Let me set a few things straight. All great men like Mr. SincLIAR have their ups and downs. Mr. SincLIAR has a few more downs than average because he suffers for all of us lesser human beings. You Obots just can’t see that.

For the few of you who might understand business, Mr. SincLIAR got rid of SPI assets to avoid a hostile takeover. If Apple Computer did this you wouldn’t complain, but when Mr. SincLIAR demonstrates his business acumen, you jump all over him.

Remember Mr. SincLIAR’s rendition of ‘September Morn’? Betcha didn’t know Mr. SincLIAR had a rather successful theater tour recently. I’ve attached a poster of his last tour.

Anyway, he’s decided to put out an 8-track of some of his favorite songs. It uses the latest audio technology to correct pitch (although Mr. SincLIAR hardly needs that) and adds harmony. This means The public gets an opportunity to head Mr. SincLIAR play with himself! How cutting edge is that? If you Obots had a heart, you realize that this is a deeply moving endeavor for Mr. SincLIAR.

This tape still has to be editted and approved by Mr. SincLIAR, but perhaps it may move a few of you to go easier on a great man.

P.S. The fact that Mr. SincLIAR has chosen to use an alias for this album has nothing to do with lawsuits, going on the lam, etc. Mr. SincLIAR wants the 8-track to succeed on its own merits…and not because of his recent notoriety.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=diBbhnq_6_E

FEDERAL INSTITUTE OF ALIEN TECHNOLOGIES

DEVICE BX-234 (????)

ORIGIN: NM Cerpheglian (Lizard People)

TYPE: (TARD) Temporal Atomic Relocation Device

STATUS: Untested - High Risk Factor

Warm phlegm gathered in Dense’s throat; he swallowed and pushed it down. The muscles around his mouth formed a smile as he watched the doctor put her hand slowly out upon the air, and in that hand waved a check for ten thousand dollars to the man standing next to the reptilian time machine.

“Do you guarantee this thing is going to work?” asked an anxious Jeff Dense.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” the young man in safari clothes said, swiftly snapping the check from the Doctor’s outstretched hand, “except for Obama’s Kenyan birth certificate.”

The doctor, a thin older woman whose short thinning hair matched the color of her starched lab coat spoke, “It says high risk.”

“It also says untested,” Dense blurted. ” The lizard people are very advanced technologically. I think our government is just overly cautious.”

“Jeff is right,” chirped Luke Smythe adjusting the brim of his pith helmut, then crossing his fingers behind his back. “Would you like me to test it for you?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Dense interjected. He pulled the doctor to one side and whispered. “Look, if the device works and Larry goes back in time to change parts of his book, then the Parcheesi lwasuit problem is solved. If Larry doesn’t come back…”

“…the lwa suit problem is still solved,” said the doctor smiling.

Dense walked over to the device, then asked Smythe, “How did you come across this?”

“A storage auction, believe it or not. In Roswell. Apparently the government hadn’t paid its bills. I used an alias so its untraceable, but I don’t think they even know it’s missing.”

“Okay, Mr. Smythe, it’s a deal. You already have my check,” snapped the doctor.

“It’s Interceptor Smythe. My title is Interceptor, not Mister.”

“Fine,” said the doctor. “Interceptor Smythe, would you mind helping Mr. Dense and me tie this contraption to the roof of my Lexus?”

The chauffeur lowered the partition and announced, “We’re here, Mr. Avila. Sir, we’ve arrived.”

Larry rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and after several attempts righted himself on the limo’s back seat. The door opened. The limo rocked as Larry scooted over toward the door, then tugged heartily on the driver’s outstretched helping hand, pulling the surprised driver into the car. Being a professional, the driver immediately climbed out, walked around the limo, and climbed in the rear seat from the opposite side. Bracing his back against the door, the chauffeur firmly placed his feet on the side of Larry’s buttocks. After considerable grunting and pushing, Larry’s butt popped out the door, his pudgy sandaled feet remained inside. The chauffeur quickly ran to the other side and deftly removed SincLIAR’s feet, then shut the door.

“What do I owe you,” asked a prone SincLIAR, hoping the doctor had prepaid.

“It’s all been taken care of, sir,” answered the driver climbing into the front seat. Before Larry could even say thanks, the long limo screeched and sped away.

Larry rolled over to a large tree and eventually righted himself. Waddling toward the front door, he saw the doctor and Dense. “Have you changed your minds?” SincLIAR inquired, “Are you going to advance me some money for the lwasuit?”

“Even better,” said Dense.

What could be better, Larry wondered. As he approached the pair in the doorway, Larry imagined switching Dense’s flowing silver tresses with the doctor’s thinning white buzz. It could work, he thought.

The pair lead Larry down to the basement and the time machine. “This is going to solve all of our problems,” said Dense confidently.

