Yep, it’s Friday. The end of another stinkin’ work week. Today is the day the cast of 96 was supposed to leave the confines of the old hospital in Cosmic City after a 96-hour lock-in, but things didn’t exactly work out that way.

As you may recall, we left off yesterday after a loud thud was heard against one of the boarded-up windows during an engagement with a ghost named Bennie, the depressed and disgruntled former (read as, dead) proctologist.

Turns out that loud thud was caused by a multi-county SWAT team outside the hospital trying to fire tear gas canisters through the boarded-up windows.

I know, right?

Soon after the thud we could hear lots of coughing and gasping as the canister lay on the ground, the gas wafting back toward the ranks of police.

Welcome to our part of the world.

It seems that someone on the wacky preservation committee noticed Friend Lamont’s van parked near the hospital for several days and reported to the police that Arkansas squatters had moved into the old building.

After opening the door to the place and walking out with our hands in the air, we were issued a cease and desist order to never enter the property again. We are each also proud recipients of citations for vagrancy, trespassing, and being an Arkansan squatter. Each ticket carries a fine of $300.

Fortunately (read as, remarkably), the cops didn’t seize any of our equipment. So, we have some decent video of the encounter with Bennie, but not much beyond that. Plus, we didn’t make it to the 96-hour mark so we can rack this one up as a fail.

But, Cousin Fred is not to be deterred. He’s already found a woman up in Dodge City, Kansas (it’s cheaper there you know) who claims the ghost of Wyatt Earp hisself is haunting her roadside motel. That’s probably where we’ll head next.

Although we can’t use the footage from the old hospital for anything in connection with the pilot we owe Chick Ferris, I suppose we could upload it to YouTube or something as a best-of-bloopers segment.

Speaking of new and different uploads…

Did you hear the one about the woman in Zephyrhills, Florida who started punching her husband because he forgot their wedding anniversary?

So, the husband comes home. The wife probably had something for him to commemorate their anniversary. The husband has nothing. He admits that he forgot it.

A spirited verbal argument ensues, that then escalates into the wife getting all metal-cage-match with the husband. She’s hitting him in the face, punching him in the head, scratching him, and knocking him to the ground. But, what she didn’t know is that the husband was recording the main event with his iPhone.

The cops show up. The husband presumably shows them the recording of the action. He’s scratched, he’s bruised…she doesn’t have a mark on her.

Guess what happened next?

She’s arrested and hauled off to jail on a domestic violence charge.

But then, she posts her $150 bond (it’s really cheap in Florida) and goes back home, presumably for round two. Hopefully, while she was in the can, the husband ran out and bought a card or some flowers or something…oh, and a little Bactine for his own damned scratched-up self.

So far, the video hasn’t made it online. Word has it that they’re trying to sell it as a pay-per-view event on cable or start their own YouTube channel.

What have we learned from today’s post?

1. Tear gas canisters cannot be fired through plywood.

2. Always get permission from the owners of a property before setting up a 96-hour ghost-a-thon.

3. Never forget an anniversary or birthday.

4. But if you do forget, keep your iPhone handy.

5. America is such an odd place sometimes.
 
That is all!
 

Happy Thursday everybody. At least, I hope it is for you. For me, eh, not so much. We’re starting day four of our four-day forced lock-in at a haunted location. I’m beginning to think that my life is really nothing more than my penance on earth.

Allow me to explain. Over the course of last weekend, we (that being me, Cousin Fred, the Ghost Hunting Hairdressing Hydrologist Gigi, and Friend Lamont) found our hook for our new television pilot.

You know that show on television where two people plus Rob the Camera Dude lock themselves away for 72 hours in a haunted location and provoke ghosts and spirits to interact with them. They come out of those places after 72 hours looking like death warmed over.

Cousin Fred made the statement, “Those guys are lightweights and doing it all wrong!” Cousin Fred went on to explain that we needed to extend that stay by another 24 hours, making it a 96-hour lock-in. In fact, that led to Cousin Fred declaring that would be the name of our new show, “96.”

