The New Republic of Truth...

Howdy fellow Earthlings.

I've been doing a little digging about this whole Scott Thomas/New Republic kerfuffle and I've found an exclusive scoop under the rock of truth.

It's an excerpt of Scott Thomas' upcoming memoir of the Iraq War.

Enjoy the cold stench of the truth....


Scott Thomas

(New Republic Press)

"Listen up you dog-faced maggots!" barked Sergeant Rock as he came out of his tent which he kept on top of a pile of Iraqi baby skulls. "We've got orders. We're to got the village of Al Kebab and kill everyone in there. Especially the women and children."

"But sir," I said, my voice deep, rugged and manly. "Why do we have to kill the women and children?"

"Because we're American soldiers!" bellowed Sergeant Rock, flecks of rabies-like foam flying off his mouth. "Slaughtering innocent women and children is why we exist and what we do best."

I caught a glance at the orders in his hand.

"Why are our orders written in Hebrew?" I asked, suspicious of a possible Zionist theocratic conspiracy being behind our mission in Iraq.

"Why are you asking all these logical and rational questions about our mission?" demanded Sergeant Rock. "Are you one of those intellectual giants who write for the New Republic, who are greater defenders of American liberty than the crypto-fascist shock-troopers we are?"

"No sir," I said, although I wasn't afraid of the Sarge, New Republic writers never feel fear, I decided to keep my true mission a secret.

"Now move out and go kill us some civilians!" ordered the Sergeant. "Our Israeli masters demand blood. You are ordered to ignore that reference to our Israeli masters!"


The drive to Al Kebab was long, and the road was dusty. So I decided to shoot the breeze with my colleagues. They were the typical Red State breed that represent all personnel in the US Military.

There was Private Cletus Huckleberry, he was raised in the cotton fields of West Virginia. His family of illiterate Appalachian mountain cotton pickers had lost their entire crop to the great Global Warming caused boll weevil scourge of 2005. This left Cletus with no job, no food, no skills, and a case of complete illiteracy. The Army was his only option.

"I ain't reckon on fancy book learnin'" said Cletus, which was his answer to any question that didn't involve the cooking and eating of something called a 'varmint.' I had simply asked him about the weather. I decided to ask him about something else.

"What are your plans for after the army?" I asked.

Cletus shrugged. "I guess I'll go home to Nutter's Crotch West Virginny and marry my cousin."

"Which one?" I asked, knowing he had dozens, all between the age of eleven and fourteen and all named Lurlene.

"Whatever one ain't preggers at the moment with another man's baby," said Cletus. "I hope it's one I ain't molested yet. I like surprises."

"Who cares about weddings!" screamed Corporal Kenny Killum at the top of his lungs. "There's a lot of killing to do! Maybe we can rape some people!"

"It's wrong to rape women," I said trying to be the voice of reason and civilization, like John Edwards.

"Who said anything about women?" asked Corp. Killum. "I'm from Texas! Yee-ha!"

"Stop the truck!" screamed Corporal Ted Token, he had joined the Army to escape the segregated African American slums of the South and be taught reading, writing and basic math. Instead he had been trained to be an ice cold killing machine.

"What's up Corporal Token?" I asked, tightening my flak vest around my broad manly chest, my pectoral muscles rippling in anticipation of combat. "Is it insurgents?"

"No," said Token as the truck screeched to a halt. "There's a woman who has third degree burns. Let's verbally abuse her and give her more emotional scars to go with her physical ones."


I could make out the reflection of my chiseled handsome face reflected in a puddle of Iraqi children's blood. We entered Al Kebab, there were no insurgents, so my unit slaughtered everyone they could find, shooting, stabbing, burning and some pretty vicious pointing at genitals.

"Look at me," said Kenny Killum, dancing and capering wearing a necklace of children's head. "I got me some jewelry!"

I sighed at the rabid inhumanity of my fellow soldiers. Here they were fighting insurgents and trying to promote democracy like the foul cowardly savages they were while the world ignored the real heroes of freedom. People who ran magazines that condemned the US government in wartime, reporters who published top secret war information, and Democratic members of congress who held weekly anti-war votes to undermine this horrible fascist war.

And then there's me.

The greatest hero of all time.


Scott Thomas Beauchamp is the Ernie Pyle of the 21st century.


Why do I have to meme?

Sometimes aliens can be jerks.


I thought that since I had my own blog and was just a part time correspondent for the MoxArgon Group I could skip the whole 'meme' thing.

Well, I was wrong.

Remulak used a matter transporter to beam me out of bed in the middle of the night to tell me that I had to do it to.


Here it is.


1. I do not look at all like this picture MoxArgon made of me at a Simpsons site that Wyatt Earp mentioned at his blog.
I am not that fat!

2. I live in denial about my appearance, and I'm happy with that.

3. I love old spaghetti westerns and Italian horror films.

4. I'm a really good cook.

5. I think Kari Byron from Mythbusters is hot.6. I'm not above using at any excuse to put a picture of an attractive woman in my posts and should do it more often.