“It looks like a phone booth,” observed SincLIAR. “You guys want me to call somebody?”

“It’s a temporal atomic relocation device,” said the wiry doctor. “You’re going back in time to fix things.”

Larry squirmed. Did they expect him to go back ten years and get proof of his accusations. That would be impossible since they were fabricated. You can’t simply go back in time and change a lie into a fact. Larry couldn’t tell them the truth either without risking future support. Maybe he could go back and really meet the young Obama, and maybe seduce him. Obama did admit to using drugs in his youth. And Larry would be younger then as well. Obama might find him cute. Maybe this could work out.

“Mr. SincLIAR,” the angry doctor snapped. “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“I’m going back in time to fix things,” Larry whimpered with a questioning lilt. He leaned over and squinted at the sign on the device. “Is that thing safe?”

“Yes, it is,” said Dense in a most authoritative tone. “It’s made by the lizard people, a very technologically advanced alien race. The U.S. government has always been overcautious, wanting to test everything, like melamine in our dog food, mine safety, or salmonella in our eggs. Your in good hands with the lizard people.”

“Don’t you mean ‘paws’,” snorted the chortling doctor.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” Larry asked, stressing the word ‘exactly’.

The doctor, having composed herself, instructed Larry. “Go back and remove all the bad things you said about Parcheesi from the final draft of your book, the one you sent off to the printer. Then, if…I mean, when you get back, there will be no grounds for Parcheesi’s lwa suit! Your book is safe, you’re safe, your investors are safe.”

“And take out my entire introduction,” interjected Dense. “Just to be safe.”

“The instruction manual is inside. We used google to translate it. But all you really need to do is put in the time and place. The machine is all set. C’mon now. Off you go,” commanded the doctor.

“It looks like a telephone booth, with all the glass blacked out,” Larry said softly approaching the device.

“Yeah, it kinda does,” admitted Dense, “but remember, the lizard people are known as the MacGuyvers of the technologically advanced alien races.

The doctor slid open the doors of the device. The inside was packed with all sorts of electronic devices, computer screens, vacuum tubes, and wires everywhere. It was more Rube Goldberg then Cerpheglian. Oh, and Larry could not fit through the door.

“Mr. Dense,” the doctor ordered, “Go get some lube. Stat!”

“I’ve got a tube here somewhere,” Larry muttered as he spun round trying to get a hand into one of his back pockets, but failing. He looked like a dog, a very large dog, chasing its tail.

“Off with your clothes, Mr. SincLIAR,” the doctor commanded. Before Larry could comply she made a few surgical cuts and Larry’s expansive chinos and his plentiful polo shirt fell to the ground. The doctor fought off her gag reflex, and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. She dipped her hands into the five gallon bucket of grease Dense had fetched, and liberally slathered the goo all over Larry. “Push him in, Mr. Dense. Push him in.”

Dense ran at the slippery SincLIAR, crashing into him full force. There was a ‘ploop’ sound, and the pair discovered that Dense had managed to get most of Larry into the confined space except for his right buttock. “Now what?, Dense asked.

“Push him again.”

Several collisions later the recalcitrant gluteal remained outside the booth. The doctor called Dense over, and whispered. Larry was getting nervous. The doctor rejoined Larry, and Dense ambled over to the far side of the room. Something was up, Larry thought.

“We’re going to have to remove your right buttock, Mr. SincLIAR. This mission must succeed at all costs. I’m not a surgeon, but I am a doctor and I think I can handle this. You’ll be fine. You’ll just lean a little more to the right when you sit is all. That’s the direction you were headed anyway, isn’t it?”

Larry stared at the doctor in disbelief, and when she approached him with a huge shiny scalpel, his buttocks instinctively tightened in horror. That’s when Dense smashed into Larry pushing him fully into the booth. The doctor carefully pushed the remaining grease into the booth so Larry could get out later, then pulled the door shut.

“Good Luck, Larry,” Dense shouted grabbing the pull cord on the Briggs and Stratton five horsepower lawnmower motor that was attached to the top of the phone booth.

“See you soon,” the doctor yelled just as Dense pulled the cord and the Briggs and Stratton roared to life.

Then - the booth was gone.

Inside the TARD, lights flashed and dials spun amidst whirrs, clinks and clatters. The computer screen showed the sun rising in the west, water rising in droplets and ascending into the clouds. Embers barely glowing grew hotter, flames reborn; ashes assembling into logs, logs stacked to form tall trees, which then diminished into saplings and then seeds. Larry was on his way back in time.

