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.]