The $201 Billion Defeat

Jews Jaws Seven

Shark America Three

Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 263

Note: Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2007

Easter Sunday

Yesterday I told you about a memorable Easter event in about 1964; and today I want to tell you about a memorable Easter event that took place today.

As you may recall I am living in a small town in northern California fictionally named Smallville to protect the townspeople from any notoriety or unwelcome publicity that might come from my being here or from the genuine miracle I expect to take place here.

To tell you this memorable Easter story, which took place an hour or so before sunrise today, I must first introduce you to a citizen of Smallville, whom I shall call for the sake of this report The Cowardly Little American Who Flies the Big American Flag.

Well, that is a bit long and awkward for repeated writing, so I will call this cowardly little American by the name, "Cowardly Flag".

(I must say I feel sorry for the Stars and Stripes that fly over his house, she is like Joan of Arc in a whore house; but even American cowards can fly the American flag, so I will step past that point and tell you the story of the American "man" I call Cowardly Flag.)

While the percentage of the people of Smallville who know of America's torture-enslavement of me (called something nice, of course) approaches 100, the percentage of people participating in the torture is perhaps three or four.

As background, the reason I came to live here is that the owner of this big, empty, old house has had some trouble with vandalism, so I'm the cat who keeps the rats away. For me this is good because I can live in beautiful northern California in this friendly, small town within the pittance I get as my Social Security pension, less than $500 a month.

(One reason I get such a pittance is because it was the pleasure of the American government and system to deny me employment for much of the some 35 years I have been America's telepathic torture-slave (called something nice, of course) so therefore I could not pay into the Social Security fund because I had no salary to be taxed, but that's another story.)

Returning now to Cowardly Flag, the cowardly little American "man" who flies a big American flag on Juniper Street in Smallville.

While the vast majority of the citizens of Smallviile have allowed me to live in peace, Cowardly Flag immediately took it upon himself to continue the sleep deprivation torture I have told you about in the past. You know, people in the next room banging on my wall to awaken me when I am asleep, the fact that I am audibly telepathic given them that knowledge.

Certainly, Cowardly Flag is only one "man" but he loves this form of cowardly torture, and in the course of the approximately three weeks I have been here he (perhaps with help, I do not know) has on every night (except on three when it was very cold) left his house in the dark and walked some 30 yards to bang on the walls of this old house, and make other noises.

Stop for a minute and consider the cowardice of this; consider the maniacal cowardice.

Fortunately for Cowardly Flag, he is a coward and has not breached my inner sanctum; but that is also another story.

So, Cowardly Flag almost every night at least once a night leaves his space and enters my space for the purpose of exercising what he believes to be his right to bang on the wall and wake me up; after which, I suppose, he slithers back to his coward's home.

It came to pass that five a.m. became Cowardly Flag's favorite time to bang on my bedroom wall and wake me. I don't know why that became his favorite time; but I awaken to the bang on the wall, I shine my flashlight on my clock, five a.m.

This guy would not have lasted two days in Vietnam, doing the same thing repeatedly; which leads me to this secondary point: It is very unlikely Cowardly Flag has ever followed Old Glory into battle, men who do don't often come out as such cowardly little "men".

So, I figured about this time Cowardly Flag is getting pretty confident, like a fish who has been nibbling bait off the same hook for a long time.

So, Saturday night I darkened the house more than usual, making it darker outside my bedroom than usual, and put a few items, including a long aluminum ladder, on the ground where he would pass by on his way to perform his cowardly act--his Blow Job for Satan as we Space Sailors call the torture of me the Americans like to perform--the aluminum ladder flat on the ground outside the plants along the wall he likes to hit.

Come Easter Sunday morning, from where that ladder was waiting in the dark, came a dull thud when Cowardly Flag tripped over it; smack dab at five a.m. You should have seen this old telepath smile.

I quickly went out to look, hoping to find him lying there with a broken ass or something, but he had scurried on home already.

At this point I must tell you about a conversation I had with My Old Pal God during last night about my little booby trap.

I, frankly, wanted to make it a potentially really painful booby trap for this cowardly American booby, like in the movie "Home Alone" (I laugh at those booby traps every time I see that movie), but My Old Pal God said, "Cool it, Virg", not an exact translation but that was it in spirit.

It is not my place, God was saying, to send American cowards to Hell in advance of schedule; it is my place to write The Obituary of the World.

In that context, this report on a damned American soul yet in the flesh, on a doomed cowardly American "man" bound for Hell, on a cowardly little American "man" who flies a big American flag, is just some spit in the ocean of that obituary.