Suddenly, the TARD shuddered and shut down. An LED screen flashed DESTINATION SECURED - BE VERY CAREFUL. He slid the door to the side and peered out. There was his manuscript, his computer, and his dildo. After an hour, Larry wriggled free of the booth, grabbing the fuchsia fuckbuddy, and plopped down on the couch. Then, to his amazement, he saw himself, or rather a comatose version of an earlier Larry on the bed across the trailer. Larry walked over to the bed and prodded the younger Larry. There was no response, maybe a faint moan. Earlier Larry was wasted. Current Larry tugged at the maroon shorts of earlier Larry. Larry laughed aloud as he thought about the cruel and vulgar comments the Obots make, and how now he would make one of them come true, and in a most enjoyable way. Several hours later, he wandered over to the desk, and reluctantly removed the libelous material about Parcheesi. I’ll find another way to screw that bastard, he thought, slapping at a mosquito on the back of his neck. He’ll get his. And his lwayer Oprah, too.

It was time to go back. SincLIAR thought about traveling to other times, like ancient Greece or Rome. He liked the freedom togas provided. But, his curiosity about what his life would be like without the weight of Parcheesi’s bogus lwasuit won out.

Realizing that it would take more than a little effort to get back into the TARD, he reapplied some grease, then placed the bucket atop one of the many computer monitors therein. Larry then flat-footed his way to the end of the trailer. Running as fast as he could, which wasn’t very fast, Larry charged at the TARD. What he lacked in velocity, he made up for in mass. His momentum was sufficient to plop him snugly inside the booth. Unfortunately, he was facing away from the controls, and was unable to turn around. His wriggling knocked the bucket over, and grease slithered down his body.

A groggy earlier Larry stumbled bow-legged to the TARD. “I am so wasted,” he said to no one in particular. “What the fuck is this?” Current Larry turned toward him, and earlier Larry jumped back. “You look like a fat me.”

“I am a fatter you,” current Larry responded, “and you are a thinner me. I’m travelling in time to protect you, to protect me, to protect our friends. I’ve submitted the final draft of your book - my book, our book. Leave it as I have left it.”

“Do I finally get the fame and fortune I am scheming for? Does Obama notice me?” the dazed earlier Larry asks.

“Yes,” current Larry lies, “but only if you keep this a secret from everyone. Including Moma. Including Citizen Bells. Now do me a solid and shut the door, and start the Briggs and Stratton up top.”

“Sure, me,” the thinner Larry smirked. He slammed the door shut, then pulled on the starter cord. The engine sputtered. He pulled a second time. The third time was the charm, the motor roared.

Then - the booth was gone.

Larry had managed to reach back and hit the start button, however in doing so he accidentally bumped the location dials. The time would be right. The location would be off by a thousand yards in x, two thousand yards in y, and, fortunately for Larry, only eight feet in z.

The shoppers at the Exton Galleria had never seen anything like it. According to reports, a telephone booth, which appeared to flicker in and out of existence, floated into the center courtyard of the mall, fully materialized, then dropped swiftly to the ground and split open. An oiled and naked man, at first thought to be a manatee, slid across the tile floor with various bits of electronic paraphernalia. The man propped himself up, and attempted to speak, but was summarily dispatched with the nightstick of an overzealous security guard. The unconscious man was taken away by ambulance.

A familiar voice said, “He’s coming to. All that excess body fat protected him. He’s all yours, boys.”

Larry opened his eyes and saw the doctor walking away. He also saw the iron bars. He was nude on a cold steel table in a prison infirmary. A prison guard in riot gear approached him. He had a bucket and a large push-broom. The bull lifted his visor, and SincLIAR gasped.

“Citizen Bells!” Larry exclaimed. “What the hell is going on?”

Bells ignored him, and poured the bucket of oil over his naked body. Another guard in riot gear peered in. Thick wavy gray hair sprouted from the base of his helmut. “How soon?” asked yet another familiar voice.

Omigod, Larry thought. Something is definitely wrong. I changed something in the past. Maybe, I shouldn’t have had sex with myself. It actually wasn’t that good. Looks like I fucked myself in more ways than one.  Did I stay to long? The mosquito! Was it the mosquito! I killed the mosquito. That’s it. That mosquito was to bite the advisor who wanted Obama to throw me in jail, and make him so sick that he never got to make his case. Yeah, that must be it. Larry reached for the back of his neck, hoping to find the frail mosquito. I can take it back. We can fix the TARD. I can take the mosquito back.

Bells pushed SincLIAR off the table and on to the floor. Using the push-broom, he guided the slippery SincLIAR out into the corridor. “We can find the mosquito, and take it back,” a horrified Larry pleaded.

“Too late,” said another guard tying Larry’s knees to his chest, then his hands around the back of his knees.

“What are you doing?” Larry cried, as another push of the broom sent him spinning into the cellblock corridor. The inmates cheered. “What are you doing?” Larry sobbed. He saw a crude device at the far end of the corridor. A construction of pipes and ropes. “Are you gonna hang me?” he shrieked. “What are you doing?”

