Huh. It says here that the New York Times wants to get into the news business.

More power to ’em, I say. It’s like when a company decides they’re going to cross-train the employees; they’ll train the guy in the shipping department to answer the phones and they’ll train the receptionist to pack boxes. So it’ll be nice to see the folks at the Times learn how to do journalism. I’ll be so proud! It’ll be like watching my eight-year-old daughter play the recorder at a music recital.

So I saw the other day that some editor over there laments that they passed over the Edward Snowden scoop, losing out to a couple of other newspapers that noticed that the first four letters spell N-E-W-S news. “M-O-O-N moon.” He further wished aloud that “the next Edward Snowden” would come to them first.

Why would anyone do that? It’s a bit silly, don’t you think? It’s like if you know that a certain store doesn’t carry your brand of beer; why would you bother going in there to see if they’ve got it? Again and again, like some sort of mental defective, seemingly unaware that they’ve never carried it before, you put the car into Park and trudge into the store and look the beer cooler up and down wondering if maybe they carry your favorite beer. “Nope. Guess not. I’ll have to remember that they don’t carry it.”

“It really, really, really hurt that we lost out on that scoop,” or somesuch the editor said.

It hurt? It hurt like how the pretty girl went to the prom with someone else? Or did it hurt like how paying customers just drive right past your store now? How precisely did it hurt?

When the day finally comes that I short-circuit my Kook Law Containment Field and bust out of here, when the day finally comes that it’s no longer illegal for me to exist or to have friends, or legal counsel, or even to be apprised of the charges against me; when it is no longer illegal in this brilliant bastion of freedom and bravery for me to earn a living in my field of expertise, when it is no longer illegal for newspapers to inquire whose shirts I wear, under no circumstances would I ever speak to the New York Times. I refuse to reward cowardice.

So the ashen lady can sit there in her own adult diapers and peer through the knothole in the fence and try to read everyone’s lips as we all have the time of our lives recounting all the cool stories I have about how I caught the bad men, and about my curiously non-adversarial relationship with the Secret Service, and how I killed the federal jurisdiction by speaking.

It’ll be the scoop of the century! And the Times can print a second-hand version of it from what they glean by reading accounts of it in other news outlets! “Christopher King, a man calling himself ‘America’s Senior Comedian’ and who apparently turns out not to have a history of mental problems after all, much to the embarrassment of various newspapers (who, we surmise, just believe whatever old thing comes out of the Justice Department, they of the non-bizarre delusions of jurisdiction,) opened his mouth today and that idiot jurisdiction’s head exploded, just like in that eminently cool movie, ‘Scanners.’ Yup: Mister King grimaced and shuddered for a moment and his face got all red as he popped that idiot jurisdiction’s head with his mind like an overripe pimple. He squirted that idiot jurisdiction’s brains out all over the mirror. Christopher King, Dermatologist to the Stars.”

But anyhow, never would I ever speak to a daily newspaper or a television news show on any political matter. American corporate news outlets are propaganda operations, plan and simple. They’re not even in the running. They do not do news, they are not in the news business, and no one even stops by any more to see if they carry news. They’ve got laser pointers and lip balm and Slim Jims and every other thing under the sun except for what you’re looking for, which is news.

(I do hold completely harmless the folks who produce the Arts sections of these newspapers. I would be pleased to discuss artistic matters with them. But again, under no circumstances would I ever grant a daily newspaper or television news program a first-hand account of my political activities. They’d just fuck it up. The material is too important to risk that. So don’t even bother asking for an interview because I would never grant one. They can read all about it in the alt-weeklies or the Pennysavers of the world or online and then transcribe the lip-reading for their readership, who will no doubt wonder why they’re subscribing to the New York Times or the Washington Post when they still have to walk to the corner store to get a copy of the Thrifty Nickel if they want to read about the scoop of the century.)

Everyone gets a haircut. So when the “news”papers in this country decide that they’ve suffered enough and finally want to get in on the act, when they’ve finally decided that they can do news, we will welcome them back into the fold. All will be forgiven. But first you do your five-year penance. Fair enough? Thought so. Journalism takes courage, which you do not have. That is step number one.

I could smell your dead friends during my short stay in your city. It’s a stink that just can’t be gotten rid of. No amount of Febreze will mask it. No amount of studiously ignoring the elephant in the room will make it dissipate. That stink of death will linger for as long as you fail to address how Larry Silverstein cooked up your friends in collusion with American and Saudi intelligence. The ghosts of your dead friends roam the streets, looking for anyone who can lead them to their proper rest. I would sit by myself on a park bench and I truly almost could see them. “I know it hurts, baby doll. I’m working on it. I just need a little more time. Trust me, they’ll swing. I will personally kick the chair out. You can count on that.”

