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Who is the Shadowy Figure behind the
PEOPLES' PROVISIONAL DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC
of DIEGO GARCIA?
Humble Beginnings: My Dad was a Sergeant in the USAF at the time I was born. Dad, Mom, and I lived happily together in the trailer you see here. That's me in the swing.
After high school, I was drafted. My test scores were pretty high, so they gave me the choice of participating in the CIA's top-secret LSD experiments, or the DOE's top-secret above ground nuclear testing program. Naturally, having graduated from the great State of California's public school system, I volunteered for the drug program. Here I am, listening to a fire extinguisher, while my fellow soldiers contemplate their inner thoughts and fantasies, and a cow skull.
After I hitchhiked back to civilization, the US government realized I had falsified a social security number, and otherwise tried to get around various laws and procedures to avoid going back to the Army. The judge gave me the choice of a couple decades in someplace NOT like Lompoc, or joining the Marines. Well, the Army hadn't been so bad, so I figured, what they hell, I'll be a Marine!
After I got back from that war, I was recruited by the Republican National Committee for a job as a plumber. I completely misunderstood - I thought they wanted me to build a latrine or something. So here I am doing the best I could with the materials at hand.
Well, that job didn't last much longer than the Presidency, so I re-enlisted and was assigned to a special Recon outfit and sent to wreak havoc behind the lines during our support of the Republic of Tuva in it's unsuccessful revolt against the old USSR. Here I am with local partisans taking pot shots at a Russian tank convoy with a musket.
Not being interested in a radical vasectomy and beheading, which I had watched him perform on inattentive cult members all those years before, I signed on as a mercenary with the Kyrgyz S.S.R. Here's me as a commie stooge (although I never met the other two):
Eventually I escaped by walking to Nepal across the Himalayas, and from there hired a junk to take me down the river to Rangoon where I caught a tramp steamer back to Vancouver and then slipped across the border into Washington State, where I learned to play guitar from Kurt Cobain's father. I was never very good. But neither was Nigel Cobain. Or Kurt, really. But this was back when you could still smoke in Seattle, so it was o.k.
One day my Dad, who by then was Chief of Staff of the US Air Force stopped in at the coffee shop where I was playing for tips and said, "Son, it's time you got a hair cut and got a real job. So I'm promoting you to Lieutenant and sending you to pilot training." Since I wasn't making a whole lot in tips, I thought that I might be up for a new adventure, so I got a pair of those cool teardrop sunglasses and learned to fly.
After a terrible accident in which several Juperterians were horribly disfigured by an out of control falcon and had to crash land in New Mexico, I decided it would be in my best interest to use my newfound skill to go to the most remote place on earth. More remote that even the Kyrgyz S.S.R., Montana, or South Thaibodia. So one day, my squadron scheduler sent me out there. To Diego Garcia.
I stayed in charge until the public forgot all about New Mexico and spaceships. When the next guy's plane broke down, I got him drunk and left him in my place.
After that, I took a sabatical, and became an iguana farmer in Panama. Eventually I had to give it up because my iguanas ate all the marijuana growing in the neighboring fields, and the drug lords told me to "Get out gringo, just go. While you still can." I was sorry to leave, because those iguanas seemed so happy on my farm, and I was too.
After that, I started playing guitar for tips again, but without the same success I had before. All those years of smoking ruined my voice, precluding me from winning a Grammy. But I loved show business, so I became a talk radio personality. That only lasted a couple months, basically because nobody in those days wanted to hear about those 2 guys in the cave in Montana, and that was about all I ever talked about. You know, the ones who showed up in Tuva later on.
Here's the way I saw it: The mass of bureaucrats who had made all the institutional mistakes that got my good ol' USA in the 9-11 mess were replaced with gung-ho types at first, but after a year or two, the 'crats came back from their caves with their lawyers, took over all the government agencies again and bogged down the whole process of winning against a terrible and determined enemy.
Here I am with a couple of the guys who had a part in keeping us in the Stans and SWA longer than we were in WWII. Not shown are their minions, who are about as capable as the ones from Titan, being able to type and all. Only they can speak English and create PowerPoint presentations, which makes them doubly dangerous.
Of course, I foolishly said things like that out loud. So they transfered me to a job checking the parking meters on the main drag in Fallujah. Here I am looking for my ticket book to give this IED laden truck a ticket for illegal parking. Back in the day, we would have blown it to hell when it drove up but by the time this picture was taken, we'd been restricted to issuing parking tickets, unless the bomb went off, in which case we'd ask around to see if any of the neighbors (who might still be alive) had seen anything suspicious earlier. Personally I liked it a lot better when my choices were acid or nukes.
Eventually we all figured I should retire, so that's about all there is to tell of my life's story. If you want to contact me, have at it. If you stop by, I'll let you buy me and my dog a beer. Did I ever mention that we really like beer?
Copyright 2009 by Ted A. Morris, Jr.