Catchy, don’t you think? No? Well, it’s a working title anyway. I asked Cousin Fred if he had a plan for a location. Keep in mind that at this point, we had asked a couple of landowners in the area if we could lock ourselves inside of a couple of old and decrepit homesteads around here.

One pointed out that there weren’t any locks on the doors as the termites had pretty much eaten away the door frames and just about anything else. The other said that he preferred to leave any ghosts that might be residing in his ancestors’ home alone and pulled a 12-gauge from inside his pick-up to make his point.

That’s when Cousin Fred came up with an idea…seldom a good thing. For whatever reason, there is an old hospital in Cosmic City that has stood the ravages of time pretty much intact. Seriously, this place hasn’t been used as a hospital since maybe the early 1950s. In fact, the hospital that replaced it has been rebuilt twice and still the old hospital stands.

There’s a move by lunatic preservationists to preserve the building, have it declared a memorial to superior brick work (I guess) and prevent anything from being done with the building or its lot.

I pointed out that over the years there had been a few ghost hunters go through the place, but with no results. Cousin Fred responded that those people were obviously amateurs and we were better equipped. He pointed out that with the windows boarded up in the place – mostly to keep the kids out of there – we would have 96 hours of lock-in in complete darkness to do our spirit seeking. Cousin Fred says we need to stop using the term ghost hunting and start using spirit seeking because that will put us on a higher tier than those “lockdown dummies.”

Sheesh.

So we entered the place on Monday, without permission, of course, and have now been inside since Monday morning.

I have to admit, we got some good video over the course of the first couple of days. Cousin Fred, working with a spirit box that picks up ethereal voices out of white noise, came across the spirit of a doctor, named Bennie, who practiced here for a while in the 40’s.

The hardest part has been learning to react to whatever we pick up over the spirit box. That took some off-camera coaching on the part of Cousin Fred.

“Now, listen. Whenever we get the least little bit of response over this stupid box, I need everyone to look directly into the camera all bug-eyed and mutter things like, “What the hell is that?” or “Oh my God, did you hear that?,” got it? Okay, let’s roll camera.”

So with Friend Lamont filming with a video camera set to capture any available light, Cousin Fred, Gigi, and I huddled around the spirit box.

Cousin Fred: “Hello, Bennie? Are you here now? Speak to us if you are.”

Static. More static. Still more static. Then, “Yes.”

That was followed by me looking as bug-eyed as possible directly into the camera, “What the hell was that?”

Gigi responded by pulling her t-shirt up over her head to cover her eyes, exposing her breasts, “Oh my God, did you hear that?”

Cousin Fred smiled.

Cousin Fred: “You were a doctor here?”

Static, more static, still more static.

Bennie: “Yes, proctologist. Didn’t work out though.”

Cousin Fred: “Oh, why not?”

Static, more static, a few pops.

Bennie: “Too depressing. So many a**holes, felt like I always had the end in sight!”

More bug-eyed looks into the camera.

I’m thinking, great, we’ve dialed up the ghost of Rodney Dangerfield.

Then, there was a loud bang against one of the boarded up windows.

Cousin Fred ran from the room screaming, “They’re among us. They’re out of the box. Run for your life!”

Bug-eyed looks into the camera.

More on 96 tomorrow!

That is all!
 

Happy Thursday people! It was a long, sleepless night here at The Compound, but more on that in a second. First I wish to express my sincere condolences to the family of Stephen Hawking at his passing. He was a big thinker, a theoretical physicist, and we could use a few more like him.

I read “A Brief History of Time” years ago. Interestingly, the one thing I took away from that book, the one thing that absolutely stuck with me, was the idea that what we consider living in the present is actually remembering the future.

I’ll let that roll around in your head for the rest of the day.

But in the meantime…as you may recall the Wife never informs me as to when she’s returning from her fabulous vacations. Seriously. If I ask, she just grips her filterless Pall Mall between her teeth and grunts out, “None of your f*#king business!”

Well, I think it is. So using proprietary (read as possibly illegal) methods, that I learned during my time working for unnamed elements of the U.S.G., I contacted the customer service line at American Airlines and was able to find out what flight she is on and when she is expected back. I tell you, with what I learned during those years, I could run my own criminal enterprise!