The one thing standing between me and that vengeance is the United States so-called “government.” When I am finally loosed, I am going to rip that jurisdiction limb from limb. I am going to disembowel that piece of trash and leave its guts on the floor.

I’d like to amend the record if I may, Senator. My favorite serial killer isn’t the guy from ‘No Country for Old Men.’ It’s Karl from ‘Sling Blade.’

Karl is in this world but not of it. He owns the clothes on his back and three books: a Bible, a book on Christmas, and one on how to be a carpenter. And Karl doesn’t like predators. He kills them.

One particular predator has come to Karl’s attention: a no-count alcoholic bully who has taken up with the mother of our protagonist’s young friend. So one evening Karl decides to solve the problem. He takes a lawnmower blade to the bully’s skull, cleaving it like a grapefruit.

So I advise that you boost the power to that Kook Law Containment Field, Senator. You hook up a few more backup generators to it. Because if I am ever loosed, I’m coming straight for that jurisdiction of yours. And with one blow, I will cave its head in with a hammer. I will purse my lips and split that corrupt, bullying, raping, murdering, torturing psychopath’s head with a lawnmower blade.

You can count on that.

—————–

[And I think I know what to name my hypothetical TV show. I call it ‘War Hammer 9000.’ It’s a newsy-comedio type of thing with lots of spattered blood. Think ‘Mystery Science Theater 3000’ meets ‘Mad Max.’ I conceptualize it as an action movie with laughs. I won’t gently rib my targets, I’ll cave their skulls in. It’s comedy gold.]

Is there any honor in being an American sniper?

The honor with which a killing is carried out is inversely proportional to the distance over which it is visited. You want to kill someone? Walk up to him, look him in the eye, and shove a knife in his belly. Or beat his brains in with a bone staff or a war hammer.

Drone operators receive no commendations for their work because there is nothing honorable about killing someone from five thousand miles away. It is a distinctly disreputable form of killing. Drone operators should be shunned, not honored. And that is why there are no medals for the activity.

To lie in wait for your target and then to visit death upon him from eight hundred yards away without so much as an en garde? If there is honor to be found in that, well, it escapes me.

Maybe I’m missing the manifest honor in killing unannounced and from afar, killing those who have every moral right to defend themselves and their territory from an invasion force who can’t even get the right guys –’cause I’m not sure that women and children holding grenades and RPG’s are the real threat here, their “twisted evil” notwithstanding, their “savagery” notwithstanding, when you haven’t got the courage to track down and take out those who placed incompatible engine hardware on Murray Street.

So there’s that.

Americans like to erect great, towering, Rube Goldbergian spires of national self-deception. And your elevation of an American sniper to the status of national hero is evidence of that.

It’s Dreamland, USA.

————

[See how useful that compressor is that I’m swinging over my head on a chain? It ends all debates. Is that why I’m a nonperson? Is that why United Shitstain doesn’t want me to have a career? Is that limp-dick trash heap afraid that I’ll just walk up to it and kick it over like the impotent little nothing that it is? Will it scream its little high-pitched scream and run away, right here in public? Will everyone know that it’s weak and powerless?

That jurisdiction is a joke. It can’t take on the one guy who could beat it, so it’ll threaten everyone else, those who are not similarly equipped, if they acknowledge my mere existence.

I have zero respect for that coward of a nondiction.

It’s the mighty, mighty, Yoonighted States Guvvamint!

Judge, that’s another reason why I defecate on all United States “law.” The strong do not countenance the thoughts of the weak. The courageous do not trouble themselves with the thoughts of the cowardly. It is axiomatic; precisely what would the weak do about it? The weak possess no means of compelling the strong.

The United States “government” is a bitch. Ignore it; I do.

It’s United Bitchdiction. It’s the jailhouse cunt of jurisdictions.

Leahy: I want that fuckin’ cunt you call a jurisdiction out of my fucking way RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Time’s up, old man. Remove that fucking idiot from my path.]

I am aware of the recently enhanced undercover police presence in town.

I want it to end.

You are spooking the locals, who automatically and rightly assume that it has something to do with me, though they do not understand that it is because I am in the hands-off legal protective custody of the Secret Service or that I am magically, secretly, in some variant of the Witness Protection Program or whatever other secret United States kookery.

