As
I sit here inside the washing machine waiting for the mole to
turn up, I doze off. I wake up soapy, spinning and about to
drown. Using my CIA training I escape, capture the bad guy and
complete my mission. It ain't easy bein' this good. The CIA
wouldn't have hired me if I hadn't planned ahead and hollowed out
the back of the washing machine and set up an intricate array of
traps. I return him back to CIA HQ shortly before midnight. As I
walk out of the building, the whole of Annapolis turns into a
pumpkin. Poor guy, he never had a chance. I grieve for a moment
or not, then fly back to my secret identity (plane, not
flapping).
Cliffhangers (and
the filmic singular) suck. I was just fuckin wid ya. I could have
gone into all the details, as you were expecting, but fuck dat
shit Jack, I gots to be a gangsta. I gots to pop an ass in a cap
or summat like that. Sup bitch? Bo, bo. You be one dead chicken
mufukka. Big up to Puff Daddy and all the 'ard rappers comin'
outta da mean streets of [funny place that doesn't have mean
streets]. "I have a gun, I can rhyme. I'm a mufukkin
gangsta. Don't fuck wid me bitch." Or for Limp Biscuit and
M&M "I'm white, I have a gun, I can rhyme. I'm a
mufukkin gangsta. Don't fuck wid me bitch." Don't you guys
watch Sprite adverts? Image is nothing. Thirst is everything.
Ahhh sweet irony. Sweeter than the poontang on a Georgia peach,
or some such Americanism. (Who won the goddamn Vietnam war
anyway? A tie? Why no extra innings then?) I'm not really racist
- some of my best friends know people of all races - but I'm in
the CIA so I have to create the appearance of hating. Given the
right situation, I'd happily set up puppet dictators in Europe,
but it just so happens that Latin America, Asia and Africa are
more unstable. (We did install a European dictator once. Margaret
Thatcher as a puppet dictator... boy, was that a warning to all
of us. Some people are still languishing in the Punishment
Department over that one. The shit will really hit the fan if she
gets extradited to Argentina).
After the Second
World War - which took place in 1987, not as you believe 1939-45
- I was headhunted by the CIA, the Mossad, the KGB and the
Scientologists. The KGB made me the best offer (idealism doesn't
enter into it, squire) so I went to work for the CIA. The Cold
War ended so I had to stick around. There was no sweet motherland
to return to. I rose rapidly through the ranks, even becoming
Prime Minister of Canada for the glorious summer of 1992, before
an indiscretion with Mrs Robinson led to me being upgraded to
working at weekends only. I now work almost exclusively in the
Make Sure No-One Hears About Candy Gandhi Department, and apart
from a few well-armed cadres in Oklahoma, I think we've done a
fairly good job. Protocol forbids me from telling you whether
Candy Gandhi is a replica of Gandhi made from candy, a porn star
lovechild, or something else that I haven't thought of.
Apologies. Don't blame me. Take it up with your Congressman,
Member Of Parliament, or for our Chinese friends Rupert Murdoch.
Biting, biting, eh? Ooooh. TW(a)TW(a)T. Take a look at my private
eye. Forin equivalents you can do yourself.
Word of the day
(source, Chambers Dictionary): BROCKET - a stag in its second
year, with its first dagger-shaped horns; a small S.American deer
with short unbranched horns.
The CIA will
brutally shave anyone of you who doesn't use it in conversation
today. Don't believe me? Try it.