Anyway, it looks as though she’ll back in OKC late Saturday night, which means she’ll stay overnight and I won’t see her here at The Compound until Sunday sometime.

Time to spring into action! We have the mountains of video equipment and editing gear that Friend Lamont brought with him from Arkansas. That stuff has got to be out of here. I had hoped we’d be back out on the road chasing ghosts somewhere long before she arrived back here, but there’s no chance of that. We aren’t even close. More on that later.

Cousin Fred claims he doesn’t have room for it in Das Boot, his underground living space. Fortunately, there is room for Friend Lamont, good to go there.

So, last night I did the unthinkable. I actually went into Cosmic City to rent a storage locker for all that crap. I say it’s unthinkable because…well…have you ever really examined the storage places around here? They’re a joke. Your stuff is so vulnerable to theft, rodents, and water damage (if it ever rains again) you might just as well leave it on a corner downtown so the city employees can drive it away in the new pickup trucks that all city employees seem to get.

But, I digress…

So, there is ONE facility in this God-forsaken piece of Google Maps that I would actually deem secure. There is controlled access at the gate (they know who comes and goes), surveillance cameras (they can see you come and go), and the owners don’t have secret access to everyone’s stuff (I’m serious about that). Anyway, that’s where we dropped the stuff.

It took most of the night to get it all moved over there, but it’s done.

Now, I just have to figure out what I’ll do with the behemoth roll-around Weber Kettle cart that is not quite finished. Seriously, it takes up most of the space on the side of the shop/garage where the Wife parks. I’ve got to finish that and get it parked in the designated BBQ area here at The Compound.

That thing is so big…foolishly big, I’m tellin’ ya…that I’ve decided to name it. As you may recall, I have a 400 lb. steel smoker that I named Bertha. This beast I think I’ll name Brutus (et tu, Brute).

Again, if you have a tractor or portable crane kindly get in touch so I can this into the designated BBQ area. The Wife will burn it to the ground if it’s parked in her spot.  

So, now, onto the latest problems with the ghost hunting pilot we’re supposed to be doing. I received another call yesterday from Chick Ferris out in Hollywood. It wasn’t pleasant. He was screaming over the phone that we need to get off our lazy asses name the pilot and shoot the pilot.

In the meantime, apparently word is spreading among The Trump’s dumps that we’re considering using them as talent in our latest project.

Get this…there are no fewer than 21 people he has fired or encouraged to resign in the past year. I had no idea. Obviously, I’ve not been paying attention. The people want jobs. Phones here at The Compound are ringing constantly.

I told Cousin Fred, we’re going to have to find another hook. I can’t have 21 ghost hunters busting into a place and stumbling around in the dark searching for something that may or may not exist. It would probably be reminiscent of an evening in The Trump’s White House, but it would be chaos! People would be having flashbacks!

So, we’re back to work puzzling through the hook and a title for the show. If you have any suggestions, please feel free to speak up.

That is all!

Happy Wednesday to you loyal CCB groupies, though frankly there’s not much to be especially happy about today. Why, you ask? Well, Mr. Robin is about to go on a rant, but it ends well (maybe).

As I’m sure all of you have heard by now, Rex Tillerson (hereafter, T-Rex) was summarily dumped as Secretary of State by The Trump yesterday (dumped by The Trump – haha – could be a song lyric). Why should I care, you ask? Allow me to explain that and why you should actually be outraged.

First of all, a defensible statement, The Trump is a classless idiot who can’t see past his next cheeseburger or porn star. There, I’m feeling much better now.

So he fires T-Rex via Twitter and THEN three hours later calls him to fire him in person (sort of). Jack ass. If you’re going to fire someone at least have the courage to face them (just my personal advice) before you float it on Twitter.

T-Rex’s offense? Well, there have been several. T-Rex had a history of publicly running counter to whatever The Trump perceived as foreign policy. T-Rex sided with Great Britain that Russia (and, by extension, Putin) had poisoned former Russian spy Sergei Skripal and his daughter (along with possibly one other former spy) on UK soil.