The locals are unaware that the United States government has collapsed. And as they are unaware that I am the good guy here, they assume that I am the object of this police presence because I am a criminal.

If you cannot perform your surveillance without telling anyone who will listen, you will terminate your surveillance activities and contract it out to private investigators who can do the job.

Let’s try to tighten things up. You are compromising my ability to earn a living with your incompetence.

Moving back to Vermont was the single biggest mistake I ever made in my entire life. I am actively seeking a new home, perhaps overseas.

Let’s play a game.

In this video, try to guess who is United States and who is USov. Try to guess precisely who is going to send whom back to Crenshaw Pete.

I made it look so easy, didn’t I, Senator?

Killing your jurisdiction, that is?

I would make an excellent serial killer. I’ve already got the too-attentive look in my eye that people take exception to when I pay attention as they speak. So I might as well wear my creepiness with pride.

And yes, Madam Prosecutor has my sporting permission to glance left and right and ladle out that hot pepper and add it to her collection. She has my consent even to snip out what she doesn’t like and to add to it her own sentiments to make her case. I recommend that she keep the word “I,” excise the word “would,” then keep the first two letters of the word “make” while discarding the final two letters, yielding “ma,” then reverse them, yielding the word “am.” Then I suggest that she excise the word “excellent.” (No sense muddying the waters with qualifiers.) That yields “I am an serial killer.” But something’s still not right. Ah: Have her drop the “n” in “an.” The jury won’t notice anyway. That’s more like it: “Your Honor, it’s right here in his own writings, and I quote: ‘I am a serial killer.’ I rest my case.”

I think my favorite serial killer is that dude from “No Country for Old Men.” He and his weirdo haircut roam the various lonely state highways out west in search of people he can kill. One of his victims reminds me of your idiot jurisdiction. Our antagonist happens upon a man in a car parked on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Our serial killer’s executional implement of choice is some sort of handheld, pneumatic, piston-pushing device used by farmers to kill cows, I suppose. It’s got a portable air tank and a hose and a thing that you hold with a button on it. When our antagonist pushes the button, a sharp metal rod darts out and back in so fast that the victim hardly has time to realize that he’s dead now.

And what’s odd in the film is that the victim dutifully follows the instructions of the serial killer. “Step out of the car, please.” And the victim complies. “Come closer.” So the victim does. And the killer simply raises the handheld device and lightly presses it to the victim’s forehead. “Hold still, please.” Compliance. Puh-toomp! And the newly decommissioned corpse unceremoniously falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“Begin investigating me, please.” And the victim complies.

“I will speak stridently now. Start coming into my house without warrant like it’s some sort of a bus station.” Compliance.

“Install surveillance equipment in my living room. It’s easier for me to speak to you that way.” And the victim does as instructed.

“Now go ahead and completely ruin my life and scare off my friends and otherwise act like the piece of trash that you are, all while being the most hideous, revolting, disgusting piece of murderous, raping, torturing, lying, lawless piece of jurisdictional waste this world has ever known. And make sure that you totally ruin my professional prospects in my field of expertise so that I have to dumpster-dive for scrap lumber I can burn as firewood.” Predictable compliance follows. It’s second nature, after all.

“Now hold still.” Are you going to kill me? “Yes I am. Hold still, please.”

Puh-toomp.

[Cue raucous applause and hooting and hollering from the studio audience as United States unceremoniously collapses to the ground like a sack of diseased potatoes! Someone finally killed that shit heap! And don’t forget: Bernie’s hosting a State of the Union address tonight! Yay! Maybe he’ll even wear sunglasses! Do you think he’ll mention that America’s Senior Comedian performed his civic duty this year by driving a piston into that dead jurisdiction’s forehead? Will he mention that it seems everyone was mistaken and that precious few people earn income deriving from within the territorial jurisdiction of the United States and that filing a tax return creates vital legal nexi? Will he let slip that only jurisdictions have laws? I guess we’ll have to wait and see! So tune in and watch United States loll its dead tongue around and make like it’s alive and kickin’ and a sprightly young thing, just a-talkin’ and a-chatterin’ away like anyone even cares! Watch it flap its gums and move that cum-glazed diction-hole it calls a mouth! It oughta be a real laugh riot! Don’t miss the show!]

Je ne suis pas Charlie.