Bells lifted the visor of his riot helmut, and began to push Larry with the broom faster and faster down the corridor, toward the pipe and rope construction and the other bull. “We’re just having ourselves a little game of L’Air Hockey,” he laughed, twisting the broom to impart a brisk clockwise spin to the chubby puck before sending him spinning across the floor.

SincLIAR cried. There was the sound of blunder.

Well friends, by now you must have heard that Larry has decided to end it all. The problem is he can’t afford to do it. That’s where we can help. During the next several days we will be conducting a Suicide Telethon to help Larry raise the funds needed to reach his goal of “biting the big one” (metaphorically speaking). Entertainment will be provided, and we welcome your comments regarding our progress.

Our operators are standing by to accept your charitable donations to help Larry do himself in.

CALL US TO MAKE A DONATION

1-800-DIRTNAP

Or, Click below to make a donation online!

OFFICIAL TELETHON PROGRESS METER

1 - Rope

Widely available and inexpensive. The only snag in this method is finding a stool sturdy enough to hold his fat ass up long enough to get it around  his neck.

2 - Pills

Larry has an assortment already, but his tolerance to illicit drugs is quite high. We need the good stuff for this job.

3 - Chainsaw

Help Larry make some real noise. Messy yes, but available on sale at Lowes for $200 if that’s all we can raise.

4 - Pistol

Larry can handle one of these babies (not legally as a felon) and is a crack  shot. Of course who could miss at that range?

5 - Sawed Off Shotgun

These puppies are illegal, so we’ll have to shell out a little more for it. Larry has short T-Rex arms and sausage fingers so we couldn’t trust a full stock model.

6 - Bazooka

Help Larry go out with a BANG! He will make the news for sure with this puppy! Suck it up Obot bitches! (Since this is a 2 person operation we will offer a raffle later for one lucky assistant that gets to squeeze the trigger personally.)

7 - Hired Gun

If you want something done right, do it yourself. Assuming we max out on donations why trust the outcome to Larry? We need a professional here.

**NOTE** - The selection of the assassin will be up to Larry. After all, we have no interest in arranging his death. We are just trying to help him raise money so he can go out in style!

“Every supporter through the past 20 months are appreciated, but I must make it clear that no supporter has the right to send other emails to other supporters representing as if they speak for me in an attempt to make themselves feel important.”

“…It saddens me that people who I truly admired would cheapen everything for the purpose of trying to make themselves feel important.”

(Full comment can be found  here)

The following article has likely been posted here previously by one of the contributors. I added some comments inline in italics, so jump in and comment on how you think that Larry fits the profile of a Sociopath.

Profile of the Sociopath

This website summarizes some of the common features of descriptions of the behavior of sociopaths.

- Glibness and Superficial Charm

“Have a wonderful day!”

- Manipulative and Conning
They never recognize the rights of others and see their self-serving behaviors as permissible. They appear to be charming, yet are covertly hostile and domineering, seeing their victim as merely an instrument to be used. They may dominate and humiliate their victims.

See above

- Grandiose Sense of Self
Feels entitled to certain things as “their right.”

Hmmm …  Collecting SSD while showing pictures of various physical activities and ability to do rudimentary data entry.

- Pathological Lying
Has no problem lying coolly and easily and it is almost impossible for them to be truthful on a consistent basis. Can create, and get caught up in, a complex belief about their own powers and abilities. Extremely convincing and even able to pass lie detector tests.

c’mon this is Larry Sinclair we are talking about … well so much for being convincing or able to pass a lie detector test,  next question

- Lack of Remorse, Shame or Guilt
A deep seated rage, which is split off and repressed, is at their core. Does not see others around them as people, but only as targets and opportunities. Instead of friends, they have victims and accomplices who end up as victims. The end always justifies the means and they let nothing stand in their way.

see above… citizenwells, you catching this? Rense??

- Shallow Emotions
When they show what seems to be warmth, joy, love and compassion it is more feigned than experienced and serves an ulterior motive. Outraged by insignificant matters, yet remaining unmoved and cold by what would upset a normal person. Since they are not genuine, neither are their promises.

Sort of like sightseeing, being upset by his documentary deal, and trying to market the doomed book instead of finding a lawyer?

- Incapacity for Love

Unless you count “prison love”…

- Need for Stimulation
Living on the edge. Verbal outbursts and physical punishments are normal. Promiscuity and gambling are common.

Hungry bottom anyone?

- Callousness/Lack of Empathy
Unable to empathize with the pain of their victims, having only contempt for others’ feelings of distress and readily taking advantage of them.

Geez.. a person like this might call somebody’s dying Grandmother.

- Poor Behavioral Controls/Impulsive Nature
Rage and abuse, alternating with small expressions of love and approval produce an addictive cycle for abuser and abused, as well as creating hopelessness in the victim. Believe they are all-powerful, all-knowing, entitled to every wish, no sense of personal boundaries, no concern for their impact on others.