7. I enjoy watching poker on TV, but rarely play and never for real money, because I know I suck at it.

8. I have never seen the movie Titanic, and never will.


Are you happy now you fat-cartoon making bastards!


Live Earthling Report 2: Wembley Stadium


token Earthling correspondent

Howdy fellow Earthlings!

It's time for part two of my coverage of Al Gore's Live Earth show at Wembley Stadium in London!

Here's my report!

There was a flash of orange light and suddenly I was no longer at Giants Stadium but Wembley Stadium in London.

This time I appeared in a secluded spot in the backstage parking area between the limousine transporting Madonna's hairstylist and the Escalade SUV that transported Madonna's hair-stylist's first assistant. I adjusted my universal press-pass to get me into the backstage and walked casually past the Ford SUV fo
r Madonna's hair-stylist's second assistant, the Range Rover belonging to third hair-stylist's assistant, and the line of SUVs and heavy trucks that transported Madonna's wardrobe and make-up staff.

I sauntered on past the statue honouring the stadium's namesake, Britain's greatest hero Wembley Fraggle and into the backstage area.

I had no sooner walked into the backstage area then I was confronted by all three members of the Beastie Boys.

"Yo dude," said one of them, don't ask me which, because I can't tell them apart, "sign our petition man."

"Free Tibet!" said another one.

"Does this mean that you're going to start criticizing the government of China's environmental policies too?" I asked.

"Just sign the f*cking petition," said yet another Beastie Boy, "it's not like it's going to do anything except make us feel like we matter."

I took a look at the petition, someone had already taken the name "Buck Naked" so I went with my old stage name "Lance Hardthrust." (Don't ask me about where that stage name came from)

"How the hell can I save the Earth if I don't have the right bottled water!" screamed Bono as he hurled a full bottle of Evian at a meek looking assistant. "Take those ten cases of bottled water and rubbish them, they're no good!"

"Yes Mr. Bono," said the cowering assistant.

"That's Master Bono to you!"

"Hey, Bono!" I called out, "can I ask you a few questions?"

"I only talk to major national or international publications," declared Bono.

"My employers cover the Known Universe," I answered.

"That seems big enough," said Bono. "So, do they want to know how great I am?"

"They already know that," I said, "I want to know is what events like Live Earth, Live 8 hope to achieve?"

"We hope to promote awareness," said Bono, "of things like climate change, African poverty, and how wonderful I am for being so great."

"Let's talk about African poverty," I said, "you constantly demand that rich nations send more aid to Africa, even though many African activists oppose raising aid levels because all they do is prop up dysfunctional and corrupt governments. What do you have to say about that?"

"Well it's all very simple," said Bono, "more aid keeps crooked governments in power, causing more suffering, that means I can ride my high horse and make people think all my projects are for charity and spend their money on me. It makes me look really good. They're going to give me the Nobel Peace prize, just like Arafat."

"And exactly how much of the profits from you various projects actually go to help Africans?"

"The exact number is hard to calculate," said Bono, "but a rough estimate would put it somewhere below the steam off my pee."

"Okay," I said, "one last question. Why are you here? I thought U2 wasn't performing."

"Wherever there are cameras and celebrities posturing for charitable causes that don't actually do anything, I'll be there."

"Thanks for the honesty," I said.

"Well you are poking me with some sort of alien mind-control device," added Bono.

"I know," I said, "my employers loaned me some alien technology to blend with my already existing invention to make people tell the truth. Oh, I think I see Genesis. I'll see you later Bono."

"Hey Genesis," I asked, "why are you performing at Live Earth?"

"Live Earth," said Phil Collins, "I thought this was the Princess Di concert!"

"Bugger it," said another member of Genesis whose name I didn't bother to learn. "And I can't get a decent cup of tea."

"Maybe I should talk to the Foo Fighters," I said. "They seem to know where they are."

I tracked down the Foo Fighters at their trailer and sat down for an interview before their set began.

"So," I said to lead Foo Dave Grohl, "how does it feel to still be considered second banana to a guy who made the smart career move to blow his brains out before he became washed up?"

Luckily no one of any value to society was hurt when Dave Grohl tossed me out his trailer window.

"Oh my god!" screamed a roadie, "that fat bastard devilishly handsome journalist landed on Madonna!"

"Who hasn't?" I asked.

"Mmmmph!" said Madonna.

"You see," I said, "she's okay. She even sounds better."

Then I rolled off the aging pop star.

"I tried to speak," said Madonna, "but I was choking on a mouthful of fat taut muscular ass!"

"Could you answer a few questions for the MoxArgon Group?"

"You're a reporter," said Madonna, brushing the dust off her outfit. "Ask away."

"Why are you doing a concert for someone whose wife tried to censor you as number eight of the so called Filthy 15?"

"Because Tipper Gore's outrage covered up for my lack of talent," said Madonna. "If I didn't have shock value I'd have to rely on my voice and my looks, and neither have been up to snuff in a long time. Is that an alien machined designed to make me tell the truth?"