J m’appelle Chris, et je suis un americain. Je n’ai pas –em, how you say?– le chose dans la tete? Je pense que les hommes mauvais …em… “shot up the place” avec le temps propre, quand NATO n’ont pas aime que les francais ont une idee a l’interieur de leurs tetes.

Non: Je suis un homme fou pour avoir l’idee que c’est peu plausible que quand un homme mauvais –em, “shoots up the place,” qu’il s’assure toujours pour apporter son –em, “drivers license” et ce laissez, em, magicalment dans son voiture “getaway.”

C’est tout si pratique. Peut etre j’ai besoin “mental health services” et les “meds.”

Non. Je ne suis pas Charlie. Je suis le Chris King l’Homme Mauvais.

I will not be ignored.

m.youtube.com/watch?v=hUFRoAgOJ5M

So the Fag Bureau’s up to their old tricks again.

They’ve nabbed a dangerous domestic bad man, some twenty-year-old kid who calls his mommy “Mommy” and who likes to play video games, a kid who lacked the organic wherewithal to pay without assistance the two thousand dollars required to purchase the firearms and ammunition he nonetheless managed to purchase. And thankfully, an eagle-eyed Fag just happened to witness him in the process of carrying out his crime of terrism and then everyone’s favorite useless government employee saved the day by apprehending him, the collar of the century that he can brag about when the Fag Bureau needs justification for its completely wasted budget, as evidenced by their tour de force work on the Sony hack and the anthrax mailings and –oh, I don’t know– that nettlesome little bit of physical evidence on Murray Street.

“Daddy, I’m sure glad that you’re a police man. You protect me from the bad men. I tell all of my friends at school how brave you are. Some of the kids aren’t so lucky to have a brave police man for a father. Timmy’s father is only a fire man and Johnny’s father is only an explosives ordinance disposal technician and Ralphie’s father is just a stand-up comedian who executes corrupt jurisdictions for a living. But anyway, I’m sure glad that you’re the bravest of the brave, a completely useless government employee who does not remotely do anything useful! I love you, daddy!”

“Well thanks for the compliment, little Jimmy! Yes, I take great pride in being a total fraud. I remember fondly when I was attending Fag school at Quantico or wherever, the name ‘Quantico’ being the most impressive thing about an agency that should have been shuttered in shame five seconds after that corrupt, fat little homo started it. And when we were at Fag school, I remember that just prior to graduation our instructor walked around the classroom and clicked a thirty-eight round down onto everyone’s desk, just handing them out like Skittles to Kindergarteners. And I raised my hand and said what’s with the thirty-eight round? And he said oh that’s so that when you become old and corrupt and when you’ve got so much dirt on you that you’d need a week-long bath, and when you’re such a piece of garbage that you can’t waddle your fat ass down the street to catch the bad men who placed incompatible engine hardware on Murray Street, and when you instead try to justify your completely useless existence by ginning up yet another terra plot by grooming some hapless goof who otherwise would have had a rewarding, productive, honorable life –quite unlike you– you can send him down the river for twenty years for a crime he never would have even thought up were it not for you helpfully coaching him. And at that time, you take this thirty-eight round and you excuse yourself and you go to the men’s room, and you sit quietly in a stall for a while, and you resolve to spare this world the human pollution that is your continued existence, and you eat it.”

———-
[I do understand that the corruption in that agency is largely at the top. The average agent does his best. But a few bad apples spoil the whole bunch. So I don’t mind insulting the whole lot of them when a few simple blanket parties over there would solve the problem. The FBI is a corrupt assclown organization, one apparently quite content with its status as a corrupt assclown organization. It’s like contenting oneself with sitting in one’s own filth after shitting your pants.

And further, I don’t recommend eating a bullet. You’ll go straight to hell. I instead recommend realizing that you are a piece of garbage and that you no longer wish to be a piece of garbage. You hand in your badge, you retire in shame, and you dedicate your life to reclaiming your personal worth. You do that by public service of some sort, like volunteer work for the blind or the infirm.

The point is, you need to cease being human waste.]

If a jurisdiction falls in an empty theater and no one sees it, did the jurisdiction fall?

That is, what’s it matter if I construct constitutional crises whereby the jurisdiction dies if no one notices? Jurisdictions are legal constructs. They exist inside the mind. Fax machines and walkie talkies and letterhead do not a jurisdiction make; I know plenty of organizations with those things and those organizations are not jurisdictions. So the mere possession of the tools common to jurisdictions does not confer jurisdiction upon an organization.