T-Rex was the epitome of a Secretary of State. The guy had class and dignity. That was painfully obvious in observing him in the day to day machinations of his office. The Trump, on the other hand, not so much.

But T-Rex brought even more to his post, he was a smart guy who looked at things through a measured, reasonable and cerebral approach. With The Trump, on the other hand, it’s more about mental masturbation.

So now, The Trump is bringing his uber-ass-kisser, Mike Pompeo (hereafter, Pomp & Circumcise, P&C to his friends), in from the dark at CIA and making him Secretary of State. As The Trump himself, put it, he and P&C have “a similar mindset.” Guess that means P&C is an idiot too? Jack ass.

Well, CIA will be in better shape. P&C was a political appointee at CIA. That (in our humble opinion) is nearly always a mistake. If you’re coming from the outside, you lack experience not only as an operator, but you also lack background in the culture of that damned place. Gina Haspel has been tagged to replace P&C, who may be a bit controversial, but there’s no denying she is and has been an operator.

Who’s next you ask? Well, it appears that the Veterans Affairs Secretary David Shulkin (hereafter, Skulkin’) is out the door and will be replaced by another ass-kisser, Rick Perry (aka, screw-you-I’m-from-Texas-Rick).
Back to P&C, what do you think that meeting with Kim Jong Uno will be like now? Probably, at The Trump’s urging, P&C will light a string of firecrackers under Kim’s chair, in The Trump’s version of keeping him on the hot seat.

By the way, what happened to “draining the swamp”…hmmm? The Federal government is quickly turning into a television reality show where we tune in daily to see The Trump’s narcissistic mood swings one direction or another. DO SOMETHING SUBSTANTIVE, will you? F*ck oh dear, me thinks the ship of state is aimlessly adrift without the advantage of power or sail. We’re doomed.

But, hey, speaking of reality shows…as you may recall, the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi was the one who came up with the idea for a hook for our ghost hunting show (still unnamed, these things take time!) using The Trump’s dumps. I have to admit, I’m really beginning to like it. At the rate we’re going, we’ll have an army of ghost hunters before summer.

Cousin Fred is currently trying to find a number for T-Rex to see if he is interested. After the 31st of this month, he’s out of work. Says he plans to head back to his ranch in Baja Oklahoma (aka, Texas). Why not, detour slightly and come up here for a week or so of chasing ghosts and becoming a television star?

We figure if we can get T-Rex onboard, the others: Omarosa (she just got dumped from Big Brother), Spicey (he’s been doing The Trump’s hair), Rinse-Twice (unemployed), Skulkin (soon to be unemployed), and Scaramucci (he has a BIG mouth) will join also. It’s gonna be great, you’ll see.

That is all!

Happy Friday everyone. Hope you’ve found some measure of peace now that the days of horrific winds have passed…for now.

Me, not so much.

There’s been much spirited debate around The Compound the last couple of days. The subject of debate has, of course, been over the hook for our new ghost hunting pilot that we’re about to produce.
Cousin Fred, as always, wants to have naked ghost hunters. I then, as always, point out that it’s already been done…by us!

Friend Lamont, who arrived from west Arkansas the other day with a mountain of video, sound, and editing equipment, thought it might be humorous to use rejects from The Bachelor or The Bachelorette TV shows as ghost hunters.

Cousin Fred then offered that we could have The Bachelor/Bachelorette realitors do our show naked.
Always with the nakedity Cousin Fred, always with the nakedity.

The hairdressing hydrologist Gigi even piped up, suggesting that we use the White House rejects as ghost hunters. In her words, “It’s not like they have anything else to do right now except wait for subpoenas to land on their doorstep.”

Well put, Gigi, well put.

Cousin Fred, of course, suggested having the White House rejects do our show naked. There was silence in the room.

I threw up in my mouth a little bit.

Actually, I’m just glad the Wife is away from The Compound for a while. Having her here during these discussions would make them even more stressful what with the Old Crow empties flying at our heads. We’d never get anything done…not that anything is actually getting done now.