"Maybe," I said. "What about recent revelations that you're a major stockholder in some major polluters?"

"It's okay," said Madonna, "I gave Al Gore some money, so he blessed my hypocritical profiteering."

"Sounds fair," I said. "I better get going. I've got something important to do."

"Like watching Live Earth?"

"Nope," I answered, "I'm going to watch the grass grow in my backyard. Toodles."

And with a flash I left Wembley stadium, no longer giving a crap about freaking anyone out.


Live Earthling Report


Token Earthling Correspondent for

Howdy fellow Earthlings.

As the MoxArgon Group's token Earthling it was up to me to cover the over-sized Al Gore campaign ad called Live Earth. Thanks to some transporter technology borrowed from my alien employers I was able to attend all the concerts. So don't go nitpicking as to how I could be in different places at the same time, I just explained it.

Here is my report:


The weather was fine over Giants stadium and not in the least feverish for the time of year as the transporter rematerialized me at the concert site. To avoid freaking out the sort of folks who sort of freak out at the sight of anyone spontaneously materializing I appeared in what the transporter's computer said was a secluded spot.

The spot just happened to be behind a massive heap of non-recyclable, non-bio-degradable plastic cups, styrofoam food containers, plastic utensils and discarded half-full cans of hairspray, apparently left behind by Sheryl Crow's entourage. The area reeked of discarded tofu, spilled champagne, and I could feel the ozone layer above it starting to thin.

I poked my head up from behind the heap and looked around. The coast was clear, everyone was helping AFI decide which brand of eye-liner was the most enviro-friendly and gave them the most street-cred. I put my 'Universal Press Pass' around my neck and stepped out into the backstage hullaballoo.

"Goddamn it Ernie," screamed a tall skinny roadie to his short, stocky colleague. "Alicia Keys needs more air conditioning!"

"But the grid is already maxed out Bert," replied the roadie Ernie.

"Then tell the power plant to start shoveling more coal anything below freezing will make her hair limp!"

Ernie relayed the commands into his walkie-talkie. In the distance a tall smokestack started spewing thick black clouds.

I sauntered down the hall only to be confronted by an enraged Kanye West.

"George W. Bush does not care about black people!" declared Kanye with a level certainty found only in celebrities and children discussing Santa Claus.

"That's why he keeps hiring them for his cabinet?"

"Exactly!" said Kanye. "He's the reason the levees in New Orleans broke, even though it was a design flaw from the 1960s. He's the reason Nagin left the buses to drown, and it's his refusal to sign Kyoto is what caused Hurricane Katrina."

"Even though Bush's America is the only country to actually reduce carbon emissions," I asked, "while the emissions of most Kyoto signatories went up?"

"What are you doing here with all those facts?" asked Kanye. "My rider specifically demanded a fact free zone!"

"I think it's over by the porta-potty," I said.

"Thanks," said Kanye as he went into the porta-potty. "Goddamn it!" he yelled, "Sheryl Crow used up all the toilet paper! Again!"

I strolled down towards the food service area, might as well see what the rich and famous are eating. The soon to be ex-wife of Larry David: Laurie was lecturing a group of reporters about the importance of maintaining a natural balance.

"So that's why you tore out all that natural desert around your house in Southern California," I asked, "and replaced it with water dependent Kentucky bluegrass? Or is it why you destroyed some rare desert plant life to build a barbecue? Or is that why you drive SUVs to your private jets?"

Trapped in a sudden wave of questions about her actual behaviour the soon to be ex-Mrs. David began to shrink and shrivel.

"I'm melting!" she wailed. "Get me to the nearest botox clinic!"

At that command a bevy of black clad minions swept in, swept her up, and carried her into a Cadillac Escalade. The Escalade's engine roared to life and rocketed out of the area leaving a trail of harsh smelling grey exhaust.

"May I have your attention please," said a droning, almost robotic voice. I turned to see a small dais by the stage entrance, and standing on the dais was Al and Tipper Gore. Their son Al 3 was absent for some reason.

Everyone started gathering before their prophet.

"Only the performers please," said Al Gore. "All you common folks can get back to work."

Al Gore cleared his throat and looked out from his elevated spot onto the cluster of the hopeful innocent eyes of millionaires.

"I would like to thank you young rock and rollers for performing at this event," said Al Gore, "to get out the message of how important I --- I mean Mother Earth truly is. Sure you know nothing of the science of climate change other than what my lap-dogs tell you, but you have the power to compel the common people of the USA to vote for me--- I mean follow the tenets of my plan, which none of us actually follow, and you show great forgiveness in rallying to the cause of a man who has been trying to censor and control you for years. Thank you, now get out there and perform. I gotta lotta carbon credits to unload from this!"

The crowd of rock and rollers cheered.

"Kool-Aid for everyone!" declared Al Gore, earning another cheer.

I decided to not drink the Kool-Aid see what else was happening.

"Controller," I said into my cell-phone/communicator as I ducked behind a parked big rig hauling Bon Jovi's hair gel supply, "beam me to London, Wembley Stadium!"

To be continued...