No Men=No Maids

You're aware, I assume, that there exist very real threats to our livelihood. We're surrounded on all fronts by faces of terrorists and journalists; war criminals and rock music critics. And trust me, they are cut from the same cloth. Their intent is to instill fear and self-doubt. They have chosen to destroy rather than create. They are instigators.
What is our reaction—Do we negotiate? Do we panic? Do we hide up in our hidey-holes with our lil' hidey-blankets, calling up imaginary hidey-friends on imaginary hidey-phones?

Don't be ridiculous. We build missile laser defense shields. It's what the big boys do.
How else to make sure that those ne'er-do-wells are kept outside our nation's borders? And for those of you worrying about your own private borders, this tech tree trickles down to consumer products like Illegal-Immigration-Laser-Defense-Shield, Unwarranted-Wiretapping-Laser-Defense-Shield and Definitely-Not-A-Recession-Probably-Laser-Defense-Shield. All pocket-sized, on-the-go like. Which brings us back to the age-old equation:

X + Y = (^_^)

In which X = Tax Dollars
Y = Flagrant Government Spending
(^_^) = Cool Gadgets For Me To Buy

Even with all of these precautions, the breakdown in security starts with the introduction of the human element. How else to explain this recent lapse in protocol, that another article of DemoWAR contraband has been discovered on the premises? A bootlegged song à la Meredith DiMenna, no less. This is disquieting.

A_Man_Needs_A_Maid.mp3

I've got no choice left but to slowly shake my head in consternation. I try to tell you men that this stuff is dangerous - you don't listen. I tell you that you're furthering the breakdown of our puritanical society - you label me a paranoid old coot. These pirate broadcasts offer nothing more than empty promises! Trust me - there are no women coming to visit you in the wee hours, bearing gifts of sonorous song and bountiful bosom. There are no maids coming to make your meals or tuck your sheets under your chin like mommy used to do. There is only a progressive weakening of your manlinesses, resulting in a feminization of the entire corps.

The truth is when you bunk down, listening to these...these "records," our squad of MACHO Operatives (Muscle Atrophy CHecker-Outers) is sneaking into your dormitories with calipers—big, shiny calipers—to sure your muscles aren't atrophying. But it turns out they are atrophying, like bananas in the sun.
Imagine you took a bicep and hollowed it out, but instead of all that bicepy stuff, you replaced it with gummy-bear gummy-stuff. And now that the temperature has hit 90°, the melty-gummy-stuff is trickling out of your pores like high-fructose sweat. So here you are stuck to your clothes, your copy of Jet magazine, a nearby picnic table and oh look, it won't be long before bees arrive. Oh god, the bees!*


So let that be a lesson learned. No golden radio voice will save you from the horrors of sticky magazines. Wait, that came out wrong. ...damnit!


*...and the horseflies! Whence these plagues were visited upon us?!

We Emerge Victorious!

Two months ago, staffers at DemoWar HQ undertook a huge... um, undertaking. Our goal was to unite all the countries of the world (read: all God-fearing, freedom-loving countries,) in peaceful harmony. Well it seems this ground was well-trod, and so we adjusted. You do what people do, which is fail. Then you reassess, place some blame, and you better damn well adapt or die. Darwinism. Get on board, or be left in that murky tank with the coelacanth.

As a result, our already irregular posting schedule slowed to a deathly halt. Our new, revised task seemed daunting. It was of such magnitude that the whole HQ was uprooted and forced to go underground - a subterranean side-quest, if you will, that took us on a trip to the coldest place on the planet.

Burbank, CA

From the frosty North, we commenced drilling our new International Subterranean Pipeline, and now that it has been completed, with minor hiccups, setbacks, and just a couple of flipper babies, we are back ONLINE. Now I'm sure you're wondering, "DemoWar, this seems like a lot of power for one entity to hold. What exactly are you using said pipeline for?"

Well, we just wanted to have it, okay? But since you ask, we could use it for anything. We could send medicine to people in aid... Beam NATO liaisons abroad at a moment's notice... Obtain DNA information for every citizen on the pla-
Listen. There are automated shuttle-cars, you see, and jetpack dispensaries. Fiber optics are involved, somehow. Rails have been greased, as have palms. The world is our oyster, though try to imagine an oyster being tunneled through by thousands of tiny, tiny ants.

And their ant-jetpacks.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves, here, and I've said too much. All you, the citizen—the loyal, law-abiding citizen—need to know is that this project has taken years off my life. So many years, in fact, that I find myself prone to bouts of buffoonery, chicanery and the general fuddruckery that comes with old age, leaving myself open to bad jokes and word plays like THIS:
Old_Man.mp3

Album art takes a backseat this week.

Get it? I feel OLD. The song has the word "Old" right in the title! And if anyone asks, no one here knows nothing about no severed underseas cables. Capice? Now who wants some hard candy? Peanut brittle? Sour balls?