I call this piece “The United States Government Gets Its Freak On.”

The performer knows when to mix things up. It’s a matter of knowing what your audience “needs now.” You don’t want everything to be heavy. (Plus I saw Mulder and Scully shift in their seats when they finally realized that they won’t be getting pensions. Maybe they’ll uphold their oaths of office next time when they’re working mall security.)

As you know, the United States Government is dead. I killed it. I finally got tired of that total piece of criminal trash obstructing my ability to work in my chosen field of expertise. It’s such a powerhouse, such a dynamo that it can’t tolerate a professional comedian earning a living. The jurisdiction is on life support. We’re all just waiting for that nondiction to flatline so we can go out to dinner and go home and get on with our lives.

And its limp-dick rubbery fumblings are fun to ridicule. It can’t even get it up, it’s such a geriatric piece of garbage.

So here it is in all its flabby-assed glory. It’s gonna try to get a hard-on, to relive its youth as a strapping young man with a steel-belted cock pistoning in and out of some adoring beauty, she gripping the bedsheets and writhing in anticipation of the pounding she’s heard this guy is packin’ in his pants: “Fuck me! Fuck me with that fuckstick!”

“Er, just you hold on there, you little whippersnapper. There’s the little matter of–”

“–Oooh, I can’t wait anymore, old man! Make me your whore! Buy off my legislature! Spread your reserve currency all over the world! Stick me! Conquer me with your granite love pole!”

“Well, yes, uh, I’m warming up is what I’m doing. A man sometimes, you know, has things on his mind. …That damned USov. …Here, just try rubbing it for a while.”

“But I thought you were so mighty. Can you hear my eyes rolling, you old geezer? I thought everyone yielded to your every demand. I thought you had the biggest cock on the block. And now I hear there’s some new guy? Some young buck with a fat dick in his designer boxers and fully laden goose eggs swingin’ around in his loose, hairy nut sack? Quit rubbing that limp noodle on my thigh, you fraud. Lemme guess: The girls were right; you lost jurisdiction, didn’t you? Huh? Stupid? What ever made you think it was a bright idea to place a comedian into the history books by declaring him to be a terrorist?! Huh?! Idiot?! He’s killed your jurisdiction, dummy! Do you fully understand what that means?  First goes the income tax and then whiskey and cigarette taxes and then carbon taxes, and now it’s drivers licenses and allodial title, and next week the man’ll have his own fuckin’ space station for all I know! Get out of here, you senile old reject! And get me Chris King Pop Icon! I want his fuckstick in my cooch! Oh yeah, baby! Gimme some of that magic!”

——

[This is an example of sex fiction as written by an Aspergers person. Take it for what it’s worth.]

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Mister Saunders, Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are in my audience.

It’s true. One of my customers gave me a chair. I sit in it as I write. Three feet in front of me is a five-foot-tall bookshelf.  On the bottom shelf are my videotapes. On the spines of those videotapes are photographs of the stars of the movies or the television shows recorded thereupon.

A live stand-up performance is executed upon a stage thirty inches off the floor, with the front row of audience members seated four feet away from the stage. A man five feet and nine inches tall, walking back and forth along the edge of his stage will find that his eyes will decline by precisely forty-five degrees when looking at the audience members seated in that front row.

Because of the spotlight upon the performer, there is a remnant of light which illuminates the faces of the audience members in that front row. One row only. No others. That spare remnant of light does nothing to fill the black void behind them. The performer speaks to a single row of illuminated faces and ties and sport jackets.

On the spines of my dozen X Files videotapes are Agents Mulder and Scully. When I sit in my chair as I write, when I decline my eyes by forty-five degrees, my gaze falls upon Mulder and Scully, their images fading into the black background of the videotape cover. They are my audience when I write.

Each volume of the twelve tapes displays Mulder and Scully in different poses. In this one, Agent Sculley has a quizzical look on her face as she tries to figure out what I’m doing. “Why is Chris sending bomb threats?” And in another, Fox Mulder cocks his head as he begins to understand my material. “Wait a minute. I get it now. He is not in our investigation. We are in his show. He has gathered us here so that he might multiply his force. There is absolutely nothing accidental about my being here.”