““Let me tell you something, I have never stated this, but you idiots refer to me as some moroon, I have a aster and a lwa degree.” - Larry Sinclair said:    lws022737@hotmail.com | ip 64.134.3.138  ”Paul Allen Levy will DIE before SUNDAY”

- Early Behavior Problems/Juvenile Delinquency
Usually has a history of behavioral and academic difficulties, yet “gets by” by conning others. Problems in making and keeping friends; aberrant behaviors such as cruelty to people or animals, stealing, etc.

c’mon… This is Larry Sinclair. We don’t have the room to list ALL OF THAT STUFF!!

- Irresponsibility/Unreliability
Not concerned about wrecking others’ lives and dreams. Oblivious or indifferent to the devastation they cause. Does not accept blame themselves, but blames others, even for acts they obviously committed.

Uh… about that whole Obama scandal thing…

- Promiscuous Sexual Behavior/Infidelity
Promiscuity, child sexual abuse, rape and sexual acting out of all sorts.

Submissive hungry bottom seeking dominant tops…

- Lack of Realistic Life Plan/Parasitic Lifestyle
Tends to move around a lot or makes all encompassing promises for the future, poor work ethic but exploits others effectively.

Where does he live now? I’ve lost track.

- Criminal or Entrepreneurial Versatility
Changes their image as needed to avoid prosecution. Changes life story readily.

Larry has had many looks over the years (none of them good), and changes his story more than a 2 year olds diaper gets changed.

Other Related Qualities:

(Call out any that you think don’t apply to Larry!)

1: Contemptuous of those who seek to understand them
2: Does not perceive that anything is wrong with them
3: Authoritarian
4: Secretive
5: Paranoid
6: Only rarely in difficulty with the law, but seeks out situations where their tyrannical behavior will be tolerated, condoned, or admired
7: Conventional appearance
8: Goal of enslavement of their victim(s)
9: Exercises despotic control over every aspect of the victim’s life
10: Has an emotional need to justify their crimes and therefore needs their victim’s affirmation (respect, gratitude and love)
11: Ultimate goal is the creation of a willing victim
12: Incapable of real human attachment to another
13: Unable to feel remorse or guilt
14: Extreme narcissism and grandiose
15: May state readily that their goal is to rule the world

“In Florida, I wore shorts and tees. All the time,” Sincliar said to the tall, thin man standing by the door. “No zippers. No buttons. And lots of elastic! I could get those on in under ten minutes.”

“We have to hurry,” Citizen Bells implored. Bells wore his signature Roy-Bon aviator sunglasses beneath, today, an NAOO baseball cap. His dark blue nylon jacket was stenciled AFT in bright yellow. Beneath the embroidered crest on his white cotton polo were sewn the letters BFI. A pewter belt buckle displayed CAI. Although Bells saw himself as one of the few true patriots left in America, he couldn’t resist the values offered by the Chinese knock-off market. His underwear? Why Kevin Kline, of course.

“I haven’t heard from you in weeks, and now here you are in D.C. telling me to hurry. I don’t even know if I can trust you anymore,” groaned Sincliar as he struggled to sit upright on the couch.

“I’ve already explained that, Larry,” Bells said. “We’re the only friends that can help you now. Dense and me. If we get sued, mired down financially and stuff, you’d be all alone.”

“What about Cow?”

“Cow!” Bells snorted. “Have you seen that picture of Cow in that 70’s mod outfit and hat? Dressin’ like some teeny bopper on the Monkees TV show. She’s like what, sixty? No one takes her seriously. No, it’s me and Dense. Actually just me, Dense has to spend most of his time avoiding service, and aliens. As long as I keep a low profile, and people think we’re on the outs, I’ll be able to help.”

Bells heard a muffled zip and looked over at Sincliar. Sincliar slowly rose from the couch. The teeth of Sincliar’s zipper were clearly visible as his slacks strained and stretched to cover his hips and hungry bottom. Sincliar’s belly flopped over his waistband. The polo shirt he wore was a size too small. He would tug at the shirt to cover his slightly exposed midsection, but the shirt would slowly ride back up. He waddled toward Bells. “So what’s this new deal you think I should consider?” Sincliar asked. “Who we seeing?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Bells said. ‘You’re finally going to get the attention you want. This is a very powerful man, and he doesn’t want me to spoil his surprise. He hasn’t even told me the details, but, considering who he is, it’s gotta be big.”

