wait feels like I’m down, and a referee is about to count me out. (Not only out of my first Rolling Stone piece, but also of any chance to revive my flagging career, maybe putting me in line at The Voice blind auditions, singing Money for Nothing.   
    —At last I feel obliged to break the impasse, with his unblinking eyes weighing heavily into mine. “Yes, okay, okay,” I admit. “So how about the first question?”
    —Howard leans forward now, looking at the shiny stone floor as if examining his own reflection. “How have I managed this,” he repeats, testing the veracity or validity of my query against whatever bizarre history he’s known to have been hiding from everyone. After a full minute he leans back, and is soon staring at the ceiling, which is festooned with long rows of dim LED lights recessed into waving brass channels that flow deeper into the interior of his ranch/fortress.
    —“I can reword the question, if you prefer,” I add. “Like, say, for example, how much of what the tabloids say about you is true, and how have you kept them and CNN from verifying any of it?”
    —Hoping to move this tension filled moment along, I hand him the list of unverified facts my editor had given me. Howard looks it over, then (with zero tension on his part) reaches into his shirt pocket and produces a list of his own. I take the wrinkled paper, unfold it, and stare down without showing any of the anxiety I feel wrenching at my stomach. It reads: (Order book)

NASA

Howard’s bodyguard. IQ: 193.

 

Dead Woman in Trailer Had $500G in CASH

news

A woman living in a trailer was discovered dead, sleeping on a mattress with $150G used as stuffing. $350G more was found used as insulation in her walls. Gertrude “Izzy” Rosenstein had no living relatives, and hadn’t been on vacation in 20 years. She ate Ramen noodles, and feared banks, going out, and squirrels. According to cable company records, she watched the Food Network, The Kardashians, and The Travel Channel…although the bulk of her time was spent watching game shows, televangelists, and other reality TV shows. She left a Will written on a pizza box, leaving her “estate” to Victor Cashman, a preacher now living in Dubai after being acquitted of fraud in Florida. No other details are known at this time. Except that she was once married to an executive at Goldman Sachs.

scifi

In other McNews, Dubai police are employing robots who can’t shout “Stop or I’ll shoot!” because they have no mouths. They also have no guns, so they can’t shoot. Some people are trying to use them as teller machines, but they have no money either. And the author of the scifi story “I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream” (Harlan Ellison) is considering a lawsuit just for the fun of it. 

health

Finally, is Mario Batali from Italy? Not the chef, but his spaghetti. According to the author of THE MIND SPAN DIET all flour products in America have added iron, which is a suspected cause of Alzheimers and Parkinsons. In Italy they do not “enrich” with iron, and have far less cases of these diseases (also they eat less meat.) So why is there added iron to Batali’s pasta products, listed as “Product of Italy”? Note that Alma’s have zero iron, listed as 100% Italian whole wheat. Of course health is not a subject likely to be touted on cooking shows and Iron Chef competitions. All that matters is taste. Expecting them to discuss health or PETA is like asking Mr. Wonderful on Shark Tank to discuss Pope Francis. “Crawl out of here like the cockroach you are.”

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POP Quiz: Only one of the above paragraphs is real. Can you guess which?

 

News No One Will Ever Use

news

SATIRE: humor that uses exaggeration, wit, irony, and/or sarcasm to expose and discredit vice or folly. The World’s First Trillionaire: a recluse named Howard Rosen explains to the Rolling Stone how he became Super Duper Rich, with extended lifespan, a yacht that is also a sub (with nuclear torpedoes), and why his mansions and luxury cars don’t show up on Google Maps. (Also, why the NSA fears him, even when he walks or takes Cash Cab.) http://TowerReview.com/Trillionaire.html

Comey news

Neil Degrasse Tyson

Coming to a neighborhood near you.

The History Channel

ADDICTION– This is a psychological or physiological dependence on something. In the case of sports fans, the compulsion to watch men in tight shorts make repetitious and hypnotic movements with a sense of purpose that ultimately proves to be illusory.
ALPHABET– These are your basic ABCs, used not merely to describe soup, but also everything else. Think of them as tools to replace grunts and whistles and nods and (hopefully) belches or farts.
AMELIORATE– To make better or improve. Using this word may also improve your love life if you happen to be in a Bachelor Pad with coeds looking to find a man who reads something other than the sports pages. Because you will never hear a sports announcer say, “that pass return truly ameliorated his rushing record.”
AMERICAN’T– What the Chinese call America, since Americans can’t stop watching sports long enough to manufacture anything. As part of their subversive campaign, the Chinese mimic our athletes and pretend to be enthralled with American culture, even as they steal military blueprints online and share the embarrassing stuff with Russia.
ANGST– This is a feeling of trepidation or apprehension which may (or may not) be associated with witnessing your gray hair falling out in clumps after youʼve just arranged your trading card collection for the 8000th time.
CRAZY BOY– A special deluxe Lazy Boy model featuring heated and refrigerated coasters, a voice activated mini bar, a retractable cheese fountain, and a defibrillator.
INCREDIBULL— Something so outrageous and wrong that everyone hypnotically buys into it.
JUST DO IT– A slogan once popular at Penn State, and now at the State Pen.
SPORTS BAR– A place of worship equipped with multiple wide-screen HDTVs, open on Sunday. Worshipers may maintain altars at home, too, for ritual sacrifices of lamb, steer, and chicken. But they may not dress in holy garments fanatically displaying the proper colors for ceremonial penitence unless their high priests aren’t “cooking” on the “gridiron.”
STUPORBOWL– A drinking contest held after the Super Bowl, usually by the losing team.
SUDDEN DEATH OVERTIME– What happens to an obese fan whose cholesterol clotted heart has been living on borrowed time up until the moment he realizes that his lost wager may result in getting his kneecaps shattered by a guy named Vinny.
WAR– A game no one can win, although referees whose favorite song is “I think I can, I think I can” (ie. national anthems) pass out medals for individual skirmishes (battles) nonetheless. These medals are often made of the metal Unobtainium. –From THE UMPIRE HAS NO CLOTHES