3-Way Race

Leon

Ben

Don

My thanks to the Chicago Mafia for their loan of a Time Intensity Tachometer Synchronization System (TITSS), and thus the following transcript from a dimensional shift, where in that timeline, someone lent me a lousy $525 and drove a vehicle to Washington D.C.

“Good morning. Is this on? Is that thing running? Raise your hand in the back if you can see it on the Internet. Okay. I will now give my opinion of the remaining candidates for president, and then move on to a Greek island I just purchased. Ben Carson we will dispense with first. A retrospective psychiatric analysis indicates this man has been a highly functional schizophrenic since high school. I, for one, have tired of his muddled rambling, loose associations, and unintelligible mumbling. Mister Trump, like Ted Turner, needs to remain on his lithium carbonate. Loud, blustering, racist, and only cognizant of private sector culture, he is simply a big, bipolar joke. The bottom line is, the man is not qualified for the office, and neither was Obama. That brings us to President Panetta, who would surely run your country along with the latest slutty nurse employed by First Gentleman Bill Clinton after another heart attack, in the event of a Hillary Clinton victory. I’ve called the JFK Library night watchman too many times, so by now, Ed Schlossberg’s giggling secretary, who speaks poor English, may know the joke’s on Ed, and therefore, since I was permitted to use an Android device, I now recommend the Department of State find someone who can speak English in Tokyo to answer the damn phone. If I were Secretary of State, I’d insist those people speak English. If I were Director of National Intelligence, I’d find some people who can speak the native language of those who you repeatedly oppress. Sadly, I’ve turned out to be the richest SOB on Earth, so if I may sit on a beach in the south of France, I’ll pay those alcoholic socialists whatever they want to be left alone. I value industry and productivity, so I’ve had to hire people to teach me to do nothing. Idle and rich; that’s me until the day I die. If you are looking for the top of that evil capitalist pyramid, look no further. When my island compound is ready, perhaps Caroline Kennedy will yell at me, because I do not know how to tie knots, adjust sails, and so forth. If the boat sinks, we will surely drown, and Rose Kennedy knew this long ago. Who killed JFK? I suspect Ms. Kennedy read-up on this in high school, while I had to review supposedly Top Secret documents that downloaded just fine once some idiot had put his or her initials on the declassification. My apartment was 109, like the boat. I lived on Alamo, but not like the event in Texas. My address was nine-one-one, and I thought nothing of it. The address was “thirty,” and the street was spelled like a British street? I later lived on Michigan Avenue, but not in Chicago. A lifetime of “spy games” played on an honest man has come to this: Go to hell, all of you, and I’ll take not one fucking question. Goodbye. Have a shitty day!”

[SOUND OF AUDIO FEEDBACK]

END OF RECORDING

FBC Productions Ltd.