“Anderson Cooper?” Sincliar asked teasingly. “Don’t tell me it’s T. ‘Hattrick’ Murphy because I already know about him. First of all, he’s not that big, and…”

“No, not Murphy nor Cooper. C’mon, let’s go. We’re cutting it close,” Bells snapped. The duo stumbled out of Sincliar’s apartment, and headed to Bells’ car, a ten year-old full size black and white Ford Victoria. Bells loved police auctions almost as much as Chinese knock-offs. The car coughed and belched, then headed over to Sully Road, then north to Dulles. The drive took about fifteen minutes, and Sincliar spent the entire trip struggling to secure his seatbelt.

“We’re here,” Bells chirped looking at his watch. “Right on time.”

“Click.”

“Got it!” Sincliar said proudly. He looked up and noticed the car was parked near a small hanger at the airport. In the distance, commercial jets rolled by like clockwork, one after another. To his right a Gulfstream G550 sat parked and ready on the tarmac.

Bells came around to Larry’s door, and opened it. “Let’s go! He’s waiting.”

“Who’s waiting?” Larry nervously asked. Could he trust Bells?

A figure appeared in the cabin doorway. Larry couldn’t believe his eyes. It was Gretel Van Blusteren. She turned slightly, and to Sincliar’s amazement, Ben Gleck stepped into the doorway, and motioned Sincliar to come aboard. Larry struggled with the seatbelt.

“I told you it was big,” said Citizen Bells, smiling.

“I can’t believe it,” Sincliar gushed. “They’ve finally decided to not let a complete lack on any sort of proof or journalistic ethics stand in the way of my story. It’s about time! Bells! get this belt off of me!”

Unable to reach over Sincliar’s substantial stomach, Bells reluctantly cut the belt. Sincliar rolled out of the Ford, righted himself, and rushed to the plane. Bells followed, bumping into a wheezing Sincliar when he stopped to catch his breath at fuselage door. Then Ben Gleck himself extended his hand, and helped Larry aboard.

“You have to stay behind,” Gleck said to Citizen Bells.

“I know.”

“You kept this all quiet?”

“Yes, just like you said.”

“You did a great job, Citizen Bells,” Gleck said, snapping off a quick salute.

“Thank you, sir,” said Bells returning the salute, then clicking his heels, and returning to his car. When he looked back at the plane, the cabin door was shut, and the plane began to taxi out toward the runway.

Larry couldn’t believe his good fortune. Gretel and Ben Gleck. His story would get out to millions. He figured Faux News would pay a lot more than T. ‘Hattrick’ Murphy ever could. Suppressing his giddiness, Larry looked at Gleck and began the negotiations, “So, how is this gonna work? And whats in it for me. The Globe and I have been pretty close. What does Faux News give me, that the Globe can’t?”

Larry leaned back in the wide seat, confident in the tone he had set for bargaining. His polo shirt crept up exposing his hairy navel. Gretel covered her mouth and barely suppressed retching. Larry tugged the shirt back down.

“I’m just covering the story,” an ashen Gretel said. “Ben is the one with the offer.”

Ben leaned over toward Larry, and started to cry. “I love America, Larry. I love the Constitution, and family. I love the amendments, the Bill of Rights, and all that stuff. We have to save this country. We have to save America.”

Suddenly, the engines roared, and the three were thrown back in their seats. The plane shot down the runway. Larry felt the seat push up against his bottom as the plane went airborne. Larry panicked. “Where are we going? What’s going on?”

“Centennial,” Gretel answered. “Centennial, Wyoming. Ben Gleck has a substantial piece of property there. When he stops blubbering, he’ll tell you more.”

“Well, I can’t be gone long. I’ve got a lwa suit to win. You know I’m being sued by that family board game, Parcheesi. It hired Oprah from the law firm of Catsan Doggs. Those two got my distributor to stop printing my books. I can’t afford a lawyer, and now those two have stopped my income. So much for free speech, Gretel.”

“That’s where I can help, Larry,” whimpered Ben Gleck. “The truth has to come out. Your story has to be told. That man hates white people!” Gleck drew his legs to his chest, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and slowly rocked backed and forth, humming “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”.

“Ben is going to publish your book, Mr. Sincliar,” Gretel added. “Ben Gleck is going to publish you book in a big way, bigger than Engram, Rightwing Source, even Doubleday or Random House ever could imagine.” She pulled out a map, unfolding it on Larry’s lap.

“What’s this?” Larry asked.

“This is a map of Wyoming. This is Centennial. This is Centennial Mountain. And this expanse here,” Gretel continued as her fingers moved across the map, “is Centennial Ridge. Ben Gleck bought the entire ridge.”

“I’m sorry, Gretel,” Larry interjected. “I just noticed your hands. Your skin is so brown? I don’t mean to be nosy or anything, but are you part Afro-American?”

