Censorship Rules

I enjoy censoring things. The first time I censored anything I was in kindergarden. I remember it like it was yesterday, because it was. I was sitting next to my best friend Edmonde, and the teacher was all, "Can anyone tell me what four plus seven is?" I couldn't take it. "You can't use words like that in an educational facility," I screamed. The other five year olds joined in. By the end of the day a television crew recorded our teacher being taken away in chains to a federal detention center under the cover of darkness. It was that day that I began to realize that censorship was more than just a good idea; it's a way of life.

I set out at age eighteen with nothing but hopes, dreams, and red tape. I went from city to city, invading the libraries and crossing out parts of books that I didn't like. A few years later I progressed to movies. Remember in Bambi, how his mother died? No she didn't. At least, not in any of the version that I released to the public. The industry tried to stop me on numerous occasions, but failed every time because I have a constitutional right to censor. The children also backed me on this, adding to my credibility as a character witness. That would come in very handy during the intervening trial, in which I was forced to testify against myself. "But your honor," I cried to the judge. "I don't even know who I am! So how could a persona non grata knowingly break the law?" This threw him for a loop. "You don't know who or what you are, you unfortunate creature."

That was when I became a carnie. The jails were all full, so they sent me to carnie camp, where I began my lifelong association with clowns. I love clowns. Not in the classical way, where you'd just sit and laugh at the misfortune of a pathetic fool as he scrambled around in an ice hockey rink looking for his glass eye. No, this was something much more insidious. Something that Abe Lincoln would look down on. I began my descent into the bowels of carnie society with nothing but the highest expectations. But by the time carnie camp had ended, I had no idea what color was up. So then I logged into an instant messenger under someone else's name and messed up their reputation. The fool. I think it was someone named Kevin or Rob or maybe Lumley. Is Lumley even a real name? I have no idea. I'm just the Taker. The Taker of Gist.

Checkmated

The bus stop ground to a halt. This big hulking figure squeezed out from behind the signpost. Despair. He walked right up to me and looked me right in the eyes. I knew that look. "Colonel Chickenpox," I beamed, "do you have any news from the front?" He looked down with a sullen scowl. "No sir!" he barked. "No news is good news!" This wasn't the first time he reported back to me with nothing of strategic import. I've had it up to your face in false status reports. I'm trying to wage effective war here, and Colonel Chickenpox is still operating on a pre-Gist mindset. He doesn't understand that in the game of Chess, you can never let the enemy capture your pawns. Even the lowliest of pawns can one day grow up to be a rook. The rooks are the ones who really hold the power. The queens think they're great, because they can move in any direction, but at the end of the day, who can castle?! Bah! You might as well En Passant a bishop in the study with the candlestick. King me.

But I really have great respect for the Colonel. Back during the sixties, he was the one who flew gold in from the moon. Why do you think no nation has ever gone to the moon since the early seventies? The Colonel did such a good job covering his tracks, no one ever found out about the hidden gold deposits buried just beneath the moon's surface. Oh, over the years there's been speculation, but idle speculation that didn't amount to anything substantial. If it did, you think the Colonel would've let it go at that? Chickenpox is a man not to be messed with, not in the classical sense at least. You can't just look at him sideways and expect to not get a shot in the jaw with his hefty left hook. That was the first mistake I made when I met him. Thought was all razzle, no dazzle. I've never been so happy to be proven wrong.

His grandkids don't like it, though. They know all about his lunar exploits, and how he accrued tons of gold for the government. But are they going to go to the press, to tell the people that they've been lied to for decades? No. They're just in it for the gold, the little grubbers. They even put the Colonel in one of those homes that you see on the news, where the elderly are forced to fend for themselves against bands of rabid dogs and squirrels. That's why I hired him as a security consultant. I didn't really need another strongman, but I couldn't bear to see my old friend rotting away over at Mouldy Acres Retirement Home. Now he's on my payroll, and I let him chase off all the teenage delinquints that he can find. He does enjoy the wheezing sound they make as they run, as most teenagers are now obese. A prince of a man.

