This episode of Blogsmoke first ran seven years ago today.
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SOUND: MODEM CONNECTING FADES UP TO FULL MIKE—SINGLE SHOT—RICHOCHET
MUSIC: UP AND UNDER—RECORDED—CUT 1
ANNOUNCER: (VOICE OVER MUSIC) Around Twitter Town and in the territory of the net—there’s just one way to handle the harassers and the stalkers—and that’s with an Internet Sheriff and the smell of “BLOGSMOKE”!
MUSIC: THEME HITS: FULL BROAD SWEEP AND UNDER—RECORDED—CUT 2
ANNOUNCER: “BLOGSMOKE” starring W. J. J. Hoge. The story of the trolling that moved into the young Internet—and the story of a man who moved against it. (MUSIC: OUT)
JOHN: I’m that man, John Hoge, Internet Sheriff—the first man they look for and the last they want to meet. It’s a chancy job—and it makes a man watchful … and a little lonely.
MUSIC: MAIN TITLE—RECORDED—CUT 3
JOHN: It wasn’t that long ago that The Grouch had to haul himself up to Westminster to a show cause hearing for contempt of court. He had continued to violate a peace order, and I decided that the best approach would be to treat it as a civil matter and let the Circuit Court enforce its own order rather than involve the District Court via one or more criminal charges. The judge took the matter under advisement after the hearing.
With contempt pending, you’d think that The Grouch would have been trying to be careful, that he would have gone out of his way to avoid contacting me or harassing me.
INVESTIGATOR: (Telephone Filter) (Fading in) … doesn’t make any sense. I agree. However, we have to follow up with a formal complaint filed.
JOHN: I understand. You’re just doing your job.
INVESTIGATOR: (Telephone Filter) I appreciate your cooperation. I believe I have everything I need for now. Can you think of anything I’ve missed?
JOHN: No. You can pick up most of those documents from the Circuit Courthouse. I’ll put together a zip file of the others and email them to you, but it may take until tomorrow morning to get some of the files from backup storage.
INVESTIGATOR: (Telephone Filter) There’s no great rush. The Clerk’s office won’t be open over the weekend, and Monday’s a holiday. It’s not as if he’s contacting you directly at the moment.
JOHN: OK, but I’ll try to get it done before I forget.
MUSIC: SCENE BUMPER MUSIC—RECORDED—CUT 4
ANNOUNCER: It’s been cold. Really cold. The overnight low last night was below zero, and the high today was well below freezing. Tonight’s not supposed to be much warmer. On days like this, I’m glad to have my Team Lickspittle Hoodie as an extra layer of warm clothing. It and other Team Lickspittle items are some of the goodies exclusively available for you to spend your hard-earned cash on at The Hogewash Store. Stop by today, and spend some cash to support Team Lickspittle. You can also show your support by hitting the Tip Jar.
MUSIC: SCENE BUMPER MUSIC—RECORDED—CUT 5
JOHN: It turned out that The Grouch decided that he could resume contacting me.
SOUND: Door knocker. Footsteps. Door opened.
JOHN: Come in.
SIMPSON: I’m Deputy Simpson. This my partner Deputy Willis.
JOHN: Come on in to the kitchen. I’ve got the stuff for you in there.
SOUND: Door closed. Footsteps.
SIMPSON: (Over footsteps) Dispatch said this had to do with a peace order.
JOHN: That’s right. Here, have a seat.
SOUND: Chairs pulled out.
JOHN: I’ve got everything laid out for you in this file.
SIMPSON: Uh, huh.
JOHN: The first sheet is a copy of the peace order for your reference. The next is the email he sent me.
SIMPSON: OK. What are the next couple of pages?
JOHN: The next two are tweets he sent admitting to sending the email.
WILLIS: Are those from your account or his?
SIMPSON: And the rest of this?
JOHN: That’s contact information for people doing related investigations.
WILLIS: We’ll write this up and present it to the State’s Attorney.
SIMPSON: Of course, we’ll pass along what you’ve given us to CID.
JOHN: Thanks, guys.
MUSIC: CLOSING TITLE UP AND UNDER—RECORDED—CUT 6
ANNOUNCER: (VOICE OVER MUSIC) Even with a good imagination, we can’t come up with stories as strange as The Grouch and his buddies provide for episodes of “BLOGSMOKE”!
MUSIC: SWELL AND CONTINUE TO MUSIC OUT
ANNOUNCER: The Legal Department wishes the following declaimer read: “‘BLOGSMOKE’ is a work of fiction. Anyone who feels it might be about him should read Proverbs 28:1.”
