I was enjoying an online jackoff session on Grindr the other day when I accidentally thought of the NSA.

Talk about a mood killer. It’s like accidentally thinking of your grandmother.

What’s that? Why do I insist on taxing my audience’s patience with such salacious talk? I’ve surveyed my audience, and my one paying audience member seems quite enamored of my own work. He doesn’t mind. And he urges the freeloaders in my audience to sit quietly and wind their watches until I’m done talking about my penis.

Why are the killers always the handsome ones? And why do the nerds always have the most beautiful penises? My penis is an undiscovered beauty, some hitherto unexplored paradise, undespoiled by the trammelings of civilization.

I am what is known as “locker room proud.” Some guys have just a little mushroom cap pinned to their belly. They get in and out of the shower as quickly and quietly as possible. Me? I just stand there as long as necessary until everyone’s had their fill. I don’t mind. I have nothing to be ashamed of.

And I have large, egg-like nuts. The weight of them causes my scrotum to hang very low. I realized –much to equal measures of horror and, later, satisfaction– that my stage photos from 2004 show an obscene lump hanging halfway down my thigh. Those would be my nuts. I’ll have to speak to my tailor about that. Keep up the good work.

I can’t understand why I’m not in greater demand in the love department. I have a full head of hair and always will, and my penis has never once failed me. When I become aroused, it’s like there’s steel cables in there, encircling and hoisting my manhood to a proud 22.5 degrees, nearly straight up, inviting the ministrations of all who may so wish.

(Like all details of my personal life that I may share with an audience who refuse to buy their tickets, you can’t really be sure if the preceding is true. My personal life is my business. So maybe all that’s true and maybe not. You’ll never know unless you get me into bed, now, will you?)

But since we’re on pervy subjects, let’s go ahead and talk about the nation’s premiere perv agency, the NSA.

In the Obama years, the first signs have appeared that NSA surveillance will use the information gathered to traffic in scandal, much as Hoover’s FBI once did. In September 2013, the New York Times reported that the NSA has, since 2010, applied sophisticated software to create “social network diagrams…, unlock as many secrets about individuals as possible…, and pick up sensitive information like regular calls to a psychiatrist’s office, late-night messages to an extramarital partner.”

***

By collecting knowledge — routine, intimate, or scandalous — about foreign leaders, imperial proconsuls from ancient Rome to modern America have gained both the intelligence and aura of authority necessary for dominion over alien societies. The importance, and challenge, of controlling these local elites cannot be overstated. During its pacification of the Philippines after 1898, for instance, the U.S. colonial regime subdued contentious Filipino leaders via pervasive policing that swept up both political intelligence and personal scandal. And that, of course, was just what J. Edgar Hoover was doing in Washington during the 1950s and 1960s.

http://www.prisonplanet.com/high-level-nsa-official-the-nsa-has-become-j-edgar-hoover-on-super-steroids.html

What we’ve learned over the past few years is that the NSA doesn’t actually do anything –unless you count standing in the bushes like a bunch of pervy peeping Toms, pounding their dicks while you fuck your wife.

We’ve also learned over the past little while here in my theater that United States has lost jurisdiction over any inhabitant of my principality, my legal construct called United Sovereigns of America, and that citizen constabularies may shut the NSA down by force –force being a necessary implement of all constabularies– and that Ding Dong Diction United States won’t even be able to get its little teeny peen up to do anything about it.

Won’t that be a laugh? It’ll be the battle of the locker room magisteria. Guess who wins?

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