Gretel looked at her hands and appeared shocked. Then she said laughing, “Yes, the bottom part!” Before Larry could say anything, she explained, “I’m sorry, Mr. Sincliar. I shouldn’t joke. Truth is, I love sunbathing. I love getting a tan. And I tan very readily, as you can see.” Gretel pulled up a pant leg exposing a shapely bronzed ankle for emphasis. “The network producers don’t want their anchors looking like John Boehner. This is called a ‘Newscasters Tan’. A lot of us at Faux News have them. Check out O’Really’s mitts next time you watch the fucker…Oops, I mean ‘The Factor’”

“Oh,” Larry said thoughtfully, “I never knew that. Makes sense. So, you were saying Ben Gleck bought an entire ridge…”

“Yes, the entire Centennial Ridge,” Gretel went on. “Ben plans on creating a monument like Mount Rushmore. But instead of busts of Presidents like Reagan or Hoover or Bush, he wants to carve the text of your book into the mountain. A monument to the preservation of free speech, he calls it.”

Larry and Gretel turned toward the sound of squeaking wheels expecting to see a beverage cart. Instead of the source of refreshing drinks, he saw a weeping Ben Gleck pushing a rolling chalkboard down the business jet’s narrow aisle. “Don’t stop, Gretel. You’re doing a fine job,” Gleck whimpered.

“Ben Gleck is going to carve my book into the side of a mountain,” Sincliar muttered incredulously.

“Into the side of a mountain ridge,” Gretel corrected.

“My whole book,” Sincliar repeated. “Will the entire book fit on the side of the ridge? It’s a book, you know. It has a lot of words.”

“Ben Gleck doesn’t want to use your buddy Jeff Dense’s introduction. So that gets rid of a lot of words. And your book is set in large type and triple spaced. It’ll easy fit on the ridge. In big tall carved letters. Glen wants you in Centennial today to strike the chisel that starts the first letter of the monument. And I have to cover the event for Faux News,” Gretel wrapped up.

“Will I get paid? I mean I do have this court case. And I don’t have many friends left, friends that will give me lots of cash rather than words of encouragement. Plus, Parcheesi’s gonna try and take the copyright from Sincliar Phublising.”

Ben Gleck sniffled, “Larry, how stupid do you think I am. I am an American. I love copyrights. How can I carve the text of your entire book into the side of a mountain for all Americans to read and see how a Kenyan who hates white people almost destroyed America without paying for that right? Larry, I’m buying Sincliar Phlubising from you at your asking price. One point five…Oh, hell make it two million dollars dollars, Plus, I’ll give you 25% of the gross on the admission fees I plan to charge patriots to view my monument. Deal?”

“Can you put the money in a Cayman account? Can you keep it secret?” Larry inquired.

“Already thought about that. I’ll have to deal with that board game and Oprah, too. My lwayers have already drawn up the papers. It states you sold me SPI for $400.”

“Wait a minute. You said two million just a minute ago,” Sincliar sputtered.

Ben Gleck kicked a duffel bag from under his seat toward Sincliar. “And another two million under the table,” Gleck mewled. “That’s short half a mil, but I’ll get you the rest when we land in Centennial.” Gleck grabbed a blanket from the overhead, and clutched it to his face. He turned and began doodling on the blackboard.

Larry unzipped the duffel, and peeked inside. He was about to pull out a stack of the crisp hundred dollar bills, when Gretel reached down and zipped the duffel shut. “Well, Mr. Sincliar, we don’t have that much time. You’ll be able to count that money any time, but I need some background for this story before we air the chisel ceremony. Can we do an interview?”

“Sure, Gretel,” Larry smiled. He picked up the duffel, and held it tight to his belly like a frightened child would hold his teddy bear. “Where do you want to start?”

They started at the beginning. Sincliar talked about his childhood. Then prison. Then how he went to Chicago and did drugs and hot man-on-man sex with the future President of the United States. He talked about Donald Trump, and how Balack Pajamas had him murdered even though he isn’t dead. He talked about the Obots, and how they broadcast his prison record on the internet. And how they uncovered his active Colorado warrant. And how they’d expose his lies and scams which made getting his truth out so difficult. Finally he arrived at the Parcheesi lwa suit, and how Oprah got Rightwing Source to halt production of his book. He talked about how he had planned to mimeograph a “bootleg” edition of his book to sell. Single spacing and 8 point type meant he could produce the entire book in nine pages. Selling it at ten dollars meant he could get nine bucks back in profit. He could use that to go jet skiing, or parasailing, and maybe get an attorney for the lwa suit. Then finally, how the great Ben Gleck changed everything, but Gretel knew that part.

Gretel closed her notebook as the Gulfstream’s tires screeched at touchdown. Larry was all smiles, in and out of daydreams spending the millions he clutched to his chest.