Personally, I’m leaning back toward our original idea of the prepper camp here at The Compound. Something I saw online steered me that way.

As those of you located within the borders of Oklahoma probably already know, Costco is coming to Oklahoma City. You’re likely ecstatic about it, am I right?

Now those of you living normal, civilized lives with all the conveniences that the modern 21st century offers (namely, those of you outside of Oklahoma) are probably asking, “Yeah, so?”

Hey, this is a big deal. There’s never been a Costco here. Those of us who moved here from civilization and loved shopping there are soooo looking forward to dropping $200 every visit for things like bundles of 100 pairs of socks for $20 or cellophane-wrapped 50-packs of jumbo jars of peanut butter.

Admit it, you can’t live without all that peanut butter! Just think, you can use it to patch the roads around here because the fascists at ODOT don’t come all the way out west no mo’. By the way, if you’re a biker, stay the hell out of Oklahoma…it’s too dangerous…between the bull haulers that create a vortex equal to an F-25 tornado when they meet you and the hazardous, unfinished road projects around the state, it’s deadly here. I go out to ride the Big Square and come back with pulverized kidneys.

But, I digress…

So, if you think about it, Costco is already kind of a prepper’s paradise. I mean you can go there with a sixteen or eighteen foot trailer and load up on enough supplies to last you probably a year or two or until your products start hitting their expiration dates and you’re consuming 4,000 calories a day in Spaghetti-O’s because there’s only two days left on the shelf life.

“But, Dad, we don’t want any more Spaghetti-O’s…Bobby threw up the last bowl you gave him.”

“Shut up, you little punks! Be grateful you have Spaghetti-O’s to eat. There are children starving in the Washington, DC suburbs who would love to have these Spaghetti-O’s!”

Well, not anymore, you paranoid f**ks! How does shelf life of 25 years sound, or even 30 years? Hell, with any luck you’ll be dead before your freeze-dried beanie-weenies expire. Sound good?

It seems that Costco is entering the prepper food market. Maybe this will finally drive the disgraced holy man out of the business. For $6,000 you too can receive a package from Costco with enough food to feed four people 2,000 calories a day for a year.

And, Costco promises to deliver it in a discreet package. Ummmm, that discreet package weighs in at 1,800 pounds. Who the hell is going to deliver it? Certainly not the UPS people around here who seem to delight in drop kicking stuff onto porches. Discreet? Who cares about discreet? If you’re so certain that life as we know it is going to end anyway, who cares if your neighbors know you’re hoarding freeze-dried food?

We’re all going to die!

That is all!

Happy, happy Tuesday everybody! Hope you’re well and that your nerves are intact after two days of horrific winds here on Ceti Alpha V. One more day to go! Today, according to the very giddy weather guesser Tornado Payne-in-the-Ass last night, we’re looking at gusts to 50mph. Sheesh. Wouldn’t mind it so much if the winds came right behind the rains (think that’s the lyric).

Rough night here at The Compound. The Wife was up all night packing for her latest fabulous foreign vacation, which she is leaving on today. Note dear criminal element wannabes, she's leaving, not me…this is a heavily fortified Compound…keep moving, nothing to see here. The smell of filterless Pall Malls wafted from her room all night, at two points setting off smoke detectors. I couldn’t sleep.

All of that activity was my first clue that the Wife was leaving town again. Honestly, I never know when she’s planning another trip, she likes to keep those details a secret. Keeps me off guard. Still, I’m glad she’ll be out of the house for a week or so, because…

Things are heating up with the latest venture of Cousin Fred and me – namely, ghost hunting. Friend Lamont is headed here from west Arkansas along with a pile of video equipment we’ll need to shoot our pilot for our media mentor, Chick Farris.

Cousin Fred has a couple of stories as to how Friend Lamont came into the video gear. The first story he told me was that Lamont used to work as a freelance videographer for a television station in Little Rock. Then, not long after, he also said that Friend Lamont used to shoot hillbilly porn when the legit news videoing slowed down.
My only comment was that I hoped he had the equipment sterilized. I received no assurances in response.