There is nothing accidental about your being here, Mister Saunders. You are here because I intend to shame your guild. I will use my formidable skills as a stand-comedian to compel you to act. I will multiply my force through you and your men. I will use you. Your guild are here because I find you useful.

I am in complete command of your law enforcement guild, Mister Saunders, and I will tell you why. I command your guild because there is a “marketing breakdown” here. A marketing breakdown is what I call the condition where the curtains don’t match the carpets, so to speak, where a thing does not match its advertising.

Where a thing does not match its advertising, that thing becomes a fraud. And when a certain someone assembles unto himself adequate informational primacy such that he becomes visible to the Future People, he may then publicly divest that fraud of its claimed legitimacy. It is a process that, once begun, cannot be stopped. And when that fraud has lost its legitimacy, it loses power. Frauds have no power. Frauds stand mute. They cannot speak.

That which cannot speak cannot speak law. The speaking of law is the very definition of jurisdiction.

The entity you work for stands mute before me. It therefore cannot even theoretically constitute a jurisdiction. And only jurisdictions have laws. So the entity has no laws to defy.

I killed the United States Government by speaking. It took me an entire decade, but it was conceptually quite simple. That jurisdiction’s first mistake was to deliver to a professional comedian the informational primacy necessary to the exposure of its fraudulence, and thereby did it divest itself of its power, and thereby did it kill itself.

Your jurisdiction killed itself when it made me another one for the history books. Like a heckler, it unwisely elected to make a scene. And like any dominant male performer would, I put an end to that nonsense toot sweet. I terminated the disturbance in my theater. No fuss, no muss.

Your jurisdiction is dead, Mister Saunders. No one here capable of even the simplest chain of reasoning disputes that.

What is also dead, what is also ripe for divesting of its claimed legitimacy, what begs to be exposed as a fraud, Mister Saunders, is your own guild of lawmen.  The curtains don’t match the carpets. There’s this nettlesome little inconsistency with the failure of your guild to uphold their oaths of office. It’s a marketing breakdown. And you know what comes next.

Did your men ever go to show-and-tell day at their children’s preschool? “This is my daddy. He is a police man and he keeps me safe. I love my daddy because he stops bad things from happening.”

What would your men’s preschoolers think if they knew that their daddies in no way intend to make good on their promise to stop bad things from happening? What if their daddies’ fraudulence and cowardice were publicly exposed?

That is why I am in total command of your guild of lawmen, Mister Saunders. It is the law that you will uphold your oath of office. And I intend to enforce that law. Thank you for delivering yourselves to my court for that purpose.

Your men will seize those 28 classified pages and they will publish them. Or you will never again claim to be in the business of protecting anyone from anything. You will never again speak on any law enforcement matter.

I know that because frauds have no power. Frauds stand mute upon exposure. And I have exposed you and your guild. Thanks for the stage.

So which is it, Mister Saunders? Are your men frauds or are they not? Do they possess the first iota of substance? Or are you just another con job like everything else in this world?

Your guild will prepare themselves to receive my instructions.

Bring me America’s Senior Law Talker and America’s Senior Lawman. I’ll wait.

Gentlemen, thank you for dutifully delivering yourselves to the office of America’s Senior Comedian. I enjoyed inveigling your jurisdiction to accord me the legal status of terris. I’m another one for the history books and I didn’t even have to pay for promotional materials. So thanks for the professional distinction. Under separate cover will I send each of you a genuine Chris King Pop Icon, Fringe Festival 2004, Will’s Pub button, redeemable for one draft beer (assuming that you can travel back in time to redeem it, which you can’t, proving once again that I am the comedian and I will win. Ha!)

Do I seem arrogant to you? I must confess my supreme arrogance –though as an old friend once said, I wear it well. Yes, arrogance in service to oneself is a sin. But arrogance in service to others, well, that’s just good form, now, isn’t it?