“Time to go,” Ben Gleck sobbed, pointing to the open door. Larry, in a daze, stood up and headed out the plane. He buried his face in the duffel bag and took a deep whiff. Nylon and money, he thought. He was lost in his reverie as two state policemen headed toward the plane. Larry looked over toward the terminal. Instead of Centennial, he saw Greeley-Weld. Probably the ranchers who donated the airport property, he thought. The engines on the plane whirred louder. Larry turned around. The plane was taxiing away.

In his head, music began to play:

Dum dum DUMdum, Dum dum DUMdum.

A 5/4 tempo.

Then the reeds.

Dah dadah, Dah dadah, Dah dadah, Dadat!

He saw Ben Gleck and Gretel at the windows of the Gulfstream. He watched in horror as they simultaneously grabbed hold of the skin at their necks and stretched it out and upwards, literally peeling it off their faces. Gretel was Afro-American after all, as he suspected, but Gretel wasn’t Gretel. Gretel was JBoulevard of the Obots. Larry’s eyes darted to the other window just as Ben Gleck ripped the silver white crew cut from his skull. Ben Gleck turned to look directly at Larry. Larry cringed. Ben Gleck was the Obot XenonNZ!

“Damn it!” Sincliar shrieked, throwing the duffel to the ground. He dropped to his flabby knees, and ripped open the duffel. He grabbed a stack of bills. Were they real? They looked perfect. aHe was about to scream with joy when he noticed that Ben Franklin had a mustache. Ben Franklin wasn’t Ben Franklin; he was Gallagher. Sincliar threw the bills onto the tarmac in disgust.

“That’s littering, sir,” one of the state troopers said, laying his hand on Larry’s shoulder.

“You want littering; I’ll show you littering,” Sincliar whined defiantly, throwing one stack of bills after another up in the air. The other trooper walked and stood in front of Sincliar.

“Littering is a misdemeanor in Colorado, sir,” The other trooper said politely. “You’ll have to come with us.”

Thanks for the breaking news evie!

<3

August 3, 2010 at 11:27 pm
Larry is whining that he can’t afford an attorney but he is forgetting that he had a chance to cease and desist selling his book…WHICH HE COULD HAVE DONE FOR FREE!

Instead, he said, “HELL, NO!”, knowing full well that meant he would need an attorney for the ensuing lawsuit.

Did he rush out and start looking for an attorney? HELL, NO! He partied with his “good friends” including a dinner cruise, bungy jumping, jet-ski rental, para-sailing and deep sea fishing. He held a barbecue for 28 people in his carport, then the next day went out and cooked a meal for the people who work at the jet-ski rental place.

He frittered away all the money he could have used to hire an attorney and wasted all the time he was allotted to respond to the complaint.

And now, he wants sympathy from the judge because he doesn’t have representation. If I were the judge, I’d say, “HELL, NO!”

http://www.scribd.com/doc/34993757/REPLY-to-opposition-to-motion-re-24-MOTION-for-Default-Judgment-as-to-Defendant-Sinclair-Publishing-Inc-filed-by-DANIEL-PARISI

07/28/2010 [ 31 ] REPLY to opposition to motion re 24 MOTION for Default Judgment as to Defendant Sinclair Publishing, Inc. filed by DANIEL PARISI, WHITE HOUSE COMMUNICATIONS INC., WHITEHOUSE NETWORK LLC, WHITEHOUSE.COM INC.. (Attachments: # 1 Exhibit A, # 2 Exhibit B, # 3 Exhibit C, # 4 Exhibit D, # 5 Text of Proposed Order)(Oparil, Richard) (Entered: 07/28/2

This is Parisi’s response to Amazon’s opposition for Default Judgment on SPI.

REPLY to opposition to motion re 24 MOTION for Default Judgment as to Defendant Sinclair Publishing, Inc. …

Note this from the reply,

Moreover, absent an immediate default judgment, Sinclair and SPI will be able to hide or strip assets and avoid compensating plaintiffs for SPI’s defamatory and other wrongful conduct. Sinclair has publicly disclosed he has “dissolved” SPI in an effort to avoid liability. (Dkt. No. 23 at 3; Exs. A-D). He has also asserted that he personally owns SPI’s copyright in the book in dispute. (Ex. B). Sinclair has written that the copyright on his book, owned by SPI, is for sale. (Ex. C).

Moreover, Sinclair seems to be selling or giving away assets. (Exs. C-D). A default judgment should be entered to preclude SPI and Sinclair from attempting to hide or transfer assets in a blatant attempt to avoid paying compensation to plaintiffs for SPI’s wrongful acts.

Should prove a mildly EXCITING week as the first real answers to the complaint are due.

Will the Judge Leon rule on Parisi’s motion for default judgment against SPI?

Will chicken-shit, dense Jeff Rense be successfully served?

Will Larry retain counsel? ( after all, he complained Oparil would not give him an extra 30 days like the other defendants — this week would have been the deadline on the extra 30 days — where’s the attorney, Larry? )

Stay tuned.