And all earthly jurisdictions in the history of mankind have died. No one claims that jurisdictions are immortal. Show me one instance of an immortal jurisdiction. So the habitual enjoyment of jurisdiction is not, itself, a defense in the assertion of it because the presumption that an entity continues to possess jurisdiction implies that the jurisdiction will be alive tomorrow merely because it is alive today. That is the definition of immortality, which we’ve agreed is a quality inapplicable to earthly jurisdictions, as evidenced by the lack of a single instance of it in all of human history. Therefore, the jurist must always remain mindful that a jurisdiction may cease to exist at any given moment. Jurisdiction is born, contested, and resolved anew at each legal instant. And that is why jurisdiction is not wisely assumed. And since legal systems definitionally aspire to perfect rationality, like a computer, that means that jurisdiction cannot be assumed. Jurisdiction is in an unknown state which must be verified each time an operation is to be performed using that jurisdiction.

No one here in my theater would argue with a straight face that any person aspiring to even the barest modicum of decency would feel obligated to countenance the kook utterances of the entity seated at Washington. That is the very definition of lacking jurisdiction. That’s the litmus test. If decent, law-abiding people laugh at you when you try to speak, that means that you lack jurisdiction. Birds of a feather flock together. A man is judged by the company he keeps. So if that man would not tolerate an association lest his reputation suffer an injury, that means that the entity lacks jurisdiction. How could the entity claim the power to command when no decent person would be seen in public acquiescing to those commands? When a moral injury occurs merely by countenancing an utterance, that means, by definition, that the utterance cannot even theoretically constitute a law. And only jurisdictions have laws. So no matter how you slice it, the entity seated at Washington is not a jurisdiction. It is an assemblage of people using property abandoned in place.

The entity once known as the United States government is dead. I killed it. All I had to do was to gather my evidence and present my case before a jury. It was a slam dunk.

But the one thing I did not yet have was a full theater. If you kill a jurisdiction and no one sees it, did it die?

And that is why I needed my show to become part of the legal record. I used that entity’s own unlawful surveillance apparatus to kill it. And that is why you are here in my theater. My target audience are here because I required their presence at the murder of the century. My theater is a murder scene. Strictly speaking, I suppose the action would be an act of philanthropy, a mercy killing, an instance of justifiable regicide. But “My theater is a murder scene” makes for better copy on the movie poster.

After all the outrages visited upon me by that heap of trash over the past decade, I cannot even convey to you in words the pleasure I took in pushing an ice pick into that idiot jurisdiction’s head right here in front of you. I walked right up to that outrage, that bully, that murderous, raping, torturing psychopath and I pressed the point of that pick to its temple and with the heel of my hand I inexorably pushed it in.

It was fun. And I hope you enjoyed the show. I specialize in crowd pleasers. I hope you fully appreciate what you’ve witnessed over the past five years. It’s like accidentally seeing Jimi Hendrix play at Woodstock. You picked the right show to sit in on.

And I would very much like it if you people would start buying your tickets so that I can proceed to the next stage of my career. No one alleges that my act would play in television or film. So the ticket-based revenue model is the only model that works. That is why you must buy your tickets. There simply are no other options available to me.

And yes, I well understand what I have wrought. The collapse of the United States government will eclipse by orders of magnitude that of the Soviet Union. It’ll be messy. But it had to be done. You have no idea to what ends the owners of that command jurisdiction intended to put it.

Since I consider it immoral to destroy a thing without providing a replacement of equal or greater value, you should know that I consider it my moral obligation to clean up the mess. You break it, you buy it.

That may sound audacious to you, but audacity is my middle name. And no one ever got anywhere by thinking small. So I will create a new federal jurisdiction for you, one that is the model of justice and benevolence that this world so needs.

And now I know what that second book in the adventure series is about. I will create a jurisdiction for you, employing the moral authority assembled within that competing legal construct, my principality, United Sovereigns of America.

Legal constructs exist inside the mind. Why should that construct we’ve fashioned together here in my theater not manifest itself physically?

Let’s call it the audience participation part of the show.

I see that everyone’s apologizing about something all the time.

My line of work allows me to dispense easily with whatever latest umbrage taken by the Twittiots and Loserbook users and various scurrying bots clamoring for an apology.

I have two stock replies to any demand for an apology, either of which should suffice:

“The customer service window, by definition, is for addressing the needs of paying customers. In ten years, I’ve never received a customer complaint. The ticket dispenser is still on ‘0001.’ ”

“The rules of your failed society have no applicability here in my theater. Leave them at the door.”