I’ve placed your discredited guilds into my receivership. You obviously have no idea what you’re doing, so I’ll take it from here. I have instructions for both of you.

Leahy. Instruct the State of Vermont to issue to me written confirmation that I am not a driver, licensed or otherwise, and that I am in no way required to possess a vehicle registration, vehicle inspection sticker, or operator’s license. I require the lattermost so that I may purchase liability insurance. In the absence of that written confirmation, I will refer any injured parties to the State of Vermont if I accidentally render someone a paraplegic in a car accident. The State of Vermont is, after all, the one recalcitrant party standing between me and the responsible purchase of an insurance policy. I’m not terribly concerned that such written confirmation will cause the collapse of the great, towering, fraudulent spire of the state’s licensure system. Like I said, it sounds like a personal problem to me. Maybe we ought not to have built a house of color-of-law cards.

You know what, Senator? It’s taken me 47 years, but Vermont’s really starting to grow on me. I ran across this quote from our very own Calvin Coolidge:

I love Vermont because of her hills and valleys, her scenery and invigorating climate, but most of all because of her indomitable people. They are a race of pioneers who have almost beggared themselves to serve others. If the spirit of liberty should vanish in other parts of the Union, and support of our institutions should languish, it could all be replenished from the generous store held by the people of this brave little state of Vermont.

I suggest an update: “O, ye state of Vermont! Land of welfare recipients and oxycontin addicts! Ne’er shall I know a race more desirous of doing what they’re told by some government employee who regards it as a pissing contest when someone stands on his natural rights! Should the spirit of blind obedience in this nation diminish, should our character diverge in the slightest from that of our moral paragons, North Korea or Nazi Germany, it could all be replenished from the generous store held by the little commies in this state who wouldn’t know the first thing about freedom, generosity, strength, or indomitability!”

I want that piece of paper. If the State of Vermont is good, they may later claim all the association with me that they wish. They may even use my likeness on materials published by the state Tourism Bureau at no charge, a photo depicting me with an overbroad smile, my homemade haircut, and me flashing a thumbs-up.

If the State is not good, I will do whatever I can to provide a distinctly different sort of product endorsement. “Vermont? I grew up there. Don’t buy the dairy products; the farmers jack off into it. And the skiing isn’t very good either; the chairlifts are unsafe and there’s unwed teenage mothers roaming all over the place.”

The days of lawlessness in this land are over, Senator. Get me that piece of paper. The touch pee pee game is over. The State can claim the “Kook Law Containment Field” defense all they want, but it won’t hold water when they get sued by a paraplegic because they knowingly obstructed the purchase of insurance that would have paid damages to the injured party.

Saunders. I had a grand comedic piece planned for you, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I’ve been called away to rake some leaves. Stand fast. In the meantime, familiarize yourself with the conduct of your livestock in the video posted at Infowars. I sense a blanket party in the works!

So I see that everyone’s favorite band of weaklings, United Shitstain lawmen, have proven themselves to be the fraudulent nothings I’ve long maintained them to be.

No one has yet kicked in doors and seized those 28 classified pages of the 9-11 report and published them.

I don’t know what else I can do. I have de-compartmentalized you, I have collected the smoking guns you need, and I have even laboriously devised the political and legal structures that you require to pull it all off and get away scot free.

You can lead a lawman to the door, but you can’t make him kick it in.

If I were to be questioned today by a United States agent on the artistic merits of my strident talk, I would dismissively scan your face up and down for a brief moment and just walk away. Translated, that look means “Improve your environment for once. Take out your service pistol and eat a bullet.”

[Pssst: Barack Obama works for the Saudi royal family. Obviously he has a bit of a conflict of interest here. He doesn’t want that report published because it will result in the termination of Saudi Arabia, an entity, by the way, that is chiefly responsible for financing your ding dong nation’s bogeyman du jour, ISIS.]