I Care Too Much

Take that out of your mouth! You think I go around all day, telling people how to live, because it makes me feel powerful? You bet I do! I care so much about controlling other peoples' lives that I regularly go to the state legislatures with radical proposals to eliminate taxes and rapidly increase spending on social programs. Why would I advocate so strongly for an economic plan that makes no sense? Because I can. Because it's the right thing to do. People don't like giving money away, but they want their government to provide for them. So why not just get the government to hand out free ice cream every week while simultaneously eliminating the taxes required to pay for the ice cream? I broached Congress with this plan last week, and I think they'll pass it. Of course, they won't credit me. I'm not a member of their exclusive Congressional Caucus. Haven't been since the fire.

They still talk about that crazy night. How was I supposed to know that the word "inflammable" meant "flammable"? I don't even speak English! And now I'm just supposed to lie down and accept the fact that my radical tax plan is being sent to the state legislatures? I didn't ask for this kind of responsibility, but now that I have it I must learn to use it wisely. Not to do so would fly in the face of everything I've ever believed in, like the tooth fairy. I just know the tooth fairy is real. All science that disputes this simple fact has already been excised from government records. I can't have that little nugget of information leak, now can I? The people must never learn that magic isn't real, lest they rebel.

Because magic is at the crux of my groundbreaking financial policy. And as president, I promise to uphold those views to within a tolerance of one light-year. Maintaining one's views is a delicate procedure in today's high-powered world of sonic vibrations and skyscrapers and orbital lasers. I have seen many good-minded people rendered inert by the sheer volume of technology. It's not good for morale, and someone like me needs to take care of it. I might as well do it, as I am the Taker of Gist, and my powers are near absolute. No one can doubt my ability to tear apart a bag of chips. You've all seen my do it. I grabbed both ends and ripped it to shreds. Then I ate all the chips without offering any to you. And why should I? You don't need more calories. You all make me want to learn to play the tuba, just so I can make a more accurate elephant noise as you waddle away, back to your domiciles.

Edmonde's Mother

"Mrs. Edmonde, can Edmonde come out to play?" I asked through my ski mask. It was almost ten o'clock in the morning, and Edmonde hadn't come in to work yet, so I decided to go right to the source and tell on him to his mommy. The conversation wasn't flowing as freely as I'd originally hoped, so I had been forced to alter the parameters of my intelligence gathering. When I first arrived, I intended to learn all I could about Edmonde's past and his family history, so I could better coerce him at work to complete his projects. Instead, my every attempt to delve into the depths of Edmonde's psyche were repulsed by his ignorant matriarch.

When I first approached her, she acted like she had no idea who Edmonde was. I was all, "I'm talking about you son, Mrs. Edmonde." And she was all, "I don't have a son. And my last name isn't Edmonde." To which I replied, "Yeah, but I don't know your son's last name, so I'm just going to call you Mrs. Edmonde's mom." Then when she finally admitted that she knew who Edmonde was, she would further entice my rage with her phone calls to the president. I was amazed when I heard her talking directly to the President of Mexico. I was all, "You know Vincente Fox?" And she was all, like, "Know him? I dated him in college." And we talked for an hour about the Fox administration, and how it related to high school football. It started out as a shouting match. I was screaming about how Fox was a great man because he was the first Mexican president since 1910 that wasn't a member of the Institutional Revolutionary Party. She was demanding that I recognize the Beatles as the best football players in history. That's when I lost it. "I'm talking about American football, not soccer!" Then she started hollering about how I had no respect for the game.

So I left, never learning why Edmonde was chronically late for work. I think that tomorrow I shall write an angry letter to the government declaring my independence from them unless they apprehend Edmonde and send him to work in the salt mines. Because that's why we have organized governments. It's not like I'm paying taxes for nothing; I expect a lot more than diminishing returns on my dime and dollar. I'm paying over 300% of my annual income on imports because of high tariffs. You think I can afford it?! If Edmonde could be easily fired, I'd save so much on payroll each year. But I can't just up and fire my own boss; that's how empires get toppled. How can a king rule if the peasants rebel every time a chicken gets misplaced? You need to have proper priorities, and my faults have always been that I care too much about good grooming. I'm just not a people person.

