| July 28, 2006 Alaskan in Exile by Neil Zawicki [Note: It is entirely possible that, by the time this piece is posted, the UN Headquarters in Manhattan will have been destroyed by a tactical nuclear device. However, we believe the prediction was proffered by members of the denomination known as the Jehovah’s Witnesses, an organization that has been known in the past to be wrong. Nonetheless, it is possible they’re right on this one. If in fact they are (or were), then let the record show that we took action.] At 3:27 a.m. on Sunday, I awoke to the sounds of someone ringing the buzzer to the vault door of the Exile Bunker. When I opened the door, I found myself face to face with a genuine Chicago bicycle messenger. He wore a pair of biker shorts and an Urge Overkill t-shirt, and his shaved head was decorated with a rainbow terrycloth headband. He carried an old canvas satchel and held up his faded red Benoto ten-speed with two fingers. I nodded to him, and he did the same. I knew immediately that Delcan had dispatched this erstwhile courier to collect me for big business, so I grabbed my ready bag and turned off the lamp. When I arrived at Delcan’s red and orange, Mondrian-styled studio somewhere in Chicago, the messenger removed my blindfold and I was handed a glass of scotch, several pairs of chopsticks, and a manila folder marked “Priority.” “This is about the UN headquarters, isn’t it?” I said. “That’s right,” Delcan replied. “Here, have some sushi.” “Okay,” I said, “but can you cut out the late-sixties spy movie nonsense? I mean, it’s kind of fun and all, but it also sort of gets in the way.” Delcan paused, shrugged, and then got up and turned on the lights and sent the messenger on his way. Inside the folder marked “Priority,” I found old magazine photographs of topless women riding dirt bikes around a track in the Mojave Desert. “And this, too, man,” I declared, closing the manila folder. “Really. I’m a busy journalist. My time is valuable to me, and why would I want to travel all the way to Chicago just to look at topless women on dirt bikes?” Delcan lit a cigarette, and I re-opened the folder. “Are we gonna talk about the UN or what?” he snapped. I leapt off the couch. “I can’t believe this!” I shouted. “You’re such an incredible freak sometimes, man! I never know when you’re serious.” Delcan sauntered over to the record player and began thumbing through his collection of vinyl. “Alright, look,” I said, calming down and sipping my scotch. “I’ve been forming some theories about the potential nuking of the UN also, so why don’t we compare notes, okay?” “Okay,” Delcan replied. “Right after ‘Gunning for the Presidency.’” He dropped the needle onto the record and the apartment exploded with muddy, screaming, hyper-quick punk rock, and then he began to shout over the music. “I think it’s a certainty that the nuking of the UN will be an inside job, made to look like a terrorist attack,” he yelled. “Me, too,” I shouted back. “The U.S. has wanted the UN gone for a while now. But I don’t think it will be anything related to the Pentagon.” Delcan yanked the needle, and the sudden silence was startling. “Then, who do you think’s gonna pull the job?” he asked. “Well,” I began, “My money’s on the Daughters of the American Revolution.” Delcan jumped, and then ran into the kitchen. “Mine, too,” he said, producing a notebook. “I even wrote it down last night, see? Right there.” Sure enough ... Delcan and I had both arrived at the same sobering conclusion: the Daughters of the American Revolution were gearing up to destroy the UN headquarters in an act of patriotic insanity. It makes perfect sense. The DAR have always worked to advance the cause of patriotism in America, and will surely stop at nothing to preserve its power. And they operate under a modicum of Waspy Hocus Pocus that is second-to-none. It’s the perfect cover. A bunch of old-guard, Mayflower inbred white women who seemingly spend their time pitching luncheons and teaching middle school girls all along the Eastern Seaboard how to be elitist and austere, when actually they are the rear-guard in the War on Terror, an elite force of snobbish women, trained in the ways of covert nuclear confrontation, and now they’re planning to deliver their sinister trade on the unsuspecting UN. You heard it first here. Neil Zawicki, exiled Alaskan, is Editor at Large for Insurgent49, a former reporter for the Alaska Star, and winner of the Alaska Press Club's 'Best Columnist' award. He is now living out the rest of his days in an undisclosed location in Oregon. He can be contacted at - hondo23@gmail.com |
-
Columnists -
- column archive -
July 21, 2006 July 14, 2006 June 30, 2006 June 23, 2006 June 16, 2006 June 9, 2006 June 2, 2006 May 26, 2006 May 12, 2006 May 5, 2006 April 28, 2006 April 21, 2006 April 14, 2006 April 7, 2006 March 31, 2006 March 24, 2006 March 17, 2005 March 3, 2006 February 24, 2006 February 17, 2006 February 10, 2006 February 3, 2006 January 27, 2006 January 20, 2006 January 13, 2006 January 6, 2006 December 30, 2005 December 23, 2005 December 16, 2005 December 10, 2005 December 2, 2005 November 25, 2005 November 18, 2005 November 11, 2005 November 4, 2005 October 28, 2005 October 21, 2005 October 14, 2005 October 7, 2005 September 30, 2005 September 23, 2005 September 16, 2005 September 9, 2005 September 2, 2005 August 26, 2005 August 19, 2005 August 12, 2005 August 5, 2005 July 29, 2005 July 22, 2005 July 15, 2005 July 8, 2005 July 1, 2005 June 24, 2005 June 17, 2005 June 10, 2005 June 3, 2005 May 27, 2005 May 20, 2005 May 13, 2005 May 6, 2005 April 29, 2005 April 21, 2005 April 14, 2005 April 7, 2005 April 1, 2005 - also by this
writer -
|
|||||||
| Copyright 2005
Insurgent Media. All Rights
Reserved. in-sur-gent (in sur'jent), n. 1. a member of a group which revolts against the policies of its leadership. |
||||||||
