[this is a prerecorded message.]
It is my pleasure to be addressing you as one of the greatest American patriots since Benjamin Franklin. My friends, as I record these final words to you, you friends of mine, I am about to embark on a mission on which I shall risk life and limb in a foreign land, in the name of the fiery red, the unflinching blue, and the mildly threatening white. Also, I shall be risking said things for you dear friends, as well as for Uncle Sam, mom, apple pie, and even lemon meringue pie. I don’t even like lemon meringue, but it’s a personal favorite of the Minister of Finance, so I threw it in as a favor to him. That’s how much of a patriot I am. But you, good friends all…I could not leave without an explanation of my prolonged absence. And so, most friendly of all friends…here it is.
About a week ago, I was contacted by the Dictator of the United States of America. No, you’ve never heard of him…I hadn’t either before that point. He finds it necessary to keep a low profile. The following is a recount of our telephone conversation. Nonsense words are substituted for expletives, for the weak-hearted amongst you. The identity of the Dictator will remain unspoken in this narrative, for obvious reasons.
So, he gets on the line and says, “Hello. This is George S. Patton.”
“Wait, what did you say your name was?” I questioned.
“George S. Patton,” replied our mystery man.
“Did you say George S. Patton?”
“Yes, you hearing-impaired son-of-a-quindipuddly! I said George S. Patton!”
“Why did you call yourself George S. Patton?”
“Because my dinglewhomping name is George S. Patton. That’s why I said George S. Patton.”
“Are you, George S. Patton, in any way related to the George S. Patton of World War II fame?”
“I *am* the George S. Patton of World War II fame.”
“But the George S. Patton of World War II fame died in a car accident. He’s deceased. Defunct. Bereft of life.”
“So how can I be talking to him on the phone?”
“Are you not the Craig M. J. Marinaro of WBC fame?”
“Yes, ma’am. Duh, sir.”
“And did not the Craig M. J. Marinaro of WBC fame die several months ago from starvation?”
“Now listen here, Marinaro. I know you’re only pretending to be dead. And I know why. Your deep dark secret.”
“You mean, you know—”
“That it was *you* in the knight armor at David Copperfield’s house at 4:33 AM on that cold November morning? Yes.”
“I know everything that goes on in this country.”
“You know how every major street in America seems to have at least four or five nail salons on it, even though they seem to do absolutely no business?”
“But…how? Duh, I mean—yes?”
“Well, those salons are actually top-secret government spy stations.”
“Keen! I always knew it was something like that. And howabout those realty places that pop up every other block?”
“Shut the floopelhop up and listen to me, you twinglejaded sack of quartinglome! Now listen…I can keep secrets.”
“Oh, really? That’s great
, ’cause I’ve got some really juicy gossip right off the grapevine, and I’ve been dying to tell someone! Apparently, back in 1991, Paul Reubens walked into a movie theater and—”
“Shut your nurkle-hole and pay attention, soldier! I can keep a secret…if you agree to do me a little…favor. You see, I’ve been controlling this country from a secret fortress under the Pentagon ever since my staged ‘death’ in 1945. That Democracy hoddleblog is just a cover-up—this is *MY* show! Here’s the problem…despite my kwanshloopingest efforts, I haven’t been able to get a war going with those lakwapwomping Rooskies. Now, let’s cut through the tree-hole. You want me dead. Everyone who knows I’m really in charge wants me dead.”
“Actually, I like you better than President B—”
“You want me dead.”
“I want you dead.”
“I wanta die too. Honest, I do! You think it’s any fun living to be 116 years old?”
“Judging from the context, I’ll say no.”
“Dweederflaffing right, it’s no fun! But the thing is, dying is a lot like going to sleep. Try as I might, I just can’t let myself go with so much on my mind. Just when I feel like I’m startin’ to drift off…BAM! The thought of those Reds getting more powerful than us brings me right back around.”
“So, here’s the deal. I die and the country returns to the ol’ Democracy as soon as the Russians are annihilated. And the Russians are annihilated as soon as the one obstacle to their annihilation is annihilated. And that obstacle is…the Swiss.”
“The Swiss? Those peaceniks? But they couldn’t hurt a flea!”
“Ah, that’s what they want you to think! They’ve actually got a whole armament of nuclear missiles in a secret shed underneath their biggest cukoo-clock factory, just waiting to fire on us if we attack any European nation. The coordinates for the missiles are set by the master clock in the factory. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to travel to Swiss-land, locate this master clock, and set it to exactly 7:29. The missiles will then destroy all of Russia, leaving we Americans with clean hands. Should you choose not to accept this mission, your telephone will self-destruct in five seconds, destroying your house, and killing you, your family, and the guy who lives in your next-door neighbor’s garage.”
“Well, I have grown awful fond of me…certainly wouldn’t want to see me done in by an exploding phone. I don’t know if I’d be able to get along without me! Okay, I’ll do it!”
“Then welcome aboard ‘Project Cukoo,’ Citizen Marinaro! You are doubtlessly one of the greatest American patriots since Benjamin Franklin! But just remember…if you tell a soul about this, my men will beat you so hard, you’ll have harjevurgen coming out of your draklofewterstoghexsofewquagenschtoklef!”
“Goodness…harjevurgen sure wasn’t meant to come out of there! But don’t worry, sir…I won’t mention a word to anyone!”
…and I never did.
So now you know the entire story. Every single, solitary, isolated detail.
[cough, cough] Boy, my voice hurts from recounting that entire phone conversation in George C. Scott’s voice. I need a drink.
[glug, glug] Ooooh, yeah. That’s better. Anyhow, I’m off to cause some international espionage. Don’t wait up for me!