A Horse And A Fish

So this horse was galloping into town one day, and he stops in front of this, like, trough. And there's a fish in the trough, and it's swimming around, and the horse is getting thirsty. So the horse bends down, grabs the fish with its teeth, and throws the thing about half a mile. That's a horse for you, always impersonating a trebuchet. Now, I wouldn't normally waste everyone's time with a simple story of a horse and a fish, especially when no moral is evident. But I assure you, this is a parable with connotations to the business world. Yes, sir, I can tell you that hidden within this nugget of earthly wisdom is the key to your future. Let's examine this, shall we? Sometimes it helps to gain a fresh perspective on these things.

So we start out by looking at the horse. What is the horse's name? The horse wasn't given a name, and therefore he must represent the proletariat. The fish is swimming around in the horse's trough without taking the horse's needs into account, thereby personifying climate change. Now, it's common knowledge that the industrial revolution stemmed from the extreme changes in climate during the 18^th century. I know because I was there, changing the climate. Why would I do that, you ask? Because Catherine the Great wouldn't give me gold! I told her I'd change the climate if the Russian monarchy didn't give me gold to compensate for the Napoleonic wars, but did she believe me?! The answer is apparent, judging by the noxious fumes you're breathing right now.

Anyway, the interpretation of a story such as this is completely dependant on the reader. That's really the best literary device, and Kaiser Wilhelm II agreed with me. But then again, he wasn't a well known historical figure, so I really don't care what he thinks. I mean, Wilhelm is a nice guy and all, but he doesn't pop. He's like a house that's painted white when all the other houses on the block are yellow. If he was painted red or blue or some secondary color, it might make a difference. But if I was to base my current culinary tastes on the flavor of the historical entity, he'd rank dead last on my little taste test. And that's why they call me "The Taker."

Mr. Car

I met this guy on the subway the other day as I was coming home from work. I was all, "Hey, buddy, get out of my way." And he was all, "I don't have to make way for you, for I am a kindred spirit." This left me a little perplexed, but he continued. "I'm a kindred spirit, not with you, but with your car." I exploded, "My car?! You fool, if I had a car, would I be taking the subway?! No, I'd be driving, you half-brained teetotaler!" It was his turn to stand there perplexed. "Oh. Right. Never mind. I was confused there for a second." Then he turned around and started to walk off. I stopped him, and asked if he was all right. I'm a good samaritan sometimes, to make up for my money laundering schemes. It keeps the celestial ledger nice and level.

"No, I'm most positively not all right, in any way, shape, or form," he said. Then he collapsed into a crumpled heap and water started pouring out of his ears. It was the creepiest thing I've ever seen in my life, like out of some science fiction horror film. Staring Tom Cruise as a constable on the wrong side of the law. But after the strange man evaporated, I got a good look at the clothes and wallet that remained. His name was Augustus Car, which is probably why he felt he was a kindred spirit with my car. People's last names mean so much more than we'd like to think.

For example, this morning on my way to work, I saw this guy in the street acting out a scene from some Shakespeare play. Most likely MacBeth, as he was covered in green goo. And when I asked him his last name, he said "My last name, my good sir, is Westpaulexeterbythingstein." I mean, is that even a real name?! But if he wasn't totally bluffing me, then it's the perfect Shakespeare name. Shakespeare was a close personal friend of mine, and even helped me get elected King of France after the storming of the Bastille. You know why they called it Bastille? Because Bastille was my dog's last name. That's right, I named a famous French city after my dog. Big whoop. Wanna fight about it? I thought not. Coward. Shakespeare never even tried to fight me. He knew he was outmatched after the first time I made him cry "uncle" on a crowded street in the middle of London. This was post-plague, in case you can't keep up at home.

Night Of The Sunbeams

I awoke with a start. Someone was downstairs, messing with my stereo. Who would break into my house just to mess with my stereo? Why not just take it? Then it all became clear to me. My worst foe must be trying to plant wire taps on my stereo! But who was my worst foe? Could it be Edmonde, that foolish Gist mill worker who I dispise so much? No, couldn't be. He was in Canada this week, on a conference call. Then I began to think back on all the times Colonel Chickenpox took me to the zoo as a child. There was always that one hideous creature who hated me, the koala bear.