This is LBS, the Lickspittle Broadcasting System.
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Contact information for people doing related investigations.
A western-style saloon in Maryland? Swinging doors at the entrance, sawdust and peanut shells on wooden floors. A piano sits in the corner. Oil lamps with wicks; and those are not a easy thing in a state like Maryland with Maryland-type laws. But hey! It’s the NorthEast so once in a blue moon things slip through cracks. And zoning laws. For the right amount of money.
Jim Comey is behind the bar running a cloth through any number of glasses. Some are beer glasses. And some are not. Behind the bar. Get it? Yeah, well if you don’t, just check your 302. Oh right- YOUR 302 doesn’t matter. Only theirs does.
Alex Vindman, Brett Kimberlin and Hunter Biden walk into a bar. This bar.
They pull up to a table towards the back. Important that you can see everything in front of you. Scott Harvath and Mitch Rapp know stuff like this. The Deep State, also, teaches stuff like this at what they call, ’The Farm’ in Virginia. For now. Deep State now KNOWS their training facility is at risk because newly-elected Governor Youngkin shows early appearances of actually following through on issues important to Republican voters. This is unprecedented for a Republican politician. Contrasted with Abbott. For example.
There is another.
Even the very wise cannot see all ends. One must hope. Place campaign donations and poll results accordingly.
While taking their seats, Hunter lights up a cigarette; crack pipe tucked safely in his shirt pocket. BCK contemplates pulling the blunt out of his shirt pocket but decides not because he’s still wearing his mask. But, know this- Brett’s mask is printed, in fairly large very very readable letters, ‘Justice Through Liberal Whales Project’. Style comes with a cost. Not that Brett is a believer, but, well you know- Appearances count in the non-profit game. And it’s a fatty. The blunt, that is. Not his mask.
A corona-virus floats in to the bar. Comes in right through the space between the 2 swinging doors at the entrance. See’s Bretts’ mask and thinks, “If I was a mosquito THAT would be a chain-link fence. Think I’ll just mosey on over.” NOTE: The Coronavirus ‘thinks’ in Chinese so I did the translation for you all. You’re welcome.
Vindman starts off, “Guys, we gotta’ get started on this Ukraine mess. Need a full-court press on getting Biden to go to war for a country where the US has no interests. Democracy, sexy, whiskey! And democracy. Mostly democracy. And maybe batches of small unmarked bills. Large batches. If we do this right. That’s what I’d like to propose as a starting point.”
Hunter raises his head while looking through thoroughly bloodshot eyes and mumbles, “Is there 10% somewhere in there? For the Big Guy? If not, and at minimum, what about 5-figure consulting fees? Monthly. At minimum. And can anyone here explain why people keep yelling ‘4473’ at me? Is that a lottery number or something?”
The piano starts up. Camptown Ladies. As you might suspect. Ah, the classics- Hey! It’s Chuck Schumer at the piano!!! Sounds tinny, but- How cool is that? Bartender Comey drops a glass. Which shatters. On the wood floor. Comey then splits a infinitive to change up the choppy writing here.
Vindman loosens his tie. “Hunter, there’s time to figure out the fine print later. Right now, let’s stay focused on a imminent invasion that will crush everything right and good in this world. Plus or minus grift and advantage for progressive causes. Nothing Orange here.”
Brett’s thinking, “If I could JUST become the sole purveyor of Tovex to the Ukraine market…. “
Pushes his chair back. “Guys, I gotta’ hit the head. And make a phone call. Or several. Be right back. Order me a ayahuasca cocktail; no lime and no salt. How about we order some shrooms?”
Schumer starts playing ‘Blue Bayou’; sounds tinny.
Vindman becomes annoyed. “Guys, we need to focus here.” Brunette chick (sorry, I’m a certain age) flounces in wearing a cheerleader uniform. And a Florida tan. And plops down into Brett’s vacant chair. It’s Alexandria Ocasio Cortez! Hunter leers.
Hunter slobbers, “Yo yo yo, Sandy BABY! What up gurrrlll? Long time no see. Wasn’t it only this morning in the Oval Office? Or was it two days ago? Or was it 6 months ago?” AOC giggles. She pulls the cocktail napkin from under Brett’s ayahuasca to fix her lipstick. The order of shrooms hasn’t arrived yet.
More people walk into the bar. A gaggle of DC judges with their arms around DC prosecutors. Something, something and “… January 6.” Followed by laughter. Lots of laughter. Off-duty FBI management pulls its table over puts the two together. FBI agents join; lest you think the problem is management only. Ray Epps, wearing a apron, with a pencil poised over his order pad, strolls over and says “Guys, I’m here to take your orders.” The table explodes in laughter. Amid much backslapping Ray pulls up a chair.
Brett comes back. “Since when did explosives become so expensive? Is everything this expensive? Grass isn’t. Except for the West Coast where prices are propped artificially high by local governments trying to rake in taxes…. But here? In the East? Free markets! Free of government price-distortion. Know what I’m saying?” The table ignores Brett.
He notices AOC in his chair. Is she canoodling with Hunter? Ah, she’s wearing pigtails. Mmmmm…. Brett grabs another chair.
Schumer is playing ‘Blue Danube’; sounds tinny. The piano-
Vindman is getting increasingly animated, “Dammit! We have to move forward! Putin isn’t playing beanbag! Need more Javelin missiles. Many more. Do we need somebody with more mojo? We could call…”
Schumer pauses, stops playing ‘Blue Danube’, because…
The lights in the saloon dim. Output from the oil lamps drops by 3/4. Outside the entrance swinging doors… clouds move in quickly, smoke rises from the East, and even the sunlight outside dims.
Brett’s thinking, “If I could JUST become the sole purveyor of Javelins to the Ukraine market…. “
Pushes his chair back. “Guys, I gotta’ hit the head. And make a phone call. Or several. Be right back. Order me a kale-Mahalo-Primo top-shelf cocktail; no lime and no salt. Ask for some Doritos.”
Comey, from behind the bar yells, “DON’T! Do NOT mention she who’s name can NOT be mentioned!”
Too late. Faintly. Ever so faintly, drums sound in the deep- A raven alights.
Hunter looks up while AOC is massaging his shoulders asking, “Hillary? Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king. Besides, last I heard she’s riding a high-speed broomstick in geo-synchronous orbit over DC (longtime fans know this is a recurring plot point). When Mayor Bowser painted ‘Black Lives Matter’ in the street it enabled said witch to hold position without GPS. GPS, which Vladimir himself pointed out was a health hazard. And I’m proud that he and Xi paid me the consulting gig which got our Dem Congress to shut down GPS in DC. Because, National Security…. Health. And stuff.”
AOC jumps in his lap, “TMI baby. TMI.” The lights come back up. Clouds clear. Drum volume decreases; but they’re still there. And will be. Until, roughly, October 2024. Plus or minus. Lest you think we’re out of the woods. Nope. Not yet. Not for a while. Waters are being tested, hats eyeballed for rings and polls. Lots of polls.
Schumer, at the piano, starts playing ‘Blue Skies’. Sounded better by the Allman Brothers; way less tinny. But. Bar room pianos. What ya’ gonna’ do?
Nancy Pelosi walks in. Immediately joins the J6 judges, prosecutors and FBI Guys. Much rejoicing! Kevin McCarthy, Republican Minority Leader walks in. Immediately joins the J6 judges, prosecutors, Pelosi and FBI Guys. Much rejoicing! Their table gets increasingly loud. Raucus, even.
Joe Kent stands across the street. Watching. Through the window. Watching. MTG walks up behind Joe. Bill Melugin has his guy filming the sidewalk scene plus what’s going on inside while he dials up Tucker.
Bernie Sanders ambles in and joins the Pelosi table. He shouts, “Drinks on the house!” Confident he’s not the one who will pay Bernie basks in adulation as the entire bar erupts. Bill Schmalfelt walks in and
EDITOR: :NO. In accordance with the Krendler Accords, w, you may not use him as a trope because he has fulfilled demands to withdraw from internet life. The guy is no longer public. You shall not write. “
w: “Who you calling a trope? Dammit. I’ve half a mind to go to the New York Times where they allow more freedom for the left kind of thinking! Or the Huffington Post! Slate! I’ve got options!”
EDITOR: “Yes. You’ve amply demonstrated you have half a mind. Just try it. Jackass. Better go back and read the contract Krendler had you sign to take the monkeys. Your agent has read it. Best you go talk to him, M4, if you have questions.”
Dozen K-street lobbyists walk in and sit down. They order whiskeys. And beers. Whatever Bernie doesn’t cover expense accounts will. Bill Kristol and Jonah Goldberg handle approvals- And will ensure payment.
Half-dozen NYTimes reporters, followed by 27 WaPo reporters walk in, too, and they all join the Facebook execs sitting closer to the swinging doors. Twitter, Amazon and Google execs join up over the next hour. It’s a big table because it’s a big club. You’re not in it. And I’m not either. Reporters order pink squirrels and the California guys order bottled water. All of them look admiringly towards the Pelosi table hoping to catch the attention of anyone at her table.
Brett comes back. “Why the hell won’t Raytheon or Lockheed take a call from me?” Pushes AOC off Hunter’s lap and grabs him by the lapels. On Hunters’ t-shirt. Heated discussion ensues. Lapels on a t-shirt with holes in it? Yes. Ah’m rollin’, Wyatt.
Schumer seques into ‘Am I Blue?’ as Liz Warren walks in (insert Indian joke here).
The saloon is getting rowdy. Comey reaches under the bar for a sawed-off shotgun. Sawed-offs illegal in Maryland, you say? Oh, please. Isn’t everything? Illegal in Maryland that is? Except for lying in court. And if you don’t know by now there’s two sets of rules, depending upon who you are, then I can’t help you. Just ask the FBI. Or the DC Capitol police. Or the ATF (may they burn in Hell). Keep on keeping on… voting. By the way, how’s that martial law thing going up in Canada?
Anybody besides me ever notice you’ve never seen Emperor Palpatine and Soros in the same photo at the same place at the same time? Coincidence, I’m sure. Coincidence. Klaus Schwab, on the other hand- Also: Y’all heard Dinesh D’Souza has a new movie coming out?
Brett pushes Hunter out of his chair. The Pelosi table gets even louder as they celebrate. The reporters start to scream like little girls (no offense; it’s just what they do). Things are getting out of hand.
Comey racks his shotgun from behind the bar top and then fires into the ceiling. The crowd pauses. And then-
The sound of footsteps. Measured footsteps by hard-ridden (many miles, many moons and many courts) hobnailed boots clatter on the wood floor outside the swinging doors at the entrance to the saloon.
Declination is the angle between the sun and the horizon and in this particular instance at this particular time…. The sun completely backlights the stranger strolling through the doors.
Spielberg, Lucas and Soderbergh, all sitting together quietly in a corner, notice the effect. Like it. “Note to self,” each of them thinks. To himself.
Somewhere, Clint Eastwood smiles.
One more step and the stranger’s inside. Brett recognizes the The Internet Sheriff instantly. Scrabbles quickly, at a low crawl, toward the exit at the back of the saloon- Live to fight another day. And to sue. To appeal. Perchance to dream.
Stranger looks over the room. Watchful. A little lonely-
Soft southern draw, which you wouldn’t expect to hear in a mid-Atlantic state:
“Ah’m your huckleberry.”
For Brett: This is satire. Don’t sue me. You can tell because you know I can’t translate Chinese.
For Maryland: Get out and see other parts of the country. Free state of Florida, maybe?
For Pelosi: This is satire. Don’t send the FBI or the Capitol Police after me.
For Comey: This is satire. Don’t send the DOJ after me.
For Schumer: Here’s $10; take some lessons.
For Vindman: Talk is cheap. Grab a rifle.
For Hunter: Party on, DUDE!
For Heavy D: All our hopes and dreams…
For Corona virus: Tì wǒ xiàng xi wènhǎo
For AOC: Will you go to the Prom with me?
For J6 Judges and Prosecutors: Resign. Filthy anti-American scum.
For McCarthy: Bite me, you California RINO you-
For Schmal…: EDITOR, “No means NO!”
For the reporters: Always check your email first thing to get daily DNC talking points. No slipping!
For the Tech Execs: Sow, mid-terms, reap. Except McCarthy, but maybe-
For Bernie: Can’t get something for nothing. Not that’s stopped the Fed Reserve, but-
For Bill and Jonah: Yep. Getting rid of the crassness and mean tweets was worth it. As if.
For WaPo: Hire Brit Hume.
For Slate: Hire Whoopi.
For Klaus: You’ll own nothing and be happy! In Europe, maybe.
For Soros: Gu kibum kelkum-ishi, burzum-ishi. Akha-gum-ishi ashi gurum.
For Canadians: Our heart is with you!
For FBI: How do you live with yourselves? Seriously.
For Lockheed: Elon’s coming.
For Raytheon: See above. And learn while you still have time.
For ATF: I meant it. Every damn word.
For Dinesh: Break a leg. Looking forward to seeing what you have.
For Palpatine: Democracy dies in the darkness. And spaaace… is very cold.
For Spielberg, Lucas and Soderbergh: I have a screenplay and… Call me?
For Clint: I ain’t got the words.
For The Internet Sheriff: Thanks for putting up with me. Take out what you need to.
Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen.