bomb

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NSA Beetches

Allo, NSA beetches. I am daring you to locate me. I am 'iding in plain sight, beetches. You 'ave my phone records, you 'ave my emails, you 'ave my cable television choices. Why, beetches, 'ave you not arrrrested me?

Because you are beetches. Nussing but.

Zat is all.

From one real 'bad guy'

I have a total of one dedicated reader so far. Lucky for me, he's a bona fide terrist. His name is Ali, and he was an Iragi wedding photographer, that is until the NSA caught onto him. He had to quit after the fourth or fifth wedding he was working got Predatorated, usually around the time the groomsmen were all doing that Isley brothers "A little bit louder now" thing, which is pretty hard with an Uzi.

So, disregard the rest of this coded message for Ali, unless you're Ali, or a Shift Supervisor:

Greetings, my brother. Allah bless you. The guys from Lackawanna all say Hi. Listen, I wasn't able to get those Christianne Amanpour photos for you, but I did get a few nice schematics of a DC-3 cockpit, but, I think there was a translation mistake because United hasn't flown DC-3s since Sinatra was wearing porkpie hats. If you meant MD-11s that will be a bit more money. Send it to Fadmir like the last time, except use the post office box, not the dorm address. His roommate got suspicious and threatened to turn him into the RA, who is a real jagoff so let's not get sloppy.

Also, do you happen to know any North Koreans? I'm short on twenties.

Allah Akhbar,

Bergman

Threaten your own security here

I think (and this is just me, mind you), that any US citizen ought to be able to threaten his or her own security. It's one of those rights that, if they aren't spelled out in the Constitution directly, well, they should be.

On that note, please take this opportunity to threaten your own security here, using whatever searchable terms you think our friend the NSA shift supervisor would find interesting. I'll start:

"When I get mad at myself, I find myself wishing a terrist would sprinkle some anthrax in an envelope and send it my way via the National Enquirer. Then when I picked up that stupid rag on my way out of the grocery store with my breath mints and my $20 cashback at the ATM thingee and opened it in the safety of my mobile home, I'd suck up the contents and get a mild fever. The real upside is that I'd be able to claim responsibillity for closing down my local !@#$% post office, those fat bastards have it coming."

Shift Supervisor, this one is for you...

Listen, I know Hayden and Gonzales think you're sharp enough to decide what calls, etc. should be listened to and which shouldn't, but I'm not so sure. I'm thinking you're probably some flabby-waisted white dude with a dusty elliptical trainer in his mildewy Arlington basement and a tendency to self-stimulate over your wife's discarded panty-hose containers. You got pretty good grades at the University of Mediocrity, dated a yeasty sorority sister who was trying to get over her date-rape and figured you were a safe bet, then knocked her up and married her in your hometown church basement in front of about a hundred bored golfers and their Oprah-addicted 'better halves.'

Sorry, chief, but you don't rate that high. I mean, if someone's going to ass-rape my civil rights, it's just too damn depressing that it's a Dockers-wearing sycophant like you. Seriously. Look at your life. You haven't done anything to deserve this level of responsibility. My serious advice to you is to drop out and get one of those gigs teaching in the DC public school system. You know, help the world out a tiny bit, and leave the hard stuff to the federal judges.

Now, tonight, at the end of your 'shift', stop on the way home and pick up some flowers for the wife. It will be the only worthwhile thing you do tonight, or at least the most honest.

Dirtbag.

Virgins, Terrists, Infidels, etc.

I actually would prefer (and suppport) any cheesy goat-fondler, Uzi or not, over this current dimwit Presnit. I'm about to call up the worst dusky-skinned terrist in Iraq, dude by the name of Al-Abizaid and tell him he's overdue for his 17 virgins. Get yer headphones ready, you freaking Umass dropout fetus-loving dirtbags.