And sure enough, as soon as I lumbered down the stairs, a whole family of koala bears scattered off into the night. Nothing burns my biscuits more than koala bears. They've always hated me, ever since that time back at the zoo when I refused to turn over my popcorn. But now, to bug my phones? I only have one landline, and I can't stand to lose it. It's my window to the world! So I worked up the courage to go all the way to the koala's homeland, Australia. I flew all the way to Canberra, where I demanded an audience with the Prime Minister. He and I go way back. I helped him move.

So I was bustin' some rhymes with the Prime Minister of Australia, and I was all, "So you're in your third term. How's that working out?" And he was all, "Don't talk about that now. It's after six o'clock, I don't have to worry about all that. Besides, I'm on my fouth term." That got my boiling under the coller. "John, I'm about to lose my mind! Give me one reason I shouldn't tell your mom you've been stealing bicycles!" But he apologized, so I left it at that and we just spent the night jamming. Then I told him about my little koala problem, and he gave me some anti-Eucalyptus juice. "Just pour it around your property," he shouted between the drum-beats, "and you'll never see another koala bear! Trust me, I hate them just as much as you do!" And from that day on, I never saw another marsupial.

Bride Of Edmonde

Yes, it was Edmonde's wedding today. Good show, mate. We've had our differences over the years, but when the rice starts flying, it's game over. Yes, it was a marvelous day- that is, of course, hinged on the fact that Edmonde exists at all. And if he did exist, then it certainly was a good time. We had cake and parfait, and I was the best man. Yeah, Edmonde finally swallowed his pride and asked me to be the one to hold the ring. That's when I got the idea for the best prank ever.

I secretly ran over to Burger King right before the ceremony, and bought a whopper jr. along with a side order of chili and a bag of onion rings. While the minister was reading off the standard vows, I chewed extremely loudly. Half the procession stopped to stare at me. "How inconsiderate," I heard them whisper. If only they knew what I had in store for the happy couple... yes, just a little longer, I told myself. Soon Edmonde would be repaid for all his little indiscretions on the job.

So anyway, when it came time to exchange rings, I handed Edmonde one of the onion rings I bought earlier. You know, the bag of onion rings I got at Burger King? I told you all this. You need to keep up. So I gave him the onion ring, and he was all, "ha ha, this isn't funny. Give me the ring." So I was all, "Oh, Edmonde! I had no idea I gave you an onion ring! Here, let me get the expensive wedding ring you were planning to give you-" and then I drop-kicked that guy. Right on the alter. His whole family got up and started screaming, but by then I was a mile away. I'm a star athlete. The fool, he never saw it coming. Drop-kicked at his own wedding. A fate befitting a fool who would defy the Taker of Gist. I guarantee.

Cooking With Danger

Frying up a hot batch of deep-fried chicken is a lot harder to do these days. Ever since the poultry worker rebellion of 1958, it's nigh impossible to export beef at reasonable rates. This fluctuates the market, driving up the price of chicken cutlets. Now, I'm not one to eat more than I can, but sometimes I get a hankering for a chicken cutlet parmesan. Where in the world can I buy such a delightful treat? It makes for a very satiating meal, that chicken cutlet. Ever wonder where we'd be if not for the chicken farmer?

I have. That's why I ran a cost-projection analysis for the department of the interior a few years ago. They were measuring the impact the loss of chicken farming would have on the American public, and I just had to add my two cents. You should know, you were there. Don't think I didn't see you shuddering in the corner, trying to get the stench of chicken off your clothes. We've all got a little chicken on us. But as long as you're my assistant, I expect nothing less than total perfection. I'm not paying you to goldbrick.

Anyway, the most important asset we've got is chicken. So I told the secretary of the interior, and I quote, "You can't do away with chicken farming! It's all we've got!" But that secretary had no way to know if I was telling the truth or not. You've got to take some things at face value, but you've also got to know when to dig deeper. The fool had no idea. So after we managed to get our pro-chicken agenda through Congress, we all had a big party. I didn't invite Colonel Chickenpox, as he was staunchly anti-chicken. I swore that if he showed up uninvited, I would call his grandchildren and tell then where he was. They've been looking for him for some time now, and I just want to be a good samaritan. Always looking out for the little guy, that's me.