Great…

I was kind of worried about where Friend Lamont would stay after he arrives here. So, I was a bit relieved when the Wife began making motions to go, even though Cousin Fred assures me that he added sufficient “modules” to his underground lair to accommodate our friend from Arkansas. He asked though that we keep the equipment up here in the main house. That way we won’t be constantly having to hauling stuff in and out through the entrance hatch on the north lawn. I agreed. We’ll store the stuff in the Wife’s room. I’ll worry about dealing with the cooties later.

Isn’t that the way it is in life, folks? One door closes, another door opens. Am I right? Okay, not so much.

I just hope that we can get the Wife out the door before Friend Lamont arrives from Arkansas. There’s no way of contacting Lamont because he doesn’t have a regular cell phone like most people nowadays. Instead, he uses a series of burn phones (has a whole box full of them). If he has to make a call, he’ll stop in the middle of a bridge and toss the darned thing over the railing. He then reaches into the box to grab another and away he goes. No one (not even Cousin Fred) can reach him.

Cousin Fred has offered that he and the hairdressing hydrologist Gigi will stake out Bouse Junction and try to intercept Friend Lamont, if need be. We’ll see.

And speaking of intercepting friends…sort of…did you hear the one about the Oklahoma guy who faked his own kidnapping to raise ransom money to gamble? No? Well, strap in, friends.

So, this dude from Owasso disappears from home. Friends and family become concerned and notify police that Dumbass Supremo (not his real name) was missing and that they were concerned. Soon, friends and family begin receiving threatening communications, presumably texts, sent from Dumbass Supremo’s own phone.
The texts include pictures of broken hands and fingers. The “kidnapper” (Dumbass Supremo) tells everyone to send money to a PayPal account or Dumbass Supremo would meet with even worse harm.

A PayPal account? Really? That’s the best he could do? They’re going to take 6% off the top!

So, unlike Friend Lamont who uses burn phones, Dumbass Supremo is using his own phone. Guess what? The cops are able to trace the phone’s signal and they find him sitting in a casino in Tulsa playing penny slots, sipping watered down Diet Coke, and generally enjoying life…waiting for his ship to come in.

Penny slots? Sheesh, he was down on his luck.

Oh, and his hands and fingers weren’t broken. Again, go figure.

Dumbass Supremo has been charged with extortion, blackmail (isn’t that the same as extortion?), and reporting a false crime.

Hey, maybe he can start a GoFundMe account so his friends and family can bail him out!

That is all!

Happy Friday everybody! Looks like we’re in for a few windy days here at The Compound. Whenever the outlook is for wind, lots of wind, more wind than we’ve ever previously seen, I generally put on a DVD of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan to run on continuous loop. Then Cousin Fred and I pretend we’re on Ceti Alpha V. If you’re getting the (now increasingly) obscure reference, good for you. If not, may I suggest diving into a weekend of vintage cinema? Nothing else to do, it’ll be too damned windy.

The best part is whenever the scene in that movie comes up where Khan is getting on Kirk’s last nerve and the camera zooms in on Kirk as he yells, “Khaaaaaan!,” Cousin Fred and I are there yelling along with him. The Compound mutts soon join in. It’s quite the cacophony of aural impaction.

The Wife loves it. She starts yelling on her own, but her yelling usually involves obscenities, some that I’ve never heard before. That’s followed by empty Old Crow bottles being lobbed at our heads or a lit unfiltered Pall-Mall being flicked at us.

Ahhhh…life on The Compound.

Speaking of life on The Compound, yesterday things got a bit weird. We had an unexpected guest…again.
Cousin Fred and I were sitting around the kitchen table trying to brainstorm a “hook” for our new television pilot idea. We aren’t coming up with much. Cousin Fred keeps trying to turn it into naked ghost hunting. I’m resistant. After Bigfoot: Naked and Untamed, I’m pretty much done with nakedity for a while.

I swear, we were minding our own business, when off in the far distance, I heard something. The Compound mutts heard it too. Their heads turned in the direction of the east. Cousin Fred looked at me with panic. About then it occurred to me what we were hearing. The Wife charged out from her bedroom screaming, “It’s a raid, it’s a raid!”

I’m starting to think, “Raid. What raid?” Cousin Fred jumped up from the table and ran out the front door. He was screaming, “Dive, dive. Prepare to dive!”

The sounds were getting closer.

The hairdressing hydrologist Gigi, standing in the entrance tower to the underground bunker on the north lawn sounded an oo-gah claxon over and over. Cousin Fred mounted the tower with a single leap and down inside he went. The heavy steel hatch banged shut behind him.

I moved out on the front porch and watched as three military helicopters flying in formation approached from the east. I see Cousin Fred is watching also, through the periscope which has raised up from the entrance tower.
One of the helos peeled off the formation and took up an offensive position hovering above the entrance tower. I can see a door gunner hanging out the side, his M60 pointed directly at the periscope. The periscope descended.

I knew the routine.

I rushed back inside to find the only necktie I own, a bedazzling yellow SpongeBob SquarePants tie autographed by Tom Kenny. I tied same tie and moved back to the front door. Two goons with guns were standing outside the door. One of them saw that I’m now wearing a tie and spoke into his cuff, “The pig is tied. Repeat, the pig is tied.”

Both turn and start the long walk across the center lawn toward the helo that landed. I fell in behind them (I know the routine). As we were walking, I see the third helo had taken up a defensive perimeter orbit around the property.   

The helo on the lawn still had its engines running. The rotor wash caused sandburs to fly. The two goons with guns don’t seem to notice, so I tried to do the same though I look down and see that my bedazzling SpongeBob tie is snagging every airborne sandbur that flies past.

Finally, at the entrance to the helo, one of the goons gestured me to step in. As I step up inside, I look back at the road and see sheriff units from two counties descending on The Compound. It’s the first time one of these visits have come during the day. It’s attracting a lot of attention. The third helo now takes up a more threatening offensive position above the approaching phalanx of law enforcement. No shots fired, at that point.
I step inside the cabin of the Sea King helicopter. There he is, The Trump, dressed out for a day of golfing…polo shirt, neon red pants, golf spikes (I’m sure the Marines loved having those inside their helo), and a bright red cap emblazoned with the motto, “Grab ‘em by the putter!”

“Hey, Blogger Boy! Come on back here. You want a McDonald’s Happy Meal?”

“Uh, no thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” he says as she stuff more McNuggets into his mouth.

“It’s been a very stressful week for me, you know. My advisors advised me to get out of DC what with hurricane force winds approaching. Go golfing they said to me. So, we came west.”

“You still have advisors to advise?”

“Don’t get cute, Blogger Boy. Oh sure, it looks like the rats are deserting the ship. Truth be told, they’re all a bunch of cupcakes. I’m a passionate guy, I get very passionate about people not reading my mind and doing what I think I expect them to. Know what I mean?”

“Well, uh, yeah, maybe.”

“So their feelings get hurt and the next thing I know, I’ve got a resignation on my desk. Bunch of cupcakes, that’s what I have.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’ll just run the whole show by myself. I’m a genius, you know. I can do it.”

“Uh, yeah…maybe…”

“The fake news people are saying I’m trying to start a trade war. Why would I do that when I can start a real war?”

“Well, uh…”

“Hey, how do you like that new tax break I got all of youse?”

“Uh…”

“Okay, enough small talk. I want you to move back to DC. I need a communications director. I hear you used to work for the White House Communications Office.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“Yes or no, Blogger Boy. Tee time is calling.”

“No.”

“Okay, screw you, Blogger Boy. Get out of my sight.”
With that I felt the meaty hand of one of the goons with a gun on my shoulder. He shoved me out the door of the helo and sealed the door shut. The rotor wash increased exponentially as the helo lifted into the sky, but not before firing several rounds at my feet from the onboard cannon. I ran back to the house.

The Wife was standing on the porch with a lit unfiltered Pall Mall dangling from her lips.

“Screwed up another interview did you, dolt?”

That is all!