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On The Border: Drugs, Illegals and Satire

Les James — Mon, 18 May 2009 13:00:06 +0000

The following is very loosely based upon the outstanding writing style of Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

It was a dark and stormy night along the Southern Front, where heavy machine guns in National Guard manned towers, pointed to the North, in an effort to keep money and USA made weapons from tempting, honest, eager-to-work, underprivileged citizens of the Americas into entering a life of crime and die by the hundreds, to satisfy the desires of American liberals for a little, harmless high -unlike evil, law abiding, tolerant, gun loving, subversive conservative, suspected right-wing terrorist, who prefer to drink beer when they watch cars going around in circles and bar-b-cue brats, instead of smoking reefer or snorting cocaine from a mirror in some rat-infested, germ-ridden, big city night club restroom like Blue State hippies and high government officials (no pun intended, seriously) of the Democrat persuasion like to do, who then in a drug-crazed rut, hook-up with anything that has a pulse, only for many of the females of this sub-species to later regret their one night stands and visit dark alleys, where universal health care providers with unsanitary coat hangers wait.

So what the hell does this have to do with illegal aliens, undocumented workers, Democrat voters in waiting? Well, one would think all that fire power might deter them from entering our their country, right? There has to be some way to bring in the necessary employees to do the jobs Americans Lazy Americans won’t do, doesn’t there? Am I ever going to answer any of these questions? Is that what you want me to do?

Too bad. I don’t want to. At least, not in a couple of words.

It was the same dark and stormy night, just south of the border, where hard-working, men, women and children waited for a chance to make a lasting contribution to the entire world by borrowing the social security numbers of dead babies and thereby entitling them to vote in every Illinois election -several times on the same day- while simultaneously relieving sloth-like white guys of the burden of having to labor, by allowing them the opportunity to collect an unemployment check because they were laid-off from their jobs that paid too much or were outsourced (in-country) to foreign workers who want to just get through the border -that is heavily armed by racist, terrorist-in-training- without being subjected to the scrutiny afforded to their countrymen that supply the drugs for Liberal Americans that want to make themselves feel better about the terrible way these noble people are treated in their country -on both sides of the border- so they instituted a system to identify those immigrants, deserving the opportunity to re-claim the land that was stolen from them -after they stole it from the Indians, who stole it from the Norwegians- by giving them a “Get into Texas Free” card, so they can flash it at the new Check Point Charlie, near El Paso and enter this country unmolested.

If you didn’t get the message, all you liberals who use drugs are supporting terrorist activities, both foreign and domestic -and yes, I am saying drug cartels and gangs are terrorist too and no, conservatives as a rule, don’t use illegal drugs. This makes you an accessory to the mass murder of thousands of people world-wide. I am also saying that there is nothing noble, proper, lawful, right, just or fair about “immigrants” sneaking into my home and taking what does not belong to them. Oh, and if you think this makes me a racist, que te jodan, Puta!

Have a nice day!

***
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Mild Max Chapter 9

Chris C — Fri, 08 May 2009 16:18:51 +0000

Chapter 9: Escort Service

by Chris Cameron

“Et Tu Cynthia?” I said as she closed the cabin door behind us.

“It’s not what you think.” Cynthia replied and sat down on one of the couches across from Steven and his new boyfriend. “Sit Max.”

I obeyed her command having no choice of course, especially since my old boss was brandishing a shotgun in my direction. Guns aimed at me seem to be a common thing these days. “So are you going to kill me now or later?”

“Neither.” Steven replied, squeezing his companion’s thigh with his hand. “I have a better idea.”

If what they were implying was what I thought it was then I’d rather be dead. I felt like telling them to give me the shotgun and I’d kill myself.

“Max this is Sergio.” Steven said as the boyfriend leaned across and shook my hand in a limp-wristed fashion. “He was the one you overheard talk about a paradise to the south.”

“Really.” I replied. I knew he looked familiar.

“Your arrival here is not by chance.” Steven stood up. “We share the same desires for a better place to live.”

“Well I don’t see my Shangri La dreams matching up with yours there Twinkletoes.” I was confused but I didn’t want to let on. What the hell was he talking about? Is this some kind of sermon before he blows my head off like I did with Bruce?

“Let me see if I can clear things up for you.” Steven said, and talked about his plan. Sergio saw my interest in his conversation about a better life in the tropics. Bruce was a sacrifice to get me to run. Cutter put me on the path to meet Cynthia who brought me here.

“So you set me up.” I said as thoughts about Cutter and my fist in his face the next time we crossed paths raced through my mind. “Why?”

“Two words Max…New Brazil.” Steven reached into his pocket, pulled out a piece of wadded-up paper, and unfolded it on the floor into its original shape. It was a crudely-drawn map of what used to be South America.

He told me that where Venezuela and Colombia once existed was now New Brazil. Crops grew outdoors. People worked and lived like they did before the cooling happened. It might not be paradise but it was normalcy.

“We want you to be our security, along with Cynthia and escort us there.” Sergio said, finally breaking his silence. “You used to be a cop, you know how to handle a gun, and Steven tells me you were one of his best bouncers.”

“Are you serious?” I laughed. I was never into geography but I knew that the old Brazil was thousands of miles away and years back in the history books. In the way were the Roaders and Off-Roaders and who knows whatever other groups or gangs were between here and there. Even if this place was real, the four of us would be dead in no time flat .

And these flitters wanted to hoof it there walking funny all the way.

“What if I say no?”

“You are free to go, but you will be left to the angry mob of flitters, as you like to call us.” Steven said. “They will be arriving soon by the way because I told them you were here.”

I had to hand it to the creampuff. Unlike the clothing he wore, Steven covered his ass in the planning department. Was I suddenly feeling a sense of respect towards a fag?

No matter what, it was either take my chances with flitters who wanted to kill me, or two who wanted me to be their bodyguard on a trip to the promised land. “So when do we leave?”

“Immediately.” Steven smiled and threw a gun at me. “It’s the same one Cynthia uses and as you have seen quite capable of taking down those awful UNknowns.”

“What makes you think I won’t kill you now that I’m armed?” I said as the thought crossed my mind.

“Again Max, we share that desire for paradise.”

The flitter had a point there. Not like I haven’t dreamed of the same things they want-a normal place to frikkin’ live.

Well, normal as can be in this crazy world.

Interested in writing a chapter for our on-line political satire novel, or maybe another one? Head on over to Mild Max to get the low-down on how you can do just that.

Mild Max Chapter 8

Les James — Fri, 01 May 2009 15:00:45 +0000

After a few weeks off, Max is back! So let’s pick up where we left off.

Chapter 8: The Giant Killer

by Les James

“Can you kill those things?” I whispered to Cynthia.

She stared past me at the UNKnown. It had just ripped apart the last of the guys we had heard out there earlier. It stood like it had just finished eating a sandwich, or taken a leak. Almost anything other than what it had just done.

The smell of blood, spilled, crushed and flung guts and other body parts was thick in the air. The screams were gone, but they still echoed around in my head. I’ve heard a lot of men die, but never like that.

“I killed the polar bear, didn’t I?” she said.

I didn’t actually mean her when I said “you”, but what could I say to that? Before I even knew what was going on, she quickly thrust her sidearm into the small opening we had been looking though and popped off two rounds. She could have frikkin’ warned me! That gun wasn’t a foot away from my head!

The screams were replaced by a loud ringing in my ears. Son of a bitch, that’s one insanely large caliber handgun. How could such a petite chick even handle something that big? Made me start to wonder how well she could handle… Ah shit, let’s face it, I couldn’t handle it.

Cynthia was outside. She stepped around the bigger chunks in the red splattered snow, as she made her way toward the giant figure. The Chatterbox was face down. Another loud report and its head all but disappeared in pink mist and gray chunks.

This was just too much like what had happened in my room in the back of Thunderdome, not all that many hours ago. She turned and walked into the woods. I figured I was supposed to follow.

“I guess we’re on foot now?” I ventured, after about an hour of busting through the wet undergrowth of the coastal range. She didn’t say a word. I suppose it was a stupid thing to ask.

We continued in silence until it was almost dawn, but we weren’t exactly being quiet, all the crashing through bushes and snapping branches made us kind of an easy target. If anyone was out there, I’m sure they’d have heard us. Well, if we had run across another one of those mushroom eating bastards, I’d have almost felt sorry for it. Almost.

I couldn’t take the silence much longer. “So, are we about to wherever you’re taking me, or what?” I asked. “You said we’re going to see your boss, right?” Still nothing. Damned if she wasn’t just trying to push my buttons. I was about ready to give her a piece of what was left of my mind. There wasn’t much there after everything that’d been going on.

Then the brush abruptly ended in a small clearing. On the other side was a small, run-down cabin. It looked like it had been abandoned some years ago.

“We’re here,” was all Cynthia said. I turned to look at her and noticed she had pointed that massive handgun in my direction. I figured she hadn’t brought me all the way out here just to kill me. I took a chance. “Brigham .62 Magnum?” I asked as I stared at the huge opening in the end of barrel. “I’ve only hear about ‘em. How’d you get it all the way from Utah?” She just smiled.

“Take off your coat. Put it on the that branch over there,” she said as she motioned to the left with her free hand, “and take off your shirt.” I did as I was told, I could see where this was going and it wasn’t headed toward my fantasy life.

“I suppose it’s my boots and socks next and I would guess you’d like me to drop my ah… peashooter strapped to my right ankle too.” I was getting a little cocky. I needed a good night’s sleep. Cynthia let out a little, low chuckle. It wasn’t supposed to be funny.

Once she was satisfied that I wasn’t packing anything that was even close to lethal, she let me put my shirt back on before we headed to the cabin’s front door. It was still frikkin’ freezing, walking barefoot through the snow. That was a lot more effective than any cold shower. What was wrong with me?

I opened the cabin door and stepped inside. It took only a couple of seconds to realize I wasn’t alone in there. It may have been dark, but I’d know that fruity cologne anywhere.

“Hello Max, we’re so glad you could make it,” a deep, lisping voice within that dark said.

“Hello Steven. Just out of curiosity, how pissed are you at me for taking the head off of your little, leather-clad play toy?”

Interested in writing a chapter for our on-line political satire novel, or maybe another one? Head on over to Mild Max to get the low-down on how you can do just that.

Superbowl 2009 Flame War Parody

Fiar — Sun, 01 Feb 2009 15:11:29 +0000

I case you live under a rock, or perhaps in your mother’s pouch in Australia, you are well aware that today is the Superbowl NFL championship game between the Pittsburgh Steelers and some other crappy team. Oh, that’s right, the Arizona Cardinals. I almost choked saying that, because they have been a mediocre to terrible team for their entire existence. But this year it is their destiny.

Sorry, I just choked again. I couldn’t write that with a straight face. Anyhoo, that brings us to this week’s flame war parody.

What is the more ridiculously overhyped event: The Super Bowl, or the Super Bowl Commercials?

Discuss

NFL Playoffs Flame War Parody #51

Fiar — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 18:59:15 +0000

With the AFC and NFC Championship games being played today, I thought it would be appropriate to swerve this week’s flame war parody into the realm of the NFL. One thing that always bothers me is people that throw their little hissy fits over this and that being so unfair. Wah! Where’s my binky? That brings us to the question -

Which is the more pathetic sissy Liberal whining about the playoffs: Boo hoo, The Indianapolis Colts didn’t get to touch the ball in overtime, never mind the fact that they didn’t do a damn thing for the entire last quarter and a half except blow their lead and self destruct, OR Wah, wah the New England Patriots didn’t make the playoffs and the inferior San Diego Chargers did because the playoff format is so unfair?

Discuss.

Stupid Auto Insurance Advertisements Flame War Parody #50

Fiar — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 16:27:58 +0000

For some reason, auto insurance companies seem to have some of the most unbearable commercials on television. I guess they hire insurance agents to craft the ads instead of hiring advertising agencies. Today, we discuss the worst ad campaigns. I can recall from memory.

As with all other flame war parody topics, you will be required to feverishly defend your unreasonable opinion.

Which is the more idiotic ad campaign for car insurance: The Progressive “supermarket,” or the Geico money watching you?

Discuss.

Flame War Parody #48 Caption This

Les James — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 20:32:31 +0000

This week we vary the flame war parody a bit by asking you to add a caption to the funny picture. Remember to slam the other guys for their opinions. Yours is obviously superior, so prove it.

Flame War Parody #47 – Throwing Shoes at Presidents

Fiar — Sun, 14 Dec 2008 19:17:25 +0000

One of my favorite sports, when I visit Iraq, is throwing my shoes at the President. In fact, it’s a sport that is rapidly growing in popularity. However, some shoe throwing purists do not like the style that others have, and this can often erupt into violent arguments over the correct shoe-thrown-at-a-President style. For this week’s flame war parody, we will be borrowing from this Iraqi sports disagreement.

When throwing shoes at Presidents, which is the proper throwing technique: Overhand, underhand, or the even more controversial sidearm technique?

Discuss

More Shoe Throwing Humor

America is an Obamanation Exclusive: Shocking “Foot”age of Bush Shoe Attack!

Flame War Parody #45 Birthdays

Fiar — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 00:51:04 +0000

Yesterday was my Birthday. So, I was thinking that for this week’s flame war parody, we would tackle a birthday related question. Remember to have and defend a vehemently incoherent position. As always.

On my birthday, am I another year older or another year wiser?

Discuss.

Flame War Parody #44 | Southerners

Les James — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 23:22:13 +0000

Today, our flame war parody deals with language, and how we use it. And more to the point, Southerners. Today’s question revolves around the phrase:

I’m Fixin’ To

Is it the language of the South: a Non-Standard English Dialect, or just a bunch of uneducated Rednecks blabbering